Pilgrim

by Sara Douglass

  Faraday shook her head, and the girl’s face fell and she turned back to Drago silently, and added her blood to the mixture.

  Drago accepted the blood, kissing Katie gently on her forehead, then stirred the mixture with his staff. Faraday opened her mouth, wanting to demand that either Katie or Drago tell her what the blood symbolised, but she did not dare interrupt the enchantment, and so she closed her mouth and remained silent.

  Drago lifted the staff from the bowl and traced its end over the lines of the enchantment.

  Instantly the scene about them flickered and faded, and Faraday found herself standing again in the field of flowers.

  Turning, turning, turning as the flowers caught at her robe, turning to see the man who smiled and held out his hand for her.

  The Demonic Hour of dawn had passed, and Herme took the opportunity to walk off some of his frustration and sense of impending doom to inspect the city’s defences and state of readiness against…against whatever it was that that howling horde outside might have planned for them.

  Herme sincerely hoped that Drago and Zared would get back before the expectation in the air finally erupted. He was too old and set in his ways to cope with a situation this…abnormal, and without Drago’s help in evacuating the Carlonese through Spiredore into this Sanctuary, then they were as good as dead if the animals managed to break through the city’s defences.

  He checked his wife and family, making sure they were in an easily defensible section of the palace, then joined Gustus and Grawen, another of Zared’s men, in an inspection of the defences down one of the city streets.

  Initially, the mood of the Carlonese heartened Herme. These people were not wide-eyed with fear, but narrow-eyed with determination. All the population, save the very young and the bedridden aged, had armed themselves as best they might against any attack.

  Women held brooms and pans in white-knuckled grips, men had homemade pikes, clubs and blades. Children, ever inventive, had a variety of slings, stones and, down one street, a complex system of oil-filled barrels set in place.

  “Any hoofed creature, or crawler, comes a-running down this street,” one bright-eyed urchin informed Herme, “he’ll get a slippery shock for sure!”

  Herme grinned, and tousled the youngster’s hair, then followed Gustus and Grawen inside a tavern, inspected the main rooms, then clumped down the cellar stairs. Unlike the atmosphere outside, here the tension and fear were palpable.

  “Well?” Herme asked.

  Two soldiers and the tavern keeper were crowded inside the cellar, and they glanced among themselves before one of the soldiers answered.

  “Sir Earl,” he said, hesitated, then simply pointed into a darkened corner of the cellar.

  Herme turned and peered, and the soldier thrust a burning brand a little closer to the corner.

  There was a cat crouched in a far niche, its head almost buried in an all but invisible crack in the floor.

  It was growling softly.

  “Gods!” Herme exclaimed. “That’s one of Drago’s cats!”

  Gustus nodded. “We’ve found them in several of the cellars, sir Earl.”

  “Then, by the gods! Get extra men in and about those particular cellars!”

  Even as he finished speaking, there was a thunder of feet above, and then the cellar stairs were crowded with some thirty heavily armed soldiers.

  “Already done, Sir Earl.”

  Herme nodded, and turned back to the cat. “Can any of you hear anything?”

  The soldier shook his head. “We’ve crouched down by the cat, but have heard nothing save her growls. Cats have got better hearing than us, anyhow.”

  Herme took a deep breath, trying to force from his mind the imagine of hundreds of thousands of rodents crawling through the earth beneath his feet, and turned back to Gustus.

  “And then there are the Alaunt,” Gustus said, forestalling whatever Herme had been about to say.

  Faraday blinked, overcome by the warmth of the sun and the heady scent of the flowers. The man had disappeared. She looked about her, desperate to find him again despite her resolve. Stately lilies rose to waist height about her, and in between their stems crowded a thousand varieties of poppies and cornflowers and peonies creating a veritable rainbow of colour to support the lilies.

  “Faraday.”

  She turned at the sound of the quiet voice, but it did not belong to he she sought.

