Pilgrim by Sara Douglas

―Dear lords of Tencendor,‖ Hervitius whispered, ―it is but the one creature. Look!‖

The beast had now risen sufficiently from the waters to show that its serpentine body had

four heads snaking from it at various intervals.

―A Sea Worm!‖ Goldman cried. ―But they‘re only…‖

Only legend, he‘d been about to say, but this was, apparently, a time when legends were

to be resurrected. Perhaps by whatever demonic influence had penetrated the sea‘s depths.

Theod grabbed onto the door frame as the ship rolled over so far it lay on its side. He

stared into the sky and prayed for a miracle, or at least the Strike Force.

Even before he‘d managed to form the thought, an arrow flew through the air and

skewered an eye on one of the four heads. The head shook, weeping pale green blood from its

shattered eye. It wailed agonisingly through a mouth full of half-chewed timbers.

The other three heads let go the ship and snapped at the creatures hovering above, but the

Icarii kept well out of the way, and continued to rain down arrows.

Two of the other heads had their eyes punctured, and the Sea Worm decided it had

suffered enough. All four heads reared back, viciously smashed once more into the deck, then

slithered over the side of the shattered railings.

The ship lurched, shuddered, and then fell, slamming into the water in a plume of spray.

It landed, not on its keel, but on its starboard side, and water rushed over the deck and

inundated the cabin.

―Jump overbo—‖ Hervitius started to scream, but the rush of water stopped his words,

and hurled him against a far wall…

…hard against a row of spikes meant to hang wet-weather gear on. The initial rush of

water receded, and Theod blinked, and rubbed his eyes clear. Hervitius was pinned high against

the wall, blood trailing from his mouth, and a vaguely surprised look in his staring, dead eyes.

The ship shuddered once more, then rolled over with a quiet sigh.

Far below in the hold, horses and men screamed.

―Get off this ship,‖ Theod ordered. ―Now!‖

Then he knew no more save chaos, and the feel of water flooding into his lungs, the touch

of icy hands already drowned, and the cold silence of the deep sea.

Above, far above, a small flock of Hawkchilds whispered and wondered.

―How…interesting,‖ Rox remarked, blinking as he came out of his semi-trance.

The other Demons, and StarLaughter, did likewise. They were standing in a tiny hut in a

small village in the northern Skarabost Plains. The remains of their meal, a middle -aged woman

and her teenage daughter, were a blood-soaked and splintered muddle before them. They had

been talking about these troublesome and unknown magicians to the south when the Hawkchilds

had sent their vision.

―Why would the Acharites be sending a fleet to the north-western coastline?‖ Sheol

asked StarLaughter.

She shrugged. ―How could I know? I don‘t—‖

―Then think!‖ Mot hissed. ―This is an act we should enquire into.‖

―There is nothing in those mountains save mines and caves,‖ StarLaughter said. ―Pitiful

enough in my time, and I cannot imagine they‘d be more beauteous or plentiful now.‖

―Mines,‖ Rox said slowly. ―Caves…‖

Sheol looked about her companions and smiled. ―A fleet…sailing to a place where there

are mines and caves…what else can they be doing but effecting a rescue? An evacuation?‖

―But where to?‖ StarLaughter asked.

―Away from us,‖ Raspu snarled. ―Away from our hunger.‖

Simultaneously all the Demons bared their teeth, and then equally simultaneously jerked

their heads towards the west.

Search! they commanded the Hawkchilds in the area. Watch! Tell!

36

Gorkenfort

By early Hungry-month Drago and Faraday were in the extreme northern plains of Ichtar,

now moving directly north along the ancient road towards Gorkenfort and then Ravensbund. The

Hawkchilds had troubled them no more, although both spent much of the day anxiously scanning

the heavy skies for their sweeping shadows.

Drago had pushed Belaguez as fast as the ancient horse would go. He knew he wouldn‘t

survive another interview with the feathered horrors.

During the day Faraday‘s obsession with finding the lost child faded in a flood of gloomy

memories. She had come this way once before, a long, long time ago. Then she‘d been, if not

exactly naive, then too innocent. Too determined to play her role in a Prophecy that demanded

only her death. She had ridden with Timozel and Yr, escorted by Lieutenant Gautier, towards

Borneheld.

