The Pilgrims: Book One (The Pendulum Trilogy)

by Elliott, Will

  He set his hat back in place and looked around the field of corpses, spread between the sheer white cliff faces. In some spots five or six were piled in groups. Elsewhere they lay more sparsely, as though some had made a run for it before being killed. ‘Eric?’ he called. Silence answered him. Not a body stirred, only a breeze swept through the grass.

  Was there a point in being sad? Their lives weren’t so important in the grand scheme. The young man wouldn’t be bothered by anything, now. He’d never hurt or be lonely again, that was certain. Soon Case would be in the same boat, and they’d be on the other side of yet another door, maybe in a better place altogether.

  But looking among the corpses he couldn’t see Eric’s, unless something had killed him so badly there wasn’t anything left to recognise. No point being sad, perhaps, but tears welled up in his eyes anyway. He called his friend’s name again before taking a long, careless pull of the scotch.

  A rasping, guttural sound from behind, to the right. He turned.

  The war mage squatted down, its staff across its knees. Its horns were now almost entirely black and thick smoke poured from them. Its face was covered in what looked like soot. Smoke also puffed from its thick tangled beard. Only its eyes, yellow and gleaming, could be seen clearly through the mess. It rasped, muttered and babbled, pointing a long crooked finger at Case.

  Case knew he was looking at death, maybe Death himself, right here in the skin and bones. Did everyone who was about to die see this same scorched face? Did the fellow Case had shot, all those years ago, see it too? Somehow, before Case had seen it, it had been a lot more frightening. What could it do now but put him to sleep, into a state where nothing mattered?

  Strange, though, that it seemed to be trying to talk to him. ‘Can’t follow you, friend,’ Case answered it.

  It listened, head cocked like a bird’s, then babbled some more. What a horrible voice, unnatural as a robot’s. Only one or two words stood out, the rest was like an animal growling. Case looked where the man-beast pointed. There was another just like it, lying dead as all the other bodies. It was charred to a crisp — two curved horns were charcoal. The lower half, where its legs were supposed to be, was a pile of ash being slowly scattered in the light breeze. Smoke drifted off it gently.

  Case turned back to the one still living. ‘You won a fight, that’s what you’re telling me? With something as foul-looking as you? You’re a pretty mean customer. But why’d you have to kill my friend?’ With those words, Case was startled to find anger boiling over in him, sudden and powerful. ‘Huh?’ he yelled, ‘Why’d you kill my friend? Ugly bastard!’

  The thing gibbered, grunted. It sounded like its breathing was difficult.

  ‘You going to keep making noises like a dog? Speak up! Tell me what you done to him!’ Case threw the bottle of scotch. It spun end over end, falling well short of the war mage and landing in the soft grass. Any regrets? Case thought to himself. Yes, one …

  The war mage didn’t react, as though it were too sick to care. ‘You. I’ve a question,’ it said, voice deep and rasping. ‘Tell me of a large beast in your world. The beast’s name.’

  That Case understood it perfectly was a shock that left him off balance, as though an animal had stood on hind legs and spoken. He swallowed. ‘A beast?’

  ‘The name of a large, mighty beast,’ it said. ‘An animal. I’ve a question. I expect myself to answer. Yet I wish to be understood.’

  Case recovered a little from his shock. ‘Death wants to chat, eh? Elephant, then. Elephant’s a big animal. You mind if I go pick up that bottle? I could use another taste before you get me.’

  The yellow gleaming eyes sparkled. ‘My question. An elephant runs through a wall of stone, and makes a house collapse. An elephant beats to the ground a castle old as Time. An elephant slays a mighty elephant, exactly big as it is itself. It is tall as the sky, feet big as mountains. But what can it not do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Case, tears brimming in his eyes. How he hated that voice, which made him feel so small and weak. ‘I don’t know. I just want a drink.’

  ‘Insects crawl behind its ear. They give it a frightful itch. They near drive it mad. It cannot kill the insects behind its ear. That is what it cannot do.’ The war mage laughed, a sound like rustling leaves.

  Case nodded. ‘Thanks. Thanks a whole freaking lot. Now can I get that bottle?’

