Pilgrim (36 page)

“
W
hat do you mean, you thought Drago would have to be the first to cross?” StarDrifter demanded. With barely a ruffled feather, but with considerable angst, he’d risen from the chasm and alighted before WingRidge.

Zenith breathed a gentle sigh of relief. For a moment…

WingRidge had the grace to look discomforted. “Undoubtedly, approach to Sanctuary is intimately linked to the presence of the…of Drago.”

StarDrifter blinked, biting down another angry outburst.

“StarDrifter,” WingRidge continued. “I
am
sorry. I just didn’t connect the script around the door with the enchantments needed to cross the bridge.”

Deciding to accept the apology with the merest of nods, StarDrifter turned slightly to stare across the chasm into Sanctuary. The valley was utterly extraordinary, and looked as if it stretched, in all its loveliness, into eternity. We could fit the populations of fifteen worlds into that enchanted place, he thought, and there would still be room for all to dance the Hey-de-Gie with ease.

“Couldn’t we just fly across?” Zenith asked.

StarDrifter shook his head. “The other side of the chasm is warded tightly with enchantment. I tried to fly across to the other side when—” his eyes flitted momentarily to
WingRidge, “—the bridge vanished, but could not penetrate the thick veil of sorcery that hangs to protect the other side.”

“Thus must we fetch Drago,” WingRidge said. “We can do no more here, and no more for those above who need to cross that bridge.”

“Where is he?” one of the other Icarii asked.

“North,” WingRidge said. “Come,” he laid a hand on SpikeFeather’s shoulder. “I need your knowledge of the waterways, my friend, to reach Drago.”

SpikeFeather looked helplessly between StarDrifter and WingRidge. “I know the way, WingRidge, but
you
know how long it took us to get from Sigholt to the Minaret Peaks using the waterways. Days, at least, for I have not the enchantment to use the waterways as once did the Ferryman. Meanwhile, no doubt the Demons progress from Lake to Lake, breath quickens Qeteb’s body…and Sanctuary remains denied to the peoples of Tencendor.”

“We must do the best we can—” WingRidge began, but was interrupted by StarDrifter.

“Wait. Zenith, will you return to the Minaret Peaks with JestWing and his companions?”

“Yes, but—”

“Get them organised for an evacuation as quickly as you can. Within days,” StarDrifter took a deep breath, “I hope we will have Drago here to open Sanctuary.”

“And you?” Zenith asked.

“I will go with WingRidge and SpikeFeather.”

She nodded, both relieved and disappointed that they would be parted for a while.

“What happened?” StarLaughter shouted. She had pulled her and her son’s horses to a halt half a league into the shelter of the HoldHard Pass, waiting for the Demons to catch up.

Now four of them had, their horses still rolling reddened eyes in fear, their sides still heaving with panic.

The Demons were not in a much calmer state.

“
Where’s Rox
?” StarLaughter screamed, both terrified and furious.

Sheol turned on StarLaughter and snarled, a vicious animalistic sound that sent StarLaughter reeling back in her saddle.

“Think to question
us
, girl?”

“Then tell me why Rox no longer rides with you, and why terror no longer patrols the night!”

“Rox,” Mot ground out, “is gone.”

StarLaughter shot a look at her son, as if somehow she thought he might have been destroyed by that revelation, but the boy sat his horse, motionless and devoid of expression.

StarLaughter turned back to the Demons. All four wore expressions of rage mixed with pure, unadulterated fright.

“I do not know who that red-haired man was…” she said with a certain caution.

“He was the Enemy—” Raspu began, his pock-marked skin even more ashen than normal.

“I thought all the Enemy were dead,” StarLaughter said.

“As so they are!” Sheol snapped. “The bridge was, and has always been, a trap. The man was a vision only, a remembrance, meant to…”

She drifted off, but StarLaughter heard the unspoken phrase lingering in the air.

Meant to terrify us.

And more, StarLaughter thought, for has not that vision, that trap, killed Rox?

“He was one of the Enemy who had succeeded in trapping Qeteb,” Mot said. “His name is unimportant, but it was his skill and knowledge that was the force behind snatching life from Qeteb. He died may aeons ago, but his memory was encased in the trap.”

