The Pilgrims: Book One (The Pendulum Trilogy)

by Elliott, Will

  Anfen stepped towards her. ‘You’re safe, don’t run.’

  ‘Safe!’ The girl — midway through her teens — barked bitter laughter. Her teeth showed white through the dark stains, as though this was the lone part of herself she’d been determined to scrub clean. Anfen unstrapped the scabbard from his belt and let it drop to the ground, stepping towards her again, palms open. ‘Safe from us, at least. We’ll feed you if you tell us what happened.’

  ‘I’ve eaten,’ she said, and laughed again. It was a horrible sound, despairing and caustic.

  Anfen said mildly, ‘Very well, but I suspect our food is better. Our conversation, too.’

  ‘Leave the food there, then go,’ she said. ‘You won’t need it any more. They will get you too, if you’re worthy. I alone was not. Inferno sent them to collect us. He was pleased with the work we’ve done.’

  ‘A mysterious Spirit, Inferno, to compliment you this way.’

  ‘Yes!’ she said eagerly, teeth showing.

  ‘You have been through a lot.’

  The girl’s demeanour shifted before their eyes, as though conflicting wicked forces wrestled for her emotions. Her head slumped forwards: something won the battle. She said no more. Anfen took her arm and guided her back to the others. He left her with Siel then picked up his sword. Siel looped a rope around the girl’s waist none too gently and handed the other end to Sharfy, who tied it around his wrist. The girl gave a dark look to them both; she had clearly not expected to be tied.

  ‘Where is your home city?’ Anfen asked her.

  ‘I have none. No past. Lalie is dead, I am her corpse.’

  ‘Where was it, before you fell in with Inferno?’

  ‘Fell in,’ she snarled, mocking. ‘He calls all who are worthy.’

  ‘Worthy of death like cattle in a slaughterhouse,’ said Anfen. ‘Worthy of running to cower in their tombs before they die.’

  The girl gave him a look of hatred made terrible by the blood coating her.

  ‘I have fought with “unworthy” men who stared at death and marched towards it knowing where they went,’ Anfen continued mildly. ‘They did not run screaming into a hall to bar the door. Or hide there beneath their dead friends’ bodies.’

  ‘You want to stare at death?’ she hissed, shivering with rage. ‘Come inside! You are not worthy even of Offering. Come and see, brave man with a sword. See what Great Inferno sent us. All you know is ash.’

  ‘Hey now!’ cried Loup. ‘That’s a curse, what she just said. She’s got no kick to give it, but she’d try, if she did! Other things might hear her too, you never know. You watch yourself here, Anfen, and maybe gag her if she keeps up that rubbish chatter.’

  Anfen’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s still in there, whatever did all this?’

  She laughed at him. ‘Come and see!’ She headed back to the hall, dragging the rope like a leashed dog. The despairing laugh rang loud across the clearing. ‘Come and see! You won’t come, brave man.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Siel.

  But Sharfy and Anfen followed the girl in.

  ‘See by her manner,’ muttered Siel. ‘From her speech. She’s from a good home in a Free City. Elvury I’ll guess.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Loup gravely. ‘She’d have been warned of these cult people, but sought them out for adventure. They’d not need much encouragement to keep her. Pass her round the campfire like a bottle of wine. And she’ll bite the hand reaching to rescue her.’

  ‘What is this Inferno she was talking about?’ said Case.

  ‘He’s a sick and weak old Great Spirit,’ said Loup. ‘Good as dead, buried in the Ash Sea. Other Spirits joined up to battle him, the myth goes, after he spun out of control. Long, long time ago. Weakest Spirit has the keenest followers. I can’t figure it. Not even Nightmare’s crowd get as worked up as this bunch.’ He shook his head. ‘They try to revive Inferno, like it’s as easy as lighting a big fire. That’s why they dance around fires, torture people, eat each other and all the rest. How it’s supposed to impress Inferno, no one ever explained to me. And he ain’t waking up … oh no, other Spirits’ll never allow that.’ Loup sighed, dropped to the ground and took the opportunity for a few minutes’ sleep. In moments he was snoring like a dragon, while Case scratched his head in confusion.

