Pilgrim

They could use this. Indeed they could.

And so he hurried after the other Demons, formulating his plan as he ran.

Drago pulled Faraday back down to the ground when the Demons emerged, sheltering her with his body.

Both drew in shocked breaths at the appalling sight of the bloodied StarLaughter carrying a toddler.

“Look!” Faraday whispered. “Look!”

Drago nodded, his face composed but thoughtful. “Their first goal is achieved. Qeteb now warms.”

“And they? The Demons?”

“Will be stronger now. More confident. They have braved and won the first of the obstacles. They will know they can win through the others, as well.”

StarLaughter sat, the child in her lap, completely absorbed in him. Her eyes shone soft and happy.

A few paces away the Demons stood huddled, talking urgently.

“WolfStar?”

“He had an infant that he threw in?”

Barzula nodded. “The corpse of a girl-child. I do not know what she means or is to him that he so dares.”

“And she …?”

“She was … warmed.”

“How dare he?” Rox seethed. “How dare he —”

“Wait,” Barzula said, and laid a hand on Rox’s arm. “We can use this.”

“Use? How?”

And Barzula spoke.

After a few minutes all the Demons nodded, their eyes glowing with satisfaction.

“And StarLaughter?” Sheol asked.

“She will not like it at first,” Barzula said, “for she aches for revenge. But she will accept, and then she will approve. Think how much sweeter the revenge will be!”

Sheol gurgled with merriment, startling StarLaughter into looking up.

All the Demons were laughing, and clapping their hands. They must be pleased for her son, she thought, and smiled at them.

Sheol quietened as she watched StarLaughter. She turned to her companions. “Is it time?” she asked. “Should we?”

They considered the possibilities, finally nodding.

“A little,” Raspu said. “Not too much.”

“Just enough,” Sheol agreed. “Enough so she can be useful —”

“— but not a threat,” Mot said.

StarLaughter, her head once more bent to her son, looked up as she heard the TimeKeepers approaching. Their faces were gentle, their jewel-bright eyes loving.

“When you originally came to us,” Sheol began softly, “we promised you power for your help.”

Her eyes shifted to the boy-child in StarLaughter’s lap. “Now we are on the final path, our goal is in sight, and we have come to fulfil our promise. Stand.”

StarLaughter obeyed, her eyes hungry. Rox stepped forward, and took her shoulder in his hands. “Beautiful woman,” he whispered, and kissed her full on the mouth.

Power flooded through StarLaughter. Her mouth gobbled at his, desperate for more of the sweet stuff, but Rox pulled away, laughing.

Barzula stepped forth, and offered StarLaughter his mouth. She clung to him, drinking in as much power as he was willing to give her, and then almost fell when he pushed her back.

StarLaughter regained her balance, and clung to each of the other Demons in turn as they let her feed from their mouths.

As Sheol, the last, pushed her away, StarLaughter tried to understand the power that now flooded her. It was not Icarii power, and not tied to the now-silent Star Dance, but something far different — and far, far more exhilarating.

“I thank you,” she whispered. “Now I shall be a true mother to my son.”

The Demons smiled.

Faraday swallowed her revulsion as the Demons gathered StarLaughter to them. Once they had done, they mounted their dark horses, moving back through the Silent Woman Woods.

“Drago,” she said, “it is time we went. Noah told me that we could find a way down through the Keep —”

“No.” Drago laid a hand on her shoulder and pushed her gently back down. “You stay here. I want to do this by myself. Please.”

“But how will you —”

Faraday never finished. With a low cry the feathered lizard stuck its head out of the neckline of Drago’s tunic, looked about, then scrambled forth.

Drago almost fell over with the strength of its exertions, and grabbed at the nearest tree for support.

The lizard scuttled for the border between the Woods and the crystal forest, and then jumped between the first two of the crystal trees, its feet scrabbling on the slippery surface.

Drago looked at the lizard, looked at Faraday, then shrugged helplessly. “It looks like I will have some company after all.”

“Be careful,” Faraday said.

Drago stood looking down at her, very still. Her face was upturned to him, her eyes bright with concern.

