The Pilgrims

‘It’s true,’ said Eric. ‘It told me to run, so I ran.’

The redhead looked dubiously at them both, but shrugged. ‘And the Invia just watched it all? All the poor helpless Otherworlders getting slain, not a bat of their wings?’

‘Just watched,’ said Sharfy.

‘I’m not sure what he means by Invia,’ said Eric. ‘If there was something else there, I didn’t see it.’

The newcomer nodded, his cone of hair swaying. ‘Mmmm. And just because Sharfy saw it, doesn’t mean it was there. Anyway, I believe you about the pit devils. Their tracks are all over the place. Most odd, and we just may bump into some. It is why I wore this. But I only brought two.’ He held up the mask he’d worn by its horns. ‘They aren’t bright critters. Wear one of their skinned faces stuck to some hide, and some scent, and you can walk right past them, I’m told.’

‘You’ve never actually tried this?’ said Eric.

‘Of course not. Far too risky. Even if they think you’re one of them, they still often enough attack each other.’ He leaned close and whispered: ‘There’s an excellent chance we’re going to be mauled. To death.’

They let Sharfy take the lead. The redhead introduced himself as Kiown. He looked Eric up and down as they went, quizzing him about his garments. The tie in particular fascinated him. ‘Just a decoration,’ Eric explained. ‘You wear it on formal occasions.’

‘Mmm! Are you nobility, back there?’

He was about to deny it, but then … what if such an illusion was useful? ‘Well, yes,’ he said, affecting slight embarrassment. ‘Not a king or a prince, but connected to the ruling family, you could say. It’s nothing, really.’ Kiown whistled, impressed, his imagination clearly filling in many blanks. ‘Here.’ Eric undid the tie’s knot, slid it free, then handed it over. Kiown held it, stroked it, then gave it back. ‘No, you keep it.’

‘Really?’ Delighted, Kiown experimentally draped it over his shoulder, then wrapped it around his wrist. ‘Can it be worn like this?’

‘Sure.’ Eric reflected he wouldn’t need a tie for a while. Maybe never again. And how did he feel about that? Not too bad, whatever the dangers … not too bad.

11

From her perch on the sheer cliff’s face, the Invia watched the green valley, here at the world’s highest and northernmost point. She had done so since the doors began to open, her sister on the cliff face opposite. They had watched the castle’s Lord walk through here too, and seen what he had done. Opening the gap between worlds had looked like an accident … if so, it was an accident the Invia had seen coming. The dragons had predicted it, down to the very hour and, as a rare treat, shared their knowledge.

It took a moment for recognition of the old man to dawn: on her brief excursion to Otherworld she’d seen him for just a moment, she was sure, lying under the bridge asleep and knowing no more of her than the passing wind as she flew by, invisible. She had barely picked him out from the background of that strange, strange place, with its air so stale, foul-smelling and empty of power, its sights and sounds so alien, and its incredible big ball of fire in the sky.

Old but sturdy enough, he seemed, though his footsteps were unsteady. Not lacking in courage, unless he was just too stupid to understand the risk he’d taken, approaching a war mage, even one on the brink of its own death. About the old man, the aura light was an unhealthy smoky grey. So many of better stock had died on the grass. Though she could have, she had not been tempted to save him from his danger, nor any of the others. Yet: he lived. Perhaps he carried a charm.

Nor did she know why the war mage had spared the Otherworlder first through that particular door, but she meant to find out.

She whistled across to her sister on the opposite canyon wall, a sound human ears would not hear: This one! Here is our spy.

Her sister whistled back in acknowledgement, wry humour in the sound, then flew straight up before angling south, presumably off to tell the others that things had transpired as mighty Vyin of the dragon-youth had said: two had indeed passed safely through the gap between worlds, not just one.

The airborne Invia flew till she was a disappearing dot passing through a band of cloud, soon hidden even from the remaining one’s far-seeing eyes.

And now the old man, if his luck held, would hear the hidden words of Vous, of the Arch Mage, and understand them, the same way she herself had understood the voices of men, of dogs, even of the rustling wind, when she’d ventured into Otherworld. (Not that any of those had had much of interest to say!) For decades, none beyond the castle’s heavily enchanted walls had heard the private words and plans spoken within. One could only watch their actions below like pieces moving in an almost comprehensible game: the armies marching about; war mages flocking here or there like carrion birds; the new cities being built close to the castle, despite the old cities further away having already too few people.

Watch as they might, the Invia never knew much more than one trying to discern the intentions of whoever had left old footprints in the sand. The young dragons, if they knew, kept their secrets; they could not descend in body to act in the world below, nor disturb events through servants or spells, as the Dragon-god willed. Nor could they so much as crane their necks out through the doors of their prisons to gaze with their eyes, which saw so far and clearly. No: they simply conversed amongst themselves, dropping morsels of careful thought like crumbs from a meal, an act perilously close to, if not actually, breaking the natural laws. And it happened that the Invia might be outside their sky prison holds, to catch them.

Likewise, the Invia conversed amongst themselves. Messengers, news bearers? No! For none would break the Dragon’s laws and risk waking It from slumber, in wrath. At least, not blatantly. As luck had it, their talk outside the dragon-youth’s holds was sometimes overheard …

And when it came to interference in the world below, the Invia followed no orders. But they had a touch more discretion than the imprisoned dragon-youth …

The charm wrapped around her wrist had been made in the presence of Ksyn, just before the eight major personalities were banished. Was it possible he had even foreseen its use, uncounted centuries away? Time had surely dulled its power. It was hard to know how much: she and her sisters could only feel magic force ebb and flow through the air, not clearly see it in the way of mages. If enough power held, the charm would keep the old man hidden, even as he wandered the castle’s halls. If it had weakened too much, he would need some more of his luck. A very good deal more.

But no more of his kind would come through, not this time. More war mages would be back to guard the entry point, and soon the castle’s rulers would find a way to stabilise the accidentally fractured barrier, if that was their wish. When the entry point opened, it had been like a blow to an eggshell, making cracks in many places at once. And this had about it the beginnings of something greater than surrounding events suggested. Perhaps.

It was hard to know, looking at the feeble figure shuffling along below, with his sickly grey aura like a coat unable to keep out the cold; but huge floods start with raindrops, like her sister had said. As the Dragon wills.

The old man was peering at the distant tower, realising, it seemed, there was really nowhere else for him to go. He headed towards it. Good. She dived from the wall, plummeting fast, then spread her wings.

Case twisted the bottle’s lid back on, wanting to make the scotch last until the next goat-horned sonofabitch managed to set fire to him instead of itself. He walked in a staggered line. Careless cheer bloomed through him, to know the end was close, that soon he’d catch up with Eric, and Shelly bless her heart, and others he’d known and missed. It was really all about to be done and dusted! Why the fuck not? He’d spent a lifetime dreading his own death, at times certain actual Hellfire awaited, but now he felt light as a feather. If he was to burn, what could he do to change it at this late hour? Why worry? He sang a drunken song whose words he forgot, filling it instead with profanity.

The tall white cliff faces opened out and far below, the flat horizon spread as far as sight. That tower now stretching above him seemed part of some larger castle made of gleaming white marble, green in places with moss and lichen. A closer look showed veins of colour running through the white stone in webs.