Tossed within the palanquin like a reed on the waves of a storm, Istara flung herself toward Urhi-Teshub, she missed his hand but caught hold of the palanquin's opening. The rough edges of the wicker's weave sliced into her fingers. Gritting her teeth, she endured the pain, clinging to the wobbling palanquin, even as the wicker's bite deepened. Urhi-Teshub captured her wrist and hauled her, rough, out of the palanquin and over the camel's rump, his pull so fierce she feared he would dislocate her shoulder.

The ground roared anew, louder, closer. A jolt and her stomach dropped to her knees. Urhi-Teshub stumbled, and the camel's lead snapped free. The camel tore away, bellowing, leaping over the breach opening beside them.

Istara lurched toward the widening maw. Urhi-Teshub's grip tightened, his fingers biting deep into her flesh. The earth shifted again, its undulating heave clobbering her, sending her hurtling into Urhi-Teshub, his hardened leather armor unforgiving, punishing.

The ground plummeted, abrupt, and the ground tilted, sharp, toward the jagged boulders churning up from the depths of the plain. She clung to her husband--her heart pounding so hard it hurt. A new ridge plowed up from the depths beside them, raw with the mind-numbing, sickening grind and cut of the land warring against itself. In the distance: the crack of cliffs breaking apart, the thundering of its shattered sections hitting the ground.

Pebbles and clumps of clay rained from above. A thick veil of dust settled over them, dry and bitter. The ground roiled anew and Urhi-Teshub staggered. He tightened his hold on her and braced himself, determined to keep them from slamming against the jagged, torn ridge.

A heave, and the patch of ground they clung to thrust upward, fast, the brute force of it shoving Istara's insides together. It churned its way up alongside the ridge, crushing the boulders in its path. When the ridge was no higher than her hips, Urhi-Teshub leaped up onto it.

His eyes hard, he caught hold of her outstretched arms, his grip so tight she cried out as he hauled her over the edge. Stones tore at her gown and grazed her flesh. Another heave undulated across the plain and he stumbled backward, dragging her with him across the pitching ground until they skidded against a fallen date palm and tumbled over it. 

He lurched to his feet, his hold on her fierce, relentless, tight as the binding of a rope. The earth rippled and slid under her, the fallen palm rocking like a pleasure skiff buffeted by the waves of a sudden summer storm.

In the distance, Babylon's walls glowed orange-pink in the lowering light of the sun, its white-plastered walls riven by dark, gaping fractures. Mud-bricks tumbled from the cracks--raw, open wounds. Between the city's two sections, the waters of the Purattu River sloshed, churning with violent, angry waves as high as a villa's roof. They washed over the villages along the river's edge, leaving nothing but a smear of muddy foundations in their wake. In the roiling, retreating waves: shattered boats, trees, parts of houses, bodies.

Urhi-Teshub pulled Istara against him, his arms encircling her, harsh, protective, holding her steady as another undulation shoved its way across the land and four more date palms crashed to the earth, the shock of their fall numbing Istara's limbs.

Across the scour of the river's vanishing wash, past the flattened reeds and shattered docks--their pilings jagged, fangs--a section of the western city's walls buckled. It soared upward, its tilt so steep, the chariots atop them slid backward. The horses scrabbled to keep their foothold, straining to climb the parapet's smooth surface, even as the wheels of the chariots slipped over the edge and the drivers sailed free, their arms still tangled in the reins. Men and horses fell, their descent almost beautiful as they tumbled in silence to their deaths, their screams lost in the roar of the ruined land.

Tears cut into Istara's eyes, gritty with dust. No more, she begged, silent, exhausted. Let it end. Another series of deafening cracks cut across the plain, and another section of the cliff succumbed. It slammed against the ground, the earth shuddering under its colossal weight. A heartbeat later an onslaught of dust swept past them, suffocating. Urhi-Teshub's grip tightened as he turned his back to it, and covered her nose and mouth with his hand, his calluses rough against her skin.

