Under a Blessing of Ashes - Part X

t did not take long for Kashin to reach the strange barrier of haze that rose up from the ground. It stood as if an impenetrable wall, rising far into the sky only a few feet before him. Looking to either side, it stretched out as far as he could see in either direction, though it was clearly curving around something. That something he knew to be the mountain, but even as close as he was, he could not see through that haze.

The snow simply stopped just a few inches from the haze. It did not taper off, or diminish in anyway as it approached that wall. It just stopped. Kashin stood in that snow for several moments considering the wall before him. The pounding in his head had been subtle for the short walk so far, but as he stood there it began to grow in impatient intensity. It nearly managed to work his legs into pressing forwards anyway, but he resisted for the moment.

Setting the pack down into the snow, he unwrapped the bundle, and slipped the black tunic overtop of the brightly coloured Magyar shirt he wore. He pulled the cloak then around his shoulders, draping him once more in its smooth textures. He buckled the scabbard at his side and then heft the pack back on his shoulders. Images began to flood his mind as if brought in stark relief. The faces of so many of his friends amongst the Yeshuel, now dead. The faces of priests he had grown up with, their words and advice, admonitions against sin, and their firm edicts about following his duty to protect the Patriarch.

But he had failed in that. The image of that great man, old and frail, with a knife plunged firmly into his chest came into his head then. There he had stood and torn out the cross upon his tunic to lay it before Akabaieth, declaring his fealty to take vengeance. His hand reached down to touch the hilt of the blade at his side. He had been forbidden from seeking the man who had killed the Patriarch directly, but the corruption in the Ecclesia was his to root out and destroy. But how could he do that if he were a Magyar roaming the Steppe?

And then, as the ostinato inside his head began to grow loud again, he stepped into the mist. The choking air pressed down upon him, thick air that clung to him and weighed him down as if he were trying to walk through mud. He clawed before him, eyes barely able to see into the dark blindness that surrounded him. With tentative footsteps, he pressed forward, finding the ground completely bare. There were no stones, no twigs, no grass, just empty ground.

Kashin tried to breath in the strange haze, but found the taste awful, as if he were swallowing ash. He coughed it out, and then pressed his lips firmly together, even as he waded into the murk, his entire body compressed from its enormous weight. The pressure felt the greatest at his back, and so he did not find it difficult to press forward. But eventually, his hand felt something even firmer before him, some gelatinous substance that yielded to pressure, but pulsed with some strange life.

Flinching, Kashin tried to step back, only to feel the air behind him thrust him forwards, his face pressing into the strange jelly like substance. He closed his eyes as it smeared over his flesh, tainting him. But he realised after only a moment that the pulsing of the jelly was the same as the pounding in his mind. He began to tap at it in the same rhythm, matching it precisely for every irregular beat. As he tapped at it, the substance began to retreat, pulling away before him, opening into a small alcove. The drumbeat inside his head grew louder and louder, leaving him with nothing to do but to repeat that rhythm upon the wall, as if communicating with it, identifying with it with each stroke.

And then, before he had quite realized it, the jelly had parted before him into a small opening. There was a fog over everything beyond, but the air tasted wholesome and so he could breathe again. The pounding also subsided back to a reluctant susurrus in his mind. Glancing from side to side, he could see nothing but the flat landscape, and that only for a few yards. The strange fog obscured everything else. Even the wall behind him was now gone, and he was lost in the dark blackness of the fog-filled night.

Strangely enough though, he knew where to walk, as if he could see footsteps before him leading him onwards. Kashin walked firmly, calming the trembling heart he felt within him. The path before him did not stay flat for long, as soon it began to rise sharply, climbing upwards, and winging around strange crags that pointed towards the heavens. He had reached the base of Cenziga, there could be no doubt of that.

Though it was still night, he found that he had little difficulty seeing the rock around him. The fog was filled with a subtle light that gave him just enough to not lose his way, though he had no idea what way that could be. The rocks appeared like none he had ever seen before. They rose upwards, and were covered in thousands of filaments that stuck out at odd angles. He did not dare touch them lest he lacerate his hand beyond any hope of survival.

