The Path of Sorrow Page 5

  There was a dull pain in the back of his head. Instinctively attempting to lift his hand and inspect the damage, he found he was hindered by manacles. The clink of metal and the tugging at his ankles told him that his hands and feet were tightly chained together. His attempt at movement seemed to remind his body of its recent trauma, setting off a nagging ache through every muscle and making his head throb intolerably.

  He could feel something in his chest. A sort of hollow numbness, a feeling he had never experienced. Having no means of seeing or touching the area, he put it down to some injury he had acquired and made a mental note to check it later, if he got the chance.

  He relaxed his body again, shifting his weight to ease the pain in his back, and tried to recall some memory of recent events. Various images of a fight flashed through his mind, but for a time he found it impossible to make sense of them. Gradually he was able to recall boarding the Queen Heloise and the bloodbath that had followed.

  Colken allowed himself a smile as he remembered killing Silt and wondered at the fact he was apparently still alive after the brutal melee that had ensued.

  As he finally started to wonder where in The World Apparent he was and why he wasn't lining the stomachs of sharks, he heard the muffled sound of footsteps approaching. The steps finally stopped and were followed by the jangling of a heavy set of keys. After a short pause and a faint muttering, he heard a key rattle inside a lock and the hiss-clank of two large bolts sliding open.

  The door to Colken's cell squealed open on rusty hinges. The sound sent a lance of pain through his aching head. Dim, pale light fell upon him. He squinted up at the silhouette of a tall, stooped figure, its edges still indistinct as Colken's eyes strained to focus.

  Captain Wade gazed down at Colken's massive, heavily tattooed frame with a fascinated smile and slowly shook his head. His diminutive assistant, Erlo, stood behind him with his usual blank expression, staring indifferently at the prisoner.

  “Where am I?” Colken croaked.

  “Where is he? Where is he, Erlo?” replied Wade, who had a habit of directing replies to his mute lackey. “He is in a conundrum of his own making.”

  Erlo's smooth, bald head remained still as he gazed at Colken.

  “He is, to be more precise, on the Raven Queen's operating table, Erlo,” continued Wade, “minus his heart, no less.”

  Colken was perplexed. He knew Wade was a cryptic man, but that last remark had sounded disturbingly literal. He immediately looked down at his body.

  He was lying on a large wooden table. Dried blood stained his torso and arms and there was a large, blood-stained bandage wrapped several times around his chest. The table beneath him was covered in dried blood, which had also run over the edges and covered the floor. Shocked, he stared up at Wade.

  “What have you done to me?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “I have done nothing, have I, Erlo?”

  Erlo slowly shook his spotless head.

  “No, I'm no surgeon, no witch! I ply a simpler trade.”

  Wade stepped forward and reached toward Colken's chest.

  “No, Erlo, this is the work of an altogether more subtle mind.” Wade's sickly pale face gazed in wonder as he knocked on the left side of Colken's bandaged chest producing, to the surprise of its owner, a metallic thud.

  “A subtle mind, Erlo, a subtle mind with access to the dark arts.”

  Colken would normally have dismissed the captain's chattering as nonsense, but some feeling inside him told him Wade spoke the truth.

  “Strong bonds are required for a ferocious animal, Erlo. What we have here is no ordinary man, but a fierce beast from the jungle. A killer! Not in the way our deceased friend Silt was a killer, oh no, this beast does not kill out of malice or greed. No Erlo, such emotions are trivial in the jungle. He is a primeval specimen of power itself. He kills to survive!”

  Wade's speech grew impassioned and his reedy, effeminate voice took on a theatrical note as he examined Colken intently, as though he had discovered some lost, half-mythical treasure. Colken listened, searching for any word of sense that might give him some clue as to where he was and why.

  “When such a beast leaves his dank, primitive shadow-world he becomes dangerous, Erlo, a cat amongst the pigeons, hmmm? The beast recognises no human law, and so powerful bonds are necessary. Unbreakable bonds. For the bird, Erlo, has caught the cat.”

