The Path of Sorrow Page 4

  Silt hauled himself to his feet, catching hold of his breeches at the same time. He sneered at Colken,

  “Well done, you fucking idiot, you've just signed your own death warrant. And for what, this whore?” Silt gave a dry, strangled laugh, pointing at Colken, mocking him. “What were you going to do, save the damsel in distress?” He laughed until he was almost out of breath, then composed himself and waved an arm.

  “Kill him!”

  The other members of the crew shuffled uncertainly towards Colken, still haunted by the memory of what he had done to their crewmates months before.

  Their hesitation was a mistake. In a blur of movement, Colken brought an elbow up under Silt's chin. The first mate's head flew back as he was felled, grunting like a pig. In the same movement Colken turned and kicked Scutum in the guts. The big man involuntarily wailed as all the air was forced out of his lungs. His head lurched forwards conveniently to meet Colken's knee with a hollow crack. As his face sent a spray of blood and teeth into the air, Colken dropped his leg sharply and dislocated Scutum's knee with his heel.

  Scutum screamed like a giant baby and pitched forward onto his face. The men behind him looked at each other and back at Colken, no-one willing to attack first.

  * * * *

  Silt, assuming Colken would be kept busy by the other pirates, turned his attention back to the woman, but she had regained her senses by now and fled towards the stern end of the hold. He gave chase.

  “Come back here you bitch!”

  “No! Please!” she cried as he cornered her once again.

  Silt was losing patience. The knife wound in his arm was deep and throbbed painfully, his back was agony, and Colken had aggravated the old injury in his jaw. As Silt's concentration momentarily lapsed, the woman ducked under his outstretched arm and ran back towards Colken.

  Silt followed, but more slowly, seeing she had nowhere to run.

  * * * *

  Colken darted forward and jabbed the nearest man in the throat. As he sagged forward, choking, Colken wrenched his head sideways to hear the satisfying crunch of his neck breaking, and allowed the lifeless body to drop. This spurred the rest into action and they attempted to rush him all at once.

  The first two, inseparable identical twins with matching faces and reputations, were incapacitated within seconds, one lay jerking and twitching with a broken back, the other gasping for breath with a smashed sternum and a punctured lung. The two remaining pirates backed away; a skinny, pock-marked weasel called Louse and a stocky little bull of a man with a bald, shiny head by the name of Bubbles, a name he had acquired when he nearly drowned in a barrel of ale following a particularly intense drinking session.

  Louse turned and ran up the ladder, calling the rest of the crew. Colken cursed inwardly, any chance of him getting away with this was gone now he had allowed a witness to escape.

  At that moment the woman came shrieking and clung to Colken's back. He span around, gripped her, and drew his belt knife as he backed away from Silt and Bubbles.

  “If you want her, come and get her,” Colken invited both men to fight, but Silt was happy to wait for the rest of the crew to arrive, and Colken would be outnumbered too heavily, even for him, and killed.

  “Do you know what's going to happen, Colken?” Silt goaded him. “We're going to kill you. Then I'm going to have her and give her to my men when I've finished. And when they're bored with her they'll toss her overboard.”

  Colken looked at Silt and then at Bubbles, who stood twitching, waiting for his crew to arrive. He could hear the clamour on the upper deck getting louder as more men came to Silt’s aid. He was running out of time.

  Colken span the woman around to face Silt, one arm across her chest, and put his lips to her ear.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “It is better this way.”

  The woman's eyebrows raised briefly in disbelief as Colken drew his blade across her throat. Silt stared in shock, his bleeding lips hanging open.

  Before Silt could recover his wits, Colken dropped the fading woman to pump out her life force over the deck and skipped forward, delivering a fierce combination of fists and elbows to Silt's torso and head. Silt reeled back, hitting the bulkhead. As he rebounded, Colken slid behind him and cut his throat from ear to ear, pulling his head back so the wound gaped and blood streamed down his front.

  The first mate of the Jagged Blade sank to the deck and expired.