The path that he trod though appeared to be one that had been used many times, smooth stone that wound in and about the dangerous protrusions and precipices. And it always continued steadily upwards, affording him little chance to rest. He dreaded what would happen should he lose his footing. Kashin might slide down that path until he was impaled upon those strange rocks, their fibres ripping him to shreds.

And all the while, that rhythm filled him, as if dancing from every pore. He sweated heavily, despite the strangely somnambulant chill that pervaded the fog. Several times he reached up with hand to brush the grey lock of hair back over his ear, and it would find a slick mucus covering his forehead instead. But he did not dare stop to rest. Every time he considered it, the pounding would beat at the sides of his head, and the mountain beneath him would tremble with that rhythm. The only way to escape that terrible beat was to climb further.

But even that was only partially effective. The further and further Kashin climbed, the higher and higher he rose, the more insistent that beat became. Unconsciously, he found himself walking in time to that beat, setting one foot down after another according to its alien rhythm. Each step fell open a resounding paean, pausing when there was a pause, but treading again at the next tolling inside of his mind.

His eyes remained firmly focussed upon the ground before him as the path continued winding about, circling around large protrusions of that strange blue-grey rock. Sometimes, he would see things within the rock, as if it were captured by the light there. Images of cities of such unearthly beauty that Kashin almost felt as if he could walk into them. A strange rendition of a boat with rigging unlike any he had ever seen almost jutted from the rock of an outcropping. A strange palace of ivory towers and minarets beckoned to him, reminding him of the hidden city of Ava-shavåis, though he knew it to be something else. But they were few and far between, growing only more familiar the further up he climbed, until at last, he saw several ancient cities he knew to have been made by human hands. But even these images were fleeting, and offered him no consolation.

His mind, constantly battered by the strange thumping that grew ever more intense with each step he made, was too weak to do aught but wander, as if that would be its only surcease from the crushing weight of those beats. He thought on the friends amongst the Magyars he had left far beneath him on that Steppe. There was Gamran and Pelgan, both teaching him how to juggle. He could see Chamag and Berkon as he fought them in the pageant, Chamag pulling on that fox suit before striking him down. There was Hanaman directing them and leading them across the vast wilderness, while his wife lit their fires and danced seductively. Varna with her cooked stew, Adlemas singing as a woman, Pitesa fashioned her boots, Ameli teasing Pelgan’s heart, and so many others.

He found specific memories returning to him as he walked. Standing upon that log bridge facing down the impetuous youth Horvig from the Tagendend. He could not help but wonder if the boy had lived or not, but strangely enough, another part of him could not bring itself to care either way. The enmity between the Tagendend and the Magyars was his enmity as well. He could feel himself driving that knife home into his belly, saving Hanaman from certain death. The ice beneath his boots barely held him aloft, and the river beneath waited to claim them should any slip.

And then he was walking that ancient Yume-tåi road with Andares. The mighty trees stood on either side, clustering around, forcing them on whatever path it was they were supposed to take. The enigmatic Åelf spoke softly of ancient days and of old songs and stories, things beyond Kashin’s ken. But now he understood those feelings, that bitterness and that hate borne against those that had forced them into the trees. The terrible betrayal they felt that the hands of men.

And then he was back on that rain-swept field just south of Metamor, staring about at the dead bodies of his comrades. So many slain, and so many bodies horribly mangled by a power that he had never witnessed. Iosef lay in the leaves, only half of a man, the rest of him burned into nothingness, just as his own left arm had been. There was Vinsah inside of his tent, a metal plate crushed into his chest, though he barely lived. And then Elgand with his legs crushed beneath his horse, though he too still lived. And then, alone, the crumpled form of Akabaieth twisted in death, with the single dagger rising from his chest.

