The Path of Sorrow Page 3

  In recent times the sprawling interior of Silverback had fallen silent. The disaster of the Twelfth Reconquest, an overseas campaign that claimed many lives and yielded little gain, had wiped out over three-quarters of the Temple’s military strength. Discouraged and frightened, many of the servants had stolen away to find better employ, leaving only die hard loyalists to tend to their decimated masters.

  The remaining population huddled for comfort in the western quarter of the Temple, leaving the rest to be reclaimed by darkness. The surviving knights moved like ghosts through the haunted corridors of their own past, surrounded by dusty reminders of former glory. Statues and busts of hard-faced former Masters glared down at them, as if daring their descendants to do something to arrest the decline.

  Presiding over this decay was the fifty-fourth Grand Master, Fulk the No Man’s Son. He was the youngest to ever hold the title, having acquired it on the battlefield when he was just eighteen, and even now he was not yet twenty.

  Fulk was unconventional in other respects. His eyes had been torn out during the failed Reconquest by some unknown enemy, and yet he could see as well as any. He was also possessed of strange witch-like powers, though he used them as little as possible. Historically, the Templars had loathed sorcery and sorcerers, and Fulk was aware that some of the older knights were privately disgusted by his appointment.

  For many weeks now he had kept to his chambers at the heart of the labyrinth, brooding in semi-darkness over maps of the Winter Realm. Few made the effort to visit him unless summoned, but one who stayed with him was his concubine, Edith.

  Edith of the Swan’s Path, she was known as, both for her graceful carriage and the elegant way she sailed through life. Before going into his self-imposed seclusion, Fulk had seen her among the holy sisters at a chapel dedicated to Kayla, the Goddess of Plenty, and ordered his knights to abduct her. When the abbess protested, he blithely informed the shocked old woman that Edith’s beauty was too precious to be wasted on Kayla. The girl herself had not protested at being plucked from the sisterhood, and indeed seemed to welcome it. She had certainly wasted no time in surrendering to Fulk’s clumsy advances.

  On a day much like any day in the deep silence of the mountain, Edith lay stretched out on a sofa next to Fulk’s chair. His chamber was better-lit and less damp than it was before her arrival, due to her insistence on a proper fire in the grate and torches hung on the walls.

  She was pretending to read a book, a cracked leather volume of Templar lore, and idly playing with her hair, which was so blonde it was almost white. Her hair fascinated Fulk, who was fond of describing it as a river of molten gold, as did her body, her mind, her face, and her moods. He was, in short, enraptured by her and spent much effort pretending not to be.

  Fulk sat in his high-backed chair, chin resting on his fist as he contemplated the map laid out on the floor before him. He was capable of sitting like this for hours, but Edith was bored of her book and wanted conversation.

  “Felipe will be here soon,” she said, laying the book down carefully on the bare stone floor and stretching like a cat. “And I still think it’s a foolish idea.”

  Fulk didn’t speak or move. His empty eye-sockets were covered by a white silk bandage, but his face stayed resolutely fixed on the map. Smiling, Edith slowly rose from her sofa—considered an obscene luxury by Fulk’s knights, but she had insisted on some comforts—and sauntered towards her lover.

  “Did you hear me?” she enquired, gently running her hand through his hair. It was cropped brutally short, military style, and fair, though not as fair as hers.

  “You must not call me foolish. I am the Grand Master.”

  His voice was deliberately harsh and clipped. The voice of a boy striving to sound like a man, and Edith knew it. By way of reply she rested a cool palm on his cheek, leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips. Fulk didn’t move, but his body tensed.

  She let him go and turned to look at the map of the Winter Realm. “Your idea is one forged in a head that spends too long in the dark,” she said. “You say the land needs a King to unify it. Very well, unify it. Ride out and claim the throne.”

  He shook his head. They had argued this many times before. “No, a thousand times no. I am base-born and have no right to it.”

  “Then make a King. Pick some weak-headed nobleman who looks good on a horse and does what he’s told, and stick the crown on his head. Be the power behind the throne.”