  It was Leagh, standing amid the flowers several paces away. Her cloak had disappeared, and now she wore only the linen robe wrapping itself in the slight breeze about her gently distended figure. Her nut-brown hair tangled over her shoulders and in the lilies at her back and sides.

  Faraday moved slightly, and realised that she, too, wore only the linen robe. Even her feet were bare.

  She tipped her head back and laughed, feeling the tug of her hair caught amid the flowers.

  “Is this the Tencendor that will be?” she cried.

  As if in answer, she heard the sharp rapping of Drago’s staff, and it summoned her back to the grassy flat in the coldswept Western Ranges, and the enchantment collapsing over Gwendylyr, DareWing and Goldman, and slowly sinking into their forms.

  “What about the Alaunt?” Herme asked.

  “It is easier to show you than to tell you,” Gustus said, and began to climb the stairs.

  Herme managed to suppress, with some difficulty, a frustrated curse, then followed Gustus, taking the stairs three at a time.

  Gustus led him silently out into the street, down a block, then turned down a laneway that led them through to the next major street.

  There several of the Alaunt were pacing stiff-legged down the sides of the roadway, their hackles bristling, low snarls filling their throats.

  They were staring at the gutters.

  One of the hounds raised a head and stared at Herme. It whined, almost as if it were trying to communicate with him. Herme stared at the dog, his fingers twitching with frustration at his sides.

  “It is FortHeart,” Gustus said quietly. “Sicarius’ mate.”

  Herme wondered how Gustus could tell any of the Alaunt apart, but accepted his words.

  “One of my men came to me with words of the hounds just before we left the palace,” Gustus continued. “They’ve been stalking the streets for over two hours now.”

  FortHeart whined again, her entire body quivering with the strength of whatever she was trying to say.

  Herme stared at her, fixated by her golden stare.

  She whined yet once more, and suddenly Herme was in a very, very different place.

  He stood in the streets of a ruined city. Buildings lay tumbled in great heaps of stones that made the streets almost impassable. He led a tense and nervous force down one of the main boulevards, but towards what Herme did not know. On either side of the boulevard the Alaunt ranged, stiff-legged and hackled, their noses and eyes probing every gutter and hole in the tumbled masonry and—

  Someone yelled, and the Alaunt clamoured, and something horrible wormed from a crack in the gutter. It was grey and leather-skinned, its head encased in bone-like armour hiding silvery eyes behind narrow slits. Its mouth was huge and hungry, with fangs curving out in every direction. It was a—

  “Skraeling!” Herme cried, and suddenly he knew where he was.

  Hsingard. Hsingard! Hsingard, where Azhure had led a force that had been cruelly attacked in the streets from Skraelings that had wormed from the—

  “Gutters!” Herme cried, and FortHeart yelped. “Gustus, they’re coming up through the sewers! They’re coming up through the cursed sewers!”

  “Gwendylyr!” Theod screamed, and suddenly he was hurtling down the slope of the hill so fast Faraday was sure he would fall and break his neck.

  Behind him Zared came at a more sedate pace, although still as rapidly as caution would allow him. The sun topped the ridges now, and the dawn danger had passed, although Zared had been forced to hold so tight to Theod during the time Drago had c
ollected the three and worked his enchantment over them he’d wondered if the man would have any unbruised skin left on his upper arms at all.

  Below, the three were slowly rising from the ground, their faces uncertain, frightened, and yet full of wonder at the same time.

  All had woken in the field of flowers.

  “Girls,” Drago said softly. “The blankets.”

  Leagh and Faraday jumped, still lost amid the memories of the flowers themselves, and then hurriedly reached for the blankets, wrapping them about the shoulders of Gwendylyr, DareWing and Goldman. Of the three, Goldman seemed the most orientated. He rose to his feet, struggling with his balance, and gripped the blanket about himself, tearing his rabbit-skin and twig garment to the ground with a few angry jerks.

  He drew in a deep breath, then looked about until he saw Drago standing slightly to his left. Goldman stepped over, still careful with his footing, and dropped to one knee before Drago. He took Drago’s right hand, kissed it briefly, and stared into Drago’s face.