  With a flourish, Wade stood back and waved a bejewelled hand as two hulking orderlies sidled through the doorway and gripped Colken. Taking a shoulder each and grunting with the effort, they hauled him painfully upright.

  Colken's head swam as he was marched out of the operating room and down the corridor, followed by Wade and Erlo. He drifted in a semi-conscious state, blood loss and hunger sapping all his strength, oblivious to the clank of his chains and the grunts of the orderlies as they strained to bear his weight. He was oblivious, too, to the inane chatter of the eccentric captain as he and Erlo followed in the rear.

  He passed back into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  As Colken slowly regained consciousness, still without the strength to open his eyes, he heard a trio of female voices raised in argument.

  “I have sent ships to intercept the knights of the Temple, they will perish at sea,” said one, smooth and young-sounding.

  “And what of our rivals in Temeria?” This voice sounded like that of a bitter, frail old woman. “Word will spread of the one named Sorrow, the last of the bloodline, and people will search for him. Meanwhile, what are we doing? We have no agents in Temeria, yet you dally here with your pets,” she spat the last word.

  “We must have the boy! Time runs perilously short!” a third, rasping voice shrieked.

  “And we will,” replied the first. “I have acquired an agent.”

  “You think this brute will bring us the boy?” The bitter old crone again. “He is a primitive, an animal from the jungle. He does not have the cunning we require. He is just another of your pets, put him in a cage if you must have him and send a shrewder creature.”

  Colken finally opened his eyes. He was on his back, tied to an elaborate wooden frame, his arms and legs stretched out in a star shape.

  As he tried to focus he could hear the young woman laugh.

  “Your opinions are out of date. This man is powerful, cunning, and intelligent.” He felt a cool, smooth hand brush across his stomach.

  “He is no mindless brute. He is bound by his morals; a warrior's code. He fought almost the whole crew of the Jagged Blade, risked his life, just to protect a woman he had never met. He cut her throat rather than see her ravaged by Wade's men. And even then he was only felled by Wade's midget with a slingshot.”

  “Erlo!” Colken heard the high, rasping parrot-voice again and the sound of someone spitting in disgust. “I cannot abide the midget!”

  “Be calm,” replied the young woman, her voice was almost a whisper now and Colken could feel her breath in his ear. “Wade and his little monstrosity are back aboard the Jagged Blade. It is they I have sent to eliminate the Templars.” He felt soft, tapered fingers stroke his shoulder and throat.

  “That babbling lunatic, Wade,” added the voice of the hag. “He belongs in a madhouse, his interminable drivelling frays my patience.”

  Colken felt himself being pivoted upright on the wooden contraption and his drowsy eyes finally focused on a face just inches from his own. It was the face of a pale young woman with striking dark brown eyes, high cheek bones, and jet black hair. Although her eyes were full of ancient wisdom, her complexion was milky white and showed no signs of ageing.

  She laid a hand on each of Colken's massive shoulders as she gazed into his eyes. He stared back, still dazed.

  “Wade may be infuriating,” she replied, “but he found me my huntsman. This one will fetch the boy to us.”

  Suddenly, in an instant and with the creaking sound of a hide being stretched, her flawless skin seemed to simultaneously grow too tight for h
er bones and far too large. The skin, which had turned an ashen grey laced with purple blood vessels, sagged from her throat in a great wattle. Her hair became grey and patchy, her teeth brown. Purple rings appeared around her eyes, which had turned watery and bloodshot and bulged from their sockets and her nose grew until it resembled a pointy beak. Her delicate fingers became grasping, knobbly claws, which she dug into his shoulders as she glared at him.

  Colken started, hitting the back of his head against the wooden frame as the vile apparition croaked at him.

  “What's to stop this ape from taking the boy for himself?” Colken blinked as he was sprinkled with her warm saliva.

  He opened his eyes again to the menacingly beautiful, black-haired young woman and became aware of strange, animal noises echoing around the room. As she stepped away from him he adjusted his focus to view his surroundings.

  He was in a large, lavishly decorated room with a high ceiling and two huge windows that looked out onto open ocean. Sunlight filled the room, giving him a perfect view of all its vivid madness.