  Bubbles turned to run, knowing he would die too, and slipped in the rapidly expanding puddle of blood. As he landed on his face, Colken stamped on the back of his neck and leaped towards the ladder leading to the upper deck. He bellowed a war cry, hearing the Djanki war-horns in his head.

  His cry was cut short by a sharp pain in his forehead. The world went white, and then black. More pirates rushed him as he fell, bent on avenging their comrades.

  * * * *

  “Get away from him, you waste of good flesh! You sea-slugs, you cradles of human filth! Get away, I say!”

  Captain Wade stood at the top of the ladder glaring down at his crew, who stopped suddenly, like children caught in the act. Beside him was his pet dwarf, Erlo, a mute hairless little man, deadly with a slingshot. He had cast the stone that knocked Colken out cold.

  Wade might have been a handsome man, once, but years of piracy and evil living had prematurely aged him. His tall, bony frame was stooped, yellow skin stretched tight over his bones, and he had the look of a man recovering from a fever. Despite that, he was still an impressive figure, almost a dandy in his immaculately brushed black coat, ruffled white shirt, and the cheap gold jewellery that dripped from his ears and fingers. Curling grey ringlets fell to his shoulders, a drooping moustache and pleated beard completed the effect.

  The pirates of the Isles were careful to show respect to this stringy, slightly ridiculous-looking figure, for even among their degraded kind he was remarkable for his viciousness and rampant greed. “Bloody” Wade, as well as being one of the most unpleasant of criminals, was right-hand man to the Raven Queen herself.

  “Any man who disobeys me will have his skin pulled off and salt thrown on his innards,” Wade drawled, fingering the ornate basket hilt of his rapier. No-one aboard the Jagged Blade had ever seen him use the weapon, though he was rumoured to be a lethal swordsman.

  “He killed Silt, Captain!” someone called back.

  “Good!” Wade uttered his oddly high-pitched laugh. “Silt was an excrescence and deserved to die. Besides, I have a job for this one. Bring him to my cabin.”

  3.

  The wasteland known as The Burned Earth was named so for good reason. Once a great stretch of fertile low-lying countryside, the bread basket of Western Temeria, it had been devastated by the civil wars that marked the end of the reign of the last Emperor. Each of the contending factions had employed sorcerers, and the conflicting energies had polluted the sky and burned the rich land to cinders. Having ruined the crops and slaughtered or enslaved the local peasants, the sorcerers and the armies they fought for died or dispersed, leaving a barren ghost-haunted waste behind them.

  Bail knew something of the history and would have cheerfully strangled a sorcerer, if any had been in reach. He had toiled across the desert for six days, keeping his eyes fixed on the west. Somewhere in that direction, though he wasn’t sure how far, lay the lush heartlands of Temeria, a land of milk and honey and warm, soft beds. More importantly, Bail had never been there. He hoped to adopt a new name and lose himself in the region before the Generals came looking for him. The money he was supposed to have earned for betraying Harsu he wrote off as necessary expenses.

  At least he was not lacking in food or water, for he had taken enough of both from the wreckage of the chariot. The driver, Asu, had carried a hide waterskin, which Bail now wore slung around his middle like a bloated sausage. He had also liberated some biscuit and dried meat from the driver’s stiffening corpse. For completeness, he had cut the throats of the crippled horses and made a hasty meal
of their flesh, cutting chunks from their warm bodies and hastily devouring as much as his stomach could endure. Bail liked to think of himself as a civilised man, but in the Burned Earth a man needed all the nourishment he could get.

  That was six days ago. Six days across the punishing desert, a desert unlike any other in the world. The barren land that he toiled over was made of powdery grey soil, like compacted ash. The soil was soft and gave way under his feet, slowing his progress and sapping his strength. Frequent winds rolled across the desert, whipping up the ash-like substance and hurling it into his face. When the winds blew hard he was obliged to tie a strip of cloth over his eyes and walk blind, for the ash blew into his eyes.

