The Pilgrim- Chapter Two

Whether the events took place over moments, or hours, was unclear. Details slipped away, sinking into darkness, leaving hazy, broken memories. Dashing through a herb garden. A fire roaring as it charged through a tavern. A bloodied, charred stump of flesh and bone, emitting a tortured scream. And the bolts. They showered down with the fury of a God, volley after volley, spilling fire into the paths, and houses, and stables.

Then, clearer images emerged. A large creature heaving a wagon. A broad brimmed straw hat. The jolt and buckle of a wagon. A piercing pain, from where Nira could not determine. And faces. Leaping over the wall. Clothed in clothes the colour of ash, flames curling around their fingertips.

And then, silence.

Pilgrims do not choose to take the forsaken path. Nor do they get a chance to have their names drawn. The names were drawn many generations ago. Family names. Blackrose. Ashthorn.

Goldweave.

Upon being accepted as a member of the Church, the chosen heir leaves. Towards the Mountains of Izalea, the solemn giants that guard the path to the Ashen Lands. It is said, within those grey plains, a golden phantasm roams, to lead the pilgrim. To lead them to the Xephir.

Those legends were sung by bright, hopeful voices long ago. They ended with bated breath long ago.

Twenty-seven generations have passed. No pilgrim has returned. Long ago, the pilgrims were burdened with trinkets of good fortune, with artefacts of the Church. Now such liberality is considered wasteful. Some have proposed an organised attempt. Muster soldiers and High Priests. March through the mountains, to the Ashen Lands. But they were abandoned. The scriptures were written with unalienable intent. They fear breaking the great virtues. They fear another collapse.

And so, on the twenty-seventh cycle, the pilgrims were sent. They dwindle in number, now. Only nine were sent, slowly parting, as if chains were coiled around their legs. The mists that coil around the mountain-tops and laugh like cruel spectres. The shadows reach out as if to embrace them as they pass under the shade of the mountains. The wind blows bitterly, as if to chastise them. And the pilgrim walk, separate, eventually. With shawls around their necks, generously sized to serve as a blanket in the freezing peaks.

Some villages mock, and make merriment from the morbid fate of the pilgrims. Others throw flowers at the feet of the white hooded emissary. Some simply nod, in unspoken well wishes.

Only one tried to stop a pilgrim.

Nira woke up suddenly. She was in a room, a small one, of wood. She could see little, in the haze of early morning. She was lying on a hard surface. She began to get up, and a molten, stabbing pain pierced her side, a gasp escaping her. She looked at her side. It seemed her torso had been crudely bandaged. She tenderly touched the wound, peeling off a bandage. The flesh was charred, shrivelled.

She got up, slowly, like an ageing woman. She gripped something—she didn’t know what, and managed to stand unsteadily. Shockwaves bounded along her skull. A fever beat down on her. Her knees shook. Her vision blurred, steadied, cleared.

The room was certainly cramped. It was filled to the brim with a colourful assortment of trinkets. A wooden carving of an owl stood perched on a table. A display case filled with clouded gemstones. Necklaces, earrings, baubles, charms. Carpets and canvases rolls up neatly. Carved furniture, towering piles of books.

She took a step towards the door, nearly buckling as the fever crashed down upon her. Another. Her steps were becoming steadier, more confident. She reached the door, and opened it, took another step.

And fell into dew-dropped grass. Her robes quickly soaked, her shawl more resistant. She spluttered.

“Honestly, you’d think you were drunk. I suppose that wound of yours is worse than it looked. Or maybe it’s the blood loss, I’m certainly no physician. I do have some herbs and the like in the wagon, if you think it would help. I have not a clue with such things, and I’d guess half of them are expired.”

The voice was familiar. Yoels.

She got up, unsteadily, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the warm morning light. Yoel was there, sitting atop a small terrace, chewing the end of a pipe. A large animal was there, as well. Bulky, and hooved, with two curling horns protruding from its head. It wore a coat of dry brown fur.

Still in a state of delirium, she could still only just muster words, leaning against what was supposedly the wagon.

“Wha… what is that…”

She pointed vaguely in the direction of the beast.

Yoel chuckled. “Of all the questions… that’s Chestnut, my Kori. You’re familiar with them?”

She distantly remembered seeing similar pack animals along the country road. The fresh air was beginning to clear her mind.

“What happened… last night? Where… why are we here?”

