Pilgrim

by Sara Douglass

  This DragonStar was not his brother.

  “Forgive me,” he mouthed, and then his world disintegrated into clouds of pain and black feathers and sharp blades and claws and beaks that tore into his flesh and drove spikes of agony deep into his mind.

  Despite his resolve, he felt himself begin to thrash about on the point of the sword.

  Maybe he did want to live, after all.

  He twisted, and opened his mouth to shout, but found it filled with feathers and a taste so foul he gagged.

  Agony continued to slice through his body. If anything, it had got worse. Far worse.

  Caelum opened his eyes, and found he had woken into a nightmare as bad as his dream. The entire world was a mass of black feathers, mad whispering, and claws that scratched and beaks that bit deep into flesh.

  The Hawkchilds had attacked.

  The cave was literally packed with them. So completely did they fill the space between floor and rock ceiling that it seemed they’d driven out all the air.

  Caelum gasped for breath, trying to beat the three Hawkchilds that clung to him back far enough to allow him to draw his sword.

  To one side he could hear the sounds of his parents similarly fighting for their lives, and the howls and snapping jaws of the Alaunt.

  But however Caelum struggled, the Hawkchilds only clung closer. One of them drove his beak deep into Caelum’s shoulder, tearing away a strip of flesh, and Caelum screamed, only to have another thrust the clawed hand at the tip of its wing into his mouth, the claws tickling and scratching deep into his throat.

  Caelum’s scream was cut off, and he gagged, his entire body shuddering with the effort. Again he gagged, so badly one part of his mind wondered if he would vomit his entire gut up through his mouth, and then again, and again.

  The claws tickled deeper, and then more struck at his face, his eyes, and something vile sank into his belly. Caelum’s consciousness greyed, his mind unable to cope with the horror of the attack and the pain and weight of the Hawkchilds.

  They began to sing.

  It was a lullaby, something that Caelum—even in his extremity—remembered Azhure singing to him as a child, but a frightful parody of the lullaby.

  Here were no sweet, comforting verses, but words that jested at the futility of life, words that spoke longingly of the embrace of pain and disease, words that wished upon the listener a life marked with the rewards of disappointment and the joys of despair.

  And while the lullaby embraced him and drifted through his mind, the Hawkchilds sank their beaks and claws deeper and deeper into Caelum’s body, tearing at belly and throat and neck. Far away Caelum thought he heard Azhure scream, and wondered what they could possibly be doing to her to cause such horror to suffuse her voice.

  And then he drifted deeper towards unconsciousness, pushed himself towards it, because it would be the only escape from this—

  Suddenly, the pressure eased. He felt one Hawkchild lift away, and another fall away, tearing its claws out of his throat as it did so.

  Caelum finally managed to retch, spitting filth and his own blood from his mouth.

  The taste brought him back to full consciousness. He slammed one of his elbows into the remaining Hawkchild that clung to him, simultaneously grasping his sword and swinging it in an arc.

  There was a screech, and the sound of a body scrabbling about on the floor.

  For an instant black wings thrashed in his face, and then the Hawkchild had scrambled free.

  “Father?”

  “Caelum!” Axis’ voice was breathless, and somewhat distant, but it was strong.

  Caelum blinked his eyes, adjusting them to the darkness, and finally began to discern shapes.

  Pale hounds were leaping and snapping into the air, and both his parents were fighting to the rear of the cave, their backs to the wall.

  He took a step towards them, when, stunningly, a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “You are wounded,” someone said behind him, and the hand thrust him against the side wall of the cave. “Stand back. We will help your parents.”

  Several people leapt past him, seizing wings and legs and literally hurling Hawkchilds away from Azhure and Axis. Swords flashed, and Caelum thought he saw two of the new arrivals lunge forward with deadly pikes.

  “Adamon,” he said, abruptly realising who had spoken to him. Then he slid to his knees, his injuries finally draining him of strength. It was Adamon, and six or seven companions, some of them winged. Relieved he didn’t have to fight either dream or reality any more, Caelum finally let the greyness claim him.

