“The ancient name of the mountain kingdom, when it was a kingdom”—Amkur breathed, his withered forehead still pressed against the dirt—“before the Heartstones and the One Hundred Decrees that guided our lives was lost, war and blood feud sprang up between the clans, and the kingdom fell apart.”
He dared to raise his head a little and gaze with scarcely believing eyes at the ancient tablets. “Now we shall be united again,” he whispered, his voice choked up with emotion, “and thou shalt lead us into a sunlit time. It is written. The one who finds the Heartstones shall be king.”
Amkur said these last words in his native tongue. They were taken up and repeated by the rest of his clan, who were also kneeling, men, women, and children, from the youngest to the very oldest. Over three score people, a stinking crowd of mountain savages to Bail’s eyes, had assembled in the dusty yard to witness the return of their most precious legend.
Not knowing how to react, Bail looked to Sorrow for guidance. The boy’s face was expressionless, but he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. His message was clear; you’re on your own here, Crooked Man, and must make the best of it.
Bail let the stress and confusion seep out of him and imagined himself back on stage in some piss-hole of a tavern. He had played any number of Gods, Generals, and Kings and rather enjoyed it, since these roles allowed him to indulge his natural arrogance and pomposity. Bail summoned the ghosts of them all.
“I will have a crown and a fine set of robes,” he declared, rising from his usual nervous stoop. “If you wish me to be this king, then I shall be a king indeed and rule with absolute authority. I shall be treated as no less than a god. Is that acceptable to you?”
Amkur did not hesitate. “Thy coming was written centuries ago, by men far wiser than us,” he answered. “We are but a degenerate stem of the noble race that once lived in these mountains. One cannot go against the written word of such ancestors. Command us, o King, as thou wilt.”
The clan smiths made him a crown, though one made of iron, not gold, for gold was unknown in the mountains. One of the toothless old dams found a scarlet robe once worn by Amkur Beg in his younger days. The robe was now much decayed and moth-eaten, but the dam and her sisters sewed, patched, and washed the cloth until it was once again fit to be worn by a great man. In the absence of any, Bail wore it.
“Every inch a prince,” he said, admiring himself in the reflection of a burnished silver shield propped against the wall. He and Sorrow were talking in the privacy of Amkur’s chamber on the highest floor of the tower, which the chief had generously given over to them.
“And you must learn to act like one, and quickly,” said Sorrow, “for the testing time is soon to come.”
“Have no fears on that score. I could act a part like this for the rest of my days, and it is you I have to thank for the role. These barbarians would not look on me with half so much respect if they did not fear you. And, of course, you found the bits of old stone they revere so much.”
The stones in question were lying on the bed, where Bail had dumped them. So far, the fabled Heartstones had radiated no kind of sacred or magical aura, though the High Bloods were struck speechless by the mere sight of them.
Sorrow padded over to the wall and stood on tiptoe to peer out of the arrow-slit window. “Professor Denez deserves the credit,” he said, narrowing his eyes to study the mountainous landscape rapidly disappearing under the velvet curtain of night. “His notes led me to it.”
“Come, Sorrow, be candid for once. Your power alone almost choked that old bugger Amkur to death, and the same power led us to the Heartstones. That bundle of notes was a clumsy diversion. I never met a scholar yet who could tell his left from his right. Your Professor Denez would have wandered these mountains until his feet rotted away or some clansman stuck a javelin in him. I am not fooled. You are a sorcerer.”
Sorrow made no reply.
* * * *
A few miles to the south of the Tower, a High Blood scout lay on his stomach and watched the foreign army moving through the forests far, far below.
From the great height of his vantage point, a spur of rock sticking out from the cliffs, the invaders looked like an endless winding column of ants, slowly eating a path into his country. Unlike previous armies of would-be conquest, every one of which had failed due to the difficult terrain and constant guerrilla attacks, this one appeared to be commanded by someone possessing a degree of caution and common sense. The soldiers marched slowly, preceded by a vanguard clearing a path with axes through the dense forest. The axe-men were guarded by units of archers, on horse and on foot, keeping a wary eye on the mountains and the steep-sided forests from which an ambush might spring at any moment.