Kashin’s fingers traced over that hilt once more as he crest a small rise in the path, before it turned back as it winded its way up that terrible peak. The fog still clutched at his sides, though it had grown lighter in the intervening hours. Perhaps he had already walked all night and now it was day at last? His legs were sore and tired, though they still kept moving in that dreaded beat, as if it were the only way it was possible to walk.

Though his mind could do aught but wander, his heart ached under the weight of the groaning ostinato. He felt within it fervent wishes, some that could never be, and some that he hoped would occur, but had no idea whether they would or not. First, he wished that the Patriarch’s murderer could have failed in his task, or simply have never intended it in the first place. What delight it would have been had he been able to continue on the course of his life unimpeded, and Akabaieth could have spread his message of peace throughout the Midlands, and all the lands of the Ecclesia. A truer and greater cause there could never have been. A better hope for success there was not.

But that would never be. He would never again see Akabaieth, Iosef, or any of the others alive. They were gone from this world as surely as the hope of his dream had left with him. What could there be for this world other than war, the groaning of ages as forces clashed to preserve their power, while the ideals of a few were hidden once more for a time when they might be received. And he who had once stood at the side of that great man, was now but a nomad, bringing a bit of lighthearted entertainment to those he passed, and stealing their potatoes when they did not recompense him for it.

Even as he tried to throw such foul light upon his life as a Magyar, he felt an ache in his heart for them. He missed their faces, their brightly coloured tunics and wagons, their life filled with music, laughter and dancing. Every new sunset would se them in a new land, a new horizon and vista for them to explore. Bound to their wagons and to each other more firmly than if they had been lashed to them, they were a hardy people doing their part to bring hope to the world. And he was one of them just as much as he had been a Yeshuel.

Kashin breathed heavily as he continued on his way, the pounding growing more insistent, firmly reverberating throughout his skull. The fog pressed at him from all sides, and faces began to jeer at him from that strange dense wall. They were not any faces he had ever seen, but large, features smooth yet alien as well, mouths inverted, or lacking a nose, or any number of incongruities. They howled and gnashed at him, but stride forward he continued, feeling their bite and sting as lances of pain in his flesh and his mind.

His hand gripped the pommel of the blade then, as if from some ancient instinct. He pulled it free then, the metal ringing against the scabbard. The tip of the blade was strangely heavy though, and it dragged through the air as if it were being drawn through the thickest of muds. He had to exert his muscles just to move it before him, holding it aloft as he moved. The air caught at it, pulling and drawing upon it, and the faces turned their attention to it, biting and scraping away at the sheen.

With fierce resolution, he swayed the blade back and forth then, and the faces in the fog moved with it, inexorably, following its course through the thick air. Kashin kept moving his feet forward, lost within that strange pounding rhythm that seemed as much a part of him as did the weapon. In his mind, he found that he was able to think less and less clearly, his focus straining just to hold that sword aloft.

And then, his foot stepped off the path. It was hardly something he noticed at first, but as soon as his boto stepped upon the jagged edges, he could hear a cry of victory resound from all about him, and the pounding filled him to the point that he buckled, his arm driving the blade home before him into the stone. The shriek turned into a wail of rage, and he felt his body pummelled from every side, unseen fists striking him with that beat, the speed of it grown so quick that he could no longer even match it with his fingers as they tried to drum upon the hilt of the Sathmoran dagger.

His mind recoiled and fled back within him under the assault, searching for some safe haven, some ritual that he could use to counter Cenziga’s unremitting attack. Prayers came to his mind, but with pitiless precision, they were crushed to insensible gibberish. He tried counting, but the numbers became so archaic and so ridiculous that he felt as if they were spinning into realms even the greatest scholars of the day would find unfathomable. He tried reciting the names of the Books in the Canticles of Eli, and for a moment the rhythm faltered, but only for a moment before even those blessed names were crushed from his consciousness.