  Inside the hall, Anfen and Sharfy, weapons drawn, showed no reaction as the girl led them through the carnage, eagerly watching their faces. She grew angry and fell quiet when they did not retch or flee the scene in horror.

  Most of the bodies were in the front half of the hall, evidently an attempt to hold the menace out. Or perhaps it was a rush for the exits when it came inside. Two parts of the broken door had been hurled to far corners of the room.

  ‘Your friends did not appreciate Inferno’s gift, it seems,’ said Anfen. ‘That’s hardly polite.’

  The girl shut her eyes and sat on her heels. She did not want to be here, it was obvious, but had hoped to spite them with the horror of what had happened.

  ‘Is there or is there not anything to show us?’ said Anfen, growing angry in his turn. ‘You’re wasting precious time. If you think we are impressed or scared by death like this, you are wrong. We have seen it before.’

  ‘And worse,’ said Sharfy.

  She laughed bitterly until Sharfy menaced her with his knife. Anfen held an arm out to stop him. The girl, cowering, pointed to the far corner of the room.

  Anfen approached it, steps very careful, blade angled for a quick strike. Something small moved in the shadows there. There was a sound of scratching on the wood floor. A length of something that looked like intertwined tree roots made from dark glass twitched on the floorboards. A heavy two-handed axe lay near it, its blade badly notched. ‘I see one of your friends, at least, had some heart,’ said Anfen.

  ‘Brave man,’ cried the girl, mocking. ‘Our High Priest could only cut off a hand, with an axe as big as that! What would you have done?’

  If it was a hand, long curling spikes — four of them — were the fingers. They looked sharp as knives. Spikes of similar length ran in ridges up the length of its wrist. The finger-blades still groped and clutched. The floor around it was covered in scratches and sawdust.

  ‘How long ago?’ said Anfen. ‘And how many were there?’

  The girl laughed at his disquiet like she’d finally got her victory. Sharfy again showed her his knife. She looked at him hatefully, but spoke: ‘Night before last. Three of them. Two did the … did it all. One stayed outside and didn’t move for hours. Even when the others had gone.’

  Anfen put his blade in the middle of the groping ‘palm’. The finger-blades closed on it like the arms of a trap, its grip tight. He lifted it from the floor and the three of them gladly left the hellish place, even the cult girl’s relief obvious.

  Loup, baffled, examined the hand. It twitched and groped at the dirt like a sick crab. ‘Nothing like I ever seen or heard of,’ he said. ‘Some kind of magic in it, hard to see its type.’

  ‘This thing casts?’ said Anfen, incredulous.

  ‘Doubt it. The magic doesn’t flow in or out. Just kind of packed in there real deep. Might be magic’s what made it. Kind of reminds me of some magic gadgets them Engineers make … whole thing could be an invention, not something natural. Can’t say. If that’s a hand, it’d stand pretty tall, maybe a tall man’s height and half as much again.’

  The girl laughed. ‘Bigger. And that’s the small one. The small one!’

  ‘Oh aye, lass. You’ve been very brave.’ Loup gave her a look of sympathy and her gaze dropped. He and Sharfy wound strong rope over the hand several times, then put it in a leather bag, discarding some things to make room. The hand still twisted and jerked, the fingers bending in many directions.

  ‘Is there any more you will tell us?’ Anfen asked the cultist. She scowled at him and said nothing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Cut her loose. Goodbye, Lalie.’

  The girl looked suddenly panicked as Sharfy cut through the rope. ‘Wh
at are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘Did you think you were captive?’ said Anfen. ‘No. You are a mouth to feed and a risk. I could tell Sharfy to do to you some of what you and your friends did to others until you talk, but there’s enough on my conscience, and his. You are on your own in these woods with Inferno’s gift, since you’d prefer that to a hot bath, cooked meals and a bed. May it kill you quickly.’

  ‘Now don’t you leave this girl here alone,’ said Case.

  ‘Case, don’t,’ said Eric.

  ‘Don’t yourself. All of you should be ashamed. She’s scared and on her own. Something terrible happened here and you can’t just leave her.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll tell you how many innocents she helped slice to pieces or burn alive for her dead Spirit’s favour,’ said Anfen.

