The Path of Sorrow

by David Pilling

  “Where does he lead you?”

  “We have headed north ever since we met, picking up more stragglers on the way. The Grey Man accepts anyone among his followers, but he'll kill anyone who challenges his leadership. He has killed several men with ideas above their stations; you wouldn't think it to look at him, yet he moves with an uncanny speed when he wants to. He seems to have some purpose, but since he never speaks we have no idea what that is. Which way are you headed, stranger?”

  “Colken. I am heading north too, to the High Places.”

  Yesterday grunted. “For all I know that's where we're going. Why not travel with us? There are bands of brigands roaming this country, men like us, masterless former soldiers turned to robbery to survive. The more of us there are the safer we'll be. You've come this far into the wilderness alone and survived. My guess is you must be able to fight.”

  Yesterday nodded at the hilt of the long sword protruding from Colken's cloak. “You're certainly dressed for a fight.”

  In fact Colken had encountered no one since the slave-trader, Gloo, and his unfortunate business associates. Knowing little of the wars that had raged in Temeria, he had begun to assume the place was half-deserted. Yesterday continued talking into the flames, like a gardener to a prized plant.

  “Then you've got slave-traders,” he said, “who often move in force; the Moon-Walkers, dangerous bastards those…”

  Colken sat up straight.

  “The Moon-Walkers?” he demanded.

  Yesterday raised an eyebrow. “You know of them?”

  “They may have a…friend of mine.” Colken was careful not reveal the true nature of his errand.

  “Then say goodbye to your friend. The Moon-Walkers are a pitiless lot. But if you really want to track him, you're on the right trail. At this time of year they'll take your friend through the High Places. There's a big market for slaves beyond the mountains.”

  Colken stood suddenly, turning to the path leading from the crater.

  “Where are you going?” asked Yesterday.

  “To get my horse and find my dog. We are coming with you.”

  * * * *

  Colken made his way back to the ravine where he had left his horse. The black stallion still stood where he had looped its reins over a rock, dozing idly. Blue lay on the rock above looking anxiously down at Colken, the ridge on his back shining silver in the moonlight, making him look like the wraith of some ancient, ethereal beast. He whined as Colken approached.

  “Where have you been?” said Colken. “The Grey Man unsettles you, doesn't he? He certainly does me.”

  Blue whined again and leaped down into the ravine, brushing his fur against Colken's leg. The Djanki ruffled his ears, and then whispered soothingly to the horse before leading it towards the crater. Blue followed hesitantly.

  Colken found it easier to sleep that night. The Grey Man was ever wakeful and, for some reason which was beyond him, Colken felt more secure with the mysterious ghoul keeping watch. Blue slept at his side, though lightly, keeping an ear cocked in the direction of the undead knight.

  On the next day, the company continued their journey north. The Grey Man remained silent, apart from the occasional rendition of his warrior's lament. Nor were the mercenaries inclined to speak, since all seemed preoccupied with their own thoughts and painful memories. Yesterday told the odd tale of a tavern brawl or pitched battle from his days as a paid soldier, but even he spent most of his time lost in thought.

  After four days they found themselves travelling through a land of sparsely wooded hills and valleys. Colken's head was filled with the song the Grey Man constantly played on his flute. Many of the Djanki elders back in the jungle where Colken was born played similar instruments, though Colken had never heard a melody that inspired such an odd mixture of melancholy and hope. Nor did it seem to get repetitive, though it was the same five notes cascading and rising.

  One evening, just before dusk, Follie appeared over the lip of yet another hill. He had been scouting ahead with Blue, looking for a place to camp. He seemed to enjoy running ahead with the dog. It was an escape for both of them; Follie from the cruelty of his uncle and Blue from the Grey Man whose unnatural presence made the dog uncomfortable.

  Follie was running alongside Blue, while the dog loped effortlessly, his long, red tongue lolling from one side of his long snout. The tall, gangly boy, with his pale freckled face slick with sweat, ran to Colken.

