Pilgrim

by Sara Douglass

  The badger stood and surveyed the scene of carnage.

  What had happened?

  He snorted and nuzzled the remains of a soldier. There was not much left.

  What to do now?

  He raised his head and gazed southwards. He could just make out the rising walls and spires of Carlon—the stone maze where the two-legs hid.

  Many two legs…more two-legs than his mind could grasp. All hiding from his masters’ hunger.

  He looked back over his shoulder. Several thousand creatures of all varieties stood waiting his instructions.

  His eyes swivelled forwards again, and the Demons spoke in his mind.

  Carlon! Carlon!

  The brown and cream badger grunted, and started forward.

  Behind him his force followed in blind, obedient madness.

  At noon that day a shout from one of the guards brought Zared rushing from palace to gates.

  Outside stood the two white donkeys, Leagh’s still form draped across one of them.

  In the ensuing rush no-one had time to even think about how it was that the two donkeys had not only escaped Carlon in the middle of the night, but now stood here in the noon chill with Leagh. Zared broke several fingernails in his desperate attempts to get the bolts drawn back from the gates, and had hauled Leagh from the donkey’s back with no other thought than to get her inside.

  No questions asked.

  No thanks given.

  No-one even remembered the donkeys who stood watching with great sad, dark eyes as the gates slammed and bolted shut again in their faces. They sighed, and wished Zared luck with what was left of his wife.

  After a moment they turned and trotted north, their duty done.

  Theod stood with Zared, surrounded by Herme, Gustus and several other captains and anxious servants, staring at the closed door to the bedchamber.

  Nothing had been said as Zared carried Leagh back to their rooms—save for a shout for the palace physician—and there were few words to be said now.

  And so they waited in silence, all eyes on the closed bedchamber door. Zared had wanted to go inside with the physician, and the five soldiers he’d needed for safety, but both Herme and Theod had held him back.

  Now they stood, and watched, and waited.

  The door opened, and the physician emerged. His face was grey, and marked as if scratched. His eyes searched for Zared, then he walked over and dropped to one knee before his King.

  “Sire,” he said, his voice hoarse, “there is nothing I can do—”

  “How dare you tell me that!” Zared yelled. “There must be something you can do.”

  Silence, and the physician turned his eyes away from the agony in Zared’s face.

  Zared fell to his knees before the physician. “Good sir, I apologise. I…I…” The physician looked at Zared, his eyes compassionate. He reached out and took Zared’s hand between both his own.

  “Sire, I have done all I know how, but there is nothing I can do for her as there has been nothing I have been able to do for the scores of people who have been caught outside during…well, caught outside.”

  He paused, and when he resumed his voice was a whisper. “Sire…sire…did you know that the Queen is some three months gone with child?”

  33

  Of Sundry Travellers

  Winter had firmed its grip on the northern plains of Tencendor. Above the Azle, frost carpeted the ground until mid-morning, and the clouds that billowed over the distant Icescarp Alps were heavy with snow.

  The plains were empty, save for the old white horse that plodded unceasingly northwards, two figures blanketed against the cold on his back.

  Drago and Faraday had travelled faster than they had a right to, but Drago was not surprised. The Sceptre had done this to him previously, pulling him south through the Minstrelsea forest towards the Star Gate at close to three times normal speed. Now he wondered if the staff did a similar thing, pulling them north, north towards whatever awaited them at Gorkenfort. Drago hoped he would learn some of its secrets in Gorkenfort. He spent many an hour in the evening, seeking refuge from Faraday’s silence, in contemplation of the strange notations that wound about the ancient rosewood. Wondering.

  Neither Drago nor Faraday could deny that Belaguez aided their journey as well. An ancient relic Belaguez might be, but he could still remember the commands of a rider, and he could still place one hoof in front of the other.

  Once Drago had decided to bring the horse with himself and Faraday, he’d simply vaulted onto the stallion’s swayback, leaned down to give Faraday a helping hand up, adjusted the packs behind them (on which the lizard happily curled), and gently tapped his heels against Belaguez’s sides.

