The Pilgrims

64

It had loomed upon them for nearly a week’s riding, and now they came to its base. Anfen stood staring at where the road led straight into it. The country to either side of them was flat and dirt brown, the ground dug and overturned too often over the centuries in search of precious scales for things to grow here now. The Wall loomed so sheer Sharfy almost felt it would topple forwards and crush them.

The stoneflesh giants had become visible a long way back, for they were enormous. Grey as basalt, squat legs and torsos, featureless open-mouthed faces: they could have been statues but for the occasional movement of their flat round heads, surveying the world before them. Their disproportionately long fingers wound like trunks curling into knots of huge misshaped fists. They waited like sentries all along the Wall east and west, enough might in these creatures alone to easily settle any dispute among men, should they ever be roused and united to some cause. But the giants did not tolerate each other any more than encroachment on their space by human beings. The giant to the east had turned its head slowly towards where Anfen and Sharfy sat in their saddles on the road. They must have made a curious sight for the ancient guardian; very few people came this close to them, aside from those busy in slave mines far to the east.

‘It can be done,’ Anfen muttered to himself. ‘They would not be here guarding it if it did not have some weakness. It can be done.’

Sharfy didn’t want to say it, but: ‘How exactly, boss?’

‘We’ll see. Five miles west.’

They rode without speaking. The moment was dawning on Anfen, Sharfy sensed, when he would realise it was all pointless, and that he should probably head to one of the cities and report to the first Mayors’ Command officer he found. No harm done, of course, apart from a stolen horse probably not even noticed in all the chaos. He’d be better off trying to convince the Mayors again to help him, if this was really likely to change things in the war. Accurate news wouldn’t have travelled south any faster than them … for all they knew, Elvury had been reclaimed by the Mayors. Sooner or later, it would occur to him. Sharfy sure hoped so. Those inns looked like they had comfortable beds, and who cared how good the ale was? It would be nectar fit for a lord after all this riding.

Sharfy hadn’t known about the two catapults which waited where Anfen had told Izven to send them. They were already reassembled. Any sign of their city of origin — colours worn by their crew, the runes usually scratched into a panel of their wood — had been removed, but their low-built squarish shape looked to Sharfy’s eye like the kind made in Yinfel … how curious. Not a city known for its war machines; they didn’t even use magic-crafting Engineers to enhance their works. One Mayor, then, was in on it, and perhaps only one Mayor. Sharfy thought: Anfen may just start a new war into the bargain here, if he’s not careful …

The crews, huge men whose main purpose in life was to lift big stones, saw Anfen approach and began speaking amongst themselves. Sharfy laughed inside at this fine joke. Catapults? They think catapults will break the Wall? He kept his thoughts from showing and kept waiting for the moment to dawn on Anfen. Maybe he needed a round of launched stones first. Anfen didn’t seem inclined to give the order. He sat on the ground with his legs crossed, head in hands. Sharfy told the crew, ‘Give it a try. Fire.’

The crew looked at one another. ‘Aye, well, yeah, here’s the thing we been wondering. Fire at what, sir?’

‘At what they’re pointed at. The Wall.’

‘Aye, the Wall, sir. Some of us thought that’d be it, only …’ The crew exchanged looks and Sharfy felt acutely embarrassed. ‘Worried about that giant yonder?’ said another of the men, pointing at the one to the west, which had turned its head to watch them.

‘Plenty of time to see it coming,’ said Sharfy, shrugging, though he was, now that they mentioned it, worried about it indeed. ‘Holes just behind us to duck into, if it comes. Go on, fire.’

The crewmen shrugged, food in the belly — s’long as we’re paid, we couldn’t give a fuck how stupid the orders are — and pulled taut the creaking twisting ropes which stored energy for the launch. They loaded up the first round of stones into the bucket, lifting them with grunts and heaves. The catapult’s arm creaked and moaned as it was pulled back, then it sprang forwards, launching the missile. The heavy stone hit the Wall hard, broke into pieces and fell. The other catapult fired, its cargo hitting the Wall higher up than the first, with the same result.

The crewmen looked to Sharfy. ‘Was it to your satisfaction, sir, as much as it was to ours?’ said one. The others laughed.

