(Some heavy personal stuff going on, so publishing may be a bit sporadic. I'll try and stick to a once-every-two-weeks schedule)

Chapter 133: Among The Ruins

If you wish to appreciate the staggering scale of Ajora's Judgment, you have only to look at an Ydoran map of Ivalice, and put it alongside a modern map. See the highlands that were slagged to mountains: see the land between Gallione and Lionel that sank into the sea; see the desert, where once was fertile ground. The Bethla Wastes were once the breadbasket of all Ivalice: even shredded by the Judgment, the Bethla Plateau and the Limberry lowlands can feed whole armies. Imagine what the golden age was like, when Ydoran Workers labored in splendid fields, with airships plying between the far corners of Ivalice. Whatever the Judgment was, it made a ruin of that Empir,e and we are still picking up the pieces.

-Alazlam Durai, "On Ajora's Judgment."

Dawn rays peeked over the horizon, slanting across silver dunes. Ramza shaded his eyes, searching for any sign of movement in the silver sands. No sign today. Just as there'd been no sign yesterday. Just as there'd been so sign the day before.

"How's it looking?"

Ramza looked over his shoulder. Reis had emerged from the tent she shared with Beowulf, rolling her shoulders and stretching her back. Her broad shoulders and powerful arms stretched the fabric of the tunic she wore tied about her midriff, and her steps were light and dangerous as Gaffgarion's had ever been. Ramza still wasn't used to seeing the streaks of grey in her brown hair.

"Quiet," Ramza answered, looking back to the horizon as Reis walked towards him. "We're running out of time."

Reis shrugged, kneeling beside him. "We knew it was going to be hard."

Ramza shook his head. "Not this hard."

Reis laughed. "The Wastes used to be a crowded place, Ramza, back when they were farmland and fortresses. That's why the sand looks this way." She scooped up some of the silver sand and let it dribble down through the cracks in her fingers. "There's stone in here, and metal, and glass, and ash." She finished letting the sand drain through her fingers, and looked out to the horizon. "If we're gonna find this Foundry, it's gonna take time."

Ramza didn't answer until he felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked back at her, found her watching him with obvious concern in her violet eyes. "She'll be okay, Ramza."

Ramza grimaced, and looked down at the ash. "We don't know that," he whispered. "All we have is Argus' word."

"The word of a dead man's not good enough for you?" There was a slight note of amusement in Reis' voice.

Ramza flashed her an annoyed look. "You don't believe me?"

"You're talking to a woman who spent the last two years as a dragon," Reis said. "I think you'll find I'm pretty low on skepticism." She squeezed his shoulder. "It's Alma. She'll be alright."

Ramza was quiet for a moment. "Teta wasn't."

Neither of them spoke again, as the sun rose over silver sands, and the baking heat began to settle in above and below them, squeezing them like a pair of heated tongs. She squeezed his shoulder once, and then stepped back to the caravan and its constellation of tents.

Three days now, in the Bethla Wastes. Five days, since Valerie had steered them out of the Finnath River, and into the piddling water that was all that remained of Lake Poescas, on the edge of this desert of silver sands. Seven days since they had boaded that skiff, towed behind the stolen Invincible, and set sail on their strange mission. To find the Foundry, where they were told agents of the Church labored to build weapons that might kill two armies. To try and stop a massacre, that would destroy good men and women, and kill the most powerful men and women of Ivalice...and fuel the mysterious evil of the Lucavi.

It was important work. Necessary work. Daunting work. Who were they, to try and throw themselves against such great forces? Dimly, in the back of his head, Ramza could feel those old, familiar doubts trying to find purchase. They weren't having much luck, because so much of him was occupied with Alma, and with self-loathing.

He had crossed Ivalice to find her, and found a horde of undead instead. He had crossed an ocean to get more information, and found only more questions. He had hoped to better understand Delita, and found himself on yet another suicide mission for his supposed friend. And he was no closer to finding Alma. Much less understanding what the Lucavi wanted from her.

