The Path of Sorrow

by David Pilling

  * * * *

  Shalita was admitted into Hoshea’s tent to find her master taking a bath. From somewhere he had found a wooden tub and sat with only his head, knees, and shoulders visible above the steaming hot water. She, bloody and bedraggled after the battle for The Slumber, looked on him with envy.

  His head was resting against the back of the tub. “I sensed you from a long way off,” he murmured, the water sloshing as he shifted position. “You have a powerful presence, my dear, more so than most living creatures. As you can see, I have abused my authority to indulge in a little luxury.”

  “Well deserved, Lord,” she said carefully, moving a little closer to the tub, “after your fine victory. Not a single barbarian remains in arms. The survivors are being loaded down in chains.”

  “So my officers tell me. A fine victory indeed, it is not every day one exterminates the last remnants of a proud people and culture. What a disgusting creature I have become.”

  Hoshea spoke without any real emotion in his voice, and she found it difficult to gauge his mood. “I killed three of them myself, Lord,” she ventured, moving closer still.

  “Men, women, or children?” He sighed and raised his hands, staring at them as if he could read something significant in the flow of water trickling through his fingers. “No, don’t answer that. I’m sure I don’t want to know. I have much on my conscience, Shalita, too much. Shall I tell you why I started this war?”

  She sat down on the rug like an obedient child waiting for a story, crossing her thin white legs in front of her. “You wished to obtain the child named Sorrow, Lord, and knew he was in the company of the High Bloods.”

  “So much I told you, yes. He was the last of a wandering desert tribe, the direct descendants of the first people to walk this world, made out of earth and water by the Gods. As such, the purest royal blood ran in his veins, the blood of the first kings of men and the first sorcerers.”

  He sat up and pointed at an object lying on his camp bed, wrapped and half-hidden inside a golden silk cloth. “My soldiers retrieved that from the bloody shambles of the temple,” he said. “They told me a giant barbarian warrior fought to the death to protect it, killing nine men before they finally brought him down.”

  Intrigued, Shalita peered at it. “What is it, Lord? It looks like a pile of old rocks.”

  “It is. The High Bloods called them Heartstones. In ancient times, their priests carved the One Hundred Decrees on it, a sort of code for living. The Heartstones were supposed to have been lost thousands of years ago. Evidently someone found them again.”

  Now her interest was truly roused, as it always was by sources of potential power. “Do they contain sorcery, then?” she asked, her voice full of eagerness.

  He laughed wearily. “No. They are what they appear to be. Old stones, nothing more, though they will make for interesting museum relics. I cannot help wondering who found them, though. I suspect it was Sorrow. My men cannot find his body.”

  Disappointed, she turned her attention back to Hoshea. “You were telling me of Sorrow, Lord.”

  “I was. Well, in the good old days, when I was a happy slave, General Saqr ordered me to arrange the destruction of Sorrow’s entire tribe. He had discovered their existence, you see, and thought their bloodline threatened his own claim to the throne of Temeria, flimsy though that was. So I sent three hundred soldiers to wipe them out. I am no stranger to genocide. They accomplished the task in a single night, with the exception of Sorrow. Somehow he escaped.”

  “When the general lost his wits, and I learned one of the tribe had survived, I knew I had to have him. I did not intend to rule as Protector for long. The people of Temeria would never accept a jumped-up slave lording it over them. They are used to Emperors and Kings, and I meant to give them one. I have failed.”

  Shalita slowly rose, unfolding her long bony body, and produced a knife from inside her tattered blood-stained gown. The knife was a proper butcher’s tool, a sharp sliver of steel, whetted with the blood of the three people she had killed already that day.

  She took a step closer to the tub, and Hoshea glanced up at her. A slow smile spread across his face as he saw the knife. “Now what’s this?” he asked. “Do you intend to murder me in my bath? For shame, Shalita, and I have so much left to teach you as well. Take another step closer and I will shout for the guards. Or, and I really don’t want to have to do this, unleash the demon.”

