The Path of Sorrow

by David Pilling

  He stared into a vast crater, perhaps two hundred paces across. It was as if something of unimaginable size had fallen from the heavens and impacted on that very spot. The intense heat caused by the impact had formed the ridge around the perimeter that Colken and Blue now crouched behind. It had obviously been a very long time ago, perhaps even before humans crawled from the mud to squabble over possession of the world.

  The crater was now host to sparse thorn bushes clinging to its slopes. The cracks in the rock, forced open over millennia by countless icy winters, were home to small lizards and beetles. But Colken's attention was on what he saw in the centre of the great stone bowl. At least two-dozen men sat around a fire, too far away for their voices to be heard.

  Blue whined and shifted uneasily as the tip of the sun disappeared below the horizon. Colken made a soothing, hushing sound, deciding whether to bypass the strangers under the cover of darkness or confront them.

  Suddenly, the smell of something dank and mouldy invaded his nostrils. He turned to look at Blue, but the dog was gone, and he felt a chill down his spine as an eerie, mournful tune began playing on a flute in the darkness behind him. Turning to find the source, he was confronted with the silhouette of a tall man, a great black shape against the darkening, purple sky.

  The flute was invisible in the darkness, even its black shape was engulfed by the figure's wide neck and broad shoulders. Colken lay still, staring up at the figure playing its sad lament. Something about the figure filled him with sadness. The lament was pure tragedy, expressing a hollowness with which he empathised. Without thinking, he put one hand up and touched the steel plate of his chest.

  The tune rose to a sorrowful crescendo and died away, leaving nothing but the darkness, the chill, and a musty odour hanging in the air. Silence reigned for a few moments. Colken tensed, waiting for the stranger to make the first move.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the dark and the light of the moon came into full effect, he could make out details of the figure before him. He was clearly a warrior, or had been. His boots were full of holes, scuffed, and crumbling. At his waist hung a long sword, which looked rusty and stained, well used but not well looked after. He was dressed in cracked, rotting leathers and a rusting mail shirt. His weathered wooden flute now hung at his side in his right hand, his left propped on the hilt of his sword. Then the light of the moon fell on the man’s face.

  His skin was grey and, in places, cracked and flaky. The many lines in his weathered skin seemed to be highlighted by purple shadow, his forehead creased into a permanent frown, as if frozen between anger and misery. A line of stitches stretched from his neck across his throat, but there was no scabbing or evidence the dreadful wound had healed naturally. Only a rusty brown bloodstain on his mail showed that he had bled from it. His cold, ice-blue eyes were devoid of life or spirit—the eyes of a corpse.

  The undead remnant of a man raised his arm and pointed into the crater. A powerful strength of will emanated from him, but Colken’s was stronger still and he resisted the temptation to obey the unspoken command. The figure turned and walked stiffly along the perimeter of the crater towards a path that led to the fire in its centre. Driven by curiosity, Colken followed at a safe distance.

  A short distance away, and unseen by anyone, a single black raven flapped into the sky and flew south.

  * * * *

  Captain Wade strode confidently through the double doors of the Raven Queen's insane menagerie, wearing his most serene grin. He was as finely groomed and dapper as ever, more like an aristocrat visiting a respected aunt for a spot of afternoon tea than one vicious pirate going to meet with another.

  The truth was he was a little concerned at what sort of a mood, or moods, the Queen might be in following his failure to fulfil his orders to intercept the Knights of Occido before they reached the shores of Temeria. In fact, though he never showed it, he had been growing increasingly uneasy of late. Strange things had been happening since he had brought the unmanageable Colken to the House of Unkindness.

  Firstly, he had been dismayed by the Raven Queen's apparent obsession with the Djanki warrior and the errand she had sent him on, the details of which Wade was still not privy to.

  Secondly, he had been ordered to seek and destroy certain refugee ships coming from the Winter Realm and ensure that he killed the Templars, who travelled among them for reasons known only to the Raven Queen. When he had found the refugee ships and was about to attack, a most unnatural storm whipped up, sinking half the small fleet he had taken with him and leaving his intended victims completely unharmed. He had only escaped himself by the skin of his teeth and by using all his considerable skill as a seaman. His vessel, the Jagged Blade, had just about limped into port, listing badly and with seawater gushing from any number of holes.

