A Pilgrimage of Swords Copyright © 2019

by Anthony Ryan.

Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2019

by Didier Graffet.

Interior design Copyright © 2019

by Desert Isle Design, LLC.

Electronic Edition

ISBN

978-1-59606-925-1

Subterranean Press

PO Box 190106

Burton, MI 48519

subterraneanpress.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

This story is dedicated to the late, great Ray Harryhausen—filmmaker, animator and true magician who crafted many wonders to light my childhood imagination and continues to provide a well of inspiration, for this tale and many others.

Map

Put not thy faith in steel,

For flesh is always the stronger.

—Injunctions of the First Risen.

One

Chapter One

The Valkerin Road

W hy do you hate me so? Do we not do wondrous things together?

The questions were accompanied by a small pulse that coursed through the sword’s handle into his palm, combining heat with an electric thrill that spread from his arm to the rest of his being in an instant. The sensation it provoked caused as much pain as it did delight and, no matter the countless times he had experienced it, had never become familiar.

A few yards away the raider spent his few remaining seconds staring at the tall man with the sword. The dying bandit swayed on his knees, one hand clutching the gaping wound in his throat whilst the other swished his scimitar about in automatic reflex. He seemed particularly transfixed by the tall man’s sword, staring at the untarnished gleam of the blade, lacking the smallest speck of blood despite having just spilled so much of it onto the sands. The raider’s horse, a fine wild-bred stallion, trotted back and forth in confused distress before coming to an abrupt, shivering halt as the tall man pointed the sword at it.

He loves his master, the voice observed as the tall man strode towards the animal, the sword handle pulsing again, this time with a sense of contrived compassion shot through with poorly concealed amusement. Found him alongside the corpse of his mother when just a colt and raised him. Together they rode the fringes of the Execration for years and much booty did they garner from pilgrim and priest alike…

“I have few thoughts to spare for bandits,” the tall man cut in. “Regardless of how nice they may be to orphaned animals.”

He jabbed the sword point into the raider’s chest as he passed by. The pulse this time was full of the ravenous, raw need of something inhuman at feast. The raider’s blood had completely faded into the steel by the time the tall man took hold of the horse’s reins.

Hearing a scream from the direction of the caravan, he slid the sword into the scabbard on his back and mounted up. The stallion responded to his touch as if the man in the saddle had been riding him for years, spurring into a swift gallop. The caravan had been partially scattered by the raiders’ initial charge, a dozen camels strung out along the verge of the old Valkerin-built road, either baying in alarm or nuzzling at the inert forms of slain owners. The tall man was surprised to see the corpses of several raiders amongst the fallen, some pierced by arrows, others evidently claimed by a blade, but one so gruesomely disarranged they were barely recognisable as human.

Ahhh, the voice said as the sword emitted a sense of pleased recognition. There are other hungry souls here. Though, not so hungry as you, my liege…

“Don’t call me that!” the tall man snapped. It was by now an old admonition, one he knew the voice would continue to delight in ignoring.

He slowed the horse to guide it through the remnants of the caravan, passing plundered bundles that leaked silk, oils, spices and sundry other wealth onto the sands. There were more corpses here, but also some survivors. A portly man scrabbled about on the road’s edge, gibbering barely comprehensible entreaties as he scraped coins from the dust. Further on a woman and child stared up at him from the shadow cast by the bulk of a slaughtered camel, eyes bright and unblinking in the gloom. A thin man with a ragged wound on his forehead stood guard on the pair, brandishing a long knife, the blade red down to the hilt. From the stricken but resolute expression on his lean features, the tall man divined him as being fully expectant of death. But still he stood, unwilling to abandon the woman and child.

Hearing the ring of steel on steel, the tall man spurred on, passing through a pall of displaced dust to draw up short at the ugly scene before him. The beast was about seven feet long from nose to tail, with long shaggy fur that covered its torso but left the legs bare. Raising a broad snouted head from the open chest cavity of a raider’s corpse, it snarled, triangular jaws widening to emit a high-pitched yip of warning.

Oh my, the voice sighed in admiration as the hyena slunk away from the corpse, eyes still locked on the tall man. He recognised it as hailing from the crags near the northern coast, a far larger breed than its plains-dwelling cousins to the east, also notoriously vicious and intolerant of human company.