  Fulk leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees, and wearily massaged his forehead. “Unity and peace is all I want. Not power. I want to give the realm a strong ruler, not a gilded dummy who has to be led everywhere. Gods above, must we chop words over this again?”

  Edith went back to her sofa. “Foolish,” she remarked, yawning as she sat. “A foolish, idealistic boy with a head full of noble gestures, that’s what you are. If I am to turn you into a man, you must heed my advice. Why else did you take me from my chapel?”

  He didn’t answer, but fell back into a brooding silence. Edith swallowed her impatience and picked up a row of coloured beads on a string, a relic from her days as a novice. When Fulk was being particularly infuriating, she kept her composure by twisting the beads through her fingers and concentrating on something else. She chose to study the map.

  From the furthest reaches of the wild north, to the Iron Gate far to the south that was the Winter Realm’s only safe gateway to the sea, the land was torn by war. Since the death of the realm’s last legitimate monarch, a baby poisoned by an unknown assassin, the noble Houses had fought and clawed at each other for the vacant throne.

  Law and order in the provinces was now decided by whatever petty lordling managed to seize power for a time. Illegal castles had sprung up like mushrooms after rain, garrisoned by sadistic devils rather than men, and everywhere the common people suffered and cried out for a saviour. Or else they shifted for themselves, and turned back to ancient practices and codes of belief that had been out of fashion for centuries.

  The beads ran faster through Edith’s slender white fingers. Fulk could be that saviour, she knew, if only he would summon up the courage. His latest scheme for unifying the realm was, to her mind, not only absurd but evidence of a man deliberately shying away from his destiny. And hers.

  Iron footsteps sounded on the steps outside, and the heavy oak door swung open to admit a man in armour. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on his massive frame and hid two-thirds of his face, which was a blessing. Felipe de Gascur had the appearance of a man who had thrust his head in the way of too many fights.

  He was a looming ghoul of a man, with powerful sloping shoulders and a body that carried not an ounce of fat, muscular and tapering at the waist like one half his age. Only the deep lines on his battered face betrayed his true age. Like most Templars he was vain, and his long curling hair and beard were dyed black, preserving an illusion of youth. In truth, Felipe was nearing sixty, though the years had done little to sap his strength and martial skill.

  “You are late, Felipe,” muttered Fulk, shifting in his chair. “You are always late.”

  The knight bowed stiffly from the waist. “Apologies, lord. I’ve been teaching peasant boys how to fight.” His voice was deep, guttural, and loaded with irony.

  Fulk brushed aside his sarcasm. “You know my philosophy,” he said calmly, “if caught young, a commoner can be taught to fight and ride just as well as a nobleman’s son. Those boys are our future, since the Houses have become so reluctant to send us their youth.”

  Felipe made no reply to that, but obediently advanced further into the room when Fulk beckoned him. He deliberately ignored Edith, who smiled at the insult.

  “Is everything ready for your journey?” asked Fulk.

  “Yes, lord, but I would prefer to talk with you alone.” One corner of the big knight’s mouth twitched as Edith uttered an unladylike snort.

  “She stays.” Fulk’s voice was firm.

  “Forgive me, but
to the best of my knowledge no Grand Master has ever discussed strategy in the company of his leman.”

  Edith’s laugh was a pleasant, delicate interruption. “Why not just say it, Felipe?” she asked sweetly, “for leman you mean ‘whore’. I suppose all women are whores to you, but this one has a brain. Your master has great uses for my brain, since all the muscle at his command has failed him.”

  Still Felipe didn’t look at her. “Be grateful you are a woman, Swan’s Path, though you are no lady,” he said softly. “Were you a man, your vaunted brains would be decorating the wall by now.”

  Fulk had heard enough. The close air in the room seemed to shimmer, and then twin circles of tiny bright flames appeared above the heads of his knight and his concubine.

