Book Of Shadows Part 12

Next time. Strange, how hard it was to keep from thinking like there was still a future to be had. Meanwhile the old vet had finished his story about the Hashlam ma.s.sacre and a gap opened up for a voice to fill. Sharfy jumped in fast. 'Did I tell you about the Pilgrim, from Otherworld?'

Some piqued interest, some rolled eyes, surely directed at the old vet (whose story Sharfy too had found somewhat implausible).

'Tell it,' said someone.

He didn't need to be asked twice. 'It was a clear day. The Entry Point opened, right behind the castle. Like a window in the sky. There were war mages. Eight of em. And the Pilgrim came in. Clothes were strange. He wielded an Otherworld weapon, which he named Gun. It breathed fire, louder than ... louder than when a storm knocks a big branch onto the roof.' Pleasing! He'd fallen dearly in love with window in the sky too. 'Deadly it was, Gun. But he was so scared he couldn't use it. It was the first war mage he ever seen. It killed a hundred men who already came in. And it went for him too. I was too far away to help him. But the Pilgrim was a prince in his own land-'

A burly man in Faifen colours who had just sat down interrupted, 'Pilgrim! My a.r.s.e has spoken sweeter lies.'

'Was, too,' said Sharfy. 'You heard of him? Some people's calling him Shadow, but his name's not Shadow. S'Eric. I knowed him. Taught him some sword play. This scar? He done it. Wields a good blade. Fast as any I seen, since my war days. Fast as me, when I was younger. I teached it to him. So listen. The war mages killed a thousand other Pilgrims. But when Eric come through, I got there in time to save him. I jumped out into the field-'

'You speak s.h.i.+t,' said the newcomer. 'Never happened. None of it. None of the rest of your claptrap either. I heard you last night, belching such gas. We could be trading talk of what to do in this tumult and we're listening to your rot.'

'Nothing we can do.'

'A coward too. You never swung a blade.'

Sharfy almost slipped off his stool in outrage. 'I sparred with Anfen every day on the road.'

'Who?'

'He won Valour's Helm four times. He was the one brought down the Wall. I was there when he done it.' The big man laughed. The others around him joined in rather than mind their own stinking business (or better yet, politely listen to Sharfy's tale). 'I killed ten front-rankers in the Pyren battle,' said Sharfy, his good mood souring. 'Did time in the farms for it. And I got out alive. You probably don't know about the farms. Or the mines. Cos no one gets out alive. But I did.'

The newcomer grinned wide through his beard. 'Ten front rank, you say?'

'Ten in that fight. There's been more.'

'Finis.h.i.+ng off the wounded after the battle, notching your belt, aye? Then off to boast. I've met such men before.'

Sharfy observed the man's left hand, where the skin was rubbed red from drawing arrows. 'Ten front-rankers. That's from the front rank. Not sitting away from the blades with a stringed coward-stick. Safe as the Mayors back home.'

The burly man's eyes went hard. He set his beer down. 'You saw me come in with my bow last night, it seems, but are too stupid to know the difference between a hunting bow and a fighting one.'

A ripple of quiet went through the room as heads turned to watch what was unavoidable at this point. 'I do secret ops for the Mayors' Command,' Sharfy slurred. 'Used to. S'why I met the Pilgrims.'

'Then you are to be feared.' The burly man took in a mouthful of beer then spat it in Sharfy's face. The watchers laughed.

Sharfy got up from his stool, made the universal gesture of hand-to-hand challenge and headed to the exit. To lay this b.a.s.t.a.r.d out inside might get him turfed from the inn, and he rather liked this place. The burly man laughed at the challenge but he followed. 'Merry one, you are,' said Sharfy, wiping the spat beer from his face with both sleeves.

'A good bit of sport you are,' the man said cheerfully. No doubt in the fellow's mind who was about to be embarra.s.sed. Sharfy was equally a.s.sured, though the floor seemed to tilt and he walked into the door frame on his way out. No matter. He'd been drunker than this and beaten better than this.

Only a small crowd gathered outside, the other drinkers put off by the rain still coming down and not wis.h.i.+ng to give up their seats to watch what promised to be a brief and unremarkable fight. The two combatants squared off by the roadside. Sharfy's opponent was a few years his junior, much larger, with broad shoulders and a longer reach. He didn't mind that; the big ones were not used to being challenged and often swung clumsily. What's more, best an opponent of this size and they'd buy him drinks all night, hear every tale he wished to tell.

Mud squelched around his boots as he got into his preferred fighting stance for hand-to-hand. His opponent advanced, fists raised like a common brawler. Sharfy saw immediate mistakes in the way the man held himself and felt a surge of confidence.

A bob left then right, with good speed for someone so big. Sharfy himself however seemed to be moving rather slowly. He threw what he felt should have been a decisive blow at where his opponent had been just a moment ago. Which it turned out was far too late. A large forearm very swiftly tried to occupy the same s.p.a.ce as Sharfy's head. With a dull explosion of pain slow to filter through the beer he dropped like a flung sack. His face fell in mud delightfully soft and cool.