“Rox?” StarLaughter said.

“Gone,” Sheol said shortly.

StarLaughter glanced again at her son. “What does that mean for—”

“In the end, nothing,” Sheol said. She had managed to calm herself now, although a thin drool of saliva still ran slowly down her chin. “Qeteb’s resurrection may be accomplished without Rox.”

“And your power?” StarLaughter continued, unable to conceal her concern. “What about that?”

Again she glanced at her son. “What about
his
?”

“Your
son’s
power will be unaffected,” Sheol said, her lip curling in a renewed snarl. “Never fear. As for us…we shall have to be more vigilant, but we will succeed, nevertheless.”

She looked skyward into the blue mists that still enveloped them.

“When we emerge from this vaporous horror, we shall set the Hawkchilds to ravage and tear and punish this land for Rox’s death. If his terror cannot haunt the night, then our winged friends can. We may still feed.”

It took StarDrifter, WingRidge and SpikeFeather almost half a day to reach the waterways, and when they did, WingRidge and SpikeFeather stood back to watch StarDrifter. Perhaps he had connected pattern to dance, and thus to power, but the Ferryman had never used obvious enchantment to work his way through the waterways. Even if he had, and StarDrifter knew the enchantment, how could he know how to transfer the music, or words, into movement and dance?

But StarDrifter did not dance, nor sing, nor even wave his hands about and plead.

Instead, he merely climbed gracefully into the flat-bottomed boat that awaited them, and sat down on the bare plank in its stern, arranging his wings carefully behind him.

“Well?” StarDrifter enquired. “What are you waiting for?”

WingRidge and SpikeFeather glanced at each other and climbed in.

“How—” SpikeFeather began.

“It has become obvious to me,” StarDrifter said, “that these waterways are intimately connected with the Sacred Lakes and with the craft those lakes nurture. Correct?”

The two birdmen slowly nodded.

“And,” StarDrifter continued, “are not the craft intimately connected with Drago?”

“Yes,” WingRidge said. His forehead was crinkled in a slight frown.

“Then,” StarDrifter said, and laid a hand on the smooth wood of the side of the boat, “I ask only that this boat, and the waterway on which it rests, takes us to Drago.”

Instantly, the boat glided forward.

M
ove twenty thousand on foot, through territory that would be hostile to say the least, and with the entire night and much of the day spent scurrying for shelter? Some might say it was an impossible task, and one only a fool would contemplate, but Theod had no choice. They would die in the mines within a month, whether from the lack of food and water, or disease, or from the dark itself. He had to get them out.

The only thing in his favour was that at least they would not have to move through the open plains. The grain fields of Aldeni or Avonsdale were no different and the odd apple tree would do little to shelter his twenty thousand.

But Theod had the Murkle Mountains, and then the Western Ranges, and once he got them to a spot directly north of Carlon, then he could sigh with relief and send a farflight scout to beg Zared to aid them back to Carlon.

And so he began.

First, Theod sent scouting parties ahead, heavily protected by Wings of the Strike Force, to pick likely shelter spots through the lower Murkles and into the Western Ranges. These scouting parties would leave clear signs for the coming exodus to follow.

The twenty thousand could not move as one group, so, from among his own soldiers, the Strike Force and those
sheltering within the mines themselves, Theod picked ten men and women who could lead groups of some two thousand each. These groups would leave the mines at intervals of twelve hours, in the hour after dawn, or dusk (now that the night had suddenly become inexplicably safe), and travel through each hour that they could and resting when they were forced to shelter. Of the ships Theod never spoke. They could have guaranteed the survival of the greater portion of these helpless and innocent people. Now, the Duke was certain he was about to lead many of them to their deaths.

When the time finally came for the groups of two thousand to leave, one group every twelve hours, day by day, their passing was noted by the Hawkchilds, and the information passed on to the TimeKeepers.

And, via the TimeKeepers, the information was sent to their legions in Aldeni and Avonsdale and, in particular, the brown and cream badger and the patchy-bald rat. The rat, emerging from his burrowings deep under the walls of Carlon, thought he had a plan—and the friends in right places to carry it through.

The badger’s piggy eyes gleamed, and he approved.

The Hawkchilds agreed to carry messages north.