He kept moving. He kept searching. What else was he supposed to do?

The schedule they kept these days was strange. They were headed into the heart of summer, every day in Cancer hotter then the last. By noon, the sun would be blistering in intensity, and they would have to rest again. So they divided their searches into morning and evening: six hours on, six hours off. That gave them enough daylight to comb the silver dunes, before the heat made such searching unbearable in the day, and the dark made such searching impossible at night.

But it made for rough sleeping, as they jerked themselves awake at different times, or slumped awkwardly in the simmering oven of the caravan's interior.

"Wish I had Boco with me," Beowulf groused, wiping sweat from his hair as he kicked at the crumbled remnants of a wall. "Could cover half the Wastes."

"And then Boco would die," Radia scoffed, in between panting for air. She had tied her green tunic up below the midriff: the whole shirt was damp with her sweat. "We could feed us or a bird, not both."

"Who knows when we'll see her again?" There was a plaintive note in Beowulf's voice: Ramza felt a twinge as he remembered the day Violet had died, outside the windmill on Fovoham.

"Val will take good care of her, Wulfie." Reis patted his back soothingly. Unlike the three of them, she seemed completely unbothered by the heat. But they had learned yesterday this was a trick fueled by magic: she had tried to do the full day's search, and nearly passed out by evening.

"Over here!" They four of them looked up: Rafa was waving at them from the crest of a nearby dune. Ramza nodded, and waved a hand back at the caravan, which trundled to life behind them and followed them up the slope. A hollow tower lay several yalms beyond, with old camping gear in its interior. No sign of the Church, but it made a good place to camp: its shadow would help stave off the worst of the noonday heat.

"How can you stand it?" Ramza asked.

Rafa shrugged. Her clothes were just a little damp around the shoulders. "It's not that bad."

"Yes it is." Malaks' voice was thin with exhaustion, as he poked his head up from inside the caravan. "It's even worse in here."

"That's up for debate," Radia muttered, her cheeks peeling with sunburn.

They maintained their weary guard, as the sun beat down upon them. As the light began to mellow into afternoon, Agrias hopped out of the caravan. Though her cheeks and forehead were burnt worse than Radia's, and her strawberry-blonde hair already slick with sweat, she moved with stubborn determination. But even she had foregone her armor, in the face of this heat.

"Thank the Saint," Radia muttered, crawling inside to sleep herself.

"You can stand down, as well," Agrias told Malak. "Mustadio's awake."

Malak waved a dismissive hand. "He'll want to study. I can stand watch awhile longer."

"Then, do you mind if I..." Ramza nodded to the inside of the cart.

"Please."

Ramza went inside without much prompting. The heat in the war caravan was different than the heat outside: thicker somehow, but less searing, more like a swamp than the blazing heat of the Wastes. Alicia and Lavian were propped against one wall, leaning away from each other and connected only by intertwined hands: Melia slept opposite them. Radia was closer to the caravan's engine hub, ladling water urgently into her mouth. Ramza's dry throat ached at the sight of it.

He hurried towards her: wordlessly, she passed him the ladle, letting him drink greedily. He kissed her forehead in thanks, then turned to look at Mustadio, pushed against the caravan's far wall in the little nook he'd made for himself, with books spread out all around him, dominated by the enormous weight of the Codex he'd taken from the Archipelago.

"How goes?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio shrugged, flipping between one of Simon's notebooks and the Germonique Gospel proper. "Faster than before. Still too slow."

"We'll need you take over the caravan soon."

Mustadio nodded, though he didn't look up. For the work they were doing, it was essential that Mustadio, Alicia, and Lavian handle the nights: because of their magical abilities (not least the ability to conujure light), Alicia and Lavian could extend the hours they could search far past what would be possible without them. In order to drive the caravan after them, however, they needed Mustadio, who understood its magitek engine better than any of them. Malak had enough know-how to keep it moving during the day, but Mustadio was the only one who understood how it really worked.