Or would do, the scout reflected, if the normally vigilant High Blood clans were not turned inward, their attention fixed on the electrifying rumours sweeping through every tower and village.
The Heartstones had been found, so the rumours went, by a blue-eyed, pale-skinned foreigner and a child-sorcerer. They had returned with the precious stones to Blood Eagle Eyrie. Amkur Beg, that clever old villain, had declared the blue-eyed man a king. King of Ghor, no less, the one who would unite the clans and re-establish the old mountain kingdom.
So much the scout, whose name was Eliya, had heard, and he didn’t care for any of it. Most of his fellow clansmen, from the Clan of the Roaring Bear, disagreed and had eagerly left their village to trek the fifteen miles or to Amkur’s tower.
Eliya scratched his hairy chin and spat. civilised peoples could not be trusted. Every High Blood worth his salt knew that. To his mind, it was no coincidence this foreign “king” and his brat had emerged just as an army of conquest marched up from the south. A king must be crowned, and while all High Blood eyes were fixed on his crowning and moonstruck by the appearance of the Heartstones, surely a clever forgery, the outlanders would hack a road through the forests, scramble up into the mountains, and be among the clans with sword and lance before they knew it.
Eliya considered his options. High Blood warriors had honed the art of treachery to an exquisite edge, and he now considered the potential advantages of treachery.
He could abandon his honour, a stunted ragged thing that had long since outlived its usefulness, venture down the cliff, and offer his services to the invaders. Show them the easy routes through the mountains and advise them on the best way to defeat his people.
His motives were varied. Perhaps the invaders would reward him by making him King of Ghor in the foreigner’s stead, a puppet king perhaps, but better than his current situation. He would be free to persecute and slaughter his foes, stuff and swill to his heart’s content, and finally be rid of his complaining shrew of a wife. Replace the old sow with the pick of young girls from the clans who would be under his thumb.
These were attractive thoughts, and the prospect of nubile young flesh made his mouth water. On the other hand, the invaders might simply turn him away or kill him.
Peering over the lip of his rock, he strained to make out the banners they were carrying. A black circle on a white background. Strange. Eliya was familiar with the devices of most of the lords and satraps whose lands bordered the High Places, but had never seen one like that before.
He rose into a cross-legged position, folded his arms, and stared into the middle distance. Should he run to warn his people or turn traitor?
Eliya pondered. Above him, the snow-eagles wheeled and glided in a cloudless blue sky. Below, Hoshea’s army bit ever deeper into the forests.
* * * *
Bail was woken early by a timorous knock on the door. He opened it to see Amkur Beg and his bodyguard clustered in the doorway, looking anxious. Sadaf was among them, and as Bail hurriedly dressed, he noticed the tall warrior regarding him with a mixture of awe and fear, a complete reverse to his earlier attitude. Bail was unsure which he preferred.
Sorrow had slept in his tattered black robe on the bare floor at the foot of the bed. He spra
ng up with the vigour of youth and something else, a sort of restless bright-eyed excitement.
“Hurry, hurry,” he chided, helping Bail on with his sandals and draping Amkur’s old scarlet cloak about him. Startled by the boy’s attentiveness, Bail picked up the iron circlet from under the pillow where he had stashed it overnight and weighed it carefully in his hands.
“Place it on thy head, lord,” said Amkur, bowing and scraping in a manner Bail considered almost offensive. “Let our people know their king has arrived.”
After a second’s hesitation, Bail did so. The crude circle of metal was at least a good fit, but all his bravado had ebbed away during the night. He was a fraud, of course, a liar and career criminal, but rarely had he felt so transparent. Any moment now, he was certain the High Bloods would look at him in his patched cloak and metal hat and burst out laughing.
He was wrong. Amkur Beg bowed from the waist, followed by his warriors. “Come, lord,” the old chief rasped. “It is time we were gone, to the place of crowning.”
“Which is where?” demanded Bail, ever suspicious. He drew his cloak about him and gripped the hilt of his long knife.