Hesitantly Drago reached out a hand, then stopped it before his fingers touched her face.

“Wait for me,” he said, then turned and walked between the first trees of the crystal forest, one hand now on his sack, the other hefting his staff.

11 GhostTree Camp

Fleat was an old, old woman. She had seen more than seventy Beltides, she had seen her daughter and her husband’s second wife, Pease, torn to pieces by Skraelings, and she had seen this man who sat before her now drive the Destroyer and his minions from Tencendor.

She had thought to be able to die in peace, but that was not to be. Now another force invaded, far more vile than anything the Destroyer had thrown at them, and this man before her was utterly helpless.

Her eldest son, Helm, was now the leader of the GhostTree Clan. Grindle had died twelve Beltides ago, and since then Helm had done his father proud. Now Helm was watching his wife, Jemma — eight-months pregnant with a child that would surely be born into darkness — serve Axis and Azhure with malfari bread and the flat-backed fish she’d caught earlier in the day.

Both accepted the food, bowing their heads in thanks, but refrained from eating until Jemma had served Caelum, a little further about the fire, and sat down herself.

The twenty men and horses were camped fifteen paces about a bend in the path. Helm had not felt comfortable with them so close, and had wondered how Minstrelsea could tolerate their weapons.

Maybe, Fleat thought, the forest thought the weapons a lesser evil than the one that currently slithered through her southern skirts. Well, and wasn’t that the case? Even weapons were palatable when compared to the TimeKeeper Demons.

Helm lifted his fish, slicing it open with a thumbnail, and laid layers of fish on his malfari bread.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

Azhure fingered her bread, unable to bear the thought of eating it, but knowing that not only did she need the strength, Jemma would be gravely insulted if she left it.

So she broke off a piece, looked at Fleat, remembering how the GhostTree Clan had once taken her in when no-one else seemed to want her, and responded to Helm’s question.

“We travel north,” she said. “To Star Finger. The Maze Gate,” Azhure briefly explained what it was, “has told us that Caelum is the one to defeat Qeteb.”

She put the piece of bread into her mouth and discovered to her astonishment that she was ravenously hungry. She began to chew enthusiastically.

“How,” Fleat asked, her voice still strong despite her age, “if the Star Dance is gone?”

“We will find a way,” Axis said. He looked about the circle of faces, lingering on Caelum’s. “You must all believe that. We will find a way.”

Some of the tension among the Avar of the GhostTree Clan dissipated. Axis had always found a way previously, and he would again this time.

Helm swallowed his mouthful of bread and fish. “There has been word from the southern borders of the forest, StarMan.”

“Yes?”

“Shra is dead. Slaughtered by the TimeKeepers.”

Azhure cried out, her hands to her face. She locked eyes with Axis, who was as horrified as she. Both of them remembered the day they had first met, that scene in the cellar of the worship Hall of Smyrton. Raum, half dead; Shra — a tiny child then — almost completely dead. Touched beyond words, Axis had gathered Shra into his arms and had instinctively sung the Song of Recreation over her. Then, he’d been BattleAxe of the Seneschal, committed to fighting against the “Forbidden,” and had no idea he was of Forbidden blood and an Enchanter himself.

Shra was — had been — very special to both of them.

“How?” Axis said.

“Isfrael and Shra confronted the Demons, for they could not bear it that they so boldly walked the paths of Minstrelsea. They threw all the power they could command at them, and it was not enough.”

Axis and Azhure shared another glance, then one with Caelum. If Isfrael could not touch the Demons … then it would all be left up to Caelum.

“The Demons tore Shra apart,” Helm finished.

“And Isfrael?” Azhure asked. A tear trailed down her cheek.

“He lived. The Stag intervened, and saved him.”

Azhure nodded. The White Stag. The most magical beast in Minstrelsea. The creature that had once been Raum.

“Drago killed Shra as surely as if he had plunged a knife into her heart himself,” Axis said savagely, and Azhure laid a hand on his arm. She had little love for Drago, and none for the harm he’d done her family and Tencendor, but she wished Axis could move beyond his all-consuming enmity for their second son. What good would that do them now? She glanced at Caelum.