  The Burned Earth had driven many a lost traveller insane, and Bail could understand why. During the day the sky was a weird light mauve colour, a leftover of the sorcery that had overturned the balance of nature centuries before, steadily darkening to a rich blood-red at night. Bail could not get used to the unnatural colouring of the sky, and found it almost impossible to sleep.

  Other things kept him awake. The bones of thousands of dead soldiers lay in the Burned Earth, remains of peasants or the soldiers that had marched and fought here centuries ago. They had fought like wild beasts, those warriors of long ago, butchering each other even as the fires of sorcery streaked over their heads or seared through their ranks.

  The ghosts of the dead warriors were restless and wandered the desolate, shifting landscape at night. Their whispering voices were carried by the wind, sometimes pleading, sometimes threatening, always annoying.

  They kept Bail awake at night, whispering in his ear even though he had made it quite clear that he had no interest in their company. Three were more persistent than the rest, and to them he gave names appropriate to their character: Pity-Me, who made constant demands for Bail’s sympathy; Amend-All, who seemed to think Bail could cure all his woes; and Join-Us, who took great delight in predicting how Bail would soon die and his spirit join their ranks.

  “Really, gentlemen,” said Bail as he plodded up yet another grey dune on the morning of the sixth day, “you were once soldiers, and, I assume, men of courage. You might show a little more fortitude.”

  The trio of spirits whisked and moaned around his head.

  “There is no fortitude in the face of death, Master,” whined the voice of Pity-Me, “only restless torment and despair. Doomed to wander, Master, we are doomed to wander until the last light in the world winks out.”

  Amend-All chimed in. “The good master can help us. He will know how to help us poor wraiths find peace at last.”

  Bail reached the top of the dune and stopped, wiping the sweat from his brow and shading his eyes to peer west.

  As always, he could see no sign of civilisation, nothing but miles and miles of Burned Earth, an endless horizon of grey and mauve.

  “It must end soon,” he muttered through cracked lips. He badly needed a drop of water, and reached for the stopper of his precious waterskin.

  The voice of Join-Us screeched in his ear. “No use, no use! Water cannot save you! You only delay the inevitable, why prolong your pain any further? Lie down, lie down and give up the ghost!”

  Bail took a mouthful from the skin, just enough to lubricate his dry throat. He had no great liking for any of the spirits, but found Join-Us particularly irritating. Join-Us was also the only one who didn’t call him master.

  “I have no intention of dying here,” said Bail, “and if I did, I would be most unpleasant company. Now be silent.”

  The spirits didn’t listen and continued to moan in his ear as he trudged on. After another hour the pains in his legs and back could not be ignored any longer and he was forced to stop again.

  “I would give much,” he said as he stretched his length on the powdery earth, “to see another human face. Spirits, be useful and go and look for another living person to keep me company. There must be another lost traveller somewhere in the Burned Earth.”

  Pity-Me and Amend-All whisked off to do his bidding. Join-Us ignored the command and continued to try and persuade Bail of the benefits of dying.

  * * * *

  Rolling up his cloak as a pillow, Bail did his best to ignore the insistent whispering voice and get some sleep.

  He woke to find the sky darkening to the rich blood-red of night. Cursing himself for having slept too long, Bail stiffly got to his feet and wrapped his cloak about him against the evening chill.

  “Well?” he said wearily, sensing the presence of the spirits.

  “There is another living soul, not far from here,” hissed the voice of Join-Us, “another foolish wanderer, soon destined to join the army of the dead. We found him lurking beneath a tomb.”

  Hope surged in Bail’s breast. “Take me to him.”

  And so they did. It was not long before he spied the tomb, a square black shape rising in silhouette against the dark crimson sky.

  “Behold,” whined the voice of Pity-Me, “the last resting place of Askari, War-Duke of Mur during the time of the Sixth Dynasty. Great were his achievements, noble Askari, and many were his victories.”

  “Yes, yes,” snapped Bail, “I have seen such tombs before. Temeria is covered with the wretched things.”