All thoughts outside of his body were systematically destroyed by that pounding as he held firmly to the hilt of the dagger, his only anchor upon that path that would keep him from sliding down and being eviscerated upon those jagged rocks. The feel of the stone beneath his legs vanished, though he did not fall, it was simply too remote for him to recognise any longer. All sensation outside of his body simply ceased to be apart from that pounding that drilled into him. The only thing he had left, with strange clarity, was his own self.

Kashin was quite surprised when all else came suddenly crashing back into him. The pounding abated, but continued its steady ostinato in his mind. The ground beneath him turned about in circles, and he had to continue to clutch that dagger for several more moments before he was able to even open his eyes. When he did, through the grey lock of hair that had once more fallen before his eyes, he could see the dagger buried into a growing pile of ash. He lifted the dagger up, standing on the path once more, staring down at that strange dark pile, noting how it grew and flowed down the path, as if it were blood pouring from an open wound.

Looking up, he saw that the faces in the fog had vanished, replaced simply by the unending impenetrable wall of light and shadow. The walls of rock on either side he noticed for the first time were quite steep, but the path continued along side of it, rising upwards at a sharp angle. Even as he stood upon it, the pounding in his mind began to grow in power once more, and so he strode forward, his feet fitting that rhythm naturally.

The path grew strangely upwards, as if he were walking sideways up the wall, yet all he felt was the exertion of a steady climb. And then, without any warning whatsoever, the rock simply ended before him, as did the fog. He peered out into the emptiness beyond, and saw single spire stretching out in the distance before him. Churning clouds circled about in the great distance before him, as well as above his head, and even further beneath his feet and beyond the spire.

Swallowing heavily, he stepped out into the empty air, and found himself propelled forwards, gravity reasserting himself as he tumbled down into a cavity inside the rim of the mountain itself. The rock here was smooth, though rough enough that he would have little difficulty in climbing back over the edge of the lip if need be. The fog was absent from the depression, but he could still see that haze circling in the distance, rising up to the clouds far overhead.

The spire itself was a jagged thing rising up from the centre of the depression, zigzagging its way towards the heavens. It was fashioned from the same bluish grey rock that adorned the rest of the mountain, but it seemed impossibly fragile. Even the slightest of winds should have sent it toppling to the ground. But it remained perfectly rigid, even as they clouds far overhead churned and flashed brilliant colours, glowing balefully, and nearing.

Kashin had but a few precious moments to notice all of this before he felt the spire pulse with that pounding rhythm, driving him to his knees. Strange faces materialized from the clouds overhead, bearing down upon him with their freakish cries, their luminescent flesh pulsing with the incessant rhythm, obliterating all thought from the man’s mind. His fingers dug into the hilt of the blade, and once more he rose it before him, feeling those nebulous shapes drawn to its tip. The air was thick, giving resistance to the blade, but move it still he did, feeling the spirits, or whatever they were swirl about it, imbuing it with their moment, their rage, and their curiosity.

The pounding in his mind did not abate this time, but continued to grow with energy. The rock about him began to glow that strangely sharp colour of blue he’d seen shine from the mountain every dusk, as the haze beyond seemed to press closer, contracting inwards. Tendrils of fog were pressed up over the edge of the crater, spilling downwards, only to be absorbed into the rock as if it were breathing. Overhead, the sky continued to shine in strange colours, a sequence that he only belatedly realized matched the pounding in his head precisely, and even more intricately, as if sound could only produce part of its being.

Kashin could feel that wedge piercing into his mind once more, and with a firm grip, he brought the dagger down into the rock before him, his anchor again under this assault. He knew it would be the last, the one that he was to endure if he were to survive at all. If there was any hope of returning to the Magyars, he would have to survive this, no other challenge could compare. But again, he could barely focus on anything he tried to bring to mind, for he was lost within himself as Cenziga took out some ancient rage upon him, words barely lost within that pounding and in that display of lights, words no mortal could possibly hope to understand.

