The Pilgrims

22

It had been a long, bumpy ride for Case and he was losing hope Eric would be at the end of it. He needed badly to piss. The march had been going on for hours — how many, he couldn’t tell. To keep track he’d begun counting the trudging sound of metal boots like a second hand on a clock, before it occurred to him just how pointless that was.

The supplies cart rocked under him, its wheels squeaking. Two mules dragged it along at a slower pace than the soldiers nearby wanted. They had remarked the cart was a touch heavier than it should be and couldn’t work out why; early in the march, the whole patrol had stopped while they examined its wheels and axles. Case sat between stacked pouches of water, whose sloshing sound didn’t help him one little bit as the miles ticked by. He would’ve lain down to sleep, but every so often had to dodge hands that shot in as thirsty soldiers gobbed a mouthful.

The march had been far more formal and disciplined near the castle. As they moved away, the commander loosened the leash, and the troops ignored fancy formations and keeping their steps in time. Their helms came off; the march became a stroll through the countryside, with laughing and gossip. The scenery hadn’t been much to look at, in Case’s opinion. He didn’t mind that. He’d seen enough fancy wondrous things to last him his remaining years, or days more likely. A sand-coloured paved road, the clop of donkey hooves, the clank-clank of boots with rattling mail, pleasant meadows and rolling, hilly fields either side. That was fine by him.

Every so often at forks in the road, local villagers with solemn faces had approached the patrol carrying wooden trays loaded with home-made delicacies. The soldiers — against their orders, as conversation revealed — took what they were offered, thanked the locals, then joked about how ugly their women were once out of earshot. The locals had seemed terrified of them.

There’d been no such people lately. The ground had been moving upwards into less populous terrain, the road cutting through hillsides of dark grey stone. Hideous birds of a type Case didn’t know watched them pass with hostile eyes from the bone-like branches of lone grey trees.

Case didn’t much like spying, but there hadn’t been anything to do but eavesdrop. The men had spent no time discussing their present mission, whatever it was. Instead they’d talked about some business with ‘Free Cities’, and much about Vous; it sounded like they knew a hell of a lot less about him than Case felt he did. There’d been plenty of talk — some quite heated — about which cities made the best swords, the best armour, or produced the best horses. Case had heard enough on these subjects to reliably form his own opinion, he felt, and longed for them to talk about something else.

At last, at long last, the commander called: ‘Drinks! All halt.’

Tall outcrops loomed on their right and left. There had to be a quarry nearby, for there was the sound of rocks being shifted somewhere out of sight. The soldiers gathered around the supplies cart. Case dropped to the ground just in time, wincing as his bad knee flared up, and sneaked off behind a stone outcrop, leaving it much damper than it had been before.

The soldiers took biscuits and what looked like meat jerky of some kind, sitting in twos and threes some way off the road. Two sat near the supplies cart when Case returned to it. He carefully climbed aboard and gazed up at the shoulders of stone, longing for a nap, only half-listening to the soldiers’ conversation. ‘They got a name yet for that city?’ said one, nodding his head to whatever was making the quarry-like noise on the other side of the rock wall.

‘Not that I heard.’

‘How long till it’s finished?’

‘Less than a year. Those mages work fast. Applying?’

‘Already have. Better hurry, things are heating up. If we’re killed tomorrow, family gets pushed to the back of the queue.’

‘Well I’ve no family, just girlfriends. Going to keep it that way.’

‘Adopt them. Make it a family.’

The soldier laughed. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to the other. ‘Looking forward to Vous’s temple?’

The other scoffed again. ‘A joke. I’m not fussed. It means breaking bread and toasting his name at meals? I can do that, if it’s worth a good home. If it’s worth having bread to break.’

‘Did you read the whole law? They’re allowed in your home any time to see that you “worship in earnest”. It also means you can’t make rituals for the other Spirits. Who’s your preference?’

‘Inferno.’ They both laughed at this apparent joke. ‘Tempest, mainly. I was raised on a farm, we needed the rain. You’re a Valour man, I take it?’

‘I don’t bother with any of them.’

‘That’s fair. My wife swears to Wisdom, of course.’

‘Not for long, if you mean to go through with this.’ The other’s voice lowered further. ‘You worried about … what it might mean, long term?’

‘Nahh! I don’t believe it. You can’t just make someone a Great Spirit by building him a temple, praying to him, teaching him some magic, or whatever it is they do. They might think otherwise but they’re wrong. He’s a good enough lord anyway.’

The other lowered his voice. ‘Half the cities are starving.’

‘We aren’t. I didn’t say great. But good enough. People accept the new ways and they’d be fine.’ The other soldier said nothing to this. ‘He can be a little crazy if he wants,’ continued the first. ‘Food in the belly.’ This was a common saying Case had heard, along with ‘as the Dragon wills’.

The commander stood and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said. ‘Up we get.’

‘Up we get?’ muttered one of the soldiers disbelievingly. ‘We’re back in the nursery.’ They tossed their half-empty skins back on the supplies cart. One bounced off Case’s chest and fell to the ground. The soldier frowned at the cart. ‘Now wait, that’s the second time I’ve seen that happen.’

‘I didn’t see anything. Forget it.’

‘Drink skin bounces in mid-air? There’s something funny about that cart, I’m telling you.’

But they lined up behind the other soldiers, and Case’s heart slowed a little.

Until, that was, he saw the shape in the rocks above, to the left. It wasn’t the same Invia who’d given him the charm and set him loose in the castle; this one had long flowing hair as white as her wings, and her limbs were long and gangly. She crouched on a jutting outcrop like a cat about to jump. None of the soldiers seemed to have seen her. She watched something atop the rock wall opposite, then stared right down at Case.

His hand crept to the charm around his neck. ‘You want this back, don’t you?’ he whispered. And he could tell she was about to come and take it.

Verily, she was.

She did not know all the secret business of her newly dead sister, but she knew the charm down below bore Ksyn’s touch, and did not belong around this old Otherworlder’s neck. She would take him back with her, too, to see what the others made of it all — peacefully, if he would come that way.

It had not been the charm that drew her here; it was the Marked one, rather, who had temerity indeed to travel so openly, this far north, let alone to make camp on a high place, where his Mark could be seen from a long way. On sight of it, anger was not what she’d felt; in fact, she felt very little. It was just a fact he must be killed, that was all. Marks were rare, yet this blazed on him with a huge red glare, its noise painful in her ears. But she didn’t yet see him, hidden behind the rock wall opposite. Was he enormous, with fangs and claws? An elemental? A mage perhaps?

It was not he who had killed her newly dead sister, she knew that. That Marked one, tied to the castle roof with tongue cut out by his elders, had been dealt with, that matter resolved, the birds pecking at what was left.

And now she realised this one bore not one Mark, but three. Rare! To have slain three Invia! In one attack, or did he hunt them down over time? No wonder the aura flared so bright and huge. Had there ever been such, in all the world?

He first, or to collect the charm? The soldiers appeared to be guarding the old man who carried it, since he sat so comfortably in their midst. She looked from one to the other, undecided. Either fight could be a risk — many men below, swords, halberds, short-bows with fast little arrows. The Marked one had allies nearby — would they help him? If the Marked one had killed three sisters, he too was very, very dangerous, maybe more than all the others combined. What mistakes had her sisters made? She would be cautious of him when making the kill.

The glare of those Marks was so bright! The ringing in her ears so painful. Best to shut that sound out first. She jumped from her place on the wall.