  Thirdly, and most concerning of all, his most reliable instrument of navigation, the stars, appeared to be changing. At first he thought he was finally losing his tenuous grip on sanity, but having had it confirmed by other crewmen, he knew it wasn't his cracked mind playing tricks on him. The stars were realigning.

  All this served to create tremors in the normally solid-footing of Captain Wade's confidence. Never a man to show weakness, Wade wore his calm exterior like a suit of armour as he greeted his employer with his usual pomposity.

  “Your Majesty.” Immaculately dressed in a spotless brushed jacket, white frills spilling from his cuffs and collar, and with a well-oiled moustache and beard, Wade bowed low, sweeping an arm out to his right, as the double doors closed silently behind him. Knowing how the Raven Queen detested his assistant, Erlo, he had left the dwarf aboard the Jagged Blade, overseeing the repairs.

  The Raven Queen was staring wordlessly into the glass tank with Colken's beating heart suspended in its centre. She kept Wade hanging on her taut silence, like a tightrope walker who had slipped. Knowing her moods, he stood perfectly still, maintaining his relaxed expression despite the watchful eyes of the countless ravens in the rafters and caged animals all around the room.

  “My patience wears thin, Wade.” The Raven Queen spoke quietly, as though to her own reflection in the glass. She turned on him in a sudden, jerky movement, her skin stretched back over her skull, her eyes bulged, and her nose grew long and beak-like. She jabbed a clawed hand at him. “We waited too long!” she shrieked, yanking out handfuls of the thinning grey hair that clung to her flaking scalp. “The child escapes our clutches. Too many know of him!”

  Wade closed his eyes, maintaining his polite smile as he was showered with spittle, and reached to his breast pocket for a handkerchief. The Raven Queen's hair grew thick and black as quickly as it had receded and the young, smooth-skinned woman stood watching Wade mopping her saliva from his moustache.

  “The Djanki makes slow progress,” she continued, “and your failure to carry out my orders has further complicated matters.” It seemed the Raven Queen's mood was as bad as Wade had feared.

  “What matters are these, Majesty? What errand was the Djanki charged with? I'm afraid I am somewhat...” he glanced up at the mass of shifting black feathers obscuring the ceiling, “...in the dark.”

  “There is a child in Temeria, a boy named Sorrow. He is the last of his kind, the sole survivor of a tribe descended from the first humans to walk the world. The Djanki is to bring me this child.”

  “Why? What is so special about him?”

  The Raven Queen's form shrank and aged until a frail, bitter looking old woman looked at Wade with disdain in her rheumy eyes.

  “That is none of your concern. All you need to know is that we require him.” She waved one skinny arm dismissively, the other hand rubbing her temples. “Take the Jagged Blade, follow the Djanki, bring back the child.”

  “And what is in it for me if I do? I have a crew two hundred strong, bastards and traitors every one. If they think I am leading them on a wild goose chase just to follow your orders they will mutiny.”

  “Temeria is ravaged by civil war, lawle
ssness reigns. There are many once great cities filled with riches, easy pickings for a crew of pirates. You have profited greatly from the Winter Realm's fall into chaos, now profit from Temeria's. And if you return with the child you will be even more handsomely rewarded.”

  Wade fingered an oiled ringlet. For the first time in his life he was beginning to wonder if it might be worth stealing something that wasn't made of gold or encrusted with jewels.

  “And where is this child?” he asked, smirking. “Temeria is a big place. If I am to anchor my ship and venture inland, location is all.”

  “North Temeria.” The Raven Queen had returned to her young, black-haired state and was once again gazing through the glass at Colken's revolving heart. “Dock at the port near the city of Hasan. Its army is decimated, the local lord a mindless drivelling fool, and the best of what soldiers still live will have left the city in search of Sorrow. They are the latest vultures to try to snatch my prize.”

