Pilgrim by Sara Douglas

entrance to the stairwell, came forward, put his arm about her, and guided her down to

Sanctuary. As they‘d gone down, he had passed a quiet word to one of the Lake Guard, ordering

him to stop the trail of Icarii and Avar through the trees towards Fernbrake Lake for the time being…until the Demons had got what they wanted and had gone.

Only StarDrifter and Isfrael—and the unseen woman on the top of the eastern

ridge—were left to witness the passing of Fernbrake Lake.

The four creatures howled and cavorted in the shallows of the Lake, pausing only briefly

to urinate and defecate into the waters. StarLaughter watched fascinated, WolfStar appalled,

although he treasured the time it drew the Demons‘ attentions from him. He sat carefully on the

ground, bent protectively over the arm wrapped about his belly, leaning heavily on the other.

Every so often he glanced at the boy—he could not think of this creature as his son, even though

his colouring and features were so much like his—as also at Niah.

Niah! If WolfStar had not believed it would call unwanted attention to him, he would

have bent his head and wept at his own stupidity.

Now the Demons had ceased their prancing and defecating and stood still in water deep

enough to lap against their bellies.

One by one the Demons began to tremble. They stared into the Lake, their noses almost

touching the water, completely rigid save for the curious quivering that wracked their bodies.

The trembling increased by the moment until it seemed as though they were in the final moments

of some massive, hysteric convulsion…and yet still they stared down into the depths of the Lake.

The water changed.

It happened so subtly, and yet so swiftly, that WolfStar was not sure at what point the

Lake ceased being a liquid and turned, instead, to glass. Emerald glass that trapped the Demons‘

legs and, in Sheol‘s case, her pendulous udders.

Still the Demons convulsed, the bodies a blur as their muscles spasmed faster than should

have been possible, and the convulsions quickly transferred themselves to the glass.

It cracked, and then the entire surface of the Lake shattered into millions of tiny pieces. A

great wind arose from beyond the ridge of the crater, and swept down over the Lake‘s surface.

The glass pieces turned to dust, whipped up into a maelstrom against which WolfStar had

to screw his eyes closed and hide his face under an arm. He wanted to reach out for Niah, to

shelter her against this murderous whirlwind of millions of razor-edged glass pieces, but he was

not able to fight its force, and could only concentrate all his strength on protecting his own body

against its fury.

StarDrifter and Isfrael, protected by Drago‘s enchantment, watched silently. Tears

streamed down their faces, and Isfrael reached out and leaned a hand on his grandfather‘s

shoulder.

Who comforted who, neither knew, but both drew strength from the physical contact. A

piercing scream rose on the shoulders of the wind, growing in intensity and density until it

seemed as if it filled the entire world.

It was the Lake, dying, and weeping in its death.

On the ridge, the woman wailed with it, and sank to her knees, tearing at her hair with her

hands.

Almost as suddenly as it had arrived, the whirling maelstrom vanished, and WolfStar

blinked, cleared away the glass shards that had embedded themselves in his eyelashes and hair,

and stared out at what had once been the Lake.

All traces of water and glass had gone, and the Demons—now back to their humanoid

forms and attired again in innocent pastel robes—pointed and exclaimed excitedly.

What had once been a Lake was now a garden, but a garden such as WolfStar had never

seen previously.

It was a garden snatched from the darkest pits of the AfterLife, a wasteland, an

abomination. The ground, gradually rising to a small hillock in what had once been the centre of

the Lake, was cracked and scarred, bare-baked earth with no grass, no life, and no hope of life.

Trees stood bare-branched and blackened, as if consumed in some ancient conflagration that

they‘d never recovered from. Rambling roses hung from trees and rusted trellises, their leaves

and blossoms only a distant memory, flowering instead with needled thorns that reached out like

traps.

The centre hillock was barren, save for a windstorm that spun around and around on its

crest, thick with dust and the thick, thorny tendrils of a rose bush.