  ‘He’s not dead,’ the girl said, glaring.

  Anfen strode away, in the direction of the clearing’s far side. The others followed. Hot tears brimmed in the corners of Case’s eyes. Behind them, the girl stood mute in the clearing, a mix of bitter emotions in her face. Case looked back at her before passing through the trees. ‘Lass, maybe you should tell them what you know. You can join us, they won’t hurt you. Maybe you’ll get cleaned up and taken back to your home and your folks.’

  She scowled at him. ‘I don’t want your pity, old fool, and I don’t want the touch of your fingers under a blanket at night.’

  Case looked at her. ‘Your world must be as sad a place as mine, lass. I hope you’ll be OK.’

  Her lip trembled. Case didn’t turn back as he heard her footsteps hurrying after them.

  ‘Good job,’ Anfen murmured to him as the girl ran towards them, tears sliding through the muck on her face. ‘But we will have to watch her.’

  Case blinked at him, surprised. ‘I wasn’t playing a game there, friend. I thought you were willing and able to leave her here alone. And I meant it all.’

  ‘I did too.’ Anfen met his gaze with flinty eyes and Case backed away from him.

  28

  In his chamber, the Aligned world’s Friend and Lord sat with face and body poised in the exact same way Case had seen when he’d walked invisible into this lonely chamber nearly a week ago.

  Again unblinking, Vous’s eyes were so unnaturally bright they almost glowed. On some days, they were bright enough to light dim rooms. This was due in part to the powerful charms about his neck, on his wrists and fingers, many of which would have been quite at home in the sky cavern troves of the dragon-youth. (And some of which may in fact have come from that very place, where no man had set foot. Invia were occasionally careless, now and then stealing away with a treasure, only to be spotted by a quick-witted thief in position to strike, and willing to wear a Mark.)

  The magic force in sway, constantly ebbing and pulsing around and through Vous, was another part of what lent his eyes their unnatural gleam, as well as his body its youth, and his mind its insanity. Yet another part was this: whatever beliefs were held by peasantry, by soldiery, and by the castle’s shrinking supply of enemies, the Project was, slowly, achieving its aims. The Arch Mage said changes in Vous would remain slow until they reached a critical point from which things would move fast and unpredictably. Perhaps he would increase in size, becoming huge as Mountain. Or not; Valour, it was said, was only just bigger than a large man. Perhaps he would become ethereal, invisible to all but mage eyes. Or he might assume a form none could guess. But his immortality at least was assured; even Inferno, as close to death as a Great Spirit could be, still writhed beneath the seas of ash above him, and still clutched a link to the world, however tenuous it was.

  Vous the man had been but a seed planted by his own hands in historical soil. Now and then he looked back on co-conspirators who never knew they were but tools in his kit, albeit for important ends. He saw the young Arch Mage, not so called back then, just a rogue wizard banished from the schools and shunned for his penchant for forbidden things, lucky not to have been slain in disgrace. But mostly, Vous remembered that young man whose name he still shared, who’d started all this by reading texts in his wealthy father’s collection of the rare and forbidden. For that young man he felt intensely sad nostalgia and love, earnest and tender as any mother’s. He saw the young man going mad with ambition and power too great for any person. And still he embraced the same historic prize that the young man had opened his arms to, whatever the cost to himself or others. Only now, the prize was no longer the ethereal stuff of dreams: it was this throne, this room in the castle, these servants and soldiers, these charms about his neck, fingers and wrists. Just vehicles taking him towards it, perhaps, but all very real …

  Things moved apace. He had more people swearing to him, praying to him. His extended life was blending into history’s pages, the lies and the truth of it. The Arch Mage’s preparations — though Vous’s understanding of them was limited — had passed the point of being possible to undo. What could stop him now? The dragon-youth were imprisoned; the Great Spirits would not come near the castle; and the Dragon Itself slept, hidden, unconcerned with the deeds of men.