  He awoke to the feel of something dabbing at the wounds on his belly.

  It hurt.

  “Be still,” a soft voice said. “The Hawkchilds have scored your flesh deeply.”

  Caelum blinked, and then focused on the face bending over him. Xanon, Adamon’s wife.

  She lifted her head slightly and smiled at him, then turned back to her cleansing of his belly wounds.

  “What…how…?” He could hardly force the words past his damaged throat.

  Then his father appeared at his side, bending down to him.

  “Adamon and Xanon came to our aid,” Axis said, laying a hand on Caelum’s shoulder. “With Pors and Silton and four Icarii from Star Finger.”

  “We were worried.” Now Adamon’s face appeared over Xanon’s shoulder. “You were taking so long to join us at Star Finger that we thought to come down the trails in the hope of meeting you.”

  “Thank the Stars you did,” Axis said softly.

  “Mother?” Caelum asked.

  “Scratched, but not as deeply as you,” Axis answered. “She’s with the hounds. One or two of them sustained some deep wounds.”

  Caelum relaxed a little. “And the Hawkchilds?”

  “Gone,” Xanon said. She sat back on her heels, and reached for a rough bandage she’d torn from a robe. “Wounded, but not dead. They have flown into the distant night. For the moment.”

  “Well, at least we know they, too, can bleed,” Axis said, and then looked at Adamon. “We have no time to waste.”

  Adamon nodded. “I know.” Then his eyes brightened, and he leaned forward and rested his hand on Axis’ shoulder, his excitement flowing down through Axis’ body and arm into Caelum.

  “We have found something!” he said.

  32

  A Seal Hunt…of Sorts

  He strode down through the palace corridors, ignoring the glances of those he passed, down to the courtyard, across to the stables and to the bracket of two loose boxes that held his stallion and the placidly munching donkeys.

  All Zared could think of was how he’d lost Isabeau.

  If only he’d been more careful. Not let her ride to the hunt while pregnant. Restricted her to the palace and gentle walks about the garden.

  If only…if only he’d been able to keep her from death.

  And now he’d lost Leagh, too. If only he’d kept Leagh with him.

  If only he’d not trusted his wife to her Demon-rotted brother!

  And now, was Leagh also…? No! He could not think of it.

  “I will rescue her,” he said to his stallion as he threw a saddle across its back. “How far can Askam have run?”

  “Don’t be such a fool, Zared!” Herme cried, running into the stable. His face was red and sweating. He had dashed all the way from the audience chamber of the palace where a guard had told him of Zared’s stern-faced march through the corridors and down to the stables.

  Thank all gods in creation he’d got here soon enough. He began to say something else, checked himself, then continued in a moderate voice that was nevertheless tight with frustration.

  “Sire, I entreat you to listen to reason. There is no shelter beyond Carlon’s walls, and dusk fell many hours ago. Leagh…Leagh would have succumbed—”

  “No!” Zared jerked the girth of his saddle tight and reached for the bridle hanging on a hook nearby. “Askam and his men had shade cloth with them. T
hey could have…they must have…”

  Theod entered the stable, his own face flushed, and looked mildly surprised that the older Herme had managed to get there first.

  “Zared,” he said, somewhat breathlessly, “you know as well as we that Askam and his command must have been infected by the Demons. They would not use the shade cloth. My friend, Leagh is…is…”

  He could not continue, and turned away, his hand over his eyes.

  Zared stared at Theod, then shifted his eyes to Herme. “I will rescue her,” he repeated. “Damn it, I cannot let her lie out there.”

  “For the gods’ sakes, listen to reason!” Herme roared, startling the other two men. “You owe responsibility to your people before you do to your wife. Have you forgotten already who you are? You are a King, Zared, and married to your people as much as you are married to the woman who is your wife.”