Pain filled every pore of his being, as if he were being torn asunder, his grip upon the dagger increased, as the blade continued to absorb the attention of those varied faces, and luminous things that swirled about him. Ash welled up around his boots as it dug deeper into the strangely pliant stone. And with it fell thoughts that tried to rise to his brain, his only refuge left to himself was himself. And with bruised alacrity he began to chant in counterpoint to the rhythm his identity.

I am Kashin! I am Kashin! Over and over he repeated that phrase in his mind, and with each new repetition, he felt the pain only increase, pressing further upon him, pushing him into that pile of ash that was growing. He could smell its varied dry scent, starting to cling to him, threatening to drown him within its swells. The wedge in his mind began to make his voice echo within it, as if it were coming from two different places. But he kept up his devotion, feeling the weight of the heavens continue to press down upon him.

The sweat covered every part of his body, soaking through the Magyar tunic he wore underneath, and infecting the black mourning he wore for the first time in a month. The hilt of the blade grew wet with the mucus his body put off, even as he felt the ash mixing with the sweat to create some sort of gelatinous slime. It felt the same as what he had pressed through to reach the mountain, and he could feel it clinging, eager to climb into his flesh and suffocate him and staunch off his chanting.

And then, his body crippling under the assault, Kashin felt a part of himself begin to shout into the void of his mind. I hight Nemgas! I hight Nemgas! That reverberated through his mind, bouncing off of the wedge driven within it. Together, the two echoing shouts in his mind careened back and forth, filling him with his identity. I am Kashin! I hight Nemgas! I am Kashin! I hight Nemgas!

With that renewed resolve, his eyes manage to press open to stare at that mighty spire before him. Where the tip of it pierced the sky, a strange light was beginning to coalesce. A silvery white aperture formed before him, opening outwards in all directions, revealing colours he could not imagine and made his mind swirl with those names he repeated. It cascaded about, striking at him mercilessly, even as it unleashed more of those strange faces and bodies, ethereal forms swirling down about the thin tendrils of the spire.

And then the light struck him, causing a searing pain to fill all of his flesh, transposing it in ways he could not imagine. The wedge drove deeper within him, even as he continued his chanting. It did not seem to abate at all, only pressing down further, as if he himself were pressing it. I am Kashin! I hight Nemgas! I hight Nemgas! Bit by bit, those words became more and more separated, as if the gulf of worlds were placed between them. But he did aught but continue to repeat them.

I hight Nemgas! I hight Nemgas! I am Kashin! I hight Nemgas!

He tightened his grip on the blade, feeling it remain firm beneath him. He poured his thoughts into it, trying to hold them all together, but that wedge continued to drive downwards. The light of that freakish spire continued to cascade, throwing up the ash beneath him into the air, sparkling with a febrile glow. Peering upwards, as if even the weight of the sky could push his eyes to the ground, he could see the faces shifting about, strange spherical bodies moving to align themselves above the tip of the spire. As they neared that opening within the sky, it glowed even brighter, making his flesh crackle.

The ash began to collect to one side of him, shimmering almost into a single wall, thinner than any parchment could hope to be fashioned, though Kashin could almost see his face within it. The names he shouted in his mind continued to drift apart, and he found it harder and harder to find the one he had been borne with, as if they were competing for his attention. His clothes felt as if they were being pulled through his flesh, and the weight of the backpack simply no longer was upon his back.

And then, he glanced upwards again, watching as those mighty orbs began to pull closer and clsoer together, moving in time to the pounding rhythm that continued to drive the stake home within him. The whole chorus of the skies screamed that peal, filling his mind with its unearthly ostinato, rhythms as alien to him as they were when he first heard them. But he kept up his counterpoint, repeating the names within his mine, shouting his identity out to this uncaring and vicious entity, whatever Cenziga could be.

And with an abject sense of finality, the syzygy completed itself, and the light became blindingly bright, causing him to let lose a scream of agony that modulated in time to the rhythms, his mind still repeating those names over and over again. He felt as if the earth beneath him shifted, and he also felt as if his flesh had been ripped asunder. The wall of ash beside him flashed with that light, showing him his reflection in that moment before it too vanished into the overwhelming light of the spire.