Borneheld.

Faraday‘s arms tightened instinctively about Drago, and he turned his head slightly,

feeling the warmth of her body against him keenly.

―Faraday?‖ he asked softly.

―Memories, Drago.‖

―Ah.‖ Drago was not unaware that Gorkenfort was an unwelcome destination for

Faraday, for more reason than that she would have preferred to have gone straight to Star Finger.

―Was there no happiness for you in Gorkenfort?‖

As Drago had, so did Faraday hesitate. ―I don‘t think I had much happiness anywhere,

Drago.‖

To that, Drago had nothing to say.

They saw no person, and no animal, on the final few leagues of road leading to

Gorkenfort. The cold, bleak wind had swept the land completely bare; the sense of hopelessness

in the air was palpable. During Magariz‘s time as Prince of the North, Gorkenfort and town had

been re-established as a major juncture of Ichtarian and Ravensbund trade, but now both had

apparently been abandoned again. Drago wondered where the people had gone. There was too

much horror to the south, and he suspected they may have fled yet further north through the

Gorken Pass into Ravensbund itself.

Perhaps the Ravensbund Necklet, the series of curious sinkholes stretching from the foot

of the Icescarp Alps to the western coast, might be harbouring more than the Ravensbund. Drago

hoped so. He did not think he could bear it if the entire population of northern Tencendor had

been lost.

Belaguez plodded on, his nose pointed ever north, his mind lost in the mists of age.

Gorkenfort was indeed deserted, as was the town that spread out beneath its walls.

As they drew close to the town in the late afternoon, Drago tugged at Belaguez‘s mane,

pulling the horse to a halt.

Both Drago and Faraday stared ahead. Several months of winter snow had collected in

frozen drifts about the walls of the town; one particularly large mound had propped open the

gates.

Behind the town rose the black walls of the fort, and behind that, leagues distant, but still

so massive they blocked out much of the sky, the sheer cliffs of the Icescarp Alps surged towards

the stars. The peaks were lost in mist and cloud, and thicker clouds billowed beyond the alps and

streamed through the mountain passes towards Gorkentown and fort.

A gust of icy wind hit them, and Belaguez momentarily struggled with his footing.

Faraday shivered, and clung as close to Drago‘s back as she could with the feathered

lizard curled between them.

―There‘s a storm coming,‖ Drago murmured over his shoulder. ―But we can find shelter

enough in the fort, and build a fire to see us through the night.‖

―‘Tis not the cold that makes me shiver so,‖ Faraday said.

Drago twisted so he could see her face. Her green eyes appeared abnormally bright in her

face, and her lower lip was an angry scarlet where she had caught it between her teeth. Tendrils

of her bright hair fluttered in the wind, making her seem even more lost and uncertain.

―Borneheld still lives for you, doesn‘t he?‖ he said.

Faraday blinked, and a tear ran down her left cheek. ―I didn‘t realise how much I loathed

him until I saw this place again.‖

―You don‘t have to go in—‖

―What?‖ Anger had replaced the sadness in her voice. ―Do you expect me to wait out

here for you? No, you say we must go inside, so inside we will go. Both of us!‖

She slammed her heels into Belaguez‘s flanks, and the horse obediently plodded forward.

―Faraday—‖

―Don‘t say anything,‖ she hissed. ― Just don’t say it.‖

Drago held her eyes a moment longer, then he turned back and looked into what awaited

them.

Gorkentown was not only deserted, it appeared as if it had been destroyed in some siege.

As if by memory, Belaguez took them through the gates, then along the main thoroughfare that

wound between gaunt-windowed and gape-doored tenement buildings towards the town square,

and then up to the gates of the fort itself.

Not only were the buildings in sad disorder, goods lay in disarray as if piled by

inhabitants preparing to evacuate and then fleeing in terror without them. A few walls had

half-tumbled down, and the tiles of several roofs were scattered, as if they‘d been caught in a

spiteful whirlwind.

Although, outside the walls, snow had lain in only occasional drifts, here it lay stacked

shoulder high against walls, icicles hung an arm‘s length down from eaves and abandoned