Istara clung to him, trembling, willing the nightmare to end. Several more shudders claimed the last of the trees surrounding them before the violence slowed, and the earth quieted. Silence fell, punctuated by the rasp of their unsteady breathing, ragged in the sudden, unnatural calm.

Urhi-Teshub lowered his hand from her face. He brushed his lips against the top of her head, a lingering kiss, tender, filled with gratitude.

Istara pulled back, slow, her legs watery, unsteady; the memory of the land's buck and roll still clinging to them. She staggered. Urhi-Teshub caught her as she continued to sway, caught in the phantom thrall of the quake's reel.

"Easy," he said, low, his gaze moving away from her to the walls of the city, taking in its destruction. "Take your time."

Istara eyed the remains of the caravan. Several camels wandered in the distance, their loads lost. One still bore a wicker palanquin, hanging to one side. The creature limped, crying out, lost, mournful, seeking its handler.

"Where are the others?" she asked, raking her eyes over the place where Baalat and Meresamun would have been, fear clawing into her spine. The breach still remained. A deep, gaping maw. Of the women, nothing.

"Teshub will be with them," Urhi-Teshub said, though as he turned away from the city and looked over the ragged tear along the road, his expression darkened, uncertain.

Istara took a tentative step. Her legs rebelled, buckling under her. Urhi-Teshub helped her to a fallen tree--their footsteps rustling against the palm's fronds, loud in the dull, thick silence--and eased her onto the trunk's rough surface. He knelt, eyeing her torn gown, the blood seeping from her cuts.

"I will look for them," he said, brushing the hair from her face, his hand filthy with blood and dust. "Stay here. If there are aftershocks, I will come to you. Promise you won't stray away."

Istara nodded. He eyed her for a heartbeat more before he left and loped across the ruined plain, still steady and strong despite all they had endured. He reached the breach. With a brief look back, he jumped down.

A low susurration came from the city. It swept across the distance, a tide of misery--the mourning wail of mothers grieving lost children; men, their wives; children, their mothers and fathers. Grief sacked Babylon. It shuddered out from its broken walls, drenching the land in sorrow.

Istara pressed her hands into her lap to stop them from shaking. Nausea buffeted her, as savage as the river which had swept away the oxen in the fields as though they were no more than wooden toys.

From the crevice, a shout. Istara stood--her legs still trembling--longing to cross the broken land, uncertainty gnawing her bones. Another shout followed. She waited, fretting, her own troubles forgotten, fear delving deep. Baalat would have survived, since she herself lived, but Meresamun had no one. Teshub would have let her die to save his sister.

Time passed, slow. Istara continued to wait, in an agony of terror, her breathing tight, shallow,fearing for Meresamun, willing her friend not to have fallen--not when she was so close to her home, to her long-awaited reunion with her parents. Good, sweet, kind Meresamun, who had saved Istara's life at Kadesh; who had never done wrong--who had only had wrong done to her--did not deserve to fall, could not fall. No further shouts followed. The wails from the city continued to rise and fall with the wind--the aching cry of a city waking to the depth of its loss.

The sky shifted from deep pink to purple. The shadows deepened, dusted with twilight. Still no movement from the crevice. As the light of day fled to the west, Istara considered breaking her promise. She dithered, dreading something had happened to Urhi-Teshub. She took several hesitant steps, her heart pounding.

A shadow emerged from further along the ridge, the bulk of a man, a warrior. A heartbeat later, another shadow joined it, also large, powerful. Another warrior. Istara's heart skipped a beat, hope surging through her. There were no others in the caravan as powerful as Teshub and her husband. It had to be them.

The men knelt at the ridge's edge and reached down. A smaller shadow clambered up, swaying a little. One of the men went back down, and held up another--small and frail, a woman--to the man waiting above. He lifted her up and worked his way back across the shattered plain toward Istara.