“Where is Isfrael now?” Caelum asked. Even if Isfrael had failed in his own attempt against the Demons, he would be a valuable — and powerful — ally later.

“I am not sure,” Helm said, “although forest whispers have him moving westwards through the trees. Perhaps to the Cauldron Lake.”

“Surely he wouldn’t think to attack the Demons there!” Azhure said. Isfrael was not of her blood, but she had raised him until he was fourteen, and loved him as much as she did Caelum.

“Mother, be calm,” Caelum said. “Isfrael is no fool, and I am sure he has a purpose to his movements. Trust him.”

Later, they lay curled in each other’s arms, not talking, listening to the other’s breath and heartbeat, and to the sounds of the Avar camp settling about them.

After a while Azhure lifted her hand and ran it softly down Axis’ cheek, letting her fingers brush against his short-cropped blonde beard and then down his neck to his chest. How she loved this man! She leaned down and kissed his neck, and then his chest.

“Think you to make love here and now?” Axis asked.

She grinned in the dark. “I was remembering Beltide.”

He smiled also, his hand stroking her back. “A long time ago, my love.”

“Perhaps we ought to recreate a little of its magic now. It might comfort us.”

Axis’ smile died. “There is no magic to recreate, Azhure.”

She lifted her head to study his face. “We will persevere, Axis.”

He was quiet a long time, his eyes distant. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that, even as close as she was, Azhure had to lean yet closer to catch his words.

“If I had known that day in that rank cellar,” he said, “that Shra’s life would have been so needlessly wasted then I may never have —”

“Hush.” Azhure laid her fingers across his mouth. “Shra’s life was not needlessly wasted. She lived to a full age, and even if the manner of her death was …”

“Vile.” Axis’ voice now had a hard and dangerous edge to it.

“Even if the manner of her death was dreadful, then do not deny her life because of it.”

Axis was silent again for a few minutes, thinking.

Azhure thought she knew the trail of his mind, for his body had tensed. “Axis, nothing we did was useless.”

“Wasn’t it?” Axis’ voice was very bitter. “Wasn’t it? Was all the death, all the pain, all the suffering that I dragged so many men, that I dragged Tencendor, through, ‘worth it’?”

“Yes!” Azhure said. “Yes!”

“Damn you!” Axis said, angry not with her, but with the pain that had now been visited on Tencendor. “Damn you, Azhure! Between us we bred the son that is solely responsible for—”

“And between us we have bred the son who will be solely responsible for Tencendor’s salvation!” Azhure said.

“If we can find a way to give him the power to do so.” And the confidence, Axis thought, but did not voice it.

His despair and anger was deepened by the knowledge that, once, Azhure would have caught that thought with her own power.

No more.

“We will!” Azhure said. “Axis, with something so deep inside me that I cannot tell what it be, I know that Star Finger holds the key to Qeteb’s defeat! I know it!”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Azhure raised herself on one elbow and looked her husband full in the face. “If it doesn’t, then our task will be to witness Tencendor through its dying. And if that is fated to be our task, then let us do it gracefully.”

“Stars, Azhure …” Axis said brokenly, and she leaned down and stopped his words with a kiss. He resisted an instant, then his arms tightened and he pulled her close to him.

Even after forty years, even in the midst of this disaster, his desire for her had not slackened.

Five paces away, hidden under the gloom of a purple-berry bush, Sicarius lay with his head on his forepaws, watching them. The hound’s loyalty and love had been with Azhure for so very long that he now found it difficult to contemplate leaving her.

But he knew he would have to.

He had other loyalties, and other loves, far older than those he gave Azhure.

There was a movement behind him. His mate, a bitch called FortHeart. She nuzzled at his shoulder, and Sicarius shifted a little to give her room.

She too studied Axis and Azhure, then as one the pair shifted their heads to look south.

Caelum lay for a long time, listening to the sounds of the night forest, listening to the faint whispers of his parents, thinking.

He was glad that they were finally moving, finally doing something. He hoped his parents’ faith that Star Finger held the key was justified … for if it wasn’t, then there was no hope at all.