  He had indeed seen many tombs since arriving in Temeria. The worship of dead heroes was popular, and splendid tombs erected to their memory were scattered across the land. This one looked to be centuries old, for it was in poor repair and must have dated from before the time of the Burned Earth.

  As Bail trudged nearer, he saw that the hero-tomb was built along the usual lines. The tomb itself was a marble chamber raised up on a square pillar of dark limestone. Covering the chamber was a flat, overhanging roof, cut from a single block of stone. The images carved on the marble were badly abraded after centuries of neglect and exposure to the elements, but still legible. Askari himself, a bearded warrior, was shown accepting a sword and shield from a kneeling maiden. Bare-breasted harpies were at the corners, carrying Askari’s soul to the Celestial Sphere.

  Of far more interest to Bail was the small figure he saw sitting cross-legged at the base of the pillar. At first he thought the figure must be some sort of monk, considering the dark loose robes and shaved head, but then a small round face looked up and smiled at him.

  It was a boy. From his deliberately limited experience of children, Bail judged him to be about six or seven years old.

  The boy’s pipe-cleaner body was wrapped in a heavy smock of some crude brown cloth, and he wore sandals. His face was round and pale-skinned, with narrow slit eyes, a button nose, and a stubborn little rosebud mouth. Some time ago his head had been shaved, but now the stubble was starting to grow through.

  Bail took his hand from his dagger. “Are you another spirit?” he asked, “because if so, I’ll thank you not to bother me. I have quite enough of your kind to deal with.”

  “I am flesh and blood,” the boy replied in a solemn voice. “I met your spirits. They guided me here.”

  “Did they indeed? And where are they now? Their cursed whispering seems to have stopped.”

  The boy smiled, creasing his cheeks into dimples. “I told them to go away. Was that wrong?”

  Bail looked at the boy warily. “I’ve been telling them to get lost for almost a week. Why should they listen to you?”

  “I have the knack of knowing how to talk to spirits. You have to be firm, but respectful as well. You made the mistake of not showing them any respect. My name is Sorrow, and I have been waiting for you.”

  “For me? How? We’ve never met before.”

  “No, but you are the fulfilment of a prophecy. In the time of Sorrow, so it goes, one shall take shelter under the Dead, and there be met by the Crooked Man.”

  Bail was not convinced. “I’m not crooked,” he objected, and the boy laughed.

  “Not in body, perhaps,” Sorrow conceded, “but in mind...are you not a most terrible thief and liar?”

  “You are clearly a
ghost,” Bail insisted, “otherwise you could not possibly know anything about me. And how would a child come to be wandering in this desolation?”

  Sorrow’s smile vanished, and he screwed up his eyes as if wincing at a terrible memory. “Some time ago, I woke on a field soaked in the blood of my kin. The murderers of my tribe had done their work, and were gone. For a time I gave way to despair, but then God came and showed me my family, my loved ones and friends, dwelling in peace and joy in the Life-To-Come. In time, God said to me, I would join them. But my way in this world is not yet done. He told me of the prophecy and bade me come here, to the land of the dead.”

  Bail shook his head. “I never heard a child who spoke like you before. You must be the shade of a child who died out here. Don’t dog my footsteps, shade.”

  He turned his face to the west and strode away. A few seconds later Sorrow appeared next to him, padding lightly over the soft earth even as Bail’s feet sank into it.

  “I asked you not to follow,” Bail said irritably. By way of reply Sorrow reached up and pinched his forearm.

  “Could a ghost do that?” the boy asked as Bail yelped.

  “I have no idea, but if you do it again I’ll…” Bail’s voice trailed off as he tried to think how one threatened a ghost. Nothing came to mind, so he fell silent.

  The two mismatched figures walked on through the deep silence of the Burned Earth. The spirits watched them go, but did not follow.

  * * * *

  Colken woke in total darkness.

  He lay on his back on a hard, raised surface. He was faintly aware of subtle movement, a barely perceptible swaying of the room accompanied by an occasional creaking, as of some huge construction constantly shifting.

  As his senses gradually returned to him, he could detect the familiar scent of salt and damp wood in his nostrils.