One blow. What a mercy he would not remember it took only one blow.

'Roll him over so he's not face down in a puddle,' said the victor when he was done laughing with the spectators. 'Just because he's a fool doesn't mean he should be drowned.'

'What about robbed?' said another.

'Suit yourself.' More laughter. Sharfy blacked out as hands fished through his pockets.

2.

When his eyes peeled open, a fine drizzling mist slanted against the dull orange from a group of distant lit windows. It was still night. Sharfy's head throbbed badly but he could not remember why. With some dismay he found his pockets relieved of their coins. He had taken far too much money to the bar ... he thanked the Spirits for the little locked box under his bed.

The world spun a little and his head pounded. He s.h.i.+vered and sat up, rubbing his arms for warmth. The inn's bar usually an all-nighter had put out its lights, which could only mean they'd run out of beer. How much of it did my coin pay for? he wondered sadly.

Despite the rain he still stank of the beer which had been spat in his face (the very last point of memory which had just returned, and he feared it helped fill in the parts that were missing).

There was a shriek from the sky and not too far which was unmistakeably that of a war mage. Another sounded much further away, and another. s.h.i.+vers went down his back when he heard how many of them there were. Most of the towns.h.i.+p's window lights went out at once. They'd not have heard the sound here in some while, but they knew it all right. He almost felt them pa.s.sing overhead. Then their cries faded.

When Sharfy sat up it was a shock to find he was not alone. The man stood some way behind him with feet planted apart, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other behind his back. A hood covered his face, but Sharfy knew who he was looking at. The surprise of it stunned him speechless for a moment. 'I wouldn't be here if I were you,' he said, his voice croaking.

'I am not,' said Anfen quietly.

Sharfy grunted. His poor throbbing head did not need cryptic remarks, not right now. 'Mayors looking for you,' he elaborated. 'Bounties. Lots of military, hereabouts. Inns are packed with em. Some know of you, some don't. Some know who to blame for all the trouble.'

'None know me.'

'I heard what I heard.'

'They won't find me,' Anfen said. 'I'll lose them in the quiet.'

Mad? Sharfy thought. Always has been, a little at least. Something's different though.

'Why do you sleep in the rain?' said Anfen.

'Beaten,' said Sharfy. 'Five of em. Waited till I was drunk.'

'Where is your weapon?' said Anfen.

'My room.'

'Fetch it. And all else you need. We march, now.'

Sharfy squinted up through the drizzle at his former leader. Former seemed especially relevant just now. After his initial impulse to laugh there came a flare of anger quite foreign to him, and it had nothing to do with the preposterous idea of 'marching' anywhere at this hour, in the rain. 'Where'd you go?' he said. 'They're looking for you. The Mayors. I heard talk of it. They don't know if you did it or not. But they think you had a hand in it. Traitor, they think. Spy all along, they think. Double dealer. Had em swindled.'

'Did what?'

Sharfy's anger grew sharper. 'You know what. Why'd you do it? Why? Look what you did. It was nothing good. The world's a mess now. Why didn't you see it would be like that?'

'Do what?'

'Destroy the Wall. Don't lie, I know you did it. I rode south with you, remember? What help did you think it would be to do that? How'd you do it anyhow? Don't tell me the catapults was enough. No catapult did that. Wall was too strong. It was something else. You used a charm or something.'

There was an almost imperceptible bowing of Anfen's hooded head. His silence seemed pained.

Sharfy got to his feet. The world spun around just once then righted itself. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I should turn you in. Should kill you. There'll be rewards for your head.'

'Go get your weapon and whatever else you need,' Anfen said. 'Hurry.' Sharfy was taken aback by the new note of quiet command in his voice. Not sure what else to do, he headed back to the inn, around to its rear after-hours door. There he was allowed in grudgingly by a night man, jittery from the war mage cries.

Sharfy was marching nowhere but to bed. Then he found his room was locked. His belongings had not been left out in the hall. The night man checked his book, explained the room had been found empty and thus rented again no shortage of people sleeping in cellars and cupboards who'd pay good coin for a room. After much argument Sharfy got his upcoming week's rent refunded, minus an obscene amount for the broken door lock, kicked in by whoever had robbed him. 'Give me a closet then,' Sharfy said. 'Inn's supposed to be a home on the road. Supposed to look after you. Hard times or not.'

The night man said a closet would cost him what he had just refunded. Sharfy knocked him flat and wrestled with the locked box his coin had just been dropped into. At the sound of its coins rattling footsteps rushed across the floor above, descended the staircase. There was a metal hiss of an unsheathed blade. Sharfy grabbed the cheap little sword from an ornamental coat of arms on his way out the door.

Back outside in the drizzle Anfen had not moved at all from his stance by the roadside. 'Robbed,' Sharfy muttered, more hurt by this betrayal than he'd ever admit.

'Get your steed.'

'None. Sold it. Got nothing.'

'Come, then.'

'Where to?'