  Zared stared at him flatly, almost hating Herme for his words, and hating his own mind for dredging up the memory of using almost the exact words to Leagh when he was trying to persuade her to marry him despite her doubts.

  Herme swung an arm dramatically towards the stable door leading to the courtyard and the streets beyond. “Your people need you to help them, Zared. The very last thing they need of you is to waste your own life trying to rescue a woman who is already surely as mad as her brother.”

  “How dare you say those words to me!” Zared screamed, and would have lunged forward had not Theod seized his shoulders and held him back.

  “How dare you say to me she is mad,” Zared said again, this time in a whisper. “How dare you say to me she is lost.”

  Again Theod’s and Herme’s eyes met, and they were almost as despairing as Zared’s were.

  “We can do nothing,” Herme murmured. “Nothing.”

  Very gently he eased the bridle from Zared’s trembling hands.

  “Nothing,” he whispered again, and then gathered Zared into his arms. “I am so very, very sorry, my friend.”

  Zared stood stiffly for a moment, and then he broke down, sobbing.

  Herme stood there and held him as he wept, Theod standing close to one side, a hand on Zared’s shoulder.

  Theod raised his eyes and looked at Herme, and neither man was surprised to see that the other had tears sliding down his cheeks. For his part, Herme knew that Theod was thinking of his own wife and two young sons far to the north. Gwendylyr was of an age with Leagh.

  In the adjoining loose box the donkeys had stopped their munching and were staring at the three men. One of them shifted her gaze slightly, and the single lamp hanging on a post glinted in her eyes. For one instant the donkey’s eyes reflected the carnage of dead seals atop the ice-pack.

  The donkeys stayed still long after the men had gone.

  Then one turned to the other and spoke with the mind voice. It has been a very long time since we have hunted, sister.

  That is so.

  And meanwhile the man-Zared laments for the woman-Leagh.

  That is so.

  We have been quiescent too long. Shall we hunt the seal tonight, sister? Aye!

  The streets of Carlon were still, deserted. Nothing moved, save the grey terror that hung down in thick veils from the sky and the two white donkeys who moved silently between the tenement buildings.

  The terror did not touch them…it did not even notice them.

  The donkeys plodded forward, their heads nodding with every step, their ears drooping amiably.

  Their tongues hungered for the wetness of blood.

  Eventually, the donkeys drew close to the postern gate. It was bolted shut, and heavy beams were propped against the door as further protection against invasion.

  One of the donkeys stepped forward and nudged one of the beams gently with her nose. It fell soundlessly to the ground, and the two other beams toppled with it.

  The other donkey nudged the bolt, and it slid soundlessly into its carriage.

  The gate opened and the donkeys walked through. It swung shut behind them and the bolt slid home.

  The donkeys ambled forth placidly into the night.

  Askam had not moved his party since the previous evening. The badger was coming from the east, and would not ford the Nordra until the next morning.

  And so Askam sat and waited. His maniacal command sat with him, forming concentric circles that rippled out in the night, at their edges hemmed in by their horses standing legs akimbo, heads down, drool roping from slack jaws to the ground.

  In the centre of the circles lay Leagh, her eyes wide, staring at something no-one else could see. Her limbs moved slowly and purposelessly, her hands alternatively scrabbling at the dirt she lay in and picking at invisible scabs on her belly.

  She was completely naked.

  None among this mad company cared, or were even aroused by the sight.

  Their minds communed with that of the brown and cream badger, dreaming of the day when all in this land lay under the sway of the Demons.

  The hours passed.

  Dawn filtered from the eastern sky, and Mot’s hunger ravaged the land. Some of the men who sat with Askam absently carried handfuls of dirt to their mouths, chewing happily on the dry, crumbly earth, their teeth cracking and shattering on the rocks within the soil. They swallowed this breakfast without apparent effort. Again and again they lifted their hands to their mouths, stuffing their bodies with so much earth they eventually groaned and fell over, writhing silently as their stomachs and then guts burst with the pressure of the rocks and soil.