The Demons laughed, as Theod led his twenty thousand forward.

The way was difficult and fraught with hardship, but as the days passed Theod dared believe they might manage it. He led the first group, including Master Goldman, Gwendylyr and his two five-year-old sons. When they moved, a Wing of the Strike Force drifted overhead, keeping watch. When they sheltered, the Icarii fluttered down to huddle with them. They marched, walked and scrambled through landscape that was not hostile, but fatiguing. They generally moved among rocky slopes where there were no paths, they had little in the way of food supplies, and the weather remained cold and bitter during
the early spring. It would have been difficult with a well-trained and hardened army unit; with groups of two thousand men, women and children it was sometimes heartbreaking.

Everyone bore up as best they could, but children stumbled and sprained ankles, or grew tired and fractious. The adults already carried packs of blankets or food, and for many hours when they moved some of them also had to carry children, often as old, and as large, as eight or nine.

Whenever they set out, almost immediately everyone in the group began to worry about finding shelter before the next wave of grey madness oozed over the peaks. It did not matter that the Icarii wings above could spot adequate shelter ahead, people only worried that they might not make it. Some mornings and afternoons several, maybe even a score, among the group did not make it. Perhaps they misjudged the time, perhaps their exhausted limbs just could not get them into shade before the Demons consumed their minds. Whenever Theod heard the scream of terror, and then the screech of madness coming from beyond the shade of shelter, he flinched and lost a little more of his youth.

Then he would tighten his arms about his sons, and hang his head and weep.

So they struggled.

The Icarii kept Theod in touch with the groups coming behind him. They progressed hour by hour, day by day, as did he, and, as he, they occasionally lost a soul to the Demons, although because Theod could give them details of forward shelter it was that little bit easier.

They moved, and they kept on moving, for they had no other option.

Days passed, and Theod eventually managed to swing his group eastwards into the Western Ranges.

“DareWing,” he asked the Strike Leader softly one evening as they sat about a cold and cheerless canyon deep in shade. “I will need to send word to Zared soon about what
has happened, and what we do. When do you counsel to be the best time?”

DareWing rubbed his tired face and thought. “To give the farflight scouts the best chance of getting through, we should get close to the ranges directly north of Carlon before we send scouts.”

“How long will it take them to fly south to Zared?”

“My fittest and strongest scouts would take perhaps a day, but that would be flying non-stop, and they can’t do that. Every few hours they will need to seek shelter. Two days, maybe three.”

“But they
will
get through?”

DareWing’s mouth twisted grimly. “If we send enough, then perhaps two or three will get through, yes.”

“What is enough?”

DareWing looked Theod in the eye. “I cannot answer that question.”

DareWing and Theod may have hoped they passed through the southern Murkle Mountains and into the Western Ranges unobserved, but their every move was noted. Not by the Hawkchilds for they would have been seen, but by snails and grub worms and rodents and birds, once loyal only to their hungers and the land that fed them. Now mind and soul belonged entirely to the Demons who fed off them and now, in their madness, friends and comrades of the patchy-bald rat.

Early one morning, when the stars still sprinkled the predawn twilight, DareWing peered outside the entrance of the cave in which they’d sheltered and nodded.

“I can start sending scouts tomorrow,” he said to Theod, who sat with his arm about his still-sleeping wife.

“Are you sure?”

DareWing nodded. “With luck, Zared can be preparing to meet us within the week.”

Theod allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. “Then perhaps we will save some of these people.”

He looked down to Gwendylyr’s dark head cradled against his chest. Born an aristocrat, she’d lived a life of ease until the past few months, and yet she’d not once complained nor asked for favours. On the trek through the mountains she’d spent most of her time helping the elderly and sick who found the forced march difficult at best, and almost impossible for the rest.

Theod stroked the crown of her head, smiling gently, then looked over to where their two sons lay entwined in each others’ arms. Theod knew he would gladly give his own life if it meant that Gwendylyr and the two boys lived.

“DareWing,” he said softly, turning back to his friend. “Where do you think we should—”

He never got any further.

Someone among the bodies crowded into this particular cave suddenly screeched, and instantly there was panic.