No, no, he couldn’t think that way. He had to keep hope alive … somehow. Star Finger did hold the key, and it would give him what he needed to free the land from the horror that enveloped it.

And then no-one, not even the ever-cursed Drago, could whisper behind his back that he didn’t have the strength or courage or resourcefulness of his father. No-one could ever say that he didn’t deserve to sit the Throne of Stars in his own right.

Drago. Caelum felt a coldness seep over him as he thought of his younger brother.

When I came back through the Star Gate all enchantments fell from my eyes.

Curse him! Curse him! Curse him! If Drago’s eyes were clear, then Caelum had no doubt that his brother was currently planning to scatter Caelum’s blood over all of Tencendor.

How could it be otherwise?

All this pretence of contrition was a foil for Drago’s deadly revenge and never-ending ambition.

“Stars help me,” Caelum whispered, “if Star Finger holds nothing but useless hope.”

He dreamed.

He dreamed he was hunting through the forest. A great summer hunt, the entire court with him. His parents, laughing on their horses. His brother, Isfrael, and his sisters, even RiverStar. It was a glorious day, and they rode on the wind and on their power, and all the cares of the world and of Tencendor seemed very, very far away.

But then the dream shifted. They still hunted, but Caelum could no longer see his parents or his brother and sisters. The hounds ran, but he could no longer see them either. The forest gathered about him, threatening now.

And now even his horse had disappeared. He was running through the forest on foot, his breath tight in his chest, fear pounding through his veins.

Behind him something coursed. Hounds, but not hounds. They whispered his name. Oh, Stars! There were hundreds of them! And they hunted him.

They whispered his name. StarSon! StarSon!

Caelum sobbed in fear. What was this forest? It was nothing that he had ever seen in Tencendor. He cut himself on twigs and shrubs, fell, and scrambled panicked to his feet.

Something behind him … something … something deadly.

Running.

He heard feet pounding closer, he heard horns, and glad cries. They had cornered him.

Caelum fell to the forest floor and cowered as deeply into the dirt and leaf litter as he could.

But he couldn’t resist one glimpse — even knowing what he would see.

DragonStar was there, wielding his sword, riding his great black horse. But now he was different.

He still wore his enveloping armour — but it was black no longer. Now it ran with blood, great clots that slithered down from helmet, over shoulders, hanging dripping from arms and legs.

Heat radiated out from him.

DragonStar’s voice whispered through his head. And so shall you run with blood, Caelum.

Caelum opened his mouth to scream, then halted, transfixed. Behind DragonStar’s horse stood a woman.

Dark-haired. Beautiful.

And on her face a predatory smile of unbelievable malignancy.

“Zenith?” Caelum whispered, and then said no more, for DragonStar’s sword sliced down through his chest, twisting and slicing, and, as promised, thick, clotted blood swamped Caelum’s throat and mouth, and flowed out over his chin and chest to drown the land.

12 The Hawkchilds

F ind for us and, finding, set those who run to our song against them.

So Sheol had commanded, and so the Hawkchilds had done. In truth, they already knew much of what the Demons needed to know. Since their return through the Star Gate the Hawkchilds had flown virtually the length and breadth of their ancient homeland, watching, seeing, noting.

Where the armies that think to trample us underfoot?

There, in the north of the Silent Woman Woods. Many of them. Tens of thousands. Crouched about small campfires, waiting for who knew what.

Where the magicians of this world?

Those that are left crouch within the forests. That so few were left made the Hawkchilds whisper their glee to the darkened skies.

They were those of the earth and the trees, and while they retained some powers now, the Hawkchilds knew they would eventually lose it. When Qeteb walked again beneath the heat of the midday sun. When the trees were blackened stumps smouldering under his fury.

These magicians, these Avar, were impotent now and would shortly be completely useless. The best they’d had, Isfrael and the Bane Shra, had thrown themselves against the Demons, and had lost.

And so the Hawkchilds paid them no heed. They would pose little, if any, danger. They soared through the dawning sky, whispering joyful melodies. There was no magic left in this land that could touch the Demons.

None.

Where this StarSon who thinks to rule the Throne of Stars?