  Eventually blood trickled from their mouths and they lay still, although their bellies continued to swell with the fluids and gases created by the internal destruction. Some one or two, their internal build-up so extreme, looked like ghastly parodies of women who had died in the extremities of childbirth.

  Askam paid the swelling corpses no heed. The badger was only a few hours away, and soon Askam would be reanimated with its purpose.

  Everyone save Leagh, who still writhed under the weight of her own internal agonies, sat completely still. Likewise, the horses stood motionless on their skewed legs.

  Waiting.

  Something else found them before the badger did.

  The donkeys had trotted through the night, unerringly headed straight for the spot where Askam and his demented force waited. As they drew to within a quarter of a league of their quarry the donkeys broke into a canter, and their heads snaked forth before them.

  The donkeys’ bony spines padded out and their flanks thickened. Their hooves grew larger and flattened into platesized paws, wicked talons curving outwards in the anticipation of dealing death. Their heads, snaking ever lower to the ground, broadened and shrunk back towards shoulders that had attained the bulkiness of bears.

  Icebears.

  One of them opened her massive jaws and snarled, and her sister replied with a full-throated roar.

  Far, far to the north, Urbeth raised her head from where it lay on her paws before the fire. If she had been any less drowsy, she would have smiled, but as it was, she only listened, then let her head drop back to her paws and sleep. She dreamed of the time, fifteen thousand years earlier, when she had walked the Underworld on two legs, and with the man who had once been her husband.

  Noah.

  Then, Urbeth’s mouth had spent a great deal of its time curved in laughter and hardly any of her nights in sleep at all.

  The icebears burst through the outer ranks of horses and men with the full fury of a winter storm on the Icebear Coast.

  Men and horses scattered, bowled aside by a combination of the bears’ weight and the force of their huge paws.

  Those not directly affected by the bears’ intrusion leapt to their feet, hands reaching for swords or stones, their faces contorted with howls of hate.

  Who was this, come to destroy their contemplation?

  Askam himself jumped up, jerking about to see what it was that caused such a commotion.

  Even in his preoccupied madness, his fac
e slackened in momentary disbelief before he grabbed his sword.

  Askam ordered the compliant Leagh to her feet, swinging her body around so that it covered his, and he placed the sword against her throat.

  She did not protest, nor move away.

  One of the bears stopped several paces away, her head moving slowly from side to side, deep growls rumbling through her throat.

  The fur of her neck and chest was stained bright red, but Askam was way beyond fear. His sword tightened against Leagh’s throat so that a trickle of blood crept down to circle one breast. Still she did not move, nor give any sign that she knew a great icebear stood before her.

  “Go away,” Askam said to the icebear, “or she dies.”

  The icebear sat down with a thud, and tilted her head to one side. “I can eat her dead or alive,” she said, “as I can you.”

  “Why do you not listen to the badger?” Askam asked, the first hint of puzzlement infusing his voice.

  The icebear grinned. “Oh, but it is the badger who has sent me.”

  “It is?” Askam asked hopefully. His arm slackened slightly and the sword point drooped.

  “The badger of death,” the icebear said, and laughed.

  Askam frowned, and his arm twitched as if he meant to lift the sword, but in the heartbeat before he did so, the other sister slunk silently up behind him and seized his head in her jaws.

  Askam screamed—the sound horribly muffled—and dropped the sword as he desperately grabbed at the slavering mouth that encased his head.

  It was useless.

  With three quick movements the icebear savaged Askam’s head from his shoulders, and then dropped his corpse.

  She bent down and snuffled Leagh lying unperturbed on the ground.

  “I like this not,” she said to her sister.

  “Nevertheless,” said the other icebear, ambling over, “she will make a lily yet.”

  And then she grinned, and looked about at the slaughter that surrounded them. “The hunt was a good one, sister. Shall we feed before we go back?”