People lurched to their feet—including Gwendylyr and the two boys—still half-asleep, but still fully within their nightmares.

Someone else screamed, and then another, and Theod shouted for calm.

But way back in the cave people were shoving and grunting, trying to push forward, and a mass of people were now surging towards the cave’s entrance.

“
No!
” Theod screamed. “Stay where you are!
What’s gone wrong?
”

He was answered instantly, but not by word. One of his sons screamed, and beat at something crawling up his body.

It was a bat, and behind it a snake, and then crawling up his other leg were four or five wolf spiders.

Theod ignored the tiny claws sinking into his own flesh, and instead tried to help his sons. Gwendylyr was beside him, alternately beating at something that clung to her back and the creatures that threatened to overwhelm her sons.

“Get a scout out!” Theod yelled to DareWing.

“I can’t, damn you! It’s dawn outside.”

And then both of them were pushed to ground, as was Gwendylyr, by a wave of panicked people—some of them so thick with crawling creatures their human forms were blurred—surging towards the entrance.

“No!” Theod screamed yet again, but his voice was muffled, and his body buffeted by feet and sliding rocks, and by far, far worse…

One of his sons screamed in pure terror, and to
his
terror, Theod realised the sound came from very, very close to the mouth of the cave.

No!
he wanted to scream yet again, but he couldn’t rise, he couldn’t, the weight of people above him was so great, the panic so all-consuming, he could hardly breathe, he—

Gwendylyr somehow managed to find her feet, and she saw both of her sons carried forward by the crowd. She fought forwards, desperate beyond words to reach them and drag them back, but instead was caught in a surge of humanity crawling with horror, and could only watch helpless as her two beloved boys were carried out into the dawn—

—
where horror worse, far, far, worse than a sea of biting bats and insects awaited them
—

—and then was carried forward herself to experience with horrible intimacy the feel of the Demons’ hunger carving into her mind, her sanity, her soul.

Gwendylyr, Duchess of Aldeni, beloved wife of Theod and mother of their equally beloved sons, was crawling around like a beast of the forest, tearing the clothes from her body. She writhed naked in the dirt, grovelling, grovelling, grovelling before the black boar that now stood over her; weeping, screeching, offering him her breasts to suck, her body to take. Her life gone…And Theod, now left standing just inside the mouth of the cave, two Icarii with him, could only stand and watch and scream, and scream, and scream.

Everyone, save those two left with him, had been carried out into the dawn. DareWing, Goldman, the Strike Force…and his wife and sons.

As the dawn brightened into day, Theod turned, and sank down to the ground, for he could bear no more.

One of the Icarii squatted down beside him, lifted a hand as if to put it on his shoulder, and then dropped it helplessly.

“We will fly to Carlon,” he said. “Get help.”

Theod nodded listlessly, not bothering to answer, and the Icarii stood, beckoned to his companion, and lifted into the morning.

A league south, just as they were about to fly out over the northern Aldeni plains, they were attacked and utterly overwhelmed by a massive flock of birds that blocked out what little sun there was.

Neither of the Icarii lived.

Theod sat through the day.

Outside, one of his former companions would sometimes appear, gibbering, maniacal, filthy.

Once, one of Theod’s sons appeared and that he could not bear, so he moved back to the rear of the cave. A scratching caught his attention—
anything
would have caught his attention, so desperate was Theod not to hear the horror babbling outside the cave’s entrance—and he looked down.

There was a crack within the tumble of rocks that formed the back wall of the cave. No, more than twenty cracks, and from each of them shone beady eyes and glistening fangs.

“Gods!” Theod whispered. “This entire cave is a trap.”

And behind him were moving nine more groups of Aldeni, each of them following signs that marked this cave as a safe-haven!

He stood up and spun about.

What could he do? Where…who…

There was another movement outside the cave entrance, and all the gibbering and babbling abruptly ceased. Theod narrowed his eyes and stared into the brightness of sudden sun.

A great white horse pranced there, rolling his eyes. Stars flared about his head and streamed from his tail, and he seemed a thing of dream, not reality. Without thinking, without having any idea of why he did such a stupid, foolhardy thing, Theod walked forward, walked into the sun, and scrambled onto the stallion’s bare back.

And so began the wild ride.