Leaning forward, the Magyar pressed his head against the pommel of the sword, even as he felt the pounding strangely abate, the pain gone. He laced his fingers together on the hilt, rubbing them over each other as he tried to regain his breath. His mind was still repeating the admonition, but strangely it felt as if it were being shouted into a void. I hight Nemgas! I hight Nemgas!

And then, with a dawning awareness that made his heart tremble in confusion, he realized that he was gripping the pommel of the Sathmoran blade with two hands.

Opening his eyes, he stared down and saw that he indeed had two arms once more, and saw that he was clothed once again in the colourful fabric of the Magyars. As it should be, his mind thought. Turning up to look to his left, where the wall of ash had been, he saw his reflection kneeling there as well, looking back to him. However, there was something strangely odd about it. While he now bore two arms, the reflection had stumps for both. Further, the grey lock of hair that had always fallen in his face was no longer there, replaced by a uniform black. And his reflection bore the travelling pack upon his back, and was dressed in the black cloak and outfit.

The mouth of his reflection moved, as did his own. His ears caught the sound his double made before it registered what he was saying. The double just repeated, “I am Kashin,” over and over.

And he said, “I hight Nemgas.” With stunning clarity, he realized this to be the truth. He was Nemgas, and not Kashin. Yet why did he still hold the Sathmoran blade that would be destined for the foul traitor priest’s heart? Nemgas could not quite discern why this was so, nor had he any time to, for the vault of the heavens did not remain silent long.

The syzygy ended, the sky resumed its brilliant array of colours, even as the spire began to bend forward, impossibly shifting under its brittle shape. Nemgas and Kashin both stared up at the impenetrable blue rock as it twisted and turned, the tip, unimaginably long and sharp, reaching down to them. Nemgas felt his heart thudding within his chest in time to the pounding, his mind still recalling his identity, and repeating it over and over in conjunction with his lips. And in that pounding, he recognized the words that the mountain itself was proclaiming to them. It rang clearly in his mind at last, and more clearly each moment the tip of that spire drew nearer. It was nothing but what he was doing, proclaiming his identity.

CENZIGA! CENZIGA!

The power of it nearly crippled Nemgas, but he gripped the blade firmly, feeling the rock beneath him buckle, pressing upwards as the depression lifted to meet the tip of the spire. Kashin to his side continued to cry out his own name, though without any arms, he lacked the anchor that held Nemgas fast. His heart ached for his other half, the part of him that Cenziga had split free. But the name continued to batter away at him, trying of strip him even of the identity he still had. Resolutely, he held firm to his anchor and called forth his own declaration still.

I hight Nemgas! I hight Nemgas!

He could hear Kashin, once his own voice, do the same. But then the point of the spire, the sound of its groaning under the way it twisted, touched the ground between them, and it shook with that rhythm. Kashin stumbled, and fell to the rock, his pattern broken, his identity silenced. Looking upwards, Nemgas could see his other half leaning back, the stumps of his arms held up before him in freakish terror. The spire pulled back, looking nothing but a snake ready to strike.

Nemgas held fast his eyes shut, even as he heard a terrible scream curdle his compassion. Whoever climbed Cenziga would die. Kashin had no choice but to do so, Nemgas finally realized. And then, the scream stopped, and a concatenating explosion resounded within his mind repeating the name of that mountain, blasting it within his thoughts. But Nemgas repeated his own name, declaring it right back. The sound of Kashin was silenced though, and the name was no longer upon any lips.

And then, Nemgas felt all of the noise cease, and the world lurched beneath him. He held fast to the sword though, keeping it firm in his grip, and his name upon his lips. He stayed crouched low like that for quite some time, he did not know how long. But the moments passed strangely, a minute felt an hour, while an hour felt like a minute, and a single second stretched on into eternity. The dawning realization that the pounding had ceased took quite a long time to sink into him though. And when it finally did, he feared that it was but another trick, and so continued is recitations for another hour or two.

