His service was far from over. After the battle at the White Bull, he had vowed never to witness or participate in such a repugnant blood-letting ever again, but he was in command now and expected to lead. He fumbled with the unwieldy helmet hanging from his saddle-bow and froze when the voice of The Maker sounded in his head.
“Let me win the fight for you, Master,” the demon hissed. His insidious tones seemed to coil and writhe about the privacy of Hoshea's skull, threatening to stifle his own consciousness. Hoshea fought back.
“No!” he whispered, aware that his officers were staring at him. “I have told you before, I cannot allow you to win my battles for me. Back to your pit, foulness, until I have need of you!”
The Maker’s presence sullenly faded from his mind. Hoshea strapped on his helmet—he managed it on the second attempt—and did his best to look stern and officer-like.
“On, gentlemen!” he barked at the officers and nobles behind him, splendid in their gilded armour and richly caparisoned horses. “Let's get some dirt on that fine raiment of yours.”
He gave his reins a shake, and his horse sprang away, almost unseating him in her eagerness.
* * * *
The entire forward and central divisions of the army were on the move, lancers and mounted bowmen pelting towards the front, showering the toiling footmen with mud. Hoshea and his aides galloped past regiments of pikes, dense wedges of heavy infantry in ankle-length mail shirts, burnished iron breastplates and helmets. They clattered forward at the double, shouted on by their sergeants. Lightly-armed spearmen and swordsmen jogged past in smaller units, in a foot race with groups of skirmishers, archers, slingers, and peltasts.
Every man without a horse was up to his knees in thick, cloying red mud churned up by the passage of hundreds of troops, wagons, and horses. The land ahead had been stripped of trees by Hoshea's woodcutters, creating a lane through the forest roughly a quarter mile wide. They had been forging ahead at about the same rate every day and were toiling up a steep hillside just beyond the northern bank of an icy fast-flowing stream when the High Bloods attacked.
His men were fleeing back across the stream as Hoshea came up, frightened wild-eyed men in working tunics and breeches. They had thrown away their axes and fled as soon as the High Bloods emerged from the woods. Arrows, darts, and javelins fell among them as they ran. The mounted scouts and bowmen who were supposed to be protecting them milled about on the southern bank, reluctant to cross and expose themselves to the missiles.
Samshi and his heavy horse were thundering ahead of the main body of the army, and without hesitation, he led his troopers into the stream. They splashed across, their horses belly-deep in the rushing water, and struggled up the opposing bank.
Already burdened by riders wearing forty pounds of iron plus lance and shield, the horses slipped and slid on the wet mud. Samshi and his standard-bearer had barely gained the slope when an appalling shriek erupted from the trees. From them boiled a horde of grey-robed warriors, screaming their ululating war-cry and brandishing their terrible hooked knives.
“Fool!” roared Hoshea. He saw Samshi go down, the front legs of his horse chopped away by whirling blades and the standard ripped from the grasp of the trooper behind him. The most determined of the horsemen in the stream forced their beasts up the slope to try to get to grips with the enemy, but were quickly engulfed by a mob of whooping savages.
“Let me intervene, Master,” whispered The Maker.
Hoshea ignored him, twisting in his saddle and spying a group of mounted bowmen halted at rest nearby. “You!” he bawled, pointing an accusing finger at their captain. “Why the hell are your men standing idle? Get them up to the stream, at once!”
The captain, another beardless young man, Hoshea noticed, gulped and saluted. He motioned his men forward, and they followed, none too enthusiastically. They spread out, reached the bank, and halted, drawing arrows from the leather quivers hanging from their saddles. They were armed with short torsion bows powerful enough to punch through leather armour at short range. The distance across the water was not great, and the High Bloods wore no leather or mail, making them ideal targets.
The foot soldiers were coming up now, carrying spears, swords, and heavily-laden pikes, the latter weary from carrying the weight of their iron armour and twelve-foot pikes through cloying mud. Hoshea pulled off one of his gloves and chewed his nails, wondering what to do. Pikes and spears would be no good in the woods, and his infantry might suffer appalling losses as they trudged up the slope.
