The Pilgrims

65

The Arch Mage peered at the horizon, where he saw something disconcerting: Nightmare was in the sky that way, looking over. And there, further east, another glimmer of light moved closer, which may well have been Wisdom. Until night fell completely, it would be hard to tell if it was her, but the power in the sky showed all the disturbances typical of a Great Spirit’s presence.

Their presence was heartening in a way, for would they be here if he weren’t about to succeed? Indeed, he knew he would; seering was not his field, but this event was a landmark so huge and obvious, even one as relatively blind as he had glimpsed it, common in half a dozen wildly varying futures. But how would the Spirits react afterwards? Best to get this done …

The Arch Mage crouched low and began his illusion. It was a difficult one to cast, an original spell of his own make. Had the schools of magic still existed, they would have sung his praises for this creation; who said his only skills were war spells and necromancy? (The ruined schools had paid him that much homage, surely, after their temples were brought to ruin before their eyes …)

He took in power from the air so abundant it was not unlike being back in the castle courtyard, then recited the spell’s language. Here was where reality was asked to share what had been a private creation of his mind. The power within and about him slotted into place around the language running across his mind, like a quill across a page, like the very pages he’d carefully composed over years in his chamber. There was that moment of disconnect from reality that came with casting a big spell: for an instant — long to him, imperceptible to any observer — he was light as air, suspended from his physical form as though in momentary consultation with the fundamental forces holding all things together, to become for just that split moment a pattern streaked across the wind, which was for a private instant in conversation with the external reality paused around him, invited by the power the spell used, and by its carefully composed language, to share his private description; to make its described design — his private reality, made of no more than thought — part of wider reality, indifferent to thought, and adopted by whatever fundamental force had created and held aloft all the rest. Reality accepted the spell’s design as sound, and agreed the designs and effects were now real. Power rushed in. Used-up power whooshed out of him like coughed air.

For any mages nearby, the cast spell’s visible disturbance of force would be enormous. To say nothing of the burn of it through his body. Already the heat came strong, worse than it had been in practising, thanks to the weaker air (if it were much weaker, though, he would likely split apart like a struck melon). The charged wardens about his neck — rare items to come by, these days — had already absorbed more heat than would have killed him. And while they remained cool to the touch, that little part left over, which his body must endure, was already uncomfortably hot.

Now it began: glassy ripples of obscuring colourlessness puffed and bulged out from his feet, rising bit by bit into a large conical shape and rising like a great pillar of glass into the sky. It expanded and grew, in minutes shifting to adopt a humanoid shape. The colour of it turned basalt-grey.

Practising this spell had sent staff into panic, seeing a giant loose in the courtyard. The distant giant bought the illusion too; it moaned in displeasure as the new stoneflesh giant stood insolently close to its own sacred territory. The ground rumbled and shivered as great booming steps brought it over in an awkward swivelling run, legs stiff and unbending. The long misshaped fingers bunching into fists. Off to the east, the next-closest giant also turned to watch. From its mouth too came a warning like thunder at the sight of one giant already in its territory, and another fast approaching.

The Arch Mage backed close to the Wall. The plan had been to somehow lure the giant into a headlong charge. That was hoping for too much, it was now clear; the illusion was difficult enough to maintain in relaxed conditions, even with much detail and fine shading sacrificed. The real giant’s fist would, he hoped, swing around to pass through the illusory body like smoke, striking the Wall with force of a kind no man or machine in this world had yet at their disposal to employ. How many blows would it take — that was the next question.

So far so good: the real giant, now only metres away, bellowed, confused at the new one’s position. Battles for territory were not fought close to the Wall; that risked destruction of what they were here to guard! This new giant, it seemed, did not know the rules. The real arm and fist swooped through the air, seeming to move slowly. Through the illusory body it cannoned into the Wall with a blow that made the ground rumble.

The earth shook some more as the other giant off in the east made its charge. The Arch Mage stood calmly in the shaking ground between four moving pillars and remembered what he’d seen in those futures: it will succeed, it is ordained. The fists of two enraged stoneflesh giants pounded the same part of the Wall, sometimes battering together within the Arch Mage’s illusion.

Great cracks began to appear.

Stoneflesh giants further east and west began turning their heads at the distant racket, and they began to contemplate going over to investigate, for they felt the Wall behind them shiver.