“To the Eagle’s Slumber, lord,” the old chief replied, “our most sacred of temples, as well as the highest and the most ancient, and where our kings of old used to be crowned. It is only fitting you should be taken there, to be presented before the rest of the clans.”
“How do you know they will come?”
Before Amkur could reply, Sorrow cut in. “They will come,” he said, with utter conviction in his voice. “The clans will gather, and you will be King of Ghor.”
Amkur and his guards exchanged glances and bowed their heads reverently at the boy.
The way to the Eagle’s Slumber led north-west and deviated slightly from the route Sorrow and Bail had taken in search of the Heartstones. This time, instead of a few warriors, every member of the Blood Eagle clan accompanied them, from the youngest to the oldest.
Bail was obliged to sit, rather unsteadily, on the same burnished silver shield he had used as a mirror, now carried on the shoulders of four of the clan’s strongest warriors. Around them marched six musicians blowing on long tapering horns that made a noise like a herd of bulls being clumsily castrated. Four standard-bearers proudly carried aloft the standard of the Blood Eagles, an enormous sheet of scarlet cloth suspended between four long poles. The cloth was lashed in place with strips of human skin cut from the bodies of enemy warriors. Bundles of dead men’s bones and sinews dangled from the poles.
Somewhat disquietingly, from Bail’s point of view, Sadaf insisted on being one of his shield-bearers. The man had stuck jealously to his side ever since the Heartstones was found and now seemed to regard himself as Bail’s unofficial bodyguard. The Heartstones rested on Bail’s lap. He was unwilling to let them out of his sight or allow anyone else to get their hands on them.
Sorrow trotted behind the shield-bearers, next to the limping figure of Amkur Beg. The child seemed lost in his own thoughts as the procession moved at a stately pace along a winding dusty path leading towards the high forests, his eyes downcast and hands folded, like a monk on his way to prayer.
The sweltering heat of the high Harvest day, incessant blowing of the bull-horns, and strange arrhythmic chanting of the women all conspired to give Bail a pounding headache. Long before they entered the forest he was desperate for the procession to stop and allow him to rest awhile in some cool, shady spot and wondered why he didn’t give the order to do so. After all, was he not in charge now?
Not yet he wasn’t, and he decided not to push his luck. Bail had enjoyed a remarkable quantity of luck in his life, more so than most, and by rights his bones should probably be hanging from a gallows somewhere in the Winter Realm. He had rolled the dice more times than he could remember and every time came up with a double six, or at least a pair of fives.
Someday, he thought to himself, he was bound to end up with snake eyes. Only let it not be today.
Up, up they went, into the green belt that girded the rocky loins of the High Places. The heat was even more oppressive in the woods, yet the High Bloods refused to quicken their pace. They continued to swing along in the same stately, ponderous rhythm, with the exception of a score of warriors. At a sign from Amkur, these broke away from the main column and padded like wolves on the flanks, keeping a wary eye on the tree line.
Amkur had sent ravens carrying a summons to every other important clan in the mountains, whether friend or foe, and knew they knew his people were heading for the Slumber. He also knew the other clan chiefs to be mirrors of himself, slippery, untrustworthy bastards with an eye to their own advantage. Perhaps they would come and acknowledge their new blue-eyed King, as Amkur hoped, or equally they might come looking to pluck out his liver.
No ambush materialised, and when the unbearably hot day finally began to slide towards the longed-for cool of dusk, Amkur called a halt.
Bail endured a scratchy uncomfortable night, haunted by bad dreams that felt like prophecies. All through the long hours of darkness he kept the Heartstones clasped tight to his chest, knowing his life depended on it. And on Sorrow, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. He had vanished when the clan stopped to bed down for the night, and Bail’s unsettled mind imagined him drifting through the pitch-black woods like a wraith, silently communing with all manner of ghouls and dark spirits.
He was jerked awake at the crack of dawn by the torturous bellowing of the bull horns and opened his eyes to see Sadaf standing over him. For a moment he thought the man meant to murder him, but then saw he held Bail’s cloak and crown. The hard lines of Sadaf’s lugubrious face split into a simpering grin, and he went down on one knee to offer the makeshift regalia at arm’s length.