“Damn all soldiering,” he muttered. The High Bloods were retreating now, fleet-footed men and women streaming back into cover, leaving the butchered remains of a dozen horses and their riders behind oozing blood from their savagely hacked bodies into the red clay. They also left a few of their own sprawled in the mud, punctured by arrows and lances. Among the dead was Commander Samshi, his breastplate and fine scale mail slashed to ribbons by the dreadful knives.
The Protector studied the dark bulk of the forest rising up from the opposite bank. He glimpsed grey-clad forms high in the trees, agile as monkeys or half-hidden among the rocks of the high bluffs that reared above the tree line. The mountain warriors poured missiles down on the Temerian cavalry as they struggled out of the water, knocking men from their saddles and sending their screaming horses toppling and sliding back down the muddy slope.
“You made Samshi go to his death,” whispered the demon. “You slighted his honour and threatened him with death if he failed. Now he lies in the dirt. How goes the day, Master?”
Hoshea knew he had lost. “Very well,” he said. “I will loosen your chains for a while. But it is for a short time only. You are a cruel, vile creature, and I have often had to upbraid you for your cruelty. But go now, practice all your monstrous evils, and instead of upbraiding you, I will applaud you.”
The Maker could barely contain his glee, uttering a high-pitched snickering noise as Hoshea mentally unpicked a few of the chains he had carefully woven around his dangerous servant.
When he was done, the presence of the demon vanished from his mind. A hint of delicate perfume drifted over him, and he looked around to see Shalita on her dappled grey pony. Of all his apprentices, she was the only one who had ridden with him to the battle. The rest had stayed well to the rear, keen to avoid the sight and risks of bloodshed.
“You have released him, lord,” she said, her lovely almond-shaped eyes glittering with excitement. “I can sense him, moving away from you. What is going to happen?”
He studied her face for a moment before replying. Shalita possessed a genuine talent for sorcery. Unlike his, it was a natural talent that flowed from within, not learned from intense study of old books. He felt a twinge of jealousy that she was able to sense the movements of the demon so easily, along with a touch of fear.
“Wait and see,” he said brusquely. Putting her out of his mind, he looked around for a trumpeter, spotted one, and bawled at him to sound the recall for the cavalry.
As the shrill notes echoed across the stream and the iron men on lumbering horses gratefully turned back from their hopeless pursuit, an evil spirit raced towards the trees. Almost invisible by daylight, save as a slight shimmering presence, The Maker of Pain flew eagerly, champing and slobbering in the anticipation of fresh meat.
The first of the High Bloods to sate the demon’s hunger was a young boy, barely thirteen years of age.
The Maker ripped the skin from the boy’s face and thrust hooked talons into his eye-sockets. After greedily swallowing the choice sweetmeats of his eyes, the demon tore out his throat, his lungs, his heart, and his liver, gobbling them down with relish.
To spread terror, The Maker tore his victim’s body into pieces and hurled them at the other warriors hiding in the forest. Then, he fell upon them and flayed their screaming helpless bodies. The thrill of so much blood-letting, the release of warm human blood from struggling hot pink humans, after so many centuries cooped up in the arid
vaults of Hell, was intoxicating to him. The demon was not slow in his twisting of limbs and breaking of bones, nor was there an end to his greed as he crammed his maw with warm, bleeding meat.
* * * *
Colken's men were in high spirits, despite having to march through deep mud. They were doing what they did best, marching with an army to fight. They had a purpose, something they had not had for a long time, and Yesterday was back in his element.
The Djanki was at least content; he made progress towards achieving his goal. He was entering the High Places, the place where he hoped to find Sorrow. Every moment of life was a gift to him, as the Raven Queen could puncture his heart and end it at any time. He was amazed she had not done so already.
The temperature had dropped considerably and the air grew thinner as they struggled ever upwards which, combined with the soft mud, made it hard going. The men's singing and shouting had been replaced by panting and groaning as they pressed on up the slippery slope. Occasionally, a flash of silver caught Colken's eye as the dog, Blue, trotted alongside, between the trees.