  Wade had never seen the Raven Queen so despondent; he saw it as a sign of weakness, and when Captain Wade sensed weakness he invariably felt the urge to take advantage of it. He could see the Raven Queen was losing touch with reality; her desire for the child had eclipsed all else. It ate her up, and she could not hide it. Wade felt a twinge of hunger, like a shark catching the scent of blood.

  He smiled inwardly. His fear of the Raven Queen, built up over years of quaking in her presence, had dissipated in the space of a single conversation.

  12.

  Naiyar sat cross-legged on the platform of his temple, staring at the western horizon, his eyes glazed, his skin slick with sweat. The sun was just beginning to rise behind him. The frogs had ceased their night-time chorus to make way for the birds, who began to sing at the first hint of the sun's light softening the contrast of the black sky. The whoop and holler of monkeys was just gaining its daily momentum. Endless life and death dramas played out in the jungle canopy as Naiyar lived the dramas of humans far to the west.

  He had been sitting there for ten days and nights, his mind travelling the World Apparent as well as other worlds besides, above and beyond the physical plane. He had searched long and hard for the cause of his unrest and the apparent realigning of the stars. His lover, Kayla, had watched patiently all that time and now sensed his mind return to his body.

  “What have you learned?” she asked, gently rubbing the back of his neck.

  Naiyar was exhausted and hung his head, barely able to muster the energy to speak.

  “Sorrow.” He uttered the word under his breath.

  “Sorrow? What kind of sorrow, for whom?” Kayla was anxious to understand.

  “No, Sorrow, the boy is called Sorrow.”

  “The boy from the massacre?”

  “Yes, I think so. He is the cause, the reason for all my dreams. He is very important, very powerful.” Naiyar turned to Kayla and gripped her shoulders. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, surrounded by purple rings. His skin was pale and his cheeks drawn, his brow taut with the strain of what he knew. “Sorrow must be protected!”

  Kayla caught him as he collapsed and passed into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  Naiyar woke on his bed inside the temple. He was still weak and Kayla brought him honey mead, which he gulped greedily, clutching the ceramic mug with shaking hands.

  “Are you feeling better?” Kayla smiled at him, a cool hand on his forehead.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I listened to your mutterings while you slept. I could not make sense of them. You spoke of many things. The Raven Queen, war, generals, sorcery…” Naiyar attempted to rise, but Kayla put her hand on his chest. “Rest for a while, you are exhausted.”

  “I must try to contact Colken.”

  “Why?”

  “He seeks the child. He is Sorrow's only hope.”

  “Not today, you must rest first. There is no sense in draining your energy.”

  Naiyar sighed and closed his eyes. “Sorrow must not fall into the wrong hands. He is unimaginably powerful.”

  “What is he? I don't understand.” Kayla frowned.

  “He is nature itself, manifest. He is the wind, the rain, the sea, the land. He is everything. All the great ones of the world want him in their possession. How they know what he is I cannot guess, they may not know all the facts, just that he possesses great power.”

  * * * *

  Colken followed the undead knight back to the camp fire blazing in the centre of the crater. The knight sat away from the men gathered around the fire and slowly took out his battered wooden flute. His haunting melody was soon floating through the night sky.

  Colken sat on the ground and looked around the fire. The flickering light picked out a rag-tag company of soldiers, tough and weary-looking men whose clothes, weapons, and flesh had seen better days. And many worse.

  Some of them stared listlessly into the fire as though enchanted by the sound of the flute, while a few spoke in hushed tones. Nobody seemed much interested in Colken’s sudden arrival, save one, who sat on his own and studied the Djanki with hard, squinting eyes, the lines on his face etched in the firelight. This man had a long, hooked nose and drawn cheeks covered in stubble that glittered orange in the flickering light of the flames. A deep scar ran from the corner of his thin mouth up to his left ear, half of which was missing. His lank hair was thin on top, the remnant scraped back into a pigtail, and he had a long plaited beard hanging from his chin. Another scar cut through one eye, giving it the look of a black star, the iris glinting like a distant blade in its centre.

  Colken took a swig from his water skin and held it out to the craggy mercenary, who didn't move. Instead, he just watched Colken as though reading him like a scroll. Colken shrugged, took another swig, and put the skin away.