  Colken raised his hand. “Catch your breath,” he said kindly as the boy stumbled to a halt.

  “Over the hill,” Follie managed to say after taking a couple of deep breaths, “there is a deserted farmstead. A good place to camp!”

  Colken nodded. “Well done,” he said. “Any sign of life?”

  “No, though we looked everywhere, didn't we?” The boy patted Blue’s neck. “Not even the dog found anything except squirrels.”

  The company traipsed over the hill and came within sight of a wide valley with a stream gushing through the middle. An old farmhouse could be seen on the opposite flank of the valley, nestling high on the hill and overlooking the river. It had obviously been long abandoned to the elements. Trees had wrapped their roots around the walls, slowly pulling the stones apart like long, tapering fingers tearing into a loaf. The house was covered with a thick blanket of ivy, the roof was missing, and the courtyard had sprouted a coat of grass, which had pushed its way up between the cobblestones.

  The mercenaries warily crossed the valley and splashed through the knee-deep river, every man with his hand on a weapon as they neared the house. Colken knew it was safe as Blue showed no signs of apprehension. He silently chided himself for relying on the dog's superior senses, never wanting to sacrifice the gifts the jungle had given him, the things that made him Djanki.

  The interior of the house was one large chamber, open to the air and the sky. Men set about gathering wood for a fire and before long, orange flames were springing into life inside a rough circle of stones. After eating what meagre rations they possessed, most quickly sank into a deep slumber, their damp, weary bodies lulled to warmth and sleep by the heat of the enclosed fire.

  The Grey Man sat on the dilapidated wall that surrounded the courtyard overlooking the darkening valley and played his flute. Colken watched him from the doorway and wondered at his origins. Eventually his curiosity bettered him. He walked over and sat next to the enigmatic figure.

  The song's ultimate note faded slowly in the mist rising from the river and the Grey Man turned, creaking like an old door, and held the flute towards him. Colken looked down at the flute, surprised that the knight would offer him the only thing he seemed to care for. The Grey Man did not move or show any emotion, but waited patiently for Colken to take the flute.

  Finally, Colken took the instrument and studied its battered surface. It was a crude wooden thing, though the Grey Man had played it beautifully, and had evidently been carved by a soldier’s knife rather than the tools and skill of a carpenter. As he turned it over delicately between his fingers, he saw letters carved along its length. Having acquired a basic knowledge of the Winter Realm’s letters, he knew where the man must have come from, and was able to read the words Jean de Riparia. Colken lifted it tentatively to his lips, watching his silent comrade's reaction as he did so, and attempted to play the lament. His first note was a bad one, and something like a wince passed across the Grey Man’s face. Colken held up one hand.

  “Sorry,” he said, feeling guilty, and licked his lips to try again. Colken tried to relax and feel the song come through him. This time he did a little better, groping his way through the melody, taking the Grey Man's stillness as a good sign.

  Colken played the song again and again that night, and each time he felt he played it better. By dawn he had learned the song well enough.

  He was not sure if it was his imagination, but the Grey Man seemed somehow more at peace knowing Colken could play his song, as though he had passed on all that still anchored him to
the living world.

  At dawn the company followed the river north and, when evening fell again, made their camp on the riverbank. Colken posted lookouts on the ridges either side of the river.

  The mercenaries made a fire on the rocky bank where the river curved into the shape of a horseshoe. Colken had not slept properly for two days, and the warmth of the camp fire quickly sent him into a deep sleep.

  * * * *

  Colken woke to find he was back in the rocky crater where he first met the Grey Man, but the crater was deserted. There was no fire, not even the dying embers. The Grey Man, his horse, Blue: all gone. He span full circle looking for any sign of life, and finally set eyes on the silhouette of a tall, thin man standing on the rim of the crater, his long hair flapping gently in the breeze beneath a blotchy, purple sky.

  “I am dreaming,” he said to himself.