  The horse had heaved a great sigh, but had obediently started forward, although Drago was never able to persuade him to anything more strenuous than a slow, shuffling trot. But Belaguez could keep that up for hours at a time—even through the Demonic Hours. Drago and Faraday had wondered at his seeming inability to be affected by the Demons, so like their own strange immunity, and they wondered if his mind was so senile the Demon’s ravages and many-fingered mental cruelties made no difference to him.

  Or was it whatever aided them?

  So, together with the influence of the Sceptre, and the senile mental murkiness of the old horse, Drago and Faraday travelled ever further north towards Gorkenfort.

  Faraday spent most of the long days on Belaguez’s sharpridged spine huddled against Drago’s back. She’d given up trying to persuade Drago from Gorkenfort. The knowledge that it was Urbeth they were going to meet calmed her somewhat. Maybe Urbeth knew who the girl was, and might say how they might help her.

  But deep within her Faraday knew exactly who the girl was. She was that which was lost. If not the Enchanted Song Book, then something very, very close to it, and Faraday had to find her, find her as soon as she could. The girl was too young to be left so lost. She needed to be loved and hugged and sung to sleep, and most of all she needed to be protected, and told that no harm would ever come to her again.

  At night the urge to go the mountain was almost unbearable. Faraday could now hear the child cry on every breath of wind, and when she lay down her head to pretend sleep, Faraday could feel the child’s low sobs vibrating through the very earth itself.

  She sounded so lost. So alone. Whatever power Noah and the craft had infused her with, it combined with Faraday’s frustrated maternal instincts to make the urge to get to Star Finger almost overwhelming.

  Faraday could not drive away the image of the darkarmoured knight leaning down driving the blade into the child’s throat, and the remembrance of the dark spurt of blood into the night made her feel sick at odd moments of the day.

  But the child was not the only problem that ate at Faraday’s serenity. She had promised Noah she would be Drago’s friend and his trust, and she had promised she would go north with him. None of this she had minded, for she had thought Drago an enigma she would enjoy learning to know better.

  She had not thought to fall in love with him. Like him, yes. Love him? No, and thrice no again.

  Faraday had endured enough of love, and of love’s betrayals. She would not let herself love Drago. She would not do it!

  But it was hard when his eyes crinkled at her with such humour, and when his warmth enveloped her in the tent at night. It was hard when Drago left no doubt hanging between them how he felt about her, and it was hard remembering the feel of his weight on her body and the taste of his mouth on hers when they lay under the stars and the Demons’ terror.

  But Faraday was determined. Both would eventually live happier lives if she was strong and kept him away. They would live better lives. They would…they would…

  So day by day Belaguez plodded indefatigably north across featureless landscape—and through the wind and snow-swept bones of those who had died during the infected hours.

  The riders on his back rarely spoke.

  One day, a black speck in the sky spotte
d them, and reported their presence to the Demons.

  No man or woman in either the Strike Force or the regular ground force could account for it beyond attributing it to sheer courage and strength of will, as refugees from the desolate and raped landscape of western Tencendor found their way to Carlon. Sometimes they would scamper or creep to one of the bolted gates in ones and twos, sometimes in groups of a score or more. Many of them fell victim to the increasing number of crazed animals the badger had grouped about the walls and approaches to Carlon, but many made it through.

  As yet, the number of animals was not great enough to stop all passage to and from Carlon.

  Theod, for Zared took little interest in life beyond his palace these days, ordered that the guards and gate-keepers should let in the refugees once every two hours—the last opening to be just before the commencement of one of the Demonic Hours. The gates could not be left open constantly because of the creatures that now attacked whenever they saw an opening, and two hours meant there was enough of a build-up of desperate people outside to make the opening worthwhile.

  Once the grey haze had settled over the landscape and roofs of the town the gates were opened for no-one, no matter how desperately—or cunningly—they pleaded and bargained.