Aren’t you lovely? the voice cooed, letting out a faint thrum of annoyance as the tall man reached over his shoulder to draw the sword clear of the scabbard. Won’t work, the voice chided as he levelled the blade at the hyena, hoping to see the same shivering immobility it had wrought upon the horse. She’s too aware of the world, I’m afraid.

The beast’s eyes narrowed then, the snarl fading from its lips as it drew back, head shaking in confusion. She senses me, the voice noted with a delighted giggle. Wonderful. I always wanted a pet.

The hyena suddenly spun about as the sound of ringing steel pealed out once more. The tall man’s gaze snapped to the sight of vague figures dancing in a haze of raised dust thirty paces on. His experienced eye knew this dance to be deadly, watching as one figure tumbled to the sand with a pained shout. The hyena immediately let out another yelp and surged into a loping sprint, closing the distance to the fallen figure in a few strides whereupon she clamped her jaws around the raider’s skull. The crack of sundered bone was audible even above the tumult of clashing blades.

The tall man dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks, sending him into a fast gallop. The dust thinned as he closed on the dance, revealing the sight of a woman whirling amidst a circle of five raiders. She lashed out continually with a scimitar as she spun, the triple braids of her hair trailing. He saw her score a hit on a bandit’s over-extended arm, the scimitar biting deep and sending the man’s tulwar to the sand. He reared back, cursing in the language of the plains tribes as he reached with his uninjured hand for a hatchet on his belt. The tall man’s sword took his arm off at the shoulder as he galloped past then reined the stallion to a halt before bringing him about and charging once more. Only one raider made the mistake of trying to oppose him, his three surviving companions opting for the far wiser course of taking to their heels.

Yuk! the voice complained as the sword clove the unwise bandit’s face in two. A drunkard and a poppy fiend with a bad case of the pox to boot. Still, it added as the blood faded into the steel. A meal is a meal.

The tall man watched the trio of raiders flee into the desert, pondering the notion of riding in pursuit. The sword’s hunger, as ever, remained unabated, but he felt he had indulged sufficient distraction from his goal for one day.

“Chena!” the woman shouted. The hyena instantly rose from gorging itself on the raider’s brains to sprint off in pursuit of the runners. The tall man watched them crest a dune and disappear from view, the hyena doing the same a few seconds later. The screams started soon after.

“Your help is appreciated, but was not required.”

He lowered his gaze to see the woman retrieving a bow and an empty quiver from the sand. Her triple-braided hair had given him a clue to her origins, but the bow confirmed it. The weapon featured a composite stave of ash and buffalo horn affixed to a central grip formed of intricately carved black ivory. This was a beast charmer from the lands bordering the Second Sea.

Far from home, the voice noted, the tone laden with weary irony. What could possibly have brought her here, I wonder?

She looked up at him with a gaze of careful appraisal. He put her age at somewhere past thirty, but it was hard to gauge precisely under the black and white paint that adorned her features. He had some familiarity with the meanings of the myriad facial markings used by her people. The white circle in the centre of her forehead indicated a bereavement, whilst the three black dots beneath her left eye spoke of a purpose as yet unfilled.

A feud to settle? the voice pondered. More likely a prayer she intends to make at the conclusion of a long and perilous journey. Don’t you agree, my liege? He felt the small pulse of pleasure in response to his anger as he returned the sword to its scabbard, choosing to ignore its additional taunt. You know you should kill her. Only one prayer will be answered, after all.

“You have a name?” the woman asked, frowning in bemusement at his continued silence. When he gave no answer she shrugged, shouldering her quiver. “I am…”

“Pilgrims do not share names,” he interrupted, climbing down from the horse to inspect the still-twitching body of the one-armed raider. Like the others he wore a black scarf about his head, his body clad in a patchwork of armour and mail that bespoke a murderous career pursued across many lands. Pulling away the scarf revealed weathered features bronzed by the sun, though not so dark as those born to this region. Also, a silver chain dangling from one ear bore a small medallion of familiar design.

“The Church of the Arisen,” the woman observed, peering over the tall man’s shoulder at the silver teardrop. “Probably an old crusader left behind when the fanatics took to their ships. Many opted for the bandit’s life rather than starve in the desert since no soul within two thousand miles would give them succour.”

