The Path of Sorrow

by David Pilling

  Some of them were long dead, Felipe knew, for he had watched them die years ago in sieges and battles, tourneys and sickbeds. They had all come back to haunt him, the living and the dead.

  All these ghosts had been unleashed, he suspected, by the nightmare figure of Fulk the No Man’s Son, who still stalked Felipe’s dreams and babbled persistently of Sorrow, nothing but Sorrow.

  Now there was this girl. Lovely as she was, Felipe resolved to ignore her and walk on by, but there was still too much of the knight-errant in him. The sound of her weeping seemed to grow louder and louder until it became unbearable, and he was obliged to stop.

  “Why are you howling so?” he demanded brutally. She was almost impossibly beautiful, barefoot and dressed in a loose gown of homespun white wool. Her hair was also loose, in the peasant fashion, and draped about her delicate shoulders in shining luminous tresses that reminded Felipe uncomfortably of his first love. Or perhaps his second, or third. His youth was a far, mostly-forgotten country, and he had gaily hopped from one love to another in those days.

  One certain fact he did recall: the girl he remembered had been threatened by a jilted suitor, some rural baron’s son, and Felipe had tried to rescue her. He had failed, and she was trampled to death by the enraged youth and his minions.

  The memory softened his heart; the girl by the well ceased her weeping and looked up at him. She had glorious blue eyes, Winter Realm eyes, as blue as the skies during the season of Harvest.

  “Oh, sir,” she sniffed, her voice catching, “my brother and I were set upon by robbers. They spoiled us of our goods, and when he tried to resist they knocked him down and dragged him away, deep into the woods. Even now they may be torturing him, and I can do nothing.”

  Her accent reminded him of home. “You are fugitives from the Winter Realm?” he asked, in a gentler voice this time. She nodded, peered closer at him, then her red-rimmed eyes widened and she started forward to clasp his hard brown hand.

  “You are a fellow countryman!” she cried. “And a fighter, too, if I am any judge. You have the look of one. Your face is scarred, and your palm is callused by weapons. Help us! Rescue my brother!”

  Her face lit up in joy and hope, all tears forgotten. Felipe knew he should have spoken to try and quench her enthusiasm, but found he didn’t want to. His long-buried chivalrous nature, which had sparked inside him on the hillside of the White Bull, was now threatening to ignite into flames.

  His chest swelled with rediscovered pride. Damn Fulk, and damn his absurd quest! Felipe was a knight, sworn to defend the weak and helpless (when he wasn’t preying on them), not a dogsbody to some blind deviant sorcerer.

  “I will, madam,” he said, attempting a clumsy bow. “But first, pray tell me your name that I might carve it on the bodies of those who have molested you.”

  “Alice,” she replied, wringing his hand in gratitude. “Alice de Bec. My brother’s name is Roger, and he was lord of three fine manors in the Winter Realm before our enemies drove us out. Oh, but have a care, sir! The men who took him were fierce brigands, with no notion of honour or mercy.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  She pointed west. “That way, sir, not half an hour since, and they cannot have got far. There is no road, and their horses were laden with plunder. I could not understand their vile foreign chatter, but would surmise they have some lair or tower deep inside the forest.”

  Overcome with his own gallantry, Felipe bent to kiss her hand. “I will find them, never fear, and fetch your brother out of danger,” he vowed. She tried to fall on his neck, burbling tearful expressions of gratitude, but he gently held her off, ignoring his stirrings of lust.

  Guillaume, he suspected, would have taken advantage of the situation. But Guillaume was dead, his sordid life redeemed only by the honourable manner in which he had lost it. Jean, too, was surely dead, his body rotting on the trampled grass of the White Bull alongside hundreds of others.

  After taking a solemn farewell, Felipe tramped purposefully west.

  * * * *

  The forest was like something out of a nightmare, dark and mysterious, steeped in mist and ancient secrets. Or so it seemed to Felipe as he fought his way through the tangled undergrowth. A trail of sorts had been made for him by the brigands, a twisting route of trampled grass and flattened bushes, and he followed it as best he could. Things rustled at him from the bushes, and feral eyes glinted briefly in the dark before vanishing. Felipe ignored them.

