Ashwalker's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The Ashwalker knelt at the center of the empty cathedral, palms pressed to the floor, and drew a slow map of glass beneath its hands. Cracks split the stone, filled with light, and cooled into a low ring that would one day be the base of a throne. The work was quiet. The pull in its chest was gone. Then, without warning, the pull returned. It was faint and it came from deeper in the building. The Ashwalker lifted its head. The nave stretched empty in front of it, but a second set of doors stood at the far end of the transept, chained shut. Fire showed through the seam. The pull tugged toward those doors and did not let go. The Ashwalker stood. Half-formed glass cracked under its weight and stayed behind. It could keep working and finish the throne of a dead kingdom, or it could follow the pull and learn whether the kingdom was dead at all. It walked toward the chained doors. Each step left a bright fracture that cooled black behind it. The chains were iron, thick as its wrist, welded to spikes that ringed the arch. The Ashwalker took the chains in both hands. The metal glowed, softened, and parted. The doors swung inward on a wall of smoke and orange light. Beyond them, a basalt bridge crossed a second river of lava inside the cathedral itself. Braziers burned along the rails. Stone sentinels crouched at the corners. On the far side of the bridge stood a figure the Ashwalker's own size: black stone, cracked, molten light bleeding from its chest and from the hollows of its eyes. It held a sword point-down between its hands. It did not move. The pull in the Ashwalker's chest pointed straight at it. The Ashwalker crossed the bridge. The basalt held. At the far side it stopped an arm's length from the figure and waited. Nothing happened. No breath, no shift. The eyes wept lava onto the stone. The Ashwalker reached out and touched the figure's shoulder. The surface was warm and did not give. It was carved. It had always been carved. The pull in the Ashwalker's chest snapped taut once more and then went out for good, as if a wire had been cut at both ends. The Ashwalker stood a long time at the end of the bridge. There was no living thing in the cathedral. There was no living thing anywhere the pull could reach. The last signal had led to a statue. The Ashwalker turned, walked back across the basalt, and returned to the nave. It knelt again in the ring of cooling glass and pressed its hands to the floor. The throne would be finished now. There was no one left to answer.