  “I will have no bickering,” he said. Shadows slid and crawled across his face, lending him an inhuman, ghostly aspect. Edith shivered with fear and excitement at this rare display of Fulk’s otherworldly powers.

  “I am lord here.” Fulk made a gesture with his hand, and the flames lengthened. Mere illusion it might have been, but both Felipe and Edith could feel the heat inches above them.

  “I never doubt it, lord,” said Felipe. “Command me.” He dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  The flames flickered out of existence. “You do doubt me,” said Fulk, “you are one of those who think me an abomination, and rack their brains for some way of getting rid of me. I have heard you, plotting in dark corners.”

  Felipe said nothing, but broke into a light sweat as he waited for the flames to re-appear inside his body. Edith twisted her beads excitedly as she waited eagerly for Fulk to kill the man.

  Yet again, she was disappointed. “Up, Felipe” Fulk ordered, and now he looked human again, and very tired. “The future of the realm is at stake, and we shall discuss it...together.”

  * * * *

  Silt roared his command and the grappling hooks flew across the gap between the two ships. The battle cry went up from the Jagged Blade and Colken heaved back on his rope, pulling the vessels together like broken fingers around a splint. Along with the other fifty men lined up at the rail, Colken tied off his rope and leaped aboard the Queen Heloise.

  The pirates had been fooled. Another twenty liveried men swarmed from below deck, evening up the numbers, and a bloody battle erupted instead of the expected massacre. Colken quickly realised he was right; the men aboard the Queen Heloise were not prepared to go down without taking a few with them. They were all seasoned soldiers, skilful with their swords and hardened after months of fighting in their homeland. These were desperate men, and desperate men fight like demons.

  Colken had acquired a scimitar from one of the pirates he killed when he joined the Jagged Blade. He liked the swinging action of the curved blade and had found it easy to incorporate the weapon in his native marshal art, Kentau. He used his new weapon with sickening efficiency as he span and ducked through the melee, bewildering his opponents with unnatural speed and relentless movement.

  Soon the deck of the Queen Heloise was slick with blood. The northerners fought viciously and for several minutes the fight was even. Colken was surrounded by the shrill clang of steel and the high-pitched cries of men fighting and dying as blades flashed back and forth like summer lightning.

  Eventually, as more pirates piled aboard the Queen Heloise, the exhausted and blood-soaked northerners were cut down and forced back until there were just ten of them making a final stand before the entrance to the crew's quarters at the stern. The deck was littered with corpses, already being searched for anything of value while the survivors prepared for their final dance.

  A cry of excitement went up from the boarding party as the last northern soldier went down under a frenzy of swinging and stabbing blades. Before the blood-crazed pirates could storm the lower decks and cargo hold there was a cry from the rail of the Jagged Blade as Silt nimbly hopped across to the Heloise.

  “Stand back! I'll be first to the booty, before you thieving scum get your filthy hands on it!”

  Conspicuous in being the only member of the crew who wasn't drenched in blood, Silt barged through his subordinates, glared at Colken as he strode past and disappeared below deck.

  There followed a pregnant silence as the raiders caught their breaths and looked around at each other, wondering whether to follow Silt or await his return.

  The silence was broken by a scream from below deck, and Silt stumbled from the doorway clutching his forearm and swearing as blood oozed through his fingers.

  “Fucking sneaky old bastard slashed my arm!”

  He was followed by an elderly white-haired man in full armour, carrying a jewel-hilted broadsword. The old knight bellowed and swung his sword at Silt, who ducked out of the way, still clutching his bleeding arm. Scutum stepped forward and, with surprising speed, delivered a straight right. His massive fist crunched into the knight’s face, crumpling his nose.

  He landed heavily on his backside, spitting blood, and before he could recover Silt rounded on him and kicked him in the throat. Silt was apoplectic as blood streamed down his arm and ran from his fingers. Consumed with rage, Silt bellowed incoherently at the fallen knight, who still hadn't uttered a word, and began kicking him repeatedly in his unprotected face.