  “I know how you learned your art,” breathed Shalita, the steel glittering in her hand, reflecting the unsettling gleam in her green eyes. “You had it all from books. You are no natural sorcerer, and there is nothing you can teach me. I have talent. But there is something of yours I want.”

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Hoshea’s face. She was very close now and could reach him with a sudden leap. There would be no time to call his guards before her blade was in his flesh.

  Damn her! Was there not a single honest, faithful soul in the whole of Temeria? Hoshea knew he had been a fool to trust her and a bigger fool to let her get so close. He would have to call on The Maker. He did not want to have to kill Shalita, but as so often since he had assumed the title of Protector, needs must.

  He reached out with his will to the place where the demon slumbered, bound in the chains of sorcery, and commanded him to awake. The Maker twitched resentfully in his sleep, but that was all. Irritated, Hoshea goaded him again, and again, the demon refused his call.

  Something was wrong. Hoshea became aware a rival willpower contended for The Maker’s attention. Alarmed, he glanced up at Shalita and saw her smiling down at him. It was a cruel smile, tightening the corners of her thin face, and her green eyes sparkled in triumph.

  “I am stronger than you and have no need of this,” she said, holding up the knife between finger and thumb and letting it drop. “You will die now, and I will take the demon and use him to my own ends.”

  The Maker was yawning now, and the chains Hoshea had so carefully wrapped about him were falling away, despite The Protector’s frantic efforts to secure them. The demon’s gold-flecked eyes opened and looked straight at him, and the beginnings of a growl stirred in the depths of the his scaly throat.

  “Guards,” Hoshea whimpered, water cascading from him as he half-rose in his bath, but nothing in the world could save him now. He saw the demon rise, stretch languidly like some kind of hideous reptilian cat, and flex its wickedly hooked talons, the same talons that had torn so many High Bloods asunder.

  “Master, I have you now,” The Maker hissed, licking his lips with a long grey tongue. Hoshea yelled in terror, but no sound came out of his mouth. His former student had used her will to strangle his vocal cords, allowing her to watch his grisly demise without fear of interruption.

  Slowly, painfully, Hoshea died.

  * * * *

  The Jagged Blade sailed South-East, back to The Western Isles. Temeria had faded into the distance several days previously, along with the black pillar of smoke rising from the well-sacked city of Hasan.

  Wade stood on the forecastle and watched the sky. It neared midday. His plan would soon come to fruition, either making him the new master of the Western Isles or a bloated over-ambitious corpse.

  The thought of failure made his skin prickle. He was one of the most feared ravagers ever to pollute the seas. The mention of his name inspired terror from Temeria to the Winter Realm to the Girdle Sea, but he was still just a man, and a man who had just made the biggest gamble of his career. For the first time since he could remember, he felt a pang of fear. It made him feel young again.

  As the ship headed towards the House of Unkindness, he studied the horizon intently for the sign he was looking for, the sign which would signal his rise or fall. He sighed, closed his eyes as the breeze stole the smoke from his pipe and whisked it away over his shoulder, and smiled to himself, resolving whichever way it went, his legacy would be undeniable.

  When he opened his eyes again, Wade could see in the far distance wh
at he had been waiting for—a vast black cloud, spreading out like smoke from the House of Unkindness. Gradually, the cloud spread and thinned as the Jagged Blade approached. As it passed over the ship, Wade could see what it was made of, and his smile widened.

  Ravens, scattering in all directions. The crew fell silent, gaping in bewilderment at the vast black unkindness passing over them.

  Wade’s serene half-smile returned to his face, and he sauntered back to his cabin. This called for a drink.

  * * * *

  Naiyar stared at the ceiling of his temple. Kayla slept peacefully by his side. He had woken up covered in a glistening layer of sweat, as he had every night for a long time. His dreams had become disturbed, his waking hours dogged by premonitions and strange omens he could not ignore.

  He was exhausted. Something had been playing on his mind, and now he sensed it was coming to pass. For better or worse. He was tense, helpless; something major was coming, but he was powerless to interfere.