  “Yes, you are,” the voice of Naiyar replied, sounding much closer than the figure in the distance. “But I am still here.”

  “Has it been you disturbing my dreams? Were you the mind franticly searching and continually finding me?” Colken asked.

  “Yes, I am sorry if I disturbed your sleep. I was searching for something, but I didn't know you were it, or at least part of it.” Naiyar's silhouette disappeared from the rim and, moments later, he emerged from the darkness to appear immediately before Colken.

  “You look older, Colken,” said Naiyar, smiling. “Has it been that long?”

  “As do you. A lot has happened since I left you at Temple Rock.”

  “Not for me. I'm sorry to say I've been idle. I have let many signs pass unnoticed.”

  “You're in love,” Colken replied with a shrug.

  “True, but unfortunately not an adequate excuse to ease my conscience. I'm sorry you've suffered,” said Naiyar.

  “I asked for freedom, you gave it to me. I make my own fortune and I dictate my own fate.”

  Naiyar smiled at that and seemed to just accept it. “I have come to tell you something important, Colken. The child you seek, he is…different. He is not human, not entirely anyway. He is nature itself. He is more powerful than you could ever imagine.”

  “More powerful than you and your brother?”

  “He is infinitely more powerful than me and Fulk combined. If he falls into the hands of those who seek him, even I cannot foresee what damage he could do. You must find him first, Colken.”

  “I have already chosen to find the child of my own free will. And I will find him,” Colken stubbornly proclaimed.

  Naiyar smiled again, and Colken realised how tired he looked.

  “Very well,” said Naiyar, gazing fondly upon his friend. “Good luck. You must wake now, Colken, you must wake immediately.”

  * * * *

  Colken woke to see the figure of the Grey Man standing over him, sword drawn, but he wasn't looking at Colken. Instead, he stared across the stream at the cluster of trees on the far bank.

  Colken turned just as an arrow flew from the trees and stuck with a loud thud in the Grey Man's chest. The force of the arrow made him stagger a little, but he did not fall. He slowly looked down at the shaft protruding from his flesh, still with the same sad expression.

  “Ambush! Look alive, all of you!” Yesterday screamed as Colken reached for his spear.

  Men emerged from the trees on the far bank and began splashing across the river. One had a bow and loosed a second arrow as Colken leaped to his feet and hurled his spear. The spear took the archer in the stomach and he sank into the water, screaming in pain. His arrow pierced the neck of one of Colken's comrades as the mercenary leaped over the fire, cutting his battle cry short and dumping him on his back. Blood gurgled from the dying man’s mouth and hissed as it struck the glowing embers.

  The Grey Man led the counter-attack, wading into the water as Yesterday hurried after him. Colken drew his scimitar and followed them. Shouts and the ring of steel echoed through the valley as the Grey Man crossed swords with one of the attackers, cutting him down with the ponderous, inexorable violence of a farmer scything a head of corn, and moved on to deal with another.

  There were over two score men charging from the trees, tattered, unkempt brigands who looked no different to the mercenaries. A few still wore the image of General Anma’s leaping lion on their filthy tunics, and in the sad irony of war were now trying to kill and rob former comrades in a bid to stay alive.

  As Colken challenged a bearded man with a battle-axe, he saw Blue emerge from the trees where the attackers had come from. The dog leaped snarling on the back of a man wielding a falchion, jaws clamping onto his neck and pushing him down into the water.

  Colken ducked beneath an axe swing, spun, and beheaded his opponent with a single swing of his scimitar. The head splashed into the water as an arc of blood spurted from the neck, showering him. The body swayed for a moment before tipping over backwards. Stunned at how easily the blade had removed the man's head, Colken paused and stared wide-eyed at the weapon the Raven-Queen had provided him.

  The valley rang to the sound of clashing steel as the fight raged and blades flashed in the moonlight.