The tall man shifted the corpse to reveal the raider’s belt and the swollen purse it held. Pulling it open, he spilled a clutch of coins into his hand. They were silver and newly minted, one side showing the head of a man he knew to be the current Primate of the Church of the Arisen, the other bearing the same teardrop motif the raider wore at his ear.

“Seems someone succoured him,” the tall man muttered, returning the coins to the purse and hanging it from his own belt. “You can have the plunder from these others,” he added, climbing back onto the horse.

“How generous,” the woman said, inclining her head. Her tone held a faint note of mockery that made him pause. Turning in the saddle to regard her once more he saw how her eyes lingered on the sword handle jutting above his shoulder.

“An unusual weapon for this region,” she observed. “Not often you see a straight edge of such length. From the northlands, is it not? Just like this one,” her boot nudged the raider’s dead face, “and the coin he carried.”

He said nothing, trying to close his mind against the voice’s amused advice. Kill her, it told him in a sing-song chuckle. She sees far too much. No one will know. Just another victim of these murderous villains.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at her in silence, memories of far worse deeds crowding his mind. Yes, my liege, the voice hissed in hungry anticipation. A small but necessary thing. And you have done so many necessary things…

“Quiet!” he grunted, tearing his gaze from the woman.

“I merely asked a question,” she said, the mocking tone more pronounced now. Did she think him mad? This grizzled, bearded stranger with a northland sword? If so, it didn’t appear to provoke any fear in her which, in turn, stirred a small swell of appreciation in him. It was hard to remember a time he hadn’t been feared.

A long, plaintive cry drew his attention back to the ruin of the caravan. People were emerging from the disordered chaos to weep over murdered companions and tend to the wounded.

Oh, how tedious, the voice complained. This is always the worst part. Mewling mortals are so nauseating. Ride on. The chapel is only a few miles away.

He guided the horse towards the nearest injured soul, a veteran caravaner with a gashed thigh being inexpertly tended to by a boy no more than twelve years old. “Too tight,” the tall man told him, dismounting to pull away the bandage the lad had fixed on the older man’s leg. “The wound is not so deep. A tight binding will starve the limb of blood and cause corruption…”

I n all, some eighteen souls from the caravan had fallen in the attack along with twelve raiders before the remainder fled into the desert. The outlaws were stripped of all gear and valuables, some subjected to vengeful mutilation, and left to rot by the side of the road. By contrast, the dead caravaners were bound in coarse cloth and prayed over by their kin until dusk. As the sun dipped below the horizon they were borne to the top of the tallest dune and left to be consumed by sand and scavenger.

“The desert demands its due,” the veteran caravaner with the injured leg said as the survivors moved on under the light of the half moon. He rode on the back of his sole remaining camel, his grandson plodding alongside under the weight of a pack laden with salvaged goods. The tall man had offered to carry the burden but the caravaner wouldn’t hear of it. “Whether it’s just the sweat of an untroubled trek, or the blood of those called to join their spirit to the wind, there’s no such thing as a journey with no toll. Best the boy learns that now rather than later.”

By mutual if unspoken agreement, the tall man and the woman kept apart for the remainder of the journey, he scouting the route ahead whilst she guarded the rear. Her hyena could be seen prowling the flanks throughout the two days it took to reach the chapel belonging to the Church of the Absolved.

It proved to be a building of unremarkable size or architecture, a yellow brick rectangle and conical tower perched on the edge of the escarpment overlooking the wasteland known to most as the Execration and to the priests who dwelt here as Alnachim, the Kingdom of the Absolved. He could see minimal signs of habitation, just a few tents pitched in the northward lee of the building and a solitary red-robed priest carrying water from the well to the chapel.

“We never linger here,” the old caravaner said, eyeing the chapel with long-held suspicion. “Even the wind blowing from the Execration is said to carry a curse. The Allied Princes maintain a garrison at the oasis twelve miles on. We’ll rest there.” He watched the tall man climb down from the horse, hefting the pack that contained his few belongings. “You could come with us,” he added, his voice holding more hope than expectation. “Always work for a keen blade and a strong arm on the Valkerin Road.”

“I have business here.” The tall man beckoned the boy closer and placed the stallion’s reins in his hand. It was well known that horses would invariably go mad if forced to traverse the Execration. “He’s yours now.”

“You’ll spoil the little bugger,” the caravaner said, though not without gratitude.