Yesterday was telling Colken yet another story about some long-past battle when four riders galloped past at full tilt, heading towards the rear of the column. Yesterday grunted.
“Scouts,” he said. “In a hurry, too. Looks like there may be some action today.”
Before long the ground shook to the thunder of hoofs. A column of heavily armoured horsemen galloped past, showering Colken's company with mud. The foot soldiers also began to surge forward. Colken had not heard the order to pick up the pace, but he found that he too broke into a jog.
Colken could hear rushing water up ahead. Then, a mighty war-cry went up, and the sounds of battle were unmistakable. Soon they came to an icy stream and saw the last of the horsemen wading across, showered by missiles from the trees on the opposite bank. It was chaos on both sides of the stream as the cavalry on the far side were engulfed by countless grey-robed warriors, their horses’ legs and bellies ripped and chopped from under them.
On Colken’s side, the infantry staggered to a halt, waiting for orders to cross the deep fast-flowing stream. None of them relished the prospect, since the rushing waters were at head-height, but many were eager to help their comrades being slaughtered on the opposite bank.
A volley of Temerian arrows flew over Colken’s head, but too late, the High Bloods were now disappearing back into the trees, leaving a mess of bloody corpses behind them.
Then something strange happened. The air above Colken seemed to shimmer like a desert horizon, and a hot wind blew, carrying with it the stench of carrion. There was a short pause as men looked at one another in consternation.
* * * *
Hoshea sensed rather than heard the unspeakable pleasure of the thing he had unleashed. Sick with horror, he became aware of a pressure on his arm and looked down to see Shalita’s slim white fingers.
“I feel him too,” she breathed, leaning towards him, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. “The hot rush of blood flowing down his throat, the screams, the snapping bones, the sucking of marrow… Gods, it feels good.”
Hoshea snatched away his arm and recoiled. What kind of monster had he created in her? She would have to be dealt with later, either killed or bundled away to some secure, remote prison where she could do no harm.
He turned his attention back to the matter in hand. The High Bloods were nowhere to be seen across the river, though he knew they were fleeing in rout, in blind terror from the invisible stinking death that he had inflicted on them. The near bank was now crowded with soldiers, hundreds of horsemen and foot soldiers mingling, shifting uncertainly as they waited for the next move. Their perspiring sergeants rode to and fro, shouting men into ranks and plying vine rods on the stragglers, but they too looked for guidance. They looked for it from the gaggle of richly-dressed nobles and officers beneath the white banner; they in turn looked at Hoshea.
All things wait on me, he thought. For a moment he felt crushed by the overwhelming sense of responsibility, a terrible weight to carry, even after his lifetime’s experience of service. With a great effort, he pushed it aside.
“Unleash the horse,” he barked at his waiting subordinates. “Lancers, heavies, bowmen, everything we have. Pursue the savages through the woods; allow them no respite. Scatter them, harry them. Spare those who surrender, wipe out the rest.”
Wipe out the rest. How easy it was to command death. Hoshea was surprised and not a little frightened to discover that his sense of guilt had vanished.
One of the nobles cleared his throat. “Lord, how do we know they are retreating?” he asked. “They could have fallen back a little way into the woods and be waiting in ambush.”
Hoshea almost smiled a bitter smile. “They are running,” he replied, and in his mind he heard distant screams. “They are running for their lives. Trust me on this.”
* * * *
When the High Bloods broke in bloody, stumbling rout, those whose wits had not dissolved in fear fled back to The Slumber, the holy place of ages past, thinking it would surely offer them refuge from the insatiable spirit tearing through their ranks. Others dispersed in blind panic, and it was these that The Maker went after, drawn by their delightful stench of terror and confusion.
The Slumber also offered shelter from the Temerians, for it was a fortress as well as a temple. As it was the oldest and the first refuge of the mountain clans, now it was destined to be their last.