  He patiently waited for the final scene to play out in his head.

  While Kayla pretended to sleep, he crept from his bed and soft-footed to the edge of the temple’s platform. High above the jungle, he gazed at the stars and knew it was over.

  The Elephant, the pattern he had watched avidly since he was a child, had changed. Now he saw something completely different. He rubbed his eyes, muttering to himself. He saw no elephant now, but a child with his dog, staring into the universe.

  He gazed at the new cluster of stars, unsurprised and relieved it was over, but with a deep sense of impending doom. Not his own doom, but a feeling this was just the beginning, the beginning of a dark time, a time that would see the world shaken to its roots.

  “Naiyar?” Kayla appeared behind him, touching him gently about his waist with her fingertips.

  Naiyar stared silently at the sky.

  “Naiyar”, she repeated. “I have sensed that whatever troubles you is building to a climax. I don’t know why, but I cannot see what you see. I think I have been with you too long.”

  “You knew what you were doing when you stayed here. Am I not worth it?” Naiyar replied irritably.

  Kayla frowned. “You know I don’t regret anything. I stayed for you, and you are all I want. I just want to know what you’re thinking. I want to understand, because I want to be with you in all things. You know that.”

  “I know.” He reached up and touched her hand, his eyes still fixated on the stars. “I’m sorry. I see everything. It plagues me. It haunts me. I see the ghosts of people who are yet to die. Sometimes I don’t know if I am seeing the future or the past. But now I am certain.”

  “What do you see?”

  Naiyar looked up at the stars again and knew a storm was coming.

  “Sorrow.”

  * * * *

  The storm had raged for some time. The room was lit by a roaring fire in the hearth, and Dickon's half-melted face seemed to writhe in the light of the dancing flames. Occasionally his ruined features were picked out in stark black and white, as a fork of lightning lit the world with its unforgiving glare, then vanished.

  The wind howled in the chimney and the flames spat and crackled restlessly, as if the deafening thunder brought with it portents that only they understood. But trapped as they were in the coals of the great hearth of the World's Roof, their struggle was in vain.

  The similarities to his own plight were not lost on Colken. He tossed back his drink and grimaced. It was a hard mountain liquor that burned his throat on its way down, but it warmed his chest and the sweet, malty after-taste was not unpleasant. He placed his mug on the bar and refilled it from the jug provided earlier by Scark, the dog-eared proprietor of the lonely inn.

  Follie sat with his uncle, Dickon, and both gazed silently into the flames. Yesterday sat with Colken at a table and concentrated on brutally devouring a bowl of grey slop that Scark called lamb stew, though the ingredients were anyone’s guess. Yesterday did not seem bothered. Colken had tried the food and the ale and both tasted like shit. At least the hard-bitten mountain man had good, hard liquor, and Colken was in no position to be picky. Pick sat to Colken's right, honing the blade of a dagger with a whetstone.

  They had ridden for five days north and then west from the battle at the Eagle's Slumber and stopped here at the World's Roof, high in the foothills. They planned to head towards the west coast of Temeria, where there were cities and towns. Colken was tired of living in the wilderness and eager to sample what luxuries Temerian civilisation might have to offer. Finally released from the clutches of the Raven Queen, Colken yearned for adventure.

  He remembered the conversation he had had with Naiyar at Temple Rock, when the prophet had first granted him his freedom. So much had happened since. It all seemed like a dream now, and he could finally live his life as he pleased. Perhaps Yesterday would retire from the soldier's life and be his guide, he had grown to trust the old mercenary with his life. It dawned on him then that in Yesterday he had a true friend. It was feeling he had almost forgotten.

  Colken's thoughts were interrupted when the door burst open and clattered against the wall. The sound of the storm outside became deafening and an icy breeze brought rain with it followed by a dripping stranger who slammed the door with no small effort and stalked up to the bar. The stranger's face remained in shadow beneath a hood and Colken could not hear what he said as he leaned over and muttered something to Scark. The barman fetched a jug of liquor and a mug. The newcomer tossed a few coins on the bar and drank straight from the jug.

