The tribes from which Moljar came were fatalists. Moljar accepted the
fact that he was face to face with imminent death. Very well. If there
was a way out, he would find it. If not, he would go on to Khles,
where dead warriors go. And from Khles he would fight his way into the
eternal paradise of Perlarh.
He had expected the gyro to float at least a few minutes. But it
sank almost immediately. The shock of the crash had knocked Mahra
unconscious; pulling her against the suction as the gyro went under was
a herculean task. The crumbled wreckage went down. It left only a tiny
whirlpool in its wake.
Mahra's consciousness returned quickly after a few dunkings in the
tepid water. She was in his arms, her silver hair floating out over the
dull glassy sheen of the water. He treaded easily, looking about. They
could see a few hundred metres but beyond that narrow radius, the cloud
blankets became an impenetrable fog. Patches of seaweed, lichen and
rotting debris floated silently by on the torpid water, giving off a
phosphorescent glow that reflected weirdly against the backdrop of mist.
Nature seemed to have stopped breathing. The air was heavy, oppressive.
And the high humidity and heat, unrelieved by any wind, was weighty and
pressed on them.
"Can you swim?" he asked.
"Quite well." Her hands were on his shoulders. They clung a moment,
then shoved away.
Treading water now as easily as he, she asked, "How long do you give us
to live? Not that it matters."
"The future is a mystery to me," he said. "Maybe a second. Maybe a
hundred years."
"But you'll admit we've no chance now! Soon hordes of sea monsters will
scent us out. Surely you'll not deny that this time you will go to meet
your barbaric gods!"
"Who knows?"