  It looked at him, sickened and exhausted, almost dead itself, if Case judged right. The scotch lay in the grass a little way before it. He headed for it slowly, palms open to show he meant no harm. He just wanted a drink, a goddamn drink, more than he ever had.

  ‘It now needs other insects. To do the killing for it,’ the war mage said, its eyes following Case’s movements closely. ‘But what of when the killing’s done? Are they to kill themselves? Or do they nest?’

  ‘You’re nuts. But if you let me get that bottle, I’d really appreciate it.’

  It hissed a warning as he took another step closer.

  ‘You go ahead and kill me,’ said Case, anger rising in him again. ‘Just like you killed all these other poor people. But I’m going to get that bottle.’ He jogged right over, leaned down and grabbed the bottle by the neck. He was within spitting distance of the thing now, near enough to get the foul stink of burned hair and its own flesh cooking in heat Case could feel. It showed its teeth as a dog would, a growl loud in its throat.

  Case backed away quickly, hands shaking as he undid the bottle’s lid, took a swig and allowed himself to close his eyes, here, on the brink of death, and savour the scotch. ‘Now, you seem busy,’ he said, buoyed, ‘and I have to find my friend. I’m gonna take a punt and guess he’s not dead here with these poor souls. So I’m gonna leave you to it. So long.’ Case tipped his hat and began to walk away.

  The war mage had seemed undecided, but now it stood, shoulders hunched like someone frail and sick, murmuring words too low to hear. Its arms were stiff, its skin scorched and cracking as its staff made chopping motions in the air. Case felt heat rising.

  ‘You some kind of wizard?’ he called. He spread his arms, offering himself as a target. ‘Go on ahead, put on a show, let’s see what you got.’

  The thing pointed a long claw-tipped finger at him, swayed, then hunched forwards, a strangled painful cry in its throat. Such a pitiful sound compared with its rasping deathly voice. Hot air rippled outwards from it, and the space around it shimmered, but then its staff fell sideways in the grass, and its stiff gown of skin was swarmed in worming flames. It fell to its knees, slumped sideways and lay still, burning like a campfire.

  ‘Some wizard,’ Case said, laughing. ‘I could’ve done that with a box of matches. What’s your next trick? Encore!’ He took a long pull from the bottle and whooped. ‘Still alive!’ he yelled. ‘Let’s see what else you folks’ve got around here, besides dead people and wizards dumb as a box of hammers. Eric, you here? Eric?’

  10

  They’d walked for about a minute but the cries of the war mages could still be faintly heard. ‘Step quieter,’ said Sharfy. ‘Your shoes are loud.’

  ‘Surely they can’t hear us from here.’

  ‘Groundmen will. Their tunnels, all these secret ones are. Castle don’t even know em yet. We’re trespassing right now. You are, anyway. I paid a toll.’ Sharfy’s voice became thoughtful. ‘Other things might hear, too. Never really know what might be down here.’

  Bright little points embedded inches deep in the rock sparkled all around them, giving the air a ghostly light. The coins jingled in Sharfy’s pockets with each step and Eric felt the frost from his knife when it got close. He was entirely conscious of that smoking sheath of metal every step they took. ‘Here’s an idea,’ he said. ‘You could tell me where we’re headed. That way it might feel a little less like I’m walking to a shallow grave somewhere.’

  ‘I won’t kill you,’ said Sharfy, sounding surprised. ‘If the castle wants your kind dead, means the Mayors will want you alive. Why�
��s not for me to say. But if you come at me I’ll cut some of your guts out.’ He laughed. ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  At first, Eric kept an eye out for the chance to catch him off guard, maybe drive an elbow into his jaw, take the clips, load the gun … But this was not a comic book: action would not happen in still frames, and he was well aware a man with as many scars and dents as Sharfy would know a thing or two about fighting.

  In a stretch where the lightstones were dim and sparse, they came to a large round opening in the rock wall. Sharfy paused to examine it, troubled. A horrible and very strange smell wafted from it, conjuring sickly colours in the mind. ‘This is new,’ Sharfy whispered, nervously tapping the opening’s edge with his knife. There was, just faintly, a distant creaking sound, perhaps in response. Sharfy peered in, but it was pitch black, with no lightstones in the gloom ahead, no way to know if the tunnel led straight, up or down. ‘Something bad in there. Don’t know what. Keep real quiet for a while. Take those shoes off.’