‘Keep trying,’ said Sharfy, even more embarrassed. They fired again, again, again, until the pile of ammunition had been used up. They had large cudgels for breaking off more stones, if stones could be found, but made no indication of going to seek them. For a moment, Sharfy thought he saw some sign of damage, but the markings on the Wall were just dabs of powdered stone. It wasn’t going to work.

Anfen had sat and watched each flying rock without comment, closing his eyes about halfway through. Sharfy could actually see the ugly moment dawning. It was coming … three, two, one …

Anfen laughed. It was not a good thing for Sharfy to hear, for it was loud, uncaring and building to hysteria. He had seen Anfen walk with steady steps into grave danger and out of it, but hysteria was something he’d never thought the former First Captain capable of.

Anfen drew his sword and held it carelessly as he staggered towards the Wall. Sharfy followed him. The catapult crew, panting and sweating, watched him go. ‘A sword!’ one of them called, while the others laughed. ‘Now that’s a good idea.’

‘You soften it up for us,’ called another.

At the Wall, Anfen raised his sword and swung it: chink. No mark, no crack, nothing. He swung again and again, and beat it with his fists, sometimes laughing, sometimes screaming in rage. Sharfy winced at the senselessness of ruining such a good weapon, newly bought and all, probably one of the last things anyone would buy from an Elvury smith for some time. Panting, exhausted, Anfen sat at last leaning on the Wall and staring ahead.

‘Combination of forces,’ Anfen murmured, ‘that’s what he said. It can be done.’

‘We should go and talk to the Mayors,’ said Sharfy. ‘Things’ve changed. They’ve lost a city. They’ll listen, now. And you have one of them on side already, by the look of things.’

Anfen didn’t reply.

‘There’s an inn not too far. Their ale’s good, the crew were saying.’ Still no answer. ‘Tell you what,’ Sharfy said, angry now; if he didn’t deserve to be agreed with, he could at least be heard. ‘I’ll go sleep there. Maybe for a week.’ He looked nervously at the stoneflesh giant to the west, whose torso had now angled towards them, its interest in them growing. They were probably slow to get going, those ancient guardians, but slower yet to calm down …

‘If you come to your senses any time in the next few days, come have an ale with me.’ Sharfy went to his horse, hopped on and rode away, angling his path for the great dividing road.

Anfen sat there for an hour longer, hoping the giant would come and kill him. The catapult crews had called out to him: ‘Sir? Master?’ but eventually gave up and began the slow task of dismantling the machines.

The late afternoon gloom set in. Anfen stood, looked at the notched, dented sword. It had come up all right, considering how much he’d laid into the Wall. Suddenly he seemed to see himself for the first time in a long while, and was amazed and dismayed by the sight. An attack of stupidity and it lasted a whole week. What the hell am I doing out here?

He was almost inclined to laugh. Some broken rocks, a dented sword, and all the time he’d ridden down the great dividing road, he’d felt a burning sense that the world’s fate hinged solely on him …

And as he succumbed to laughter, he saw someone else approaching. From her outline against the dimming sky, he knew it was her, but then the glimpse of a green dress was gone. Had she been there at all? ‘Hey!’ he called to the catapult crewmen. ‘Did you see her?’

They traded amused looks. ‘Yes, good sir. We see her. Very nice to look at, she is. Would you like us to leave you two alone?’ They roared with laughter. Anfen felt a white-hot flare of anger but he knew the men were right to mock him, however unused to the feeling he was.

He sat back, thinking about Stranger, wondering what she’d say or advise, if she were here. There’d been no sign of her, almost no thought of her since that early morning he’d stumbled out of the underground passage with his arm tired from killing.

A bird cackled its hoarse laughing call, shockingly loud from the bushes to the right of the war machines. The sound startled him, and he looked over only to see a few black feathers gently floating to the ground. Then from behind the scrub emerged a different outline, a limping, hobbling shape, carrying a forked silver staff. That wasn’t Stranger.

Anfen got unsteadily to his feet, heart now beating very hard. The figure’s limp was pronounced. A long tail of black feathers dragged on the ground behind. It threw back a hood and revealed three thick, heavy horns curving from the sides of its skull, and from the middle, which seemed to weigh down its head.

