Europa by Joseph Robert Lewis

made it to Ysland. The airship is destroyed and three people died, but we made it. I made it. I’m here. Ysland, at last!
    A scowling old man knelt down over Omar and the Aegyptian looked up into the wind-burned and bearded face. In his best Old Rus, Omar asked, “Is this Ysland?”
    The man raised an eyebrow, and nodded. “It is.”
    “And is there much sun-steel here? The hot gold? The bright metal?”
    The man shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly. “I have no gold. But you, you’re hurt. It’s very bad. I’m sorry.” He reached across Omar’s chest and lifted up a heavy cloth lying on the man’s shoulder. Omar rolled his head over and saw the stump where his left arm used to be.
    A wild giddiness swam up into his brain at the sight.
    My arm is gone. All gone. I’ve lost my arm. I’m sure I had it a moment ago. What did I do with my arm?
    The ground shone with dark blood as far as he could see in every direction.
    My blood. All of my blood. It shouldn’t be outside like that. That’s very wrong.
    His teeth chattered for a moment, but he rolled his head back and reached up with his right hand to grab the old man’s wool shirt and pulled him down close. “I know there is sun-steel here. Where is the gold that keeps this island warm? Where is it? How much is there?”
    The old man chuckled and shook his head as he loosen Omar’s grip on him and straightened up. “There’s no gold here, friend. Iron a-plenty, but no gold.”
    “I don’t care what you call it, old man!” Omar felt his arm shuddering, felt his mind slipping back toward oblivion. His skin was cold and his vision was growing dim. “What keeps this island warm? Why isn’t it covered in ice?”
    The old man shifted back and pointed at the northern horizon, and then to the east, and then to the south. Omar followed the man’s finger to see the huge smoking mountains around the city. Omar shook his head. “Volcanoes? No, no, no. But the stories. The stories said… I thought…” He clawed at the old man’s arm and hauled himself up onto his knees. He teetered off balance from the missing weight of his arm. Gripping the old man for support, he stared at the northern volcano with a terrible icy emptiness in his belly. “The stories were wrong. I was wrong.”
    He stared across the street at Riuza, and then up at the brass ribs of the Frost Finch rising high above the city, with a few charred shreds of fabric still clinging to the beams. The airship’s engine was burning brightly and belching a thin column of black smoke into the sky. Staring and panting, he saw the stoic faces of the Yslanders all around him, all dressed in rough leather and fur, all standing outside simple stone houses, all carrying simple steel tools and weapons, and adorned in nothing more ornate that carved bone trinkets.
    “There’s nothing here,” Omar whispered.
    The hills outside the city shivered with yellow grass, and the lower slopes of the volcanoes gleamed with patches of snow on the black rocks, and the more distant mountains shone with sunlight glancing off their pale gray faces and snowy caps.
    The roads were paved with gravel and dirt. The buildings were mortared with clay. The only animal in sight was a shaggy little pony.
    “Nothing.”
    There were no shining temples, no golden palaces, no proud warriors fighting alongside the spirits of their ancestors, no wise priests conversing with the souls of their predecessors. He saw no sun-steel, no marvels, no legends come to life, and no answers to the mysteries of the universe.
    “It was all for nothing.” He pitched forward onto the stone street and his vision went white.
    Is this my fate, then? Is this finally the end?
    Against the hard gravel road, he felt the tiny lump of his golden pendant pressed into his chest through his shirt.
    And after a moment, he felt the dull throbbing of his heart beating on and on and on…
    No. There is no end for me.
    At least,