At first they looked about the great expanse, unsure of what direction to take. The land was enormous, dizzyingly so, how could they possibly find a single man out here? But then they noticed other figures ascending to the moors. It seemed as day began to break, the inns were emptying their patrons, and they all had the same goal in mind.
At least a hundred souls began to gather at the top of the path, readying backpacks stocked with supplies; folks of all ages, some gangs, others rough family groups. All keeping to themselves in small packs, yet staying near the main herd like fearful grazers.
And after what seemed like an hour or so, as the sun poked its head above the horizon, the crowd turned as one and began to strike out in a single direction. There was no head of the clan to give commands, and the Mariner knew better than to enquire how they’d come by the knowledge, so instead he and his four watchers kept their heads low and followed.
Of all that long journey, only one thing managed to distract him from the remorse that filled his heart. As the sunlight reached the heather, the dull grey plants that covered the plains suddenly lit up a bright purple. The crowd gazed, open mouthed at the beauty that reached to the horizon. Wonderment died away soon though, as a cold wind reminded them of the reality of their predicament, and although the heather looked soft, in reality it proved a tough and spiteful plant.
Days came and went. The crowd plodded along, stopping during nightfall and huddling around a sporadic scattering of fires. Now it was the seventh morning he’d awoken, lungs painful, stomach screaming for alcohol and limbs shaking. Still, he welcomed the pain. It was less than he deserved.
Barnett, seeing his taunts were having little effect on the Mariner, gave up and settled himself. Soon he was surrounded by light snores, and although he tried to sleep, the dream lingered in his mind. Fear of choking kept him awake as the hours passed.
Eventually, as grey tinted the sky, a call went up from the other side of the camp.
“Gradelding! Gradelding!”
One of the families had been attacked and a child taken. There was no sign of the beast (whatever it was), just a small patch of torn clothing soaked in blood. He didn’t ask the family about the incident, their glares told him to mind his own business.
From that moment on, the packs clung ever closer together, fires were built higher and no-one slept with their backs to the darkness. The Mariner overheard one of his guards asking Barnett how the land could go on so far, but Barnett merely shrugged, silencing him. It was a smart move, they needed to pretend they were one of these people, whoever they were.
“You should turn back, I don’t know how long this is going to continue for,” he told Barnett in the days that followed. The large man looked like he was actually considering it too, his face transforming for a rare moment to hope rather than loathing, until he finally shook his head. “No, we’ve got a job to do. You ain’t going nowhere without us.”
There were no other Gradelding attacks in the forthcoming days, though another predator seemed to be stalking them. Hunger. The five had run out of food. Barnett had supposed he’d beg another gang for supplies, but the Mariner put an end to that. If they appeared anything but prepared, it would look suspicious. Barnett reluctantly agreed, silently cursing the Mariner and promising himself that he would rob the whole gang of crazies once this madness was resolved.
And then, one night, the routine changed. Night fell but still no-one stopped. The herd kept moving, lighting torches to guide them across the marsh and scrub.
“We must be almost there,” the Mariner observed, unable to hide his excitement despite the heavy exhaustion.
They were climbing a hill, rising up into darkness, yet near the summit, the air took on an orange hue. Fires illuminated the sky; there were others, confirmed as chatter rose above the wind, not loud enough to pick out words, but the tone was one of exhilaration, a crowd ready for a show. A drum beat from the shadows, slow as a heart.
“A bit fucking Wickerman-ish isn’t it?”
The Mariner paid no attention to Barnett. He was beyond such frivolities; he would soon have the truth.
The hill rounded off onto a plateau, upon which a large crowd gathered, several hundred strong. It seemed their herd was one of many, all drawn across the moors to this central point. A strange spicy smell was in the air, incense burnt to honour the coming of their holy figure.
“So whatd’ya say? Shoot the fucker as soon as he shows himself?”
The Mariner gave Barnett a punishing look. “We hear what he has to say first. His words are important.”
They waited, anxious for something to happen, yet unwilling to call for it to do so. The Mariner felt his breath growing shallow. It was almost time, he could sense it.
And suddenly the drum began beating louder and the crowd fell into a hushed silence. The Mariner craned his neck, trying to see a cause for the reverence, yet couldn’t spot one, though he could hear a faint squeaking, becoming more prominent as time passed. As the sound increased, the crowd began to part, and into the firelight wheeled a cross, eight-feet tall and affixed to a cart. It was pushed by four robed followers, with a fifth leading the way, a great book clasped in his hands.
The Mariner felt his eyes drawn up in shock, for he saw the creature that could give him answers. The Pope.
The Pope was small, merely a dwarf. Its arms were pulled out left and right, tied to the wings of the cross with rope whilst it rested both feet on a small ledge jutting out of the trunk. Naked except for a jewel encrusted mitre, the dwarf looked hideous, its body dark and gnarled, twisted like a sick tree. Face, bloated in parts, showed little signs of life, yet its eyes glinted with malice, two angry stars in endless night.
Every man, woman and child fell to their knees, bowing to the presence as it came to a halt in the centre of the gathering.
“That thing is what you want to talk to?” Barnett whispered just loud enough for the Mariner to hear.
“The Oracle said he has answers. Said he woke the Wasp.”
The robed figure leading the procession raised his hand and the drumming stopped. “The Pope demands your silence!” He spoke loudly and clearly, his voice seeming to drift across the moor with ease, unperturbed by the harsh wind. “We gathered upon this vast land preserved against the destructive sea, to offer our love and obedience to the one true God — the Pope! Each of you have come here to meld your spirits, to give yourselves to his power. You blessed ones are the chosen few!”
The crowd murmured their pleasure, but one voice cried out, calling for attention.
“Who speaks?!” the robed man snapped.
“M-my n-name is Charlotte, your Holiness.”
The Mariner tensed, a sinking feeling in his gut.
“I fear there may be those amongst us who are not of the faith, nor of invitation.”
“Who?”
Sure enough, Charlotte, mother to the child taken by the Gradelding, pointed at the five men. Strangers who despite their best efforts had failed to avoid suspicion.
A space opened up around them, wary glances the only thing willing to bridge the gap. And then all eyes turned to the Pope, waiting for his decision.
The Pope licked his lips, not with greed, but like an old man trying to work a tired throat. “Strip them. Let’s see if they are loyal.”
The robed man raised his hands. “Come forward while you are judged. Leave your weapons where you stand. If you are sincere, you shall not need them.”
The option to shoot and flee crossed the Mariner’s mind, as it must have his companions’, but such a course of action was doomed. They were outnumbered, too few bullets even if the cultists around them were unarmed. Best to stick with the deception and hope it wins through.