The Pilgrim- Chapter One

A wind swept over the frigid valley below. Jagged outcroppings littered the hilltops, not an inch spared from a crushing veil of snow that covered the sweeping mountainsides, the crooked spruces, the shivering hollows and the boreal groves. Amidst the Mountains of Izalea, where the ravaged watchers supped on death. Where men chased bounties across the frozen wastes, seeking shaded ruins and the scourges of the mountains. Where a pilgrim edged cautiously along the mountain path, eyeing the town below.

She was of middling height, and distinctly a pilgrim of the Ivory Church- Her white robes tied with a red sash and a golden crest. And of course, the near comically oversized shawl, which was ebony black and rested on her neck and chest, wrapped five times around. Only her eyes were exposed the bitter winds which rode along the shivering clifftop crests. They were bright green, made all the more prominent by her dark skin.

She scuttled down the Cliffside at a quick pace, showering the ground below with loose pebbles. She leapt down lightly, her shawl disturbed by the movement. A tall wall faced her. It was half the crumbling remains of a stone wall, and half make-shift, dark logs tied with strong rope. She began making her way along the wall. Some towns locked their gates to outsiders. Others welcomed the pilgrims as a good omen. All contained those who eyed the shawled strangers warily, hands resting on daggers and axes. No pilgrim could be sure. None had ever returned from the pilgrimage to give advice on such things.

However, darkness was closing in on the snow-capped mountains. Few towns could be more unforgiving than the wilds of Izalea.

At last she reached a gate, its logged doors thrown open. A single guard was leaning against the gate frame with a bored expression, a notched sword in his scabbard, which was tied to his thigh with a red cloth. He had a coarse face- His cheeks sunken slightly, his eyes obsidian pebbles. He had a light stubble on his chin, befitting of a man of his age- twenty, the pilgrim guessed. He wore a furred brown cloak over his linen shirt.

He started at her appearance, and his eyes immediately rested on her shawl.

“I… your one of those pilgrims, aren’t you?” He approached her, glancing at her unthreateningly.

She nodded.

He paused. “I suppose you’re seeking lodging then. Go in then, there’s a small Inn, by the town square.” For a moment, he eyed her, as if weighing something in his mind. He addressed her again, seeming hesitant;

“If you’d take my advice, pilgrim, I’d suggest moving on to the next town. You’d make it by midnight at the latest. This is no day for an outsider.”

She nodded politely, but did not stop her course inside the village. By midnight the scourge would be prowling. The sentry shrugged, and turned back to his post.

The town held a sparse few buildings, of dark wood and stone. The steeped roofs were of wood as well- Thatch would buckle under a night’s snow. To the left was what appeared to be a small smithy. It was unattended, a hammer resting on the anvil, the forge dying down, and its bellows sagged low.

It seemed there was a gathering in the centre of the village- a small green almost devoid of snow. The green was crowded with villagers, the disturbance gathered around a large wagon at its centre.

Atop the wagon stood a man- He was quite tall, wearing a broad brimmed straw hat and a dark green overcoat. His hands were raised defensively, his palms facing the crowd.

“Please, please, my good folk, if I may! I’m sure this matter can be resolved peacefully. No need to-“

“Thief!” “Swindler!” Several voices cried from the mob. “Bring im’ to justice! Take him to the stocks, on his knees!”

The crowd surged forward, causing the wagon to sway dangerously. The man- a merchant, it seemed, cried out, clutching his hat.

“I- I’m sure, if I could just speak with the mayor, we can have this straightened out! No need to do anything brash! If you would all-“
The wagon took a particularly violent jolt from the crowd, who were beginning to try and grab the man by his ankle.

“Bloody Pilferer! Thief!” The crowd began to pick up a chant, “Thief! Thief! Thief!” The crowd pushed further, those at the front grunting heavily in an effort to up-turn the wagon.

Suddenly, a single note filled the green, vibrating through the air. It had clearly come from a drum or gong of some sort. Several backs straightened, as townsfolk recognised the beat. They turned to its source. Those who had been heaving the wagon over snapped around like children caught in the act of stealing.

Walking towards the crowd was an old man, wearing a dark grey overcoat. His face wore a thousand wrinkled contours, his head balding with a light silver stubble on this chin. Next to him was a young woman, with short, brown hair and a small, gilded hide drum of some sort in her hand, with a beater in her other. She glided next to the old man, who limped forward on a notched wooden cane.

The merchant straightened to face the newcomer, his expression perfectly divided between fear and indignation. He quickly composed himself, dipping into a bow, and giving a practiced flourish. Someone in the crowd muttered; “A drunkard too, it seems”.

The old man held his hand up, silencing the aggravated buzzing of the crowd in an instant. He addressed the merchant clearly, betraying no thoughts.

“Yoel, was it?” He paused, allowing the merchant to confirm this. “Follow me. You will leave your wagon as it is, as will these good folk.” A few murmured “Of course” and “As you wish”.

Yoel jumped down from the wagon, following after his saviour. The crowd dispersed to let him pass, but not without a good deal of disdainful glances. Several spit on the ground.

As the old man and his companions walked away from the gathering, he turned to the Pilgrim, squinting at her for a moment.

“A pilgrim, are you? You come, as well.”