  They walked on through passages that mostly descended, the downwards plunge sometimes so steep they had to slide several metres on their backsides. Once in a while a draught swept through, cold and stale, and vibrations from the surface could be felt now and then when touching the walls. The caverns seldom opened up enough to ease the sense of claustrophobia but for a few places where, without warning, to either side would appear a sheer drop down into absolute nothingness for just a few paces, before the walls closed in on the path again.

  Eric tried not to worry about Case. He noticed Sharfy had put away his knife. Sharfy saw him noticing. ‘Groundmen see me armed, they might spring traps, no warning. Never know if they’re watching or not. I’m good hand to hand, so don’t try it.’

  ‘I had the feeling you’d be good hand to hand.’

  ‘Very good!’ said Sharfy, pleased. Indeed … their conversation had revealed that Sharfy was good at many things, and that what he wasn’t good at, wasn’t really worth doing. He hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Should’ve been there when those third-rank spearmen tried me.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  So Sharfy did just that for several minutes. ‘I was at a pub in Yinfel, drunker than pissed ale. Six of the bastards came up to me at closing time …’ In Sharfy’s tale, he was wrongfully slighted but laid waste to many foes.

  ‘Pretty impressive,’ Eric said when it was finally done.

  ‘That was nothing. Should’ve seen the time in Esk …’ There followed a story in which Sharfy left a trail of carnage over many deserving wrongdoers. There were pauses to demonstrate some combat manoeuvres, one of which nearly broke Eric’s wrist. ‘It’s where I got this scar,’ said Sharfy, pointing at something on the back of his neck. ‘You tell one.’

  ‘Why not?’ Which edition, which edition …? ‘So, it was a dark and stormy night in Gotham City. I had finished repairing the damage to my Batmobile when Robin — my associate — brought grim news …’ Before long, Sharfy was a fan of Batman comics, and almost as enthusiastic about Eric’s stories as his own.

  In some tunnels, the plain white lightstones gave way to mosaics of vivid glittering colour, filling the space around them with shafts of light probing the gloom like angelic fingers. The coloured stones themselves did not form clear pictures, but on the walls opposite, light beams cast from them projected shimmering visions almost clear as portraits, more beautiful than any work of paint. Though he’d complained at their slow pace, Sharfy paused to examine any of these they came across. ‘Groundmen art,’ he said with a hint of contempt.

  The shimmering picture showed what seemed a gang of giants, whips and swords in hand, terrorising small people who were labouring in chains. There was even blood on the giants’ swords, which, with a slight flickering of the red light, seemed to drip and flow. Sharfy laughed. ‘Those big mean people, guess who that is? You and me. The small people in chains is them. That’s what they think of us.’

  Staring at the picture, at the profound sadness on the small people’s faces, Eric could not help sharing the artwork’s sentiment. ‘Back in Otherworld, we don’t oppress ground-dwelling creatures,’ he said. ‘That is not our way. Did you guys actually enslave them?’

  ‘Not me! Someone must’ve, somewhere back. The castle still does. But they make slaves out of anyone.’

  ‘I’m detecting a pattern here. If something bad happens, the castle did it. Which means people who live there, I assume. Not the actual building.’

  ‘It’s them all right. Always them.’ Sharfy’s voice became thoughtful again; he sounded a different man when he spoke this way. ‘Each person’s a blade of grass, to them. Trample on whichever they need to, grow some when and where it suits. And not with love or care even then. No matter when some has to be cut or the turf left bare. No matter at all.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.’

  Sharfy looked at him. ‘Eh? How?’

  ‘I know how these things work. Someone from my world comes into another, they end up a hero of great renown. Well, that’s me, apparently. Someone here’s going to teach me magic, you’re going to teach me how to use a sword, and I’ll be the greatest hero you people ever had. I know the script, man. Believe me. I’m Batman. Did I tell you?’

  Sharfy looked lost for a reply. He shrugged. ‘Good, then. That’s good.’

  ‘You got it,’ Eric muttered, suddenly buoyed to realise he meant it. ‘I’m fucking Batman.’