"Anything interesting?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio frowned. "Maybe. I...think some of the cipher might refer to auracite, but..." He shrugged. "It's too soon to tell."

Too soon to tell. Too soon to tell if the Germonique Gospel held secrets they needed to know. Too soon to tell if they'd be able to stop the Church's plot, and find this mysterious Foundry. Too soon to tell if Alma was safe.

Ramza sighed, and sat heavily beside Mustadio. His friend patted him on the upper arm without looking at him. "It will be alright, Ramza."

"I hope so." Ramza stared up at the wood paneling of the caravan's roof, then felt another guilty twinge. He looked over to Mustadio. "Are you? Alright?"

Mustadio stiffened in the shoulders. His fingers froze in midmotion, halfway between sketching a note with a pencil and turning a page. "I do not see how I could be."

Ramza nodded. "Maybe...maybe we won't have to fight. The Inquisitor listened. Barich might listen, too."

Mustadio nodded, though he did not meet Ramza's eyes. When he started writing once more, Ramza did not try to interrupt him. He closed his eyes, and in spite of the heat, was asleep within moments.

It wasn't all bad news. The camping gear they'd found in the tower was not the first sign they'd found of recent travel through the Wastes. They were on the right track. But they didn't know what exactly the Foundry was, or what to expect in terms of its protectors. There might well be another Lucavi, complete with powers strange and dangerous, waiting at the end of this road. And even if there wasn't, Cardinal Bremondt had been plenty dangerous: Workers and dragon magic were powerful enough, even without adding demons to the mix.

So Ramza's sleep was troubled by hazy too-large figures with eyes like fire and skin like smoke, his ears filled with screams in familiar voices.

Dimly, he felt the caravan moving, woke up long enough to sense he was safe, then drifted back to sleep. This time, his nightmares dimmed, as the heat of the day fell away, and was replaced by the crisp cool of the desert night. He felt Radia roll against him, and held her close.

He awoke again, when the caravan rumbled to another halt. His eyes flickered open, to see if there was any danger. And he heard voices.

"-you're sure?" Agrias' voice, in a gruff undertone.

"Can't be sure from this distance, but I think so." Mustadio's voice was higher than hers, and no less urgent.

"Do you know how their senses work?"

"Depends on the model and the skill of the owner. I doubt Bremondt could have set one on sentry duty, but Barich is a different story." A strange note in Mustadio's voice as he said Barich's name, taut and painful.

Groggily, Ramza pushed his way outside, barely managing to step over Radia, Rafa, Beowulf, and Reis. Stars were just beginning to wink to life overhead, as the cerulean glow of the setting sun faded into true twilight. There was no moon to outshine the twinkling stars.

The five members of the evening crew were fanned out around the caravan. Mustadio was fidgeting with the telescope Faris had given them as a parting gift, and looked up as Ramza stepped outside. He jerked his head up a nearby dune. "There is a Worker."

Ramza tensed, hunching over a little as his eyes flickered to the dune. Their battles against the Workers in the Archipelago had been tense: their magitek weapons were powerful, and hard to deal with. They'd been lucky so far, but all it took was one good shot to bring one of them down for good.

"It's not moving," Melia put in, her had on her sword hilt.

"That does not mean anything," Mustadio grunted. "There are stories about what they were like when they did guard duty for the Ydorans. They would stand there, still as statues, until intruders came calling. Then..."

Silence among them.

"But if there's a Worker..." Melia said slowly. "I mean...the only working ones we've seen were with the Cardin-with Bremondt." She corrected herself quickly, grimacing. "It stands to reason..."

"But he would not leave it outside like that without a reason," Mustadio said. "And it is clear ground in all directions. We won't be able to get close."

"If it's standing guard," Agrias said. "We don't know for sure that it is."

Melia frowned a moment, then looked back at the caravan.