  The windows were adorned with huge, thick velvet curtains. In the centre of the room was a mahogany dining table laid with several crystal decanters of wine and surrounded by ornately carved chairs. But the rest of the room was very different.

  Around the walls were dozens of cages containing a vast array of animals from all over The World Apparent. Some Colken recognised from his jungle home, some he had never seen in his life. There were monkeys of all kinds; strange, exotic dogs and cats; brightly coloured birds; and reptiles of varying sizes and shapes. The Raven Queen's menagerie was no ordinary one; the animals seemed to call quietly in unison as she spoke and their attitude matched hers in every erratic swing of her mood and personality.

  Even this paled into insignificance in comparison to what Colken saw next. As his gaze drifted up to the rafters it seemed that they were unnaturally deep in shadow. The bright light that flooded in through the huge windows seemed to vanish, leaving a thick blackness above them. Colken's eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness and he could make out what appeared to be dense branches growing from the wooden walls and ceiling. In the darkness between the branches he saw the glints of thousands of tiny black eyes blinking back at him. He realised the darkness was not shadow, but hundreds of ravens silently watching.

  The Raven Queen turned and gestured to what appeared to be a birdcage on a plinth with a black cloth draped over it. “I have something of his, something which binds him to me.”

  She pulled the cloth away to reveal, not a birdcage, but a dome-shaped glass tank. Hovering in the centre of the tank, suspended by some unseen force, was Colken's beating heart, slowly rotating like a pig on a spit.

  Colken convulsed in terror and strained every sinew against the frame that held him, but his bonds held fast. The beat of his heart visibly increased in its tank and then slowed again as he sagged, staring at the Raven Queen.

  Wade had not lied. She had somehow plucked out his heart and left him alive.

  “As long as I have this precious morsel,” continued the Raven Queen, “he must do my bidding.”

  Her skin aged seventy years in an instant and hung loose from her bones. Her black hair turned grey, her hands frail, her body shrivelled. The bitter old woman spoke again.

  “Then make haste, send your new pet to Temeria. We cannot afford to delay any longer.”

  In the blink of an eye the striking young woman was back. She touched the glass tank with one slender finger, seemingly fascinated by Colken's disembodied heart, then turned and approached him. She slid one arm around his neck and lifted his chin in her other hand, her nose almost touching his.

  “Welcome to the House of Unkindness.” She ran her hands down his chest and inspected his blood-caked bandages. “You hear us speak of a child. A young boy, direct descendant of the first man and woman placed on this earth by the Gods. He is the last of his kind, and so very precious.”

  She murmured softly, her breath smelling of sweet wine, her hands caressing his shoulders. The ravens in the rafters began to shift uneasily, and the animals surrounding them gazed intently at him. The room was silent except for the occasional rustle of feathers and the excited whines and yips from the cages as tension built in the air.

  “His name is Sorrow. He roams the Burned Earth, a ruined land haunted by the wraiths of countless soldiers. Go to Temeria. Find him. Bring him to me alive. When I have the child, you will have your heart. But if you fail, if the child dies…” Her eyes bulged again, her fingers grew into claws and she gripped his shoulders, drawing blood. “We will feed your heart to the ravens!”

  Saliva sprayed Colken's face again as the beaked hag reappeared and shrieked for his blood. As suddenly as she had appeared she was gone again. The Raven Queen stepped away from him, her face young and flawless again and her hair back to jet black. She caressed the tank containing his heart, staring at it as though mesmerised, as the two orderlies came in and wheeled Colken from the room.

  * * * *

  In the early hours of a freezing morning in late winter, as the grey fingers of dawn groped across the surrounding plains, three horsemen rode out of Silverback. They left the lonely mountain via secret ways, rarely-used corridors and passages, and rode in silence. Hooded and cloaked, with mufflers tied about the hoofs of their horses, they departed like wraiths into the mist.

  The Western Province was the poorest in the Winter Realm, poorer even than the stark regions of the north, and thinly populated. Those farmers that scratched a living from the thin soil were up at first light, and did not hobble to their beds until the weak sun was almost vanished below the horizon.