  Colken noticed Dickon and Follie turn and look at the new arrival. Yesterday continued to noisily eat his stew, but now with his good eye staring across the bar. Pick merely glanced up from his blade and continued his work with the whetstone.

  The stranger was tall and, whether it was down to the effects of the journey he must have made to get there Colken couldn't tell, but his posture could only be described as crooked. For a time the figure remained there in silence, watched suspiciously by the five mercenaries. He tipped the jug back repeatedly, grasping it with bony fingers and drinking deep, each time with a rasping exhalation.

  Eventually the hooded head inclined towards Colken, revealing a long, hooked nose and two light blue eyes surrounded by dark rings. His face was well worn and scarred and he looked tired, though his eyes were alert and intelligent; appearing younger than the visage that housed them.

  “Heading west,” he croaked, and Colken was unsure whether it was a question or a statement.

  The stranger's blue eyes scanned the five bedraggled men, then he glanced around the room and shrugged. “Not the safest place for such a small band. You're mercenaries, I'd wager. What are mercenaries doing this far north and west?”

  “The war is over,” grunted Dickon.

  The stranger's eyebrows rose at that, and Yesterday's dropped into a lopsided frown.

  “We've been in more dangerous places,” muttered the one eyed veteran, stew dripping from his beard, “and we're still here.”

  “I see,” the stranger replied, eyeing Yesterday's battered and faded uniform, “General Anma got no more use for you then?”

  “You've got keen eyes, stranger. But Anma's dead,” growled Yesterday, “General Saqr was more ruthless than we thought. Seems he made use of an assassin, and not for the first time.”

  There followed a heavily pregnant pause while Yesterday's good eye held both the stranger's.

  “Saqr has Temeria now.” Follie nervously broke the silence. “Calls himself The Protector.”

  “I suppose you'll be heading west then,” said the stranger, his blue eyes still wrestling with Yesterday's beady loner, “this is rugged country, not a safe place to get lost. You'll need a guide.”

  “And what will you require in return for this service?” asked Yesterday.

  “Nothing. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.” said the stranger. “I'll show you the safest and quickest route to the west coast and in return I enjoy the protec
tion of a company of soldiers. It's a match made in heaven!” He spread his hands and smiled.

  “And what brings you here?” demanded Yesterday.

  “I'm a hunter. I was ambushed by bandits three days ago. I escaped with my life and my horse but not much else.”

  “You ain't no Temerian,” said Yesterday, “where are you from?”

  “I was born on the Landring Peninsular, my mother was from The Winter Realm.”

  “We ride at dawn,” said Colken, “or as soon as the storm blows over.”

  Yesterday looked at Colken as if to protest, but said nothing.

  “Glad to be joining you, Friend.”

  “Colken,” replied the Djanki, “this is Yesterday, that's Pick, Follie and Dickon.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” replied the stranger, “the name's Bail. Well, I've been riding for three days and I need some sleep. I think I'll retire.” Bail drained his jug of liquor, nodded to Colken and Yesterday and disappeared.

  “He's no hunter,” Yesterday spoke quietly into Colken's ear.

  “You know him?” replied Colken.

  “I've seen him before. At first I couldn't place him but now I remember. He's a killer.”

  “As are we all,” said the Djanki.

  “We're soldiers,” said Yesterday, “he's an assassin. The kind of man who would slash your throat while you sleep rather than trade blows. A coward. He's lied to us already. He's not to be trusted.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I've seen him before. When General Harsu looked certain to win the civil war, Anma colluded with Saqr. They hired this 'hunter' to kill Harsu. He took his time doing it though. Eventually, Anma and Saqr met Harsu on the pretext of swearing allegiance and proclaiming him emperor. Just when we thought Anma's agent had been bought by Harsu, he stuck a stiletto right through the general's heart and all hell broke loose. I was part of Anma's escort, we had to fight our way through Harsu's guard. It was bloody chaos. I tell you, he's dangerous and unpredictable.”