The Arch Mage turned to the catapults, stopped some way from them, raised both arms high. His body seemed to convulse. A wave of air blew from him, at first just sending pebbles and dust scattering before it swept through the catapults, their crewmen and beyond, blasting all of it into piles of rubble and red streaks in the air. The mess scattered a long way. The silence after the last piece had clattered to rest was one of the most complete he’d ever heard.

The Arch Mage turned slowly to face him. ‘Catapults,’ he said, a hint of humour in his cultured voice. Anfen stood with his sword poised, knowing it would be useless. How could death be denied him this time? How many times could a man who wanted it walk into its jaws and be spat out, when so many who cherished life were eaten away? No matter — he’d go out swinging it, if the enemy came close enough. His mind was very clear and light, suddenly. Here it came, at last. Here it came.

The Arch Mage hobbled closer, the blackened, shrivelled bonethin leg unbending, but looking fragile enough to break under his weight. Thick gusts of smoke poured from his horns. ‘Catapults,’ he said with mirth. ‘No matter, be heartened. I feel your mission will succeed.’

Ignoring the talk, Anfen held his weapon as though slumped and defeated, watching the Arch Mage hobble closer. The middle horn in his head let off a faint trail of smoke. The square gem in his eye socket, set in skin like cooled wax, spun around, rippling the flesh either side of it. If he was arrogant enough to get within striking range … ‘Why do you want to talk with me?’ said Anfen. ‘Why not end it?’

‘You are marginally more useful to me alive,’ said the voice, mild and rich, pleasant to the ear. ‘It may be that you end your own life in grief, or to spite me, but that’s of little consequence. The Council of Free Cities knows you set out to do this deed. I made sure of it. They’ll soon know you’ve succeeded, and your stories won’t matter to them, whatever you tell them of me and my part. You will be credited for its consequences, not I. Yinfel’s part in it will be known too, rest assured. It is already known. The Mayor right now justifies his decisions to the others. Their meeting must sound like a roomful of squabbling hens.’

‘You saw the old man and his charm.’

‘Of course I did, in the Hall of Windows. I had wished for the Pilgrims both to be with you at this moment, but that shouldn’t matter too much. Nor did it matter that the charm and its message failed to reach your Mayors, nor that their decision had no impact on you. I’ve been fortunate.’

Anfen was counting down the distance, step by step, and was about to charge, when the Arch Mage — making it seem an afterthought — swiped the air with one hand and and sent his sword cartwheeling sideways till it landed point-first in the ground. He stopped just a few arm spans from Anfen and regarded him with an expression made unreadable by the hideous ugliness of his half-melted face, though the voice softened with regret. ‘It’s true you’ve been used. Not all of us can sit on thrones, and enemies don’t always do us harm. Know this, for my words are sincere. The conviction you showed, and the intentions you had, were not in themselves bad things. Even though by your ignorant measure they have led to a bad result. You have aided the Project, which is a good thing, though you do not think so. May this help shape your coming decision on whether or not you deserve to live or die.’

Anfen could not resist the impulse to rush at that hideous face and strike it. The Arch Mage watched him come, spun on his feet, and suddenly Anfen was careering face-first into the Wall, and struck it hard. The Arch Mage said, apparently to himself, ‘Not itself a bad thing, to wish to strike me down. I have insulted your honour, used you as a tool, tarnished your name. All true.’ He gazed up at the Wall. ‘But for this, your forehead will not get the job done, I fear.’

Anfen crawled to his feet and stood unsteadily. There was a heavy thud, thud from away in the distance. The giant had finally decided it did not like the little strangers so close to its Wall, and now it had taken two steps towards them for a closer look. ‘There!’ said the Arch Mage, nodding again. ‘Those, I imagine, have stronger heads than yours. Anfen, you may leave me. I have no use for you here. Go, decide whether you’re to live or die. Your horse fled, I fear, when I destroyed the catapults. It will be a long walk for you. An opportunity to ponder things.’

Anfen feigned to walk away with his head slumped forwards, defeated. He made another lunge, knowing it would be futile, and sure enough, the Arch Mage seemed only to shift his hands in the air, and Anfen found himself flying some distance away, landing heavily on his side.

‘A long walk,’ repeated the Arch Mage. ‘Easier without a broken leg, which is the likely result of another attack on me. Sword in hand or no, your chances of harming me in the slightest are absolutely nil. It could be a painful lesson. The choice is yours. I have work to do.’