  Theod spent much time with them, finding out where they’d come from, and how they’d managed to escape demonic infection during their journey. To Theod’s surprise—and hope—the refugees not only came from the relatively close provinces of Avondale and Romsdale, but from the much more distant southern and western parts of Ichtar; many even from Zared’s erstwhile capital of Severin.

  “How did you know how to keep safe from the grey fingers of the Demons?” he asked, and always the response came the same, and always with flat voice and apathetic eyes.

  “We watched how our neighbours died or were captured by madness, and we observed. We learned. Fast.”

  Then there would be a pause, and a spark would appear in the refugee’s eyes. He or she would ask whether Caelum was about to rescue them, or if the Star Gods prepared to do battle with the Demons, or if there was any hope, please, my lord, any hope at all?

  And Theod would smile and pat their shoulders, and direct them to shelter and food, and he would not answer any more of their questions.

  After two weeks of talking to new arrivals, Theod made his way to the palace.

  Unlike the streets and tenements of Carlon, which were necessarily becoming crowded from the constant arrival of refugees, the palace halls and corridors largely echoed only with the footfalls of ghosts. There was the palace secretary, and a few servants, and DareWing slouched dark-browed in a shadowed corner, and a few nervous men-at-arms manning the doors, or Strike Force members outlined in windows.

  And there was Herme.

  Herme kept an almost constant vigil outside the room where Zared sat with Leagh. Or with what she had become.

  Theod paused as he neared Herme, then resolutely strode close. “Herme? Has Zared come forth this day?”

  “Nay.” Herme heaved a great sigh. “And not likely to. He spends all day in there. All day! I cannot understand how he can bear it.”

  Theod looked at the door. For an instant uncertainty crossed his face, then it disappeared as fast as it had come. Theod was rapidly growing out of his youthful exuberance and its accompanying hesitancy. He had also lost much of his joy for life, but Theod supposed that was to be expected under the present circumstances.

  “We need to talk, he and you and I,” Theod said. “Get him.”

  Herme stared at Theod in surprise. Despite the difference in ages the two had always been close friends, and Theod had always treated Herme with the deference due his age and experience, even if Theod technically outranked the Earl.

  Previously, Herme had never seen this hard edge to Theod.

  “Get him!” Theod barked, and then turned on his heel and walked to a meeting chamber several doors down the corridor.

  Herme stared, hesitated, then wiped his hand over his eyes. He suddenly felt very, very tired. Then he leaned his weight against the door and opened it a handspan.

  “Zared. Theod has urgent business.”

  “It can wait.” Zared’s voice sounded hollow, and underneath it Herme could hear a savage hissing, and then the sound of a globule of phlegm hitting a wall.

  He swallowed, and then wished he hadn’t. “My Lord King, I think you need to speak to Theod. Please.”

  Gods! Was he going to be reduced to begging?

  But Zared came forth after a long moment, his feet shuffling, and closed the door behind him.

  Herme was glad he hadn’t had to witness what the closed door hid.

  “Where is he?” Zared asked. His voice sounded even hollower in the spaces of the corridor, and his face was sunken and grey.

  Herme indicated with his hand, and the two slowly walked down the corridor and into the meeting room.

  “Well?” Zared asked, sitting slowly down in a chair by a table. Herme sat to one side of him, while Theod chose to stand at the end of the table. DareWing stood by a window, his arms folded, his face lost in shadow.

  “Sire,” Theod said, putting to one side his concern for Zared’s appearance. It could wait. “Sire, as you know many thousands of refugees have entered Carlon over the past two weeks, and—”

  “Really?” Zared’s face showed a faint glimmer of interest.

  Theod gaped at him…hadn’t Zared taken note of anything? Had he concerned himself with nothing but Leagh’s plight, when many thousands of Leaghs wandered the hills of Tencendor, wailing and howling?

  He glanced at Herme, who shrugged slightly, and continued. “Sire, many of these refugees are from the extreme north, Ichtar and Aldeni.”

  Zared sat forward. “Go on.”