  That unknown critical point may be a day away or it may be another century in coming. Or longer. Vous was impatient for it, afraid of it, and already barely human any more in mind or spirit. He felt now like an unstable force being bottled in his body’s shape. He felt like volatile liquid, stirred or gently shaken by any who came near him. They had better be brave, to shake him hard. He waited, and they all waited, for the great Change, the turning point.

  And yet …

  Vous’s eyes rested on his wine glass, which was full. His lips were drawn slightly up so the teeth showed. There was a plate of food next to it, just as untouched. Whoever had prepared it knew he would not eat it; he never did, fearing poison, yet he demanded to be served anyway. They theorised that the sight comforted him and brought pleasant memories of good meals, long ago.

  Poison would not be likely, with his protective charms, to hurt him much anyway; but to his mind, there was just no knowing. Every so often, a grey-robe was summoned to eat his meals before his furious, unblinking gaze.

  If bothered enough by hunger — something becoming rarer with time, though he seldom ate — he would steal down to lower levels of the castle, in disguise, passing the mess halls of lesser staff. He would furiously devour half-eaten plates, swatting at whoever’s food it had been with furious curses, ripping them from their place at the table by the hair, animal screams tearing high-pitched from his throat, thrown mugs shattering on the floor and walls, tables overturned, food smeared across his finely featured cheeks and chin, slumped back against the wall, inconsolably weeping while the mess hall cleared of people quickly and quietly.

  Insanity was one price of it all. He knew he was paranoid, and foolish, and yet it struck at his heart no less: that special fear. For while he knew he was foolish, he also knew he was not, for he’d found an insane mind can believe two things or more with complete conviction, even as one disproved the others. The fear was at its worst at night, when all that was still human inside him begged the rest for sleep. It made him jump at movements in the corners of his vision, and cower pitifully.

  The theft of his wine, days ago, had had a lasting effect. It had helped to convince the part of his mind which argued against Shadow’s existence that the frightened part feared something real. The viewpoints coalesced on the spectrum of his sanity like a distorted shape gaining focus. Even when that same part began to seek other explanations — that he himself had drunk the wine and forgotten doing it, that his cup had been empty all the while — he knew better, and knew that something, or someone, had really been there, and had really drunk it, as if to mock him.

  To Vous’s left, against the wall, on the surface of the tall mirror, some faces slept, while other faces watched him. Their eyes were adoring and concerned. The faces gently bobbed and floated like dead fish on water, five in all; some still vaguely resembled the people they had been in life, though others had, with time
, changed to look like little more than skulls. Of the rest of their bodies, only the occasional hand-print on the glass was ever seen, like fingers pressing on the window pane through which the faces gazed.

  In their lives, Vous had known them and plotted with them for the throne on which he now sat. Their original plan — his too, for a brief time — had been to share it. Then other ideas had seemed appealing, for thrones aren’t easy to share. One by one he’d killed them, three of the five with his own hands.

  In the high upper halls, where the air was thick with power, and in the presence of powerful magic charms, acts like murder sometimes set off strange energies and effects, as did the subsequent thoughts of the murderer reflecting on the deed. Thus had emerged Ghost, his advisor, confidant, his dearest friend, and in some ways his very own unwitting creation, peering back through the mirror at him one day, and assuring him that it — they — felt no ill will, and bore no grudge, and wished only to see him prosper and thrive, he and the Project.

  How Vous had screamed and recoiled, at first. How he’d screamed when they — it — followed him through other rooms on window panes, wine glasses and mirrors, for days on end, apologising and pleading, until he got used to their presence enough to listen to them and be convinced they meant him well.

  The woman’s face smiled placidly, the hair swaying as though it were immersed in water. Hers had been the first murder; he had strangled her as she took her bath. She’d been his lover at the time, had presumed herself his ‘queen’, had even suggested they plot against the others. He’d been disgusted at how ugly she was during the death. Here, her face was the most whole, the least dead-looking of the group. Another of the faces had begun to resemble a beast, with its two long rows of sharp white teeth and its hard round snout. He forgot what the man had even looked like, whose head he’d gone on smashing into the ground well after the deed was done. The others seemed starved, skull-like, with gloomy round sockets instead of eyes, and sadly set features. They seldom ventured away from this mirror, and longed only to help their Friend and Lord.