  There were no towns or villages of any substance for many miles. The nearest settlement was Black Rise, three poor houses and an inn set high on a bleak hill. As evening fell, the weary riders stopped to rest their horses and get a bite of dinner.

  They were led by Felipe de Gascur, a huge and intimidating figure in his black cloak and shining mail. The two men with him were no less fierce to look at. Stocky and muscular from constant weapons exercise, bow-legged from endless riding, with any number of old scars, all three were veteran soldiers.

  Felipe banged his fist against the door of the inn, which was called The Gelded Wolf. The door was made of solid oak, cross-grained and bound with iron plates for protection, and the rest of the tavern had an equally sturdy look. There were iron bars on the few narrow windows and loop-holes for archers to shoot through.

  “Bracket’s turned this place into a little castle,” remarked Felipe as he hammered on the door, “I wonder why. There have been no thieves or outlaws in these parts for years.”

  “You know what peasants are like,” said one of his followers, whose name was Jean de Riparia. “They fear ghouls and monsters lurking in the fog. Look at that.”

  He pointed at a series of scratches half-way up the door, as though some monstrous cat had tried to claw through the timber. Felipe snorted and gave the door another shuddering thump.

  This time the little spyhole opened, and a suspicious pair of eyes, red-rimmed from wood smoke, peered out. The eyes blinked, but their owner said nothing until Felipe held up a silver coin for his inspection.

  “That one’s stamped with the Queen’s head,” a man’s voice croaked. “But there ain’t no Queen any more. She’s dead and in the ground, poor lass.”

  “What does that matter? It’s still good silver,” growled Felipe, “open your door, Bracket, you old fool. You know us, we’re from the Temple.”

  Muttering that it paid to be cautious these days, the innkeeper named Bracket fumbled with his locks and heaved the door open. The knights tramped inside and shook out the dirt and moisture from their cloaks.

  Inside was a single large chamber with an enormous hearth at the northern end. An apology for a fire burned reluctantly inside the hearth, while a pale young girl with greasy black hair and a soiled smock piled more twigs onto it from a bucket. More light was provide
d by tallow candles, though not enough to chase away the shadows lurking in the corners.

  The inn was permeated by the stench of uncured wolf pelts. They served as table cloths, as curtains and as carpets, while a number of grinning wolf skulls hung from the rafters or were used as sconces for the candles. The innkeeper himself looked something like a wolf, with his scrawny loping frame, yellow teeth, sharp, eager face, and general air of ravenous desperation.

  “You know my daughter, Ellen.” He grinned, rubbing his bony hands in anticipation of a sale. “You gentleman can have her for the night if you can afford it. Only one at a time though, please, she’s not getting any younger.”

  Felipe shook his head. “We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, or catch something nasty from one of your sluts. Just bring us something to eat and drink. Your best, mind. No worms in the bread or mould on the cheese, and bring us ale that doesn’t stink.”

  Bracket muttered darkly as he loped off to the kitchen. Ignoring him, the knights sat down at one of the benches.

  “No other guests,” noted Guillaume, known as Guillaume the Bastard for his low birth and dreadful personality, wrinkling his nose as he glanced round the inn. He was bald as an egg, with a vivid scar that dragged one side of his mouth up into a permanent half-grin. “Not surprising either. This place always stank, but of stale beer, not wolves. Why’s Bracket so interested in wolves all of a sudden?”

  “Never mind him,” said Felipe. “We have things to discuss.”

  He looked at his companions. Jean de Riparia, the sly dark man from the extreme north of the Winter Realm, and big-bellied, short-tempered Guillaume. Two of the most hard-bitten and capable killers a man could wish to ride with.

  And both, like me, are up to their necks in conspiracy against the Grand Master, thought Felipe. What is this really all about? Why has he sent us away?

  Bracket reappeared carrying a wooden tray. On the tray was a loaf of coarse bread, a hunk of cheese with an eating knife stuck into it, several earthenware bowls brimming with a peculiar-smelling greenish soup, five battered tin cups and an earthenware jug of ale.