  His target rolled about on the deck, attempting to stand, but every time he planted a shaking hand he would have it kicked from underneath him. Eventually he stopped moving.

  Silt grabbed a handful of the man's chain mail and hauled him up so he could stare into the knight’s glazed eyes, and spat a copious lump of phlegm in his face. As the thick spittle mingled with the blood on his swollen lips, Silt drew a stiletto and grinned, showing his rotten teeth and twitching, discoloured tongue, and stuck the blade into his prey’s throat.

  The aged knight focused for a split second on his killer's malevolent visage, as though he had been woken from his concussed daze by the blade in his windpipe, then the light in his rheumy eyes faded and was gone.

  A woman screamed, making even Silt jump. She stood in the doorway, a tall woman in her early twenties with dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a rich crimson dress. She was hysterical, trembling, her hair stuck to her pale cheeks with tears. As Silt looked up, she fled inside and disappeared down a ladder into the cargo hold.

  “So you're what he was protecting, eh? There's no escape down there my darling, and daddy's gone to the Gods!”

  Silt licked his lips and ran after her, laughing. This latest development had put him in a much better mood. As he disappeared down the ladder after her, the crew of the Jagged Blade crowded through the doorway to explore the lower decks.

  * * * *

  The woman ran into the cargo hold, desperately seeking somewhere to hide, or some means of escape. But Silt had been right, the only way out was the way she had come. The cargo hold only contained a few small barrels following her father's attempt to gain speed by offloading everything inessential, so there weren't many hiding places. She sank down behind a couple of barrels of brandy, sobbing.

  Silt vaulted down the ladder singing a lewd version of an old sea shanty in his warbling, high-pitched voice. As he reached the bottom he began to undo his belt and sauntered nonchalantly into the cargo hold.

  “Come out, sweet thing,” he whispered menacingly, “come out and take your medicine. You might enjoy it. If you're a good girl I might go easy on you, I might even spare your life.”

  Silt chuckled as he taunted his victim, enjoying every moment of her fear and grief. He moved slowly down through the hold, past random bits of what was left of the cargo. A pile of pelts, wooden crates stuffed with hay, barrels of watered rum for the crew.

  As he went he began to whistle, his blackcurrant eyes darting back and forth, dirty little ears straining to detect the faintest whimper or sob.

  His whistling ceased, leaving an eerie silence. The only sounds were his breath whistling in his nose, the muffled tramping of his men on the upper decks as they looted the ship, and the ta
p, tap, tap, of the thick blood dripping from his forearm and leaving a trail of red spots on the deck.

  “There you are!” Silt darted behind the barrel and yanked her out into the gangway by her hair. She screamed and stumbled against a barrel.

  Laughing, Silt reached for her with his wounded arm. Suddenly the woman whipped out a knife she had concealed in her sleeve and stabbed at Silt's face. He was too quick, flicking his head to one side and catching her wrist, he slapped her.

  Her head snapped back, her sobs turning into exhausted gasps for breath. Silt continued to laugh as he reached up and tore the top half of her dress away from her shoulders to reveal a lacy white shift. He turned her about, threw her on top of the pile of skins, and began tugging at her dress as she struggled limply, still reeling from the blow he had given her.

  It took him a frustratingly long time to pull up her dress as he clambered on top of her, crushing her with his weight.

  “Stay still,” he grunted, “or you're fucking de-”

  Silt had no time to finish his sentence, or anything else. Someone grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back until he stared at the deckhead, then he felt a knee strike the small of his back with such force his vision went blank and he sank to the deck in agony, unable to breathe.

  The woman rolled onto her side, pulling the torn shreds of her dress back across her legs, and lay there sobbing and shaking.

  * * * *

  Colken stared down at Silt, his face emotionless. He glanced at the bedraggled woman, and then turned to see Scutum's great bulk, followed by five other pirates, coming down the ladder to see what was happening, and to find out if they would have their turn after Silt. As it happened, they would, but not quite in the way they imagined.