  “I am yours,” he said, his voice intense. “Tell me what to do.”

  Drago nodded. “Be patient,” he said, “and I will.”

  He walked over to where Theod sat with his arms tightly wrapped about Gwendylyr. The woman looked up at him, and Drago squatted before her and took her face in his hands.

  She was lovely, even under the grime of the week spent roaming the hills as a wild animal, with very pale skin and black eyes framed by equally black hair. She was trembling, but whether from cold or emotion, Drago could not tell.

  “What have you made me?” she whispered.

  “My handmaiden,” Drago replied, and leaned forward and kissed Gwendylyr softly on her mouth.

  Theod jerked in surprise and some anger, and Drago shifted his eyes to the Duke’s face. “She is back,” he said, “but no longer exclusively yours.”

  Watching, Faraday felt jealousy so profound sweep her body she shivered violently.

  Leagh looked at her. “If you push him away,” she said, “you must endure the resultant suffering.”

  Drago rose and stepped over to DareWing. The birdman had sunk back to the ground, holding the blanket tight about his body. His eyes were bright with fever…and rage.

  “Will you let me revenge?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Drago said, and put a hand on DareWing’s shoulder.

  “Three more!” Mot hissed. “What is happening?”

  Sheol did not answer immediately, her eyes scanning the western horizon, but when she did, her voice was very, very cold.

  “Something is not right,” she said.

  Drago rose, his eyes flickering to the east. “What I do now,” he said, “will never go unnoticed by the TimeKeepers, even though they still be distant, and this is not their hour. Katie?”

  She nodded, and from somewhere, none watching could tell from where, she produced a crimson lily. For an instant she held it before her, then she tossed it high into the air.

  It floated for one breathtaking moment, and then it fell.

  It struck the gossamer-encrusted mass of crawlers before her, and from the point where it first hit, crimson light radiated out along the strands of the holding enchantment.

  Faraday’s eyes widened, and she heard Leagh gasp beside her. The grassy flat, as the ravines and gullies, was turning into a sea of red.

  A sea of blood.

  “They are passing through death,” Drago said.

  “Where are my sons?” Theod shouted. “At least give me the chance to hug them goodbye!”

  Drago did not look at him. “There is no need for goodbyes. There never will be again.”

  Behind him DareWing struggled to his feet and stood by Drago’s side. Drago glanced at him.

  “Be patient,” he murmured. “Not today, but one day…”

  Suddenly Theod screamed in utter grief and fury. “They’re gone!”

  As he’d watched, the entire mass of people had…vanished. The crimson tide had spread to the further reaches of the huge crowd, and the entire twenty thousand had simply vanished.

  All that was left was the crimson lily lying in the centre of the grassy flat, its petals ruffling slightly in the wind.

  Sheol screamed, doubled over, and fell from her mount.

  As one, the other three Demons also cried out, and convulsed, all dropping from their mounts and crawling and capering through the dust of the eastern Rhaetian Plains. Both WolfStar and StarLaughter stared in amazement, although each was consumed by very different emotions.

  WolfStar slowly smiled, but StarLaughter blanched, her eyes wide with concern.

  “They do not seem well, my beloved wife,” WolfStar said, looking at StarLaughter slyly. “Why is that, do you think?”

  She shrieked, and tugged hard on his chain, but even the pain of the choking collar could not wipe the smile from WolfStar’s face.

  “Do you think this is what the StarSon shall do to them when he inevitably meets your sweet companions?” he gasped, and StarLaughter’s mouth hardened and she stabbed into him with her power as well until WolfStar’s smile finally faded and he shrieked as loud as the Demons.

  But her satisfaction at WolfStar’s agony could not dampen her concern at the plight of the Demons, and she almost immediately turned her attention back to them.

  “What’s wrong,” she cried. “What’s wrong?”

  Sheol was the first to regain some semblance of control, and StarLaughter finally perceived that they were convulsing with rage more than anything else.