As he said the words, they filled his consciousness, thoughts slowly beginning to return and coalesce. Memories filled him, gaps that had been there were seemingly filled. Images that he knew could not be real flooded into him, memories of a life that he knew he never could have lived, but felt more real to him than the one that was ripped from him in that conflux. He saw in his mind his youth, dressed in colourful tunics, playing amongst the wagons with the other Magyar children. He remembered watching Pelgan and the other younger Magyars growing up as well, and he could remember. He could see when some of them joined the Magyars for the first time, leaving old lives behind. But precepts he felt he should know were simply absent, as were the memories he had been accustomed to. But they had been Kashin’s memories, and no longer belonged to him.

Nemgas opened his eyes then, his heart unafraid, though his body still shook. The ground about him was completely flat, and covered in fresh snow. It was nearing evening, though it was still an hour or two off. There was no sign of the mountain anywhere. Looking to the sky, he saw only a few lazy grey clouds shifting eastward with the winds. Rising to his feet, he looked about, and could see the Magyar camp some distance to the South. Upon the wind he could smell the faintest whiff of a delicious stew being prepared.

He smiled as he realised that they were once again using the potatoes he had stolen from those greedy villagers back in Doltatra. Looking down at his hands, he flexed his left arm, moving it about. It was his, certainly. He could vaguely recall that it had not always been there, but that seemed to be part of another life altogether. Kashin had been the one to lose the arm, not Nemgas he understood with a bit of delight. The Sathmoran blade was still there though, the only evidence he had left of that other existence. He sheathed it at his side, and began to walk through the snow towards his home.

Nagel was the first to see the solitary figure return from that field of haze to the north. The news that Nemgas had left them to journey to that mountain had filled them all with dread, yet they waited in quiet contemplation, praying to all of the gods that they might protect their brother Magyar on his dangerous journey. They did not pray too loudly of course, for fear of offending that mountain they knew lurked beyond the strangely twisting haze.

And then, at noon on that day, the haze had exploded in brilliant light, filling them all with a terrible dread. But the moment lasted only a second, and the sky was once more the way it should have been. The haze stood impassive, as if it had never happened. But they could not help but fear the worst after that. Their good Nemgas had been utterly destroyed by that mountain and its awful power.

Yet Hanaman assured them they would continue to wait one more day as Nemgas had asked of them. But even he had been empty of hope. How could any mortal survive the awesome power of that place? None ever had before, that they all knew. They had all heard the stories, whispered briefly when they were on the other side of the Steppe when they might have been safe from its reach. To have one of their own venture within to find the reality of it was just too much for them.

And then Nagel saw the figure approaching. His shout of news brought them all to watching that Northern sky, trying to see who the figure would be that had emerged from the haze. Even Varna left her stew unattended to watch, letting the fires cook it slowly. Dazheen herself emerged from he wagon to watch, being helped to stand by Bryone. She led her up to the seat of their wagon, and let her sit, bringing out a blanket to cover her frail old form with. Many of the Magyars could not remember the last time the old woman had emerged from that wagon in the wintertime, for it had been a good number of years.

Hanaman had of course gone to her side, leaving his wife and son to watch the spectacle from the top of their wagon. Dazheen’s face showed no hint of emotion except expectance. Hanaman nodded his head towards the solitary figured and simply asked, “Nemgas?”

But the old woman did not answer immediately, staring with grey eyes into the distance, noting the tower of haze that rose undisturbed to the sky. “Use thine own eyes, my good Hanaman. Thou shalt see soon enough.”

He accepted the answer, knowing how hard it would be for all of them if it were any other. He returned to his family, wrapping one arm about Zhenava’s shoulders. Their son climbed in between them, his youthful face curious. He was not very old, but he was their only surviving child still. But to Hanaman, every Magyar was his son or daughter in a way. Especially those that became Magyars only later in life. Not since his eldest daughter struggled to survive the flu and failed, he had never prayed so hard. Gods let this be Nemgas, he prayed, his thoughts rising to the heavens to be heard by any he hoped.