Harder. He was here, somewhere, in the forests, but the Hawkchilds could not spot him.

Their joy faltered, and they hissed.

Where this StarSon? His name is Caelum. Caelum SunSoar.

As one mind they soared and dipped, thinking. Eventually, as mutual decision was reached, twenty-seven of the Hawkchilds veered away from the main flock and flew east. Over Minstrelsea. Hunting. Tracking.

The main body flew westwards, seeking to carry out Sheol’s command. Find for us and, finding, set those who run to our song against them.

Easy.

They whispered their joy, and then broke apart, the Hawkchilds scattering over the entire land.

In the very south-western corner of the Skarabost plains, an old white horse stood in the rosy light of the dawn, hunger raging unnoticed about him.

He slept, dreaming of glory days past.

Sheltering on the ground under the shade provided by his belly, the ancient speckled blue eagle sat fluffing out his feathers in utter indignation that he’d been driven to find such shelter from the Demonic Hour.

But this was all there was, and somehow the eagle felt a kinship with this senile old nag.

Overhead there was a rustling, and a whispering.

The eagle started, terrified, knowing that what hunted was worse than the most crazed Gryphon.

But the Hawkchilds swept over, not minding the horse or the bird he sheltered. As if they had not seen either of them.

Little did either horse or eagle know it, but apart from the fey creatures of Minstrelsea, they were among the very few sane creatures left alive in the plains of Tencendor.

Five times during the day and night, the Demons sent forth the grey miasma, carrying their horror throughout Tencendor. The peoples of the land came to know that if they stayed indoors during those times and tightly shuttered doors and windows, then they could not be touched.

It was a dismal existence, but it was an existence.

Tencendor’s fauna were not so fortunate.

Apart from the creatures of the forests, or those livestock who were continuously sheltered within barns or even homes, most of the creatures of Tencendor had been touched at one time or another over the past few days by the Demons.

Touched, and changed. Birds, badgers, cattle, pigs, snakes and frogs. All changed.

All now running to the song of the Demons.

The Hawkchilds hunted them down. Most of the creatures were roaming uselessly through grain land or the plains. And over the next few days all were visited by one or two of the Hawkchilds.

Whispering instructions.

An army in the northern Silent Woman Woods.

Destroy.

A myriad thousand people sheltering in Carlon.

Destroy.

Scores of hamlets and isolated farmhouses, still sheltering those who refuse to heed the sweet song of madness.

Destroy!

And when you roam, you will find the two-legs who, like you, have been touched. Absorb them into your flocks and herds. Use them.

The brown and cream badger led forth his slaughterhouse band at the behest of the Hawkchilds. He was tired of the years spent huddled in his burrow hiding from the horsed hunters after his fur.

Now was his time.

The Hawkchilds flew west and found a further friend huddled in a pool of weak sunshine outside the walls of Carlon.

A patchy-bald grey rat, sick of a lifetime of torture at the hands of the small male two-legs who ran the streets of the city.

In the city, tens of thousands of people crowded inside tenements, hiding from the Demons.

The Hawkchilds whispered in the rat’s mind, and it turned its head back to the walls rising above it and bared its yellowed teeth in what passed for a grin.

Now was its time.

13 The Waiting Stars

Drago hesitated at the edge of the crystal forest, and then stepped onto its slippery floor. He paused and, as StarLaughter had done, rested a hand on the trunk of the nearest tree.

It was warm, and solid, and somehow comforting.

Drago dropped his hand and straightened, his eyes surveying the forest before him. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward, following the flash of blue feathers between the trees below him.

Like the Demons, he walked for hours, marvelling that the forest extended so far. Always the feathered lizard scrabbled, and sometimes slid, two or three trees in front of him, leading him downwards.

In time the creature stood before a blackened crust that lay on the forest floor in a small glade. Drago stopped, and looked about him. He could feel the faint resonance of Demons in this place. What had they done here? He looked down at the crust. The feathered lizard was snuffling about its edges, reaching out one claw to scrape hesitantly at the stuff. His talons came away encrusted in flaky red filth, and the lizard backed off, hissing.