  “The Grey Man never speaks.” The old soldier tapped his pipe out on his boot and pulled out a pouch of weed.

  Colken chewed a piece of dried meat as he glanced around the fire and then back to the one named the Grey Man. The enormous figure still sat in darkness, grey fingers moving slowly over the length of his flute.

  “He never eats,” continued the soldier in a guttural croak, his head now shrouded in the thick smoke from his pipe. “He never drinks, and he never sleeps. He just plays that song, as though it is all that's left of him. ”

  “They call me Yesterday.” He pointed his pipe across the fire at three other men as smoke billowed from his nostrils. “That's Morrek, Glade, and Pick; we were soldiers fighting for General Anma. And those two—” he swung his pipe towards two men quietly talking to each other “—are mercenaries from the Winter Realm, Algernon and Hain.”

  The quiet gloom was briefly broken by a commotion across the fire. There was a shout, and several men turned to watch, laughing and cheering. Colken looked across to see a large, bald man with a barrel chest and a huge moustache that drooped either side of his grinning mouth almost to his waist. His entire scalp and the left side of his face had been horrifically burned, along with both his arms and most of his torso. The shiny, smooth texture of his melted skin glowed and shimmered, making him look as if he were still engulfed in the flames which had evidently disfigured him so badly.

  The burned man was laughing loudly, his husky, gravel-voice resonating throughout the crater. He had his massive hands wrapped about the head of a young man, who could have been no older than seventeen, and he was squeezing the poor boy's head. His muscles, which tensed and flexed as though straining to escape from their pink, molten prison, were testament to just how much pressure he applied to the lad’s skull.

  The boy screamed with pain, punching and kicking the big man in vain, while the soldiers laughed. A few looked uncomfortable watching, but apparently did not have the courage to intervene with the burned man's fun.

  “That there is Dickon the Shit, and the young lad being tormented is Follie, his nephew,” explained Yesterday. “Dickon reckons he's got to harden the boy up for his bleak future, but we know Dickon just l
oves hurting people. I never seen anyone gain such genuine happiness from killing and shredding as Dickon the Shit, hence the name. He's no bully though, well he is, but he'll fight anyone, he doesn't just pick weak opponents. Though he is just as happy maiming the weak as he is the strong.”

  The laughter around Dickon turned to a groan and a few sharp inhalations as he bit his nephew on the cheek and threw him to the ground. Then the noise died down as Follie scrambled away from his sadistic uncle, swearing and cursing, and Dickon went back to his ale, his belly shaking as he laughed.

  Yesterday shrugged and looked back at Colken. “You're not from these lands are you?”

  Colken swallowed his meat. “Is it that obvious?”

  Yesterday let out a long, smoky wheeze that might have been a laugh, although the expression on his face did not change apart from a slight twitch of his criss-crossed brow.

  “Even in this light I can see your skin is not that colour from the sun. Not completely anyway. You're too dark to be from Temeria. No, I don't know where you're from, but you're not from these shores.”

  Colken nodded. “I come from the jungles across the sea, past the Morsel, past the desert and the plains. There is no name for my home, only a name for my people. We are the Djanki.”

  Yesterday nodded. “I've heard stories, most of them almost certainly nonsense, the rest entirely impossible. But the Djanki must have done something to inspire such tales.”

  “Where are you headed?” Colken asked.

  “North. We joined the Grey Man back near Hasan—” Yesterday waved an arm in the direction of the city, “— where we've all met with one misfortune or another. I don't know anyone who hasn't been touched by the wars that have raged in this land, be it for good or bad, and believe me many do profit from war. I fought for General Anma, heard of her?”

  Yesterday did not wait for an answer to his question and Colken didn't try to respond as the old soldier continued. “Well, the war was going well. We almost had the bastards beaten, and then someone murdered the General. The army fell apart, scattered, and I was lucky to survive the rout that followed. Then the Grey Man found me. I, and the rest of these stragglers, follow him now. Perhaps because we have nothing else, or because his sadness makes us feel as though we belong with him. And belonging's better than nothing. Ask anyone around this fire.” He waved his pipe again. “You'll likely get a similar answer.”