  “They learned to cope with the ravages of the Demons, and learned how best to travel, and they learned how to repel the increasing swarms of crazed beasts that hunt the sane.”

  “Yes, yes, but what is so urgent?”

  “Sire, several of the groups who have arrived in the past few days have mentioned as many as twenty thousand refugees sheltering in the mines of the Murkle Mountains.”

  Zared nodded, as if considering the information as trivial as the latest score from the games of hoopball the street boys played. “Yes. That would be a good place to hide, wouldn’t it?”

  Theod bent his head, and fought with his temper. Eventually he raised it again, and leaned forward over the table on his hands. When he spoke, he carefully enunciated every word.

  “Sire, these people need to be brought to the safety of Carlon. Someone needs to lead an expeditionary force north to bring them to Carlon. Sire, has not Drago promised us this Sanctuary? Would it not be best for all concerned if we had as many people sheltering in Carlon when word arrives of its location?

  “At the very least, these people cannot remain out there much longer. Food, as hope, is in short supply, and the swarms of the maddened grow daily—you only have to look over the walls to see that.”

  Zared blinked. He had not looked over the walls for a very long time. “Do you want to lead this force, Theod?”

  “Sire,” Theod’s voice was very quiet now. “Sire, my wife and two sons might be among them.”

  Zared’s eyes deepened with emotion. For the first time, the import of what Theod was saying sank in. What despair and horror did those twenty thousand live through?

  And Theod’s wife? Oh gods, why hadn’t he thought?

  “I should be the one to—” Zared began, but Herme interrupted him.

  “No, sire. You should not be the one to go. Carlon—Tencendor—needs you here, and we can ill afford you to lead this force north for the many, many weeks it will keep you away.”

  Zared bowed his head, sighed, and gave a slight nod. Then he raised his face. “Very well. How many men will you need, Theod?”

  “Will you spare me the Strike Force, sire?”

  Before Zared could answer, DareWing stepped for
th from the shadows. “I will assist the Duke, sire. The Strike Force can do more than twenty thousand ground troops can.”

  Zared’s mouth twisted. “I see the decision has been taken away from me, Theod. Very well, you may go. Take two thousand men with you to complement the Strike Force.”

  “By the time we get to the northern plains of Avonsdale with as many of the thousands that we can find,” Theod said, “we will need vastly more than the Strike Force and two thousand men to protect them. Will you ride to meet us and bring a force of some few thousands?”

  “Ah…sire?”

  They looked about, surprised. Jannymire Goldman, Master of the Guilds of Carlon, was standing in the door.

  “Sire? Sir Duke?” Goldman walked into the room, ignoring the looks of mild surprise on the faces before him. “Sir Duke? I believe I may be able to aid you.”

  “I have no room for a trading coterie, Goldman,” Theod said.

  Goldman bit down his temper. Over the past weeks he’d seen his beloved country reduced to tatters, his people in disarray and, worse, the extensive network of contacts he held across Tencendor virtually useless. But not yet dead.

  “Nevertheless, my lord,” Goldman said, “I assume you will have need of rapid transport?”

  Theod stopped. “Transport?”

  “How do you propose to reach those stranded in the north, sir Duke?”

  Theod glanced at DareWing, then back to Goldman. “How would you propose to reach them, Goldman?”

  “Sir Duke, there are two score merchant ships waiting in the ports of Nordmuth, Ysbadd and Pirates Town.”

  Unnoticed, Zared lowered his face into a hand. Why hadn’t he thought of those ships!

  “You would want to sail up the Nordra?” Theod said. “That would be cumbersome at best. That many ships could not hope to navigate the Nordra safely at once, so it would take several relays of ships, and each relay would require some two weeks for the return trip. The men from the first two relays who had been disembarked in eastern Aldeni would be vulnerable to attack while they waited for the rest of the force to catch up. And after all of this, you could still only set us down ten days’ ride away from the Murkle Mountains. It would be quicker to walk north to the Mountains.”