  “We have lost the souls of a crowd, StarLaughter,” Sheol hissed. “A crowd! Something, someone has snatched them from us! Who? Who? Who?”

  “StarSon Caelum,” WolfStar managed to say from the dirt. “StarSon Caelum.”

  Sheol stared at him so viciously WolfStar cringed helplessly, certain she would set one of the other Demons to his rape, but she finally turned aside and howled into the wind.

  “Attack! Attack! Attack!”

  “They’ve gone, you misbegotten bastard! They’ve gone! Where are my sons?”

  It was Katie rather than Drago who answered. She walked over to the lily, picked it up, then returned to stand before Theod. Very slowly she held it out to him.

  Leagh smiled, as did Gwendylyr. Faraday’s eyes filled with tears.

  Theod stared at the lily, then at Katie.

  She regarded him solemnly.

  Theod’s eyes dropped back to the lily, then he reached out to take it with a trembling hand.

  Something unusual, but unutterably sweet, swept through him, and when he raised his eyes he found that he—and all the others still in the same positions about him—stood in an infinite field of flowers. Even the feathered lizard was there, snuffling through the flowers for insects. All the women, Gwendylyr included, wore the low-draped heavy white linen robes, while Goldman and DareWing both wore short tunics of the same material over leather sandals.

  DareWing FullHeart very slowly stretched out a wing behind him—now fully-healed and glossy black under the bright sun—then the other, and smiled gently.

  “Welcome,” he said, “to the Fields of Resurrection.”

  At mid-morning, in the hour of Barzula, on a frigid spring day in the beautiful pink and cream city of Carlon, the patchy-bald rat launched his attack.

  All his life, and all the lives of his ancestors, he had planned and lusted for this moment. Now the two-legs who hunted and poisoned and trapped his kind would die, and they would die more horribly than any of his kind had in choking out their poisoned bellies through bile-stained teeth.

  The patchy-bald rat was particularly crippled with loathing for the small male two-legs. He’d seen every one of his litter brothers and sisters tortured and finally murdered by the loathsome beasts. His litter siblings been staked out on their backs on the early morning cobbles of Carlon’s streets, their legs stretched so that tendons popped and tore. The small male two-legs watched from the safety of the pavements what happened when a he
avy cart rumbled around the corner and ran over his vulnerable, squealing brothers and sisters.

  The male two-legs had clapped and hooted with enjoyment, especially when one of the rats survived for an extra moment or two of agonised screeching. The patchy-bald rat had never, never forgotten the memory of that screeching filling the early morning.

  Now, still mourning, he had his chance for revenge.

  Aided with the knowledge of a life spent burrowing amid Carlon’s sewers, as with the power given him by the Demons, the patchy-bald rat launched a simultaneous attack into every one of Carlon’s streets by almost a billion rodents and sundry crawlers.

  Nothing, nothing, could ever have prepared the Carlonese for what happened next.

  “Papa?”

  Theod spun about. Two small black-haired boys were advancing hand-in-hand through the flowers towards him.

  They were dressed in short white linen tunics identical to those Goldman and DareWing wore.

  “Tomas! Cedrian!” Theod swept them up in his arms, laughing and crying at the same time, and the boys peppered his face with kisses.

  “It only takes a small effort, coupled with faith,” Drago said, “to walk down the passage never dared, and open the door never opened into—”

  He stopped, staring unseeing into the distance, and even Theod and the two boys fell silent and looked at him.

  “Dear gods,” Drago whispered. “We have lingered here far too long.”

  This was the hour of Tempest, and the haze of storm swept the land. The streets and the open spaces of Carlon were empty…save for the Alaunt.

  As a grey tide of fur and claws and over-bright beady eyes erupted from every conceivable drain and crack, the hounds went berserk.

  They wanted to hunt, but they had no-one to hunt with.

  They wanted to track and kill, for the city was alive with prey, but there was no-one to tell them which were more important.