A few minutes later, and Malak stood among them. He had gone from asleep to awake in moments—sometimes Ramza forgot just how good a soldier he was. One of the swords he'd forged with his blood inside of it was already floating beside him.

"There's a limit to how close I can get," Malak said. "But that's for fighting and maintaining my senses. I've gotten it clear across Riovanes before."

"And almost passed out doing it," Rafa said quietly.

Malak stuck his tongue out at her, then approached the dune, stopping just short of the crest. Mustadio and Rafa stepped past him: Mustadio laid flat at the dune's top, while Rafa stood just above her brother, holding his sword. "Gimme a target," she said softly.

Mustadio extended then telescope for a moment, muttering to himself, before saying, "Let's say...380 yalms." He licked the tip of one finger, and held it to the air. "Southwestly wind blowing at...1.2?" He frowned, shook his head. "1.1 knalms."

Rafa nodded, and swung her brother's sword experimentally a few times. With one final swing of her powerful arm, she whipped the sword into the sky. Its shadow cut a sharp arc across the twilit sky. Mustadio tracked its flight with his telescope. "Ready..." he murmured, and then sharply, "Now!"

Malak tensed. His hands curled in the sand in front of him. "Can't...see much."

"I'll guide you," Mustadio said. "Forward 10 yalms."

Malak shook his head. "Can't tell how it's..."

"Forward. Slowly."

A moment's pause, then: "Stop. Left. Quickly...stop."

Malak shuddered: sweat stood out against his forehead.

Mustadio frowned a moment, then, "Can you do...sort of an arc, back and forth? Slow one way, fast the other."

"I'll...try." Malak took a deep breath, and tensed again.

He shook in the sand, as Mustadio watched through the telescope. Finally, Mustadio said. "Right. Slowly." And then, a moment later: "Forward. Quickly."

Malak tensed once more, then flinched as though struck. "I hit something."

Mustadio nodded. "The Worker." He lowered the telescope. "And it did not move." He was frowning as he looked back at them. "Workers have to be given orders. I have tried everything I can think of. Either it is inert, or..." He looked back at the Worker. "Or it has been ordered not to react."

"You think it's a trap?" Agrias asked.

"Only one way to be sure."

"I'll go," Rafa said. "We know from experience I can handle a Worker."

"I do recall you beating one with its own arm," Agrias agreed.

"She'll never stop bragging about that," Malak muttered. Lavian was at his side, tracing her staff up and down his body as slow pulses of translucent golden light rained down into him. He smiled gratefully at her.

Rafa nodded, and sprang over the hilltop. Mustadio put the telescope back to his eye, then lowered it again. "No reaction." He chewed his lower lip. "We're missing something."

"We usually are," Alicia put in. "But I don't know what else we're supposed to do. Maybe they met with bad luck. Maybe someone else attacked. We have to investigate."

Mustadio chewed his lip a moment longer, then nodded again. "Let's hide the caravan."

They stretched a piece of canvas nearly the same color as the silver sands over the caravan, to make it harder to pick out from the surroundings. Then they trooped together towards the Worker, standing solemnly alone in a flat plain of silver sand. Its head was helmeted like a knight's, but no red-star eyes gleamed inside the black of its eye sockets. Its powerful, columnesque limbs did not strike towards them: its spherical torso did not split open to reveal lethal lasers. The back of Ramza's neck prickled. Mustadio was right: they were missing something.

"Here," Rafa called, nudging a bit of sand with her foot. It moved a little wrongly: when she prodded it with her toe, the whole thing shifted, as though it were one piece. "It's like a trap door, or something."

"Let me check it for traps," Mustadio muttered, hurrying to her side.

"Sounds good," Rafa said, stepping away from the hatch and towards the Worker. "I'll destroy this thing while you do."

"Please do not," Mustadio grunted, pacing around the hatch, his eyes flickering across it. Hesitantly, he brushed a little of the silver sand away, revealing shabby wood. "If this is not booby trapped, that could be. And not even you are strong enough to destroy it in one blow."