  No beast of the forest held any fears for him, as the many scars on his body included those inflicted by deer antlers and boar tushes. Maybe the forests of Temeria were home to strange and terrifying beasts he had never encountered in the Winter Realm, but Felipe cared not. He was set on his quest.

  He fought his way through the forest for over an hour when the trail ran out onto a vast stretch of open ground, a bare green hill with a single tree at the summit. Felipe started wearily up the hill.

  A horse and rider burst out of the forest to the west. The beast was flying at full gallop, and had been for some time, her mouth bleeding from the bit and flanks slippery with sweat. Her rider was tied to the saddle, his wrists bound and his head face down over her neck. He was also bleeding heavily, his back a mass of savage cuts, and he appeared to be insensible.

  Felipe was still digesting this sight when more riders charged out of the forest from the same direction. Six of them, two in greasy leathers and chain mail with the rest in soiled uniforms that bore the image of General Anma’s leaping lion. Felipe supposed them to be deserters from her army, having abandoned the harsh military life and thrown in their lot with brigands and robbers.

  What followed did not last long. Felipe tried to be a hero and fight the brigands, but the rediscovered spirit of knightly chivalry was not supported by the flesh. He was old and out of condition, suffering from chronic lack of sleep and the pain of old wounds. Besides that, his enemies were all vigorous young men and mounted. They laughed as he staggered towards them, and laughed harder when they rode him down, took his sword, and stripped him of his armour and clothing.

  For a while they thrashed him, until his shoulders and back were a mess of bloody stripes. Felipe's last brave act was to stand under their blows and refuse to fall, enduring the agony and humiliation until one man grew bored and kicked his legs from under him.

  After some discussion, the gang decided to dispose of their victims in different ways. The hapless Roger de Bec was merely beheaded and his severed head booted away down the hill.

  A much crueller fate was reserved for Felipe. They nailed him to the tree at the summit of the hill, impaling his wrists and feet against the trunk with long knives. They mocked and spat at him for a while, until the sport grew dull, and they rode away back into the forest well pleased with the day's work.

  Through mists of pain Felipe thought he saw the Grand Master appear before him. Away from the dream-world, Fulk's presence was weak, and only the faintest outline of him seemed to hover in the air. The vision spoke, but his words reached Felipe's ears only as a dim rushing noise like the flowing of a distant stream. Whatever he had to say, Felipe doubted it was very positive.

  Fulk's vague silhouette gradually faded, but his staff did not. The length of greasy black wood seemed to solidify and grow in substance, twisting gently in the air and radiating pure malice.

  "Come, then," Felipe croaked through the bloody foam that bubbled over his lips. "Destroy me, if that is your will. I am dead already."

  The image of the staff shimmered and flickered before Felipe's fading vision until there was no staff at all. In its place stood a dark, hulking man-shaped figure in a suit of iron plate. Every segment of his armour gave off a tremendous heat, reflecting a dull orange glow inside the depths of the metal, and was inscribed with the names of dead warriors. The edges of his tattered black cloak were lined with finger-bones, and the iron pot of his helmet was crowned with an enormous pair of curved bull's horns.

  "I know you
, lord," whispered Felipe, almost forgetting his dreadful agony in the sudden ecstasy of reverence. The creature standing before him was his dread god, Occido, Celestial Lord of war and warriors. Felipe knew his image from a lifetime of worship.

  He had never imagined the War God might stink so, a rank odour of blood and slaughter and rotting bodies. Occido's rippling black cloak reminded him of the wings of crows and ravens as they flocked to peck at the carrion of countless battlefields. The finger-bones stitched to his cloak rattled in the wind, making a noise like the distant thunder of war-drums.

  Twin red fires flared deep inside the eye-holes of Occido's helmet.

  "Felipe de Gascur," the god rumbled in deep bass tones. "Thou shalt come with me."