And then, after what seemed an eternity to them all, they began to make out details of his form and shape. The light from the setting sun crossed the Steppe almost horizontally then, casting him in strange shadows. But it also brought light to his clothes, showing the dazzling dis-play of colours all Magyars bore. The height, the gait, and every detail clearly spoke of their fellow Magyar. With sudden realisation, Hanaman knew this to be Nemgas.

Smiles began to break out upon the other’s faces as they to came to understand who it was who was approaching them. Even though they could all see the incongruities as he neared, they still knew it was he. Hanaman noted that his left arm had returned, but it seemed natural for it to be that way. And instead of one grey lock of hair he had two, both of them constantly falling before his eyes, only to be swiped back with a natural brush of his fingers behind his ears. In fact, as they saw him coming, Hanaman could not help but feel that Nemgas looked as if someone had placed a mirror down his middle, and reflected his right side to replace the left.

Whoops and shouts of joy began to sound from the Magyars, and several of them jumped down from their wagons to race to meet him as he neared, waving one hand to them and smiling. Hanaman placed a gentle kiss upon both Zhenava and his boy, and then rushed to meet him as well, his legs carrying him across the snowy fields faster than most of the other Magyars. Such vigour he had not felt in years, but he felt it now.

Nemgas smiled at them all, wrapping his arms about the few that reached him first, Gamran and Peglan both there, Chamag, Berkon, and Kaspel not far behind them. Hanaman held out firmly his hand, and Nemgas clasped it, bringing them together in a firm embrace.

“What happened to thee in there?” Hanaman finally managed to ask as he looked the Magyar up and down.

Nemgas unhooked the Sathmoran blade from his side, and held it out to him. “Please, take this from me. ‘Tis another’s and not mine.” Hanaman did so, his fingers gripping the jewelled blade tightly. Gamran looked at it in awe, as if he wished to pry a few of the gems loose. But his eyes returned with reverence and delight back to Nemgas a moment later.

“We thought thee wouldst die!” Pelgan chorused, along with the others. “Thou art brave beyond compare!”

“Thou dost put Shapurji to shame,” Chamag declared proudly then, and many of the others joined in that cheer, shouting his name in delight to the heavens.

Nemgas nodded, waving his hands, both of them, before them. “‘Tis my name. But I am just a Magyar like thee. Let us celebrate this night with good meal and warm drink. I hath a great hunger in my belly that needs filling.”

They cheered once more, bright faces all around, brighter even than the colour of their jerkins. Nemgas walked amongst them back towards the camp, trying his best not to stand above them, but failing miserably in that. Hanaman held his head high then as he walked alongside of him. A question, strange and unbidden came from his lips, “Dost thee wish to lead us, Nemgas?”

Most of the other Magyars looked quite taken aback at the questions, as did Nemgas. He blinked several times and then shook his head. “I hath pledged myself to thee Hanaman. I wilt do my utmost to protect thee and thine. Hail to thee Hanaman, a wiser leader we hath not!”

The other Magyars joined in that pledge then, all of them smiling proudly to him. Hanaman could repress his own smile no longer, kneeling down before them all. “And I am thine!” He then waved one hand back towards the camp where the rest waited. “Come, let us eat and celebrate this night, for our own hath returned to us.”

And then, the sun set, and simple white light emerged from the haze behind them. They all paused a moment to watch. It shone brightly for a moment, its light strangely subdued, but pure. And then, as before when it shone blue, it stopped. They blinked and looked from one to another, confused by this change none of them had ever seen before. Softly descending amongst them small grey flakes fell down upon their camp.

“Ash,” Chamag said at last as he reached out and plucked them from the air.

“A blessing of ashes,” Nemgas added as he felt them, smiling at them with a strange look of both joy and melancholy. He then smiled more broadly and amicably. “‘Tis a blessing to be a Magyar.”

Hanaman could only smile proudly at that.