“I liked you better when you despised me,” said Bail, wincing as his stiff joints cracked and complained. After taking a few gulps of fresh morning air, he took the crown and steeled himself to play the king.
The clan moved a little quicker this time, for all could sense they were close to the half-legendary Eagle’s Slumber and were eager to see the sacred place. The sun was high in the sky before Sorrow reappeared, trotting out of the woods with his cloak wrapped tight around him. He ran to Bail’s shield-bearers, cupping his hands over his mouth to be heard above the din of horns and chanting.
“The woods are full of High Bloods, warriors, and their families!” he shouted. “I tracked them all night. The nearest are less than two miles away, to the south-east.”
Amkur Beg heard him and limped forward with surprising speed to grab the boy’s arm. “How did they look?” he demanded, briefly dropping his mask of deference. “Did any of their warriors have paint on their faces? Did they carry their knives naked, or sheathed?”
“They did not look dressed for war,” replied Sorrow, gently disengaging his arm. “But they are moving fast and will catch up with us very soon.”
Amkur’s face creased into a hideous grimace, and he turned to shout orders at his kin. Almost immediately, the bull-horns and the chanting died away, and the clan sprang from a stately walk into a gallop. The unwieldy clan banner dropped into the dust, as did the horns, and for a moment, Bail thought he too might be dumped onto the ground. Instead, his shield-bearers picked up their pace without any apparent effort, and he found himself clinging to the rim of his shield with one hand and holding his crown in place with the other.
It was in this undignified position he first saw the Slumber, a mighty spur of rock surging up from the eastern flank of the nearest mountain. Much of the crest of the spur was taken up by a wide plateau, nestling in the shadow of a taller peak with layers of snow and ice crystals glistening at its summit. The remains of early morning mist clung to the spur, hiding much of the crest, but Bail could glimpse a number of decaying walls and stone buildings. These were perched on artificial mounds of soil and rock, much like baronial keeps back in the Winter Realm, but here the mounds were arranged into neat squares piled on top of each
other, like the steps of a ladder.
The frantic pace of the clan slowed for a moment as each member broke stride to gaze in awe at the Slumber. Then the sound of bull-horns sounded faintly behind them, and Amkur’s cracked, harsh voice jolted them back into a run.
“Quickly! Quickly, now!” he shouted. “They are almost upon us!”
* * * *
The army moved slowly, with frequent stops to rest and scout out the wilderness ahead, but Hoshea stubbornly refused pleas from his officers to pick up the pace.
“Too many Temerian armies have broken their teeth on these mountains,” he told them, “thanks to their arrogance and lack of caution. We will not repeat such mistakes.”
“My Lord Protector,” piped up one of the recently-arrived nobles, rolling Hoshea’s new title around his tongue as if trying to get used to it. “Might you tell us why we are here? For what real purpose are you leading us into the High Places? All the tin and iron was mined out of them years ago. Bringing the clans to heel may be a worthwhile ambition, but they could just as easily be starved into surrender.”
“You are mistaken. There is something precious here, something very precious indeed. And I mean to have it.”
That was as much information as he would give them. His officers also protested that, at the current rate of progress, the army would take weeks or even months to cut through the forests and into the heart of the mountains. Hoshea was deaf to their protests and their questions.
The unhappy military men were sent away, baffled, and looked with suspicion and a touch of dread at the strange young men and women whom Hoshea entertained in his tent at night. Their presence had still not been explained, and they drifted arrogantly through the camp in twos and threes, ignoring the soldiers and muttering quietly among themselves.
Despite the unhappy mood and atmosphere of rising suspicion, the army continued to grind its way through the oddly silent forests. Hoshea doubled the guards as his teams of axe-men carved a route deeper into High Blood territory, but there were no signs of the clans. At night he asked his pet demon why they were encountering no resistance, but the Maker was frustratingly coy and, like all demons, did his utmost to avoid answering direct questions.
The Path of Sorrow Page 26