  The Templar shook his head, writhing against the blades stapling him to the tree. "No, not yet,” he begged. "Lord, help me, remove these knives from my flesh, restore my body. My life is not yet complete.”

  "Thy work is over. Thou shalt be the last of your kind, last of my servants, last of the old Temple. Others have the running of it now."

  Felipe's life-blood was oozing from his impaled wrists and ankles, forming a glutinous crimson pool at the base of the tree. "Fulk and his witch," he mumbled as his head sagged, “must not rule. They are…perverts…deviants…sorcerers."

  "I hath no power left to prevent them. My presence has left the halls of the Temple. It is time for men to make and dictate their own wars. As they wax stronger, so do the gods fade from the living world. I was among the last to cling to air and soil. Come with me."

  The flames inside Occido's helmet flared hot, and he stretched out his massive iron arm. The burning gauntlet passed through Felipe's naked chest, leaving no mark, and seized his soul.

  All of Felipe's pain and care melted away as his soul was gently dragged from its cage of mortal flesh, but there was enough life left for him to draw breath and frame his lips around a last word.

  "Sorrow!"

  "Forget. Thou hast found joy instead."

  Felipe de Gascur surrendered the ghost. The last thing he heard was the faint echo of a flute, its haunting melody carried by the wind.

  The flute was playing The Flowers of Spring.

  13.

  With the assistance of his pet demon, the new Protector of Temeria wasted no time in asserting his authority. Orders flew in all directions from the city of Hasan, carried by riders or hawks. Their message was clear. Temeria was united once again, the civil wars were over, and all fighting men were required to demonstrate their loyalty by marching to gather under the banner of the new regime. Those who refused or prevaricated, those who preferred to pursue their own interests and proclaim yet more false emperors, could expect no mercy.

  While this mixture of demands and threats dispersed to all parts of the land, Hoshea forced himself to don armour again and lead his troops out of the city. The citizens dutifully lined the streets to watch them pass, baffled but respectful, unsure of what had happened or why the siege had been lifted so soon, and bemused by the sight of their new leader. Few recognised General Saqr’s old secretary in his shining scale armour, white cloak, and gilded helmet. He was grateful no one recognised him. Hoshea felt like a terrible fraud in the garb of a soldier, but for the time being, it was necessary.

  Since the enforced suicide of Lord Tiglath, Hoshea had turned increasingly to the Maker, seeking the demon’s advice in most things. He knew from his reading the dangers of binding himself so closely to such creatures, but he had no one else with a spark of intelligence to turn to. The remaining lords and councillors within Hasan were demoralised and confused by the turn of events, and what brains they possessed were hopelessly scrambled. All looked to Hoshea now for guidance, and he looked to the demon.

  The army that left Hasan numbered less than five thousand men. They were the survivors of those who had fought at the White Bull and defended the walls in the recent siege. So few could hardly hope to conquer a land the size of Temeria, but that was not Hoshea’s intention. Instead of riding west, into the heart of the realm, he led them north, towards the High Places.

  No officer questioned his decision. None dared, for Hoshea was rumoured to be in league with dark spirits. Stories flew back and forth, as they will among soldiers. His apprentices rode with him under the guise of clerks, but the presence of these pale, silent young men and women in dark grey robes did little to quell suspicions.

  At the Field of the White Bull, the army halted, and Hoshea ordered mass graves to be dug for the bodies that still carpeted the hill. Once that was done, he set his tired and resentful soldiers to new work building a timber fort at the summit of the hill overlooking the river.

  One cadet officer, braver or more foolish than the others, asked the Protector why he wished a fort to be built. No enemies occupied this region, the officer said, so what was the point? Why exhaust the men further?

  “The fort is but a staging point,” Hoshea replied. He stood at the top of the hill, shading his eyes to gaze at the distant peaks of the High Places. “From here on, as we approach the mountains, we will build a fort every few miles.”

  The officer gaped. “Are we still at war, Lord? I thought the fighting was over.”

  Hoshea smiled at him. “Not at war, exactly, at least not yet. But it pays to be careful. I congratulate you on your courage, young man. None of your fellows had the bones to come and question my decisions to my face. What rank are you?”