Yoel puffed a smoke ring into the air, looking at it fondly for a moment, before responding.

“It would appear the village was attacked. By whom, I’ve not a clue. Pyromancers, that much is clear. I’ve never seen bandits of the like, certainly none that strong. The whole sky was lit! Yes, yes, certainly something outside of the ordinary. And a wonder we escaped! I say, that old mayor seemed ferocious, although I barely got a glimpse. He was shouting at me, ushering me away, Anya had Chestnut pulling the cart already, and then… goodness, I hardly remember it. All a flurry, it was! Perhaps the haze of the night, I swear on my pride I saw the old fellow holding a weapon. Quite fitting, I’d say, for such a fellow.” He blew another ring, glancing at Nira, vaguely curious as to whether she had slumped back into unconsciousness. Surprisingly, she seemed more awake than before, staring at him intently.

“What has you so… calm?” She was fully upright now, ignoring her pounding headache.

“Hm? Oh, some good drink, as soon as we were safe.” He said wistfully, gesturing around at the surrounding clearing.

“You’re not drunk, are you?”

“Of course not, of course not. Just some whiskey to still the nerves, that’s all. And I’d reckon I deserve it, getting us here in the twilight, with only a lantern to guide me! And our luck that the scourge didn’t find us!”

He leaned back, taking a long draw of his pipe.

“Then we’d best be on our way.” Nira rose, readjusting her shawl.

“Hmm? It’s only the early hours, no rush. You sit down, give your wounds some time.”

“We have two days to reach Embryss.”

Yoel sighed.

“Mm. A shame. I was hoping the delirium would have you forget. Still, I’m a man of my word. I’ve little in the way of food, but we can restock at the next town. Come, you’ll sit in the wagon. You can’t walk with those wounds.”

Nira climbed up onto the terrace, and spotted the road through the snow-tipped bushes.

“I can walk perfectly well.” She said this with an air of such inarguable self-evidence that Yoel didn’t bother protest. He simply nodded, and extinguished his pipe with a regretful glance.

Within the hour, they had settled into a thoughtful silence along the road. The Kori, Chestnut, heaved the wagon along with surprising speed, lumbering along behind them. Yoel had struck up a hum, timing a simple melody with his footsteps. Nira kept a wary eye on the leaning treeline and jagged boulders.

“It’s strange,” Nira ventured, glancing at Yoel. “Anya seemed to recognise those… the ones who attacked us. You saw her face, didn’t you?”

“Mm. Not so strange, considering the contents of the letter.”

The pilgrim missed a step, quickly catching herself. “You read it?” She looked at him incredulously.

“Little else to do while I was waiting. Unfortunately, it was written in Drake-Tongue. Impressive, I must say. I could only read a fraction.”

“And?”

“Enemy. Fire. As I said, I know only a few words. I’ll tell you, it certainly wasn’t an invitation to dinner. What’s clear was that the old man knew of their coming, whoever they were.”

For a time, they were silent. A starling shot up from the snow, a flash of black and white. The trees thinned as they reached the crest of the cliff. Below them, the mountains parted, creating a narrow valley. A stone arch stretched over the valley, snow sloping down its sides.

“Well, it seems we’re making quite some headway! There’s the Grey Pass.”

Nira sheltered her eyes from the bitter wind, gazing down at the valley.

“Where’s Embryss?”

“Just out of view, beyond that Arch, and through the valley. I’d say this is a fine time to eat, eh?”

He left Nira gazing at the valley for some time. She heard a rustling within the wagon. He emerged, presenting some bread and salted meat.

As they ate, both finding relatively snow-free areas on the rocks, the events of the night before seemed distant. The sun had reached its peak, shining through the clouds.

“Yoel?”

“Mm?”

“Why was it they were calling you a thief back at the village?”

His face darkened for a moment. Then he laughed.

“Oh, it was quite an unfortunate misunderstanding. A fellow was looking to purchase one of the little treasures I’ve collected—a silver carving, a wolf head, quite marvellous, I must say. Well, a fellow came to take it on his behalf, and—“

A twig snapped, ringing clearly through the crisp air. They turned, searching the treeline for any threat. A figure stumbled from the woods, clutching their side. The figure was short. Extremely so, clearly a child. He drew nearer. They could hear his ragged breath. The blood-stained snow behind him.

“Who..?” Yoel began.

And then the child called their names.