7
It was hours later that Rowan stumbled at last out of the great swamp and westward across the rolling fields toward Brinton. Behind him the first pale light of dawn was welling up from beneath the horizon, and as he went on the fields about him lay misty and ghostlike beneath that increasing light. Then, as he came wearily to the crest of a little rise of ground, he paused, gazing ahead.
Before him there lay in the distance the ruins of Brinton, a great mass of blackened wreckage in which was no sign of movement, and from which arose no sound of life. So silent was it, so wrapped round with the unutterable stillness and soundlessness of death, that it seemed to Rowan, standing there, that he must needs be the last living creature in the world, the last living man.
Yet it was not so, he knew. Out beyond the shattered city, out in those other cities beyond the horizon, out over all earth's surface, there would be running men, and the fleeing of panic-driven crowds, and all the fear and horror which the invaders from the abyss had loosed upon the world. But soon would come an end to that. Soon those fear-driven throngs would be drifting back, returning, would be learning how those dark invaders had been thrust back, annihilated, the destiny of their race shattered by a single man. Soon....
Rowan looked on at the silent, ruined town, his lips moving. "You alone, Morton!" he was whispering. "You—alone!"
Then, as he stood there, the pallid light about him changed, deepened, while from behind him there shot forth long rays of yellow light. Beneath the magic of their alchemy the whole world seemed transfigured suddenly from gray to glowing gold. But Rowan never turned, never moved, standing still motionless there on the crest, gazing westward, a black, lone little figure against the splendor of the rising sun.