"Perhaps I am," Agrias murmured, resting her hand on the hilt of her undrawn sword.

Mustadio smiled slightly. "Perhaps. But if we have somehow managed to approach without anyone seeing us-"

"This can't be the Foundry," Meliadoul put in. "They would have sentries standing guard."

"There is only one way to find out." Mustadio ceased his circling of the hatch, squatted in front of it, and clicked something. It sprang open soundlessly, showering the surroundings with silver sand. Worn stone stairs disappeared into the earth: three steps in, and all was darkness.

They looked down at the stairs, then at each other. Around them, the darkness was utterly still.

"If it's a trap," Agria grunted. "It's hardly the first trap we've walked into."

Mustadio nodded. The haze of starlight just illuminated the frown upon his face. "But I do not wish to keep rolling the dice against such dangerous odds." He stood up. "We have been terribly lucky, and I do not wish for any of us to perish." His voice sounded raw, and very young.

"You know Barich better than we do," Ramza said. "What should we do?"

Mustadio chewed his lower lip another moment. His eyes flickered around—to the group, and the Worker, and the still dunes beyond them.

"Same as we've been doing," he finally said. "Half of us go down, half of us stay up." His eyes flickered around the group. "Agrias, Melia, Radia, Beowulf...stay up here. The rest of us-"

"Malak is staying up here, too," Rafa said firmly.

Malak grimaced, but didn't argue. He still seemed to be having trouble keeping his feet. Instead, he reached into his pocket to pull out a vial, and tossed it to her. "If you need us, call for us."

Rafa caught the vial deftly, nodding. Mustadio thought a moment longer, then said, "Reis, take the lead. Lavian, behind her. Rafa, at the rear. Alicia, in front of her. Need you two giving us light."

Ramza nodded, and took his position next to Beowulf. Slowly, they descended down the worn stone steps. Alicia and Lavian raised fair-sized lights form their positions on either sides of the group, so the narrow stone store was illuminated brightly. They moved slowly down a dozen cracked steps, then took a switchback down a dozen more. After four dozen such steps, they finally reached the bottom: a squat rectangular chamber, with the ceiling so low Ramza felt like he had to duck. This room was stone, as well, and there was sign that it had been used: a rotting trash heap in the corner, stinking up the space. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"If it is fresh enough to rot, someone was here recently..." Mustadio muttered. There was a door at the center of each of the four walls: Mustadio paced around the borders of the room, with Lavian and Alicia sticking close to him to give him light. Shadows danced around the room as they moved, cast by their ever-shifting light.

"This is strange," Mustadio murmured, frowning up at the ceiling. "The tracks have been cleared, but they did work on the doors. What was this place?"

He beckoned Alicia and Lavian closer, and leaned up towards one of the stone lintels. "Not a particularly good repair job...cannot imagine it was in bad enough shape to warrant-"

The ceiling trembled. Vibrations shook fresh dust down on them. Ramza's dry throat went drier with the fear that the place was about to collapse upon them. Rafa snapped up the vial Malak had tossed him, and hurtled to the stairs.

A sharp crack of metal filled the air, followed immediately by a rush of a wind, as though someone had swung a great fan. A strange, moist smell tickled Ramza's nose. "Wha-"

By the door, Mustadio was on his knees. Rafa was kneeling beside him, both of them clutching at their throats. Ramza moved towards them, his heart racing in panic, his eyes burning-

Why were his eyes burning?

He staggered backwards, feeling the sudden hotness of his breath, the tightness of his throat. Around him, the others were also struggling: Alicia and Lavian were huddled next to each other, flickering lights on their staffs. Reis' eyes were wide with fear, and she had spread her arms to either side of her. The shadow of great wings loomed around her-

The rubble of one doorway exploded, as a Worker burst into the room, scarlet light burning in its chest. The ruby red of its later cut a path through the green fog of poison slowly killing them.