No answer. He trudged after Anfen in the squelching gra.s.s and mud until the towns.h.i.+p was well behind them. They were soon on the Great Dividing Road, so wide its eastern edge could not be seen in the gloom. A wagon went clip-clopping by on the ancient unbreakable pavement, completely unseen to them. Anfen stood silent for some time in the misty rain, his head bowed. 'Do you feel that?' he said.

'Wet?' said Sharfy.

'Watch.' Anfen unsheathed his sword. Sharfy noticed it was not the sword he'd had when they parted company. A glint like white gold in firelight flashed down its face. He stuck it, point first, into the turf at the Road's very edge. A second pa.s.sed and the blade slowly leaned south until it fell.

Sharfy said, 'What about it?'

Anfen stuffed it back into the ground with the handle leaning far to their left the north. In seconds it had turned like the hand of a clock until it collapsed again in the opposite direction.

'Huh!' said Sharfy.

'The push,' said Anfen. He plucked a handful of pebbles and let them slip from his hand to the Road's pavement, watching the slight southward curve of their fall. They rolled along the Road as though blown by strong wind, though no wind could be felt. 'I know things I did not know before,' said Anfen. 'We must walk into the push for a while. There is work to be done. Sharfy. If I told you the Pendulum swings again. What say you to that?'

Sharfy rubbed the rain from his face and wished the night were several hours younger again. 'I'm too drunk to know what you mean. Or maybe you're too drunk to know what you mean.'

'It means time is short. And the Pendulum must be stopped, though it is probably too late. There's much to do. Come.'

To his dismay, Anfen began the journey Sharfy already knew he was bound to, though he did not know why he should be.

The war's done, he wanted to yell in protest. Leave me to rest! I done enough fighting! The war's done!

3.

For long days they walked, days that blended into one dreamlike stretch, where the world went a strangely purple twilight Sharfy had never seen before. Had he the words to express it, he'd have said it seemed he looked back on old memories even as the minutes and hours pa.s.sed, all sights taken in through sleep-blurred eyes, all thoughts subdued.

Sleeping, eating, and other routine things were the least of Anfen's concerns. Each brief stop for rest had to be argued for against abstract responses Sharfy didn't understand in the slightest. The land about them was eerily empty of people for most of these dreamy stretches; entire days went by without running into a single traveller in lands that should have been swarming. For that matter, on some days he'd have sworn there was hardly a bird call or the buzz of a fly, and the country seemed unfamiliar to him, missing its various landmarks. Anfen marched tall and proud in those quiet times, his strides full of purpose.

Then this dreaminess would at times fall away, reality would rear up in all its grim clarity. Anfen again looked starved, his back bowed by unseen weight, looking just as tired as Sharfy felt. On such days people pa.s.sed them on the road in heavy numbers: refugees in wandering bands going south from Elvury and (soon enough) from Faifen, often as not missing hands, arms, parts of their faces. They said war had come to their cities. War, and even worse things.

The strangest of it was that news revealed large numbers of castle troops had headed south along this very road, led not by a general but by a first captain. Anfen and he should have walked right into this group, and through others, on one of those days when they had instead come across no one at all.

Anfen answered few questions and did not say a word about the huge purple scar that ran around his neck. Now and then he said things which Sharfy could not understand and did not wish to hear: 'There's a dragon I wish to kill,' he muttered once. 'I wish to kill it. Ah, I feel him, foul thing. I sense he is a spy. I do not know if my redeemer wishes him slain. It is a mistake to a.s.sume all the brood are of the same purpose.'

Redeemer. That word again, spoken like someone would speak of their commander, or father, or lover. 'A dragon, Anfen? Don't talk like that.'

'I must. It breaks the natural laws, to be out among us at all, Sharfy. But then, we ourselves break the laws. The Wall was not supposed to be broken. We are not meant to be here, in the quiet. And I am not meant to live.'

Why can't we exchange the usual stories? Sharfy wondered. He was itching to tell one. 'Then why'd the Wall break?' he said. 'If it wasn't meant to.'

'The natural laws are changing, Sharfy. Do you know what this process is called?'

'Nope.'

'You do. It's called war.'

'War, eh? Yeah, I heard of that.'

'War. The G.o.ds, the dragons. War.'

A long silence, filled by their feet beating the road. As happened from time to time, a drop of blood slid from the thick purple scar on Anfen's neck. He looked directly at Sharfy for the first time in a long while, an excited gleam in his eye that Sharfy decided was worse than the grim silent mask he'd got used to. 'It isn't a new war,' Anfen said. 'Like our wars it has times of hot and cold, forces arranging themselves before blades are drawn. We are lucky to be alive now, Sharfy. Blades are now drawn. I have come to understand that I am one such blade.'

What am I, your scabbard? Sharfy almost said, but Anfen did not seem, lately, to appreciate a joke. Yet again, he seemed to expect a response. 'What about the Pilgrims?' Sharfy ventured.

'The keenest blade. Though too many hands reach to wield him. He would be better destroyed.'

'Which one you mean? Eric or Case?'

'Shadow.'

4.