  Batman was, however, tiring of this stroll in the dark. Every so often Sharfy paused to examine the cavern’s roof, running a finger over little crisscrossed scratches in the rock. ‘We’re right under the castle,’ he said. He pointed at a squiggly line, no different to Eric’s eye from all the other squiggly lines they’d stopped to read. ‘Can almost feel it up there, eh? All that weight pressing down. All them high-ups, right up there.’ Sharfy shook his head in wonder. ‘If you could go far enough straight up, you’d be face to face with Vous. Face to face.’

  ‘How much longer are we going to walk? I may be a hero, but I’m a bit out of shape.’

  ‘Break now,’ said Sharfy. He took from his pocket a strip of dried meat, cut off a piece and tossed it to Eric. It was so stiff his teeth could hardly bend it till it had soaked in his mouth for a while. His head buzzed lightly with good cheer and the muscles in his legs suddenly craved work.

  ‘They feed you that in the army,’ said Sharfy, wrapping the rest in some kind of leaf and pocketing it. ‘Keep you going a long time, one little cut. It’s good stuff. Too much though, you drop dead on the spot. Heart just quits. Seen it many a time.’

  Sharfy stood, stretching his arms, then frowned at something on the left wall. He bent close to examine it, again looking troubled. ‘Look. See these?’ There were gouge marks in the rock, deeper than the marks he’d claimed were writing of some kind. ‘Pit devils have been here. Not long ago.’

  ‘I take it that’s bad. But how can you tell they’re recent tracks?’

  ‘Here.’ There was a little powdered rock on his fingertips. ‘Means they’re new. Claws gouge right into the stone. Think what they’d do to us.’

  ‘It’s pretty soft stone …’

  ‘We got pretty soft bodies.’ Sharfy looked back the way they’d come. In both directions they had a long view of the tunnel’s gradual slope, and were suddenly aware of all the peculiar little noises that had been background until now — tap … grind … scrape, tap — all so quiet it was possible to think the ear had been tricked into hearing something not really there. Their whispering voices now seemed very loud.

  ‘Are you trying to freak me out here, Sharfy?’

  Sharfy shook his head. He nervously eyed the path ahead and behind them. ‘We have to move.’ There was a muffled noise close by, not at first easily recognisable as speech. Sharfy grabbed him and signalled shh! so frantically he looked like a distressed chimp. The sound came close enough that whatever made it could only be on the other side of the wall. Nor could the wall b
e very thick, for even the shuffle of passing feet could be heard through it. Soon it faded. ‘They’re gone,’ whispered Sharfy. ‘But stay quiet. I’m allowed here, paid a toll. You didn’t.’

  He examined the scratched markings on the roof. ‘Left way’s quicker,’ he muttered, ‘but goes across the grain route. If a shipment’s in, guards’ll see us. We don’t want that.’

  At that moment something bounded out of the left tunnel. It was tall, long-limbed, and made a horrible shrieking noise. Its face was red-skinned, and it had two thin spiked horns through its crown. A flapping large jaw hung loose, lined with knots of sharp bone.

  Sharfy screamed and fell backwards, hitting his shoulder on the rock wall. His hands fumbled for the knives at his belt, but he was so startled he struggled to free them. The monster didn’t bear down on him; it stood there with its arms raised — its human arms — and kept screeching at him, until its screeches dissolved into laughter. Unmistakeable laughter, which Eric had last heard when the invaders came through the door under the bridge. The beast had a cone of red hair.

  The redhead took off the mask and gasped for breath. Sharfy’s eyes widened in rage. He got one of his curved knives free and lunged with a snarl, pinning the redhead by the throat with one forearm, the knife drawn back to strike.

  ‘No no no no,’ the redhead gasped, desperately trying to stop laughing, palms up. ‘Wait, wait, mighty warrior, wait …’

  Sharfy sputtered, lost for words, then pushed him hard into the wall and turned away. Tears streamed down the redhead’s face. He curled on the cavern floor helplessly laughing, long after the joke would’ve ceased to amuse any normal person. He seemed to see Eric for the first time. Some of the cheer drained out of him. ‘Oh …’ he said, standing again. He looked Eric up and down, fascinated. ‘It’s the chap from Otherworld, from near the paper store! He got through!’ The redhead crouched low. ‘Different shoes? The last ones were white.’