The pilgrim nodded timidly and followed, keeping a distance away from the supposed thief. She had spectated the event with curiosity.

They walked up a steep path, away from the other houses. Then, through a sizeable herb garden before reaching a humble stone cottage. The company entered.

*

An hour or so had passed. The pilgrim had been seated alongside Yoel, and both had been given extremely bitter tea in small, steaming cups that lacked a handle. A fireplace crackled heartily around the table, filling the cosy room. Herbs and pots had been holstered within colourful muslin sheets that hung from the roof. A few flowerpots rested on the windowsill. Above the fire, a broth was boiling. It was a rather odd house for a mayor.

The young woman- Anya, was her name, glided around the kitchen, making the two comfortable but answering nothing. Yoel sat in silence, rather disgruntled.

At last, the old man walked in. He nodded to the two, before seating himself.

“You’ve caused quite a stir, thief.”

Yoel opened his mouth, bristling with indignation, but was silenced by the old man, who continued;

“I care not whether you’re innocent, and I care not for explanations. My people think you a thief, so you’re a thief.” He said this as if it was utterly obvious and simple, as if speaking to a child.

He paused, letting Yoel take this in.

“However, I am willing to show you pity. If I let them, they will strip your wagon of its wares and throw you in the stocks until you confess. I suppose that would be disagreeable?”

Yoel confirmed this.

“Then I have a proposition for you, thief. I’ll smooth this little incident over, and let you out come the morrow, provided you do something for me.” The man drew a letter from his pocket. A red wax stamp sealed it, emblazoned with a weighing scale. He handed it to Yoel.

“You will take this to Embryss. You know it, I suppose?”

Yoel nodded; “The city, you arrive through the grey pass?”

“Yes, thief. The very one. I want it brought to the Church there. On your life, make sure this reaches Master Farlin.”

Yoel sighed.

“This is all quite inconvenient.” He paused. “But you think me a thief. How do you know I won’t throw this letter in the wind and trample it under my foot the moment I’m out of your sight?”

The old man seemed to smile slightly.

“This pilgrim will go with you, and make sure you don’t.”
The pilgrim, who had been sipping the tea, spluttered at this, and looked up.

“I’m sorry?”

The mayor chuckled. “I know you pilgrims, and I know your scriptures as well. You follow rules along your pilgrimage, don’t you? Or is that Church of yours even more lax than I thought nowadays?”

“We… we do, yes.”
The mayor nodded. He held up a finger.

“The first rule- A pilgrim may only possess her robes, her shawl and her crest.”

He held up another.

“Secondly- A pilgrim may never go more than a mile backwards on the path to her destination.”

The pilgrim sighed.

“And thirdly,” He said, holding up a third finger, “You pilgrims must help any in need who possess a crest of the Church”

As if on cue, Anya came in from the other room, holding a small, lacquered box. From it she withdrew what was unmistakably the golden crest of The Ivory Church. The symbol of the Owl and the weighing scale.

The man waited a moment for any protests. None came.

He continued; “So, pilgrim. You will stay near this fellow all the way to Embryss. And once my good friend Farlin has his letter, you may do what you wish, I care not. You’ll not let him stray the path for a moment, and you will reach the city in two days” He said this with an air of finality.

“This is absurd!” Yoel exclaimed, “Treating me like a common criminal! I refuse! I’ll not have someone dogging me about!”

“You have no say in the matter. She is already bound by her scriptures to do as I ask”.

Yoel fell silent.

“Now, make preparations to leave come the morrow. Anya, prepare their bags, and that animal of his.” He turned to Yoel. “Now then, I ought to be telling the villagers about how you threw yourself down on your knees, tears in your eyes, repenting your sins to Anya.” He left with that. Yoel could have sworn there was the slightest spark of amusement in his eye as he departed.

Yoel turned to the Pilgrim, with a resigned sigh.

“Is what he says true then?”

She nodded.

“I ought to introduce myself, then. I am Yoel Knotwise. As in, a Knot tied with a rope, rather than… anyway, I am a trader and scholar.”

The pilgrim nodded, glad of her shawl to mask her smile. She withdrew the covering from her mouth.

“I am Nira GoldWeave.”

He nodded. “GoldWeave, eh? I know the name. A Noble born then.”

He gazed out of the small window, as stars sprung up in the darkening sky. He frowned a moment. A warm light, could be seen, far off, underneath the spiked canopy that stretched until it met the mountainside. The source was moving. At impressive speed, towards the village. He turned to Anya.

“What is that, that light, off to the right?”

Anya glanced up, and her face paled.

Suddenly, something rose from the jagged carpet of the forest. A steaking bolt of flame. It rose in a perfect ark, with a furious sizzling sound. Then, it curved violently, bearing down, towards the village. Somewhere below, a seismic eruption of flame. A scream. Another bolt flew from the trees. Another. Another. Flames lit the sky, dulled the stars, soaring, plummeting, and tearing through wood, through homes, through flesh.

For a moment, in the cottage, the only sound was the spluttering fire and the roar below in the town. Anya spoke;

“It… it appears they have come sooner than he… than he thought.”

She pressed the letter Into Yoel’s chest, and stole a glance at the pilgrim.

“Flee.”