―Movement,‖ Sheol said with immense satisfaction. ―Come.‖

StarLaughter tugged at WolfStar‘s chain, but he‘d been ready for her, and rose and

stumbled forward before she cut off his breathing. Mot and Barzula seized the boy and girl,

throwing them over their shoulders, and striding into the wasteland with no mind for the thorns

that reached out to scratch and mar.

WolfStar could not be so disdainful. He cried out each time a thorn hooked into his flesh,

sometimes becoming so entangled in thorns that StarLaughter—the thorns appeared to

completely ignore her—had to tug with all her strength to pull him free. By the time they

approached the hillock he was covered in bloody scratches, and his wings had suffered so badly

they were almost completely defeathered.

―Movement!‖ Sheol cried again. ―Quick, Barzula! The boy!‖

Barzula stepped forth, strode up the hillock until he was just outside the confines of the

whirling wind. Then, in an abrupt movement, he hurled the boy inside.

Instantly, blood and flesh whipped out of the whirlwind as the boy‘s body was torn apart

by the thorns inside. A piece of the ghastly meat struck WolfStar in the face and he gagged,

reminded forcibly of the moment Zenith had flung Niah‘s poor dead body at him.

No-one else minded. The Demons and StarLaughter were leaning forward in their

eagerness, their eyes bright, their breasts heaving with excitement.

―When?‖ StarLaughter cried.

― Now! ‖ Mot screamed, dancing from foot to foot in an obscene gig, and as he screamed,

so a man stepped forth from the bloodied rose wind.

WolfStar‘s mouth slowly dropped open.

What now stood on the hillock was a nightmarish parody of an Icarii male. He was

over-tall, and his naked body was obscenely roped with thick muscles which bulged so thick at

chest and arm and thigh that WolfStar could not see how the man could possibly walk. From his

back sprouted fully developed golden wings— too fully developed, for they were half as large

again as a normal Icarii male‘s, and feathers sprouted unevenly from flight muscles that bulged

as thick as they did on the man‘s body. The hands that dangled at the end of each arm were like

spades; the fingers were as long and as thick as every other appendage, but flexible nevertheless.

They would miss no crevice that could be exploited.

The man‘s face was curiously flattened, with a broad and thick nose and forehead under

dense, dull copper curls, and light violet eyes that were narrow and cunning—almost

piggy—rather than bright and clear.

WolfStar looked closely. They remained lifeless, for Qeteb still had to be animated with

soul, but they were chilling for all that they lacked spirit. The mouth was wide, its lips thick, red

and moist, a pink flicker of tongue appearing between large, crowded white teeth.

Sheol turned slightly so she could see WolfStar. ―The girl,‖ she whispered.

―No!‖ WolfStar cried. ―No!‖

―Why?‖ Sheol said. ―Is this not what you wanted? Mot! The girl!‖

Mot stepped forward, the girl slung over his shoulder, but instead of hurling her into the

rose wind as Barzula had done the boy, he handed her to the Qeteb-man.

―Take her,‖ he said, and the Qeteb-man held out his arms and took her weight from Mot.

―The wind,‖ Sheol commanded, and the Qeteb-man turned, but not before WolfStar had

seen him run his spade-hands over the girl‘s breasts and belly…exploring, his body instinctively

reacting to the feel of the female flesh under his hands.

No! WolfStar screamed in his mind, but at that instant the Qeteb-man flung his Niah into

the rose wind, and particles of flesh and blood again streamed out across the wasteland. When

Niah finally emerged, completed in body, if not in spirit, WolfStar had to turn his face aside.

She was flawless, beautiful. Her alabaster body was female physical perfection, and

glossy black hair streamed down her back to her buttocks.

Her face was stunning in its loveliness, fragile and yet strong at the same moment.

WolfStar knew in that instant that he‘d lost. The Demons would use Niah, and her

potential power, to their own ends. WolfStar felt nauseous: sick with self-disgust, sick with

horror at how his plan to save Tencendor would now likely condemn it.

What had he done?

―There are many kinds of death,‖ Sheol again informed WolfStar, her voice almost

kindly, ―and you shall now experience another one. She is female,‖ she said to the Qeteb-man.