The Pilgrims

The late afternoon gloom set in. Anfen stood, looked at the notched, dented sword. It had come up all right, considering how much he’d laid into the Wall. Suddenly he seemed to see himself for the first time in a long while, and was amazed and dismayed by the sight. An attack of stupidity and it lasted a whole week. What the hell am I doing out here?

He was almost inclined to laugh. Some broken rocks, a dented sword, and all the time he’d ridden down the great dividing road, he’d felt a burning sense that the world’s fate hinged solely on him …

And as he succumbed to laughter, he saw someone else approaching. From her outline against the dimming sky, he knew it was her, but then the glimpse of a green dress was gone. Had she been there at all? ‘Hey!’ he called to the catapult crewmen. ‘Did you see her?’

They traded amused looks. ‘Yes, good sir. We see her. Very nice to look at, she is. Would you like us to leave you two alone?’ They roared with laughter. Anfen felt a white-hot flare of anger but he knew the men were right to mock him, however unused to the feeling he was.

He sat back, thinking about Stranger, wondering what she’d say or advise, if she were here. There’d been no sign of her, almost no thought of her since that early morning he’d stumbled out of the underground passage with his arm tired from killing.

A bird cackled its hoarse laughing call, shockingly loud from the bushes to the right of the war machines. The sound startled him, and he looked over only to see a few black feathers gently floating to the ground. Then from behind the scrub emerged a different outline, a limping, hobbling shape, carrying a forked silver staff. That wasn’t Stranger.

Anfen got unsteadily to his feet, heart now beating very hard. The figure’s limp was pronounced. A long tail of black feathers dragged on the ground behind. It threw back a hood and revealed three thick, heavy horns curving from the sides of its skull, and from the middle, which seemed to weigh down its head.

The Arch Mage turned to the catapults, stopped some way from them, raised both arms high. His body seemed to convulse. A wave of air blew from him, at first just sending pebbles and dust scattering before it swept through the catapults, their crewmen and beyond, blasting all of it into piles of rubble and red streaks in the air. The mess scattered a long way. The silence after the last piece had clattered to rest was one of the most complete he’d ever heard.

The Arch Mage turned slowly to face him. ‘Catapults,’ he said, a hint of humour in his cultured voice. Anfen stood with his sword poised, knowing it would be useless. How could death be denied him this time? How many times could a man who wanted it walk into its jaws and be spat out, when so many who cherished life were eaten away? No matter — he’d go out swinging it, if the enemy came close enough. His mind was very clear and light, suddenly. Here it came, at last. Here it came.

The Arch Mage hobbled closer, the blackened, shrivelled bonethin leg unbending, but looking fragile enough to break under his weight. Thick gusts of smoke poured from his horns. ‘Catapults,’ he said with mirth. ‘No matter, be heartened. I feel your mission will succeed.’

Ignoring the talk, Anfen held his weapon as though slumped and defeated, watching the Arch Mage hobble closer. The middle horn in his head let off a faint trail of smoke. The square gem in his eye socket, set in skin like cooled wax, spun around, rippling the flesh either side of it. If he was arrogant enough to get within striking range … ‘Why do you want to talk with me?’ said Anfen. ‘Why not end it?’

‘You are marginally more useful to me alive,’ said the voice, mild and rich, pleasant to the ear. ‘It may be that you end your own life in grief, or to spite me, but that’s of little consequence. The Council of Free Cities knows you set out to do this deed. I made sure of it. They’ll soon know you’ve succeeded, and your stories won’t matter to them, whatever you tell them of me and my part. You will be credited for its consequences, not I. Yinfel’s part in it will be known too, rest assured. It is already known. The Mayor right now justifies his decisions to the others. Their meeting must sound like a roomful of squabbling hens.’

‘You saw the old man and his charm.’

‘Of course I did, in the Hall of Windows. I had wished for the Pilgrims both to be with you at this moment, but that shouldn’t matter too much. Nor did it matter that the charm and its message failed to reach your Mayors, nor that their decision had no impact on you. I’ve been fortunate.’

Anfen was counting down the distance, step by step, and was about to charge, when the Arch Mage — making it seem an afterthought — swiped the air with one hand and and sent his sword cartwheeling sideways till it landed point-first in the ground. He stopped just a few arm spans from Anfen and regarded him with an expression made unreadable by the hideous ugliness of his half-melted face, though the voice softened with regret. ‘It’s true you’ve been used. Not all of us can sit on thrones, and enemies don’t always do us harm. Know this, for my words are sincere. The conviction you showed, and the intentions you had, were not in themselves bad things. Even though by your ignorant measure they have led to a bad result. You have aided the Project, which is a good thing, though you do not think so. May this help shape your coming decision on whether or not you deserve to live or die.’

Anfen could not resist the impulse to rush at that hideous face and strike it. The Arch Mage watched him come, spun on his feet, and suddenly Anfen was careering face-first into the Wall, and struck it hard. The Arch Mage said, apparently to himself, ‘Not itself a bad thing, to wish to strike me down. I have insulted your honour, used you as a tool, tarnished your name. All true.’ He gazed up at the Wall. ‘But for this, your forehead will not get the job done, I fear.’

Anfen crawled to his feet and stood unsteadily. There was a heavy thud, thud from away in the distance. The giant had finally decided it did not like the little strangers so close to its Wall, and now it had taken two steps towards them for a closer look. ‘There!’ said the Arch Mage, nodding again. ‘Those, I imagine, have stronger heads than yours. Anfen, you may leave me. I have no use for you here. Go, decide whether you’re to live or die. Your horse fled, I fear, when I destroyed the catapults. It will be a long walk for you. An opportunity to ponder things.’

Anfen feigned to walk away with his head slumped forwards, defeated. He made another lunge, knowing it would be futile, and sure enough, the Arch Mage seemed only to shift his hands in the air, and Anfen found himself flying some distance away, landing heavily on his side.

‘A long walk,’ repeated the Arch Mage. ‘Easier without a broken leg, which is the likely result of another attack on me. Sword in hand or no, your chances of harming me in the slightest are absolutely nil. It could be a painful lesson. The choice is yours. I have work to do.’

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