For a time, Bail knew nothing of the disaster unravelling in the forests to the south, for he was kept under close watch in The Ring. He sat with his back to one of the ancient moss-covered stones. His guards, forty or so warriors, paid him little mind save for the occasional curious stare, and he was at leisure to study the Heartstones. The three weird old dams had been packed away somewhere, which he was profoundly grateful for.
The stones made no more sense to him now than the day he found them. He moved his fingers over their rough pitted surfaces, tracing the faded lettering and hieroglyphs as if, like the old women, he had the ability to read them by touch.
“Tell me about the One Hundred Decrees,” he said to Sorrow.
The boy stood nearby, his head bowed and hands tucked inside the sleeves of his robe, looking more like a miniature monk than ever. He wasn’t exactly under guard—every High Blood displayed an almost instinctive reverence for him—but didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere. Bail suspected he slipped in and out of one of his trances, but forbore from asking why. Sorrow was a puzzle he had given up trying to solve.
“A series of commandments,” Sorrow answered in a flat toneless voice, his eyes closed and his lips barely moving, “designed to instruct the people of these mountains in the correct way of living. They governed all aspects of behaviour. The Decrees are written on the Heartstones in the old language, but very few alive now could read them.”
Bail nodded. “I think I know the sort of thing. Very stern, are they, these commandments? No drink, sex outside wedlock, thieving, things of that nature?”
“Just so. They were deeply prohibitive and intended to encourage a pure, stainless form of existence.”
“And Amkur chose me to rule over people leading such lives. The Gods do have a certain wit.”
Bail chuckled, but his mirth quickly died as he noticed Sadaf frowning at him. He had the feeling that a grave, sober aspect was what Sadaf expected of him, and he didn’t want to alienate the man. The time might come, very soon, when he would have need of him.
“They are coming,” said Sorrow, still in the same dead voice.
Bail looked up sharply. “What do you mean? Who is coming?”
“The clans have lost. They are beaten. Something foul is pursuing them through the forests, and in the wake of evil, men in iron suits are coming. Men clothed in metal, bright shining metal…”
Bail made an impatient noise and got up, forgetting the Heartstones in his anxiety. “What are you gabbling about?” he demanded, reaching out to shake
Sorrow, but stopped. He could hear something, voices carried on the wind, mingled with the echo of bull-horns.
Now there was a commotion among the guards, much gesturing and shouting, with panic in their voices. Many of them were pointing to the south, and a few abandoned their duty and ran away in that direction.
Bail strained to make out what they were saying, but found that his brief knowledge of their language had expired. He swore in frustration.
“Don’t just stand there. Help me!” he raged at Sorrow. “Tell me what’s happening!”
Sorrow shook his head, as if impatient of Bail and his demands. “No. I have no time, no time left for any of this. The men in iron are coming, just as they came and destroyed my kin. Go fight them.”
Bail was still full of questions, but Sorrow waved them away. “You are a king. Kings are supposed to lead their people. They need you now.”
The tumult was much closer—shouts and screams and horns, along with something else, the distant drumming of hoofs and shrill squeal of trumpets.
“Gods above,” cried Bail. “Listen to those trumpets. That can only be Temerian cavalry. What in the Hells is going on?”
Exasperated, he tore off his ridiculous iron crown, threw it away, and ran to see what was happening. The gaunt figure of Sadaf padded after him, followed by those few warriors that had remained behind.
As always, Sorrow was left alone.
* * * *
The court beyond The Ring was still crammed with women, children, and elders. Many of the children were perched as lookouts on the crumbling walls and towers as Bail raced down the steps from The Ring.
A stream of fugitives trickled through the gate, High Blood warriors from the battle to the south. Most were bruised and bloody, all their pride and swagger knocked out of them.
A great wail of dismay went up from the people in the court, the elders holding their skinny arms up to the heavens as they witnessed their fighters returning in defeat. Despairing hands plucked at Bail as he pushed his way through the crowd, and incomprehensible voices creaked and gibbered at him.
The Path of Sorrow Page 28