“Change your bandage twice a day and soak the wound in garlic and lime juice,” the tall man told him. He spared them a nod of farewell and turned to go, pausing when the boy spoke up, the first words the tall man had heard him speak.

“Don’t do it.” He spoke in a clipped murmur, casting a fearful glance at the tall man’s face before turning a yet more fearful one toward what lay beyond the chapel. “They say the Mad God can’t abide a kindly soul.”

The voice’s laughter was loud as the tall man laid a hand upon the boy’s shoulder, looking into his earnest, fear-filled face and seeing so many others. That day River Fork Keep fell, the voice recalled with keen enthusiasm. The Duke had three sons, if memory serves. The youngest was about the same age as this little shit. You should take his ear for reminding you. Just one, of course.

“Then,” the tall man said, taking hold of the boy and lifting him onto the stallion’s back, “he will abide me quite well.”

He watched the caravan trace its way east, keeping to the road as it skirted the escarpment for a mile before veering north. When it faded from sight he walked to the edge of the escarpment, looking down at the sheer cliff below before raising his gaze to the dark grey expanse that stretched away south for many miles. He could make out the hazy outline of mountains beyond the flat wasteland, painted red by the fading sun.

“They call it the Whispering Sands.”

The woman stood a few paces off, her hyena at her side as she stared out at the grey waste. “But it’s not sand,” she went on. “It’s ash. They say a mighty forest once stood here, all turned to cinders at the whim of the Mad God, and this was the least of his crimes.”

“They say he also created everything south of these cliffs,” the tall man replied. “Including the mighty forest. Is it a crime for a god to destroy what he made?”

“Perhaps not. But to destroy all those who lived under his protection certainly is.”

“It might be best not to say so.” He turned and started towards the chapel. “Should you have chance to meet him.”

“I will.” The hard certainty in her voice made him pause, turning back to see her daubed features set in a mask of implacable resolve. “Your actions in coming to the aid of those people speak well of you,” she continued. “But know that I will have my prayer heard by the Mad God, whatever the price to my soul, my body or to any other who walks at my side.”

It’s a long way down, the voice pointed out, the tall man feeling the sword give a small tug towards the cliff edge. A clumsy stumble by an ignorant barbarian. Who would question it?

“Why would you imagine,” he began, meeting her gaze, “that I am any less intent on my prayer than you are on yours?”

Because she thinks you’re a hero, the voice laughed as the woman set her jaw, saying nothing. She wants to spare you. How wonderfully naive. Still, she might at least let you rut with her before this is over. That’s something, eh, my liege?

He clamped his mouth shut to cage the rebuke, forcing himself to turn about and start towards the chapel. “Others have already gathered,” he told the woman over his shoulder, gesturing to the tents pitched alongside the chapel. “With any luck we shouldn’t have to wait very long. I suggest you sing your Sky Song now. I doubt the priests will tolerate it in their holy place.”

Two

Chapter Two

The Whispering Sands

T he priest was young, his features delicate almost to the point of femininity. To the tall man’s eyes his recently shaven head and stooped posture made him appear diminished, cowed somehow, as did the tension in his neck and jaw.

Pain, the voice observed, something it never failed to recognise in others. This boy has had a whipping in recent days. Not assiduous enough in his grovelling perhaps?

“You require names,” the priest said to those assembled in the chapel. There was no seating of any kind so they were forced to stand. The priest stood before the altar, a plain table of aged wood adorned only with a stone carving of a crescent; the symbol of the Absolved. The other priests, ten in all, were arrayed behind the altar, faces concealed within the cowls of their red robes. There were numerous discoloured rectangular patches on the walls, outlines of icons and tapestries that had hung here for many years.

Once the Church of the Absolved possessed many treasures, the voice explained. All long since sold off to preserve this pathetic remnant.

“Those who journey into Alnachim bearing their true name face swift damnation,” the priest went on. “It is known. During our sacred trial you will know me only as Priest. I will answer to no other name. Now you must tell me what name you will answer to.”

He turned an expectant gaze on the tall man, perhaps because he stood closest to the altar. No, the voice chided impatiently, he senses authority in you, my liege.

“Pilgrim,” the tall man said. “Know me as Pilgrim.”

Priest nodded and turned to the beast charmer. “And you?”

Her paint-covered brows creased in momentary consideration before she said, “Seeker.”

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