The Pilgrims

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 be 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.’

‘Yes. Well, these are socks. Here.’ Eric opened the briefcase and held his polished black shoes up for the redhead’s inspection.

He examined them from several angles, put a hand inside each, then gave them back. ‘I like those, too. Not as much. But, pretty good!’ He turned to Sharfy. ‘Calmed down? Good. They sent me to find you. Anfen and the rest got chased to the surface! There was a miscommunication. We said “buy”, the groundmen heard “rent”. Or they just changed their minds. Either way, they wanted more rent. There shall be no underground base of operations below the castle. We have wasted three weeks.’

‘We agreed a price, gave what they asked,’ said Sharfy.

‘Mmmm. I am very much with you on this. Not very nice at all. Now what’s with our new friend?’

Sharfy explained what had happened, though according to his recollection, there’d been four or five war mages, and he had bravely run out in the open and dragged Eric down the tunnel, right as a deadly spell blasted their way. He seemed to earnestly believe it. ‘Saw a couple of Invia too,’ he added, voice lowered. ‘Up high on the cliff face. Just watching.’

‘Wait, wait. War mages sent to guard the door,’ said the redhead, rubbing his chin. ‘Sharfy said five, so I’m guessing one, maybe two. They let one Otherworlder through, but killed a whole lot of others. Is that much true, or is it a Sharfy special?’