  Now knee-deep in the stony river, Colken fought back-to-back with Yesterday. As Colken parried the swing of a sword and slashed his blade across a man's eyes, he heard Morrek scream as a short, weasel-faced man bit the mercenary on the cheek and rammed a dagger up beneath his ribcage.

  Colken head-butted the blinded man, who fell back shrieking into the water and began to drift slowly downstream. Yesterday grunted as he kicked his assailant in the balls and hit the man on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. The dazed brigand collapsed into the water and was set upon by Blue, who appeared to be everywhere, a snarling, lethal ghost, his metallic coat blazing in the moonlight.

  Dickon the Shit bellowed as a sword scored a deep cut down his arm. He turned with a look of fury on his distorted face and smashed in a skull with his heavy axe. He swung the great weapon left and right, shattering bones and spraying blood into the air. He laughed as he did so, and for every laugh he uttered there was a blood-curdling shriek of agony from one of his victims.

  The Grey Man fought three men at once, and the blows they struck had no effect as he wheeled and parried, dispatching them one by one with apparent ease.

  Finally there was a lull in the fighting as the remaining dozen or so attackers weighed up the odds and didn’t like the result. One broke and fled the way he had come. The rest joined him, chased by the snarling Blue.

  The company stood in silence, catching their breaths and listening to the sound of snarling and screaming coming from the woods. Blue reappeared, his long wolfish head covered in blood.

  Colken surveyed the scene of the fight. It was carnage. Bodies were strewn everywhere, floating gently in the water. Glade's body smouldered in the embers of the fire. Hain was unrecognisable, his head flattened by the swing of a mace. Algernon, Morrek, and Pick floated slowly downstream along with several of their deceased assailants. Dickon leaned on his axe, grinning, with other men’s blood covering the melted skin on his bald pate and dripping from his ridiculous moustache. Follie was nearer their camp in shallow water. He knelt on the chest of a dead assailant, a bloody rock in his fist.

  The first feeble rays of dawn’s sunlight began to seep into the valley. The Grey Man stood silently looking down at his body, which was lacerated by multiple sword cuts. There was no blood. He turned to Colken and Yesterday, and they saw that his left hand had been severed. The ragged stump was as dry as a twig.

  He waded towards Colken, waddling clumsily in the bloodied water. One grey hand dug in his pocket and he withdrew his flute, offering it to Colken.

  The Djanki slowly reached out and took the flute. As he did so, the Grey Man grabbed Colken's blood-smeared blade and placed it against the line of stitches on his throat. His face was passive, but for the first time since Colken had met him there was a dreadful, blazing intensity in his milky-white eyes.

  Yesterday b
roke the silence. “He wants to go,” said Yesterday, “and should have died a long time ago. That flute was all that connected him to life, but now he has lost a hand and can’t play it any more. Give the poor bugger some peace.”

  Colken shook his head and took his blade away, but the Grey Man grabbed his wrist and placed the sword back against the side of his neck.

  The Djanki’s steel was a fluid blur as it swung and decapitated the Grey Man, once Jean de Riparia, knight of the Temple, and now a meal for worms.

  * * * *

  A young woman wept beside an old ivy-covered well in the middle of a sunlit glade. Felipe had seldom seen such a lovely creature, certainly not since coming to Temeria. She was a classic Northern beauty: elegant as a deer hound, with creamy pale skin and hair so blonde it was almost white. Her beauty was somewhat spoiled, however, by excessive crying.

  He hesitated before approaching her, uncertain if she was real, a figment of his deranged mental state, or some malicious sprite out to snare him.

  The air had become steadily thinner as he made his way out of the foothills and into the misted forests carpeting the lower peaks of the High Places. Altitude had mingled with Felipe’s general exhaustion to induce a state in which he often did not know whether he was awake or dreaming. Sometimes he thought he was marching alongside his old companions, Guillaume and Jean and other old Temple comrades. Shadowy figures, ghosts of long ago, with their half-forgotten voices rising and falling inside the cavern of his memory.