Her heart in her throat, she rushed toward them. Meresamun hung unconscious in Urhi-Teshub's arms. Blood soaked her gown and clung to the thin contours of her body.

Close behind, Teshub followed, coated in dust. Baalat leaned against him, unsteady. Istara raked her eyes over the other woman, but apart from being covered from head to toe in dust, and bearing similar injuries to Istara, she looked unharmed.

Urhi-Teshub knelt and lay Meresamun on the ground, gentle. Her eyelids flickered, revealing the whites of her eyes, glittering in the light of the rising moon. They closed again, her lashes dark against her cheeks, pale from loss of blood.

Istara sank beside Meresamun and lifted her gown. A deep gash opened her thigh from her knee to her groin, the flow of blood slowed by a soaking piece of linen tied around her leg.

"I did what I could," Baalat said, quiet.

Istara eyed the long, jagged slash. "It just missed her artery," she murmured, seeking hope, aware she was grasping at straws. "But she needs sutures. And soon. She has lost so much blood already." She held out her hand to Urhi-Teshub. "Your dagger."

A whisper as he slid it from its scabbard. She took it and cut a piece of linen from her gown and wrapped it around Baalat's sodden tourniquet, pulling it as tight as the material would permit.

"I have nothing," she whispered, stricken. She longed to ply her needle against the gaping tear in her companion's leg, to bring together the ruined muscles and tendons. The wound was grievous, dangerous. Fresh blood seeped through the additional bandage; soon it would be saturated.

Istara looked back over the desolate landscape, searching through the surviving camels hoping to find the one carrying her belongings, the beasts' silhouettes reduced to blotches of shadow against the stars blooming through the canopy's horizon. Frightened bleats carried across the broken land, the camels' pleas punctuating the wails sweeping out from the city.

"My medical satchel," she muttered, defeated, unable to make out one camel from the next, "we will never find it in time."

"How soon can we reach the city?" Teshub asked.

"Without camels," Urhi-Teshub said, grim, "it will be at least an hour's walk. The distance is deceiving."

"We'll take turns carrying her," Teshub said, bending down to collect Meresamun in his arms.

"And when we reach the city?" Baalat asked, putting a hand on Teshub's arm, holding him back. "Where shall we go? Who will aid us? We have no gold to pay a surgeon, if one can even be found."

"We'll go to the palace," Teshub said.

"The palace is on the other side of the river," Urhi-Teshub said, "and after what just happened, I doubt there will be any boats left. It could take several days before we are able to cross."

"We have to try," Istara pleaded. "All I need is a needle and thread, some hot water, linens." She pulled off a silver armband, a gift from Sethi, her fingers trembling, fear sinking its foul grip into her. "This should be more than enough."

"Of course," Baalat murmured, gentle, stroking Meresamun's brow, just as she had done, once, long ago, to Tanu-Hepa--though this time no golden light trickled from her fingertips-- "we will try, but you must prepare yourself. We may have already lost her."

"I will go first," Urhi-Teshub said, gathering Meresamun into his arms. She slid up against him, as boneless as a broken songbird, the rigors of a desert crossing having granted her no opportunity to gain weight. "She weighs almost nothing," he continued, settling her against him, "even my sword is heavier."

He rose, effortless, and left them, stepping over the fallen trees, steady, strong, invincible. Istara pulled herself to her feet and followed him, old habits taking hold of her as she began to pray to Baalat for Meresamun's protection. She stopped halfway through the first stanza, emptiness clawing at her, catching Baalat watching her, sorrowful.

Her heart hollow, Istara went to Urhi-Teshub, his steadiness calling to her, a beacon. He glanced at her, enigmatic, then back to the ground beneath his feet--concentrating on finding his way around the boulders; their jagged edges glinted, sharp in the blue-white light of a clear moon, a ragged line leading to Babylon, guiding them away from the ruins of their caravan to the smoke and flames of their new home.