  Hoshea could not tell the soldier’s rank from his uniform—a sign of his military ignorance. “I…I am a junior sergeant of horse, Lord,” the officer replied, blushing.

  “Then from now on you are a captain of horse. I have need of men who speak their minds, as long as they have something of intelligence to say.”

  Shocked and gratified, the young man bowed until his forehead almost touched the grass. Then he straightened up, ripped off a perfect salute, and marched purposefully down the hill, back to his troop.

  Hoshea watched him go and wondered if winning hearts was always this easy.

  “The fort will take time to build, time we do not have. And you will exhaust your troops. Your prey might escape us.”

  “Time I do not have, not we,” Hoshea corrected, murmuring under his breath. “And I would remind you that you are forbidden to speak to me in daylight hours.”

  The Maker’s voice took on a whining note. “Forgive me, Master. I merely wish to serve.”

  “Liar. You wish to somehow break our contract and devour my soul for breakfast. That is the nature of our relationship. How do you suggest we build faster? I need more men, yet none have arrived.”

  “They will.” Now the demon’s tone was smug. “I slew those who ignored or rejected your summons, and word is flying about the country of their deaths. Even now, militias are being raised in every village and town, and every lord, noble, and satrap in Temeria who values his skin is buckling on their armour to come and serve you.”

  “I am happy to hear it. You have done well in this, at least. I repeat, how do you suggest we build the fort quicker?”

  “Let me do it. I can raise a mighty earthwork of timber and soil overnight. By sunrise tomorrow it shall be ready.”

  Hoshea thought for a moment. “No, I would not have people know what I am capable of. Not yet. Let the men get tired. If your claims are true, reinforcements will soon be on their way.”

  And so the fort was built through human effort rather than sorcery. Sullen effort, for the men were sick of the rigours of war and marching and building, the tedious regular duties of a soldier’s life. They wished to be resting on their hard-earned laurels, not digging ditches and cutting down trees, but the Protector would not relent.

  After two days, the hill was crowned by a series of deep trenches protected by a timber palisade made of sharpened stakes lashed together. It was serviceable, so Hoshea ordered the army to break camp and move on, leaving three hundred men to finish the work and act as a permanent garrison.

  At night, he con
sulted the Maker in his tent until the early hours of the morning. The most favoured of Hoshea’s apprentices were allowed to attend, including the woman Shalita. She was the best of them, with a lively, quick intelligence and an eagerness to learn that went beyond mere lust for power. Her dark slender beauty might have been a factor as well, except Hoshea had no interest in the female sex.

  The army rode on, skirting the marshes immediately beyond the River Nephrates. At the base of the range of hills that bordered the High Places, they stopped and threw up another hasty fort. Again, the Maker offered his assistance, and again, Hoshea refused. Two more days lost, and another three hundred men left to enlarge and garrison the place.

  Then they moved up into the hills, where Felipe, the Grey Man, and Colken had gone before them. No Temerian army had ventured into these wild places for decades, since the last had been ambushed and massacred by a coalition of High Blood clans. Hoshea was aware of the history and determined not to repeat it, which was why he insisted on the building of forts at regular intervals. The strategy was his idea, one approved of by his officers which, as a non-soldier, he found immensely flattering, even though he knew they were lickspittles to a man, desperate to avoid angering him.

  Another six miles passed. Hoshea called a halt before they entered the thick belt of forest, not willing to push his tired men into open mutiny by ordering them to hack a path through the trees. Instead, they were ordered to pitch their tents, set up pickets, and settle down.

  At last Hoshea heard the sound he had been waiting for: distant trumpets, pipes, and drums, underpinned by the steady throb of hundreds of marching feet.

  Soon his scouts and pickets came racing back to camp, with reports of several large brigades, of both horse and foot, advancing towards the camp. A tremor of fear ran through Hoshea. Were they troops coming to join him or destroy him? The Maker supplied reassurance.

  “These are men who have obeyed your summons, Master,” the demon explained in his otherworldly hiss, “for they dare not do otherwise.”