Curse: The Dark God Book 2 (10 page)

She crept quietly to the baskets and bent down. The lidded crock contained a dish of beans cooked in hog fat. The fat was white and congealed at the top. She dipped a finger in and scooped some out. It was savory and delicious. The other baskets contained bread, roasted mushrooms, and a half-eaten cherry tart. She took a bite of that tart. The flavor burst in her mouth, and she couldn’t help but take another, then another.

She was amazed at how good this food tasted and wanted to eat more, but told herself she could do that when she was well away from this village. She wrapped the other items up and put the crock of beans in her sack, then heard horses clopping down the road. Moments later the voice of men carried through the window at the front of the house. “Check here,” one said.

Regret’s eyes! She’d lingered too long.
She backed up, then hurried to the door she’d come through. Just as she went to grab the handle, the door opened. A huge bearded man stood there. His clothes were dark. His eyes were orangish-brown, but it wasn’t their color that filled her with dread. It was the shape of the irises—horizontally like those of a goat.

Sugar stumbled back.

“Ho there, Darling,” he said.

Someone else entered the front of the house.

Sugar tried to dart around the big man, but he was quick and blocked her path. Were these two of the Famished? Had they drained the life out of this village and now come for her?

He raised his voice and grinned. “I think we’ve found what we’ve been looking for.”

Sugar drew her knife to strike, but the man who had entered the front of the house rushed up behind her and caught her arm. Sugar twisted, threw her elbow back, and slammed it into his face.

He grunted, but he did not let go. She struggled, but he grabbed her hand. A sharp pain shot through it, and she dropped the knife. She tried to yank her arm free, but his grip was iron. He twisted her hand and wrenched her arm around into her back. Pain shot up her arm. She lashed out with her free arm. Kicked back.

“Great lords,” the big man said, “we’ve got ourselves a tiger.” He grabbed her free arm, and the two of them pushed her face-first against the wall.

“She’s Koramite,” the big one said. “It has to be her.”

“Sugar,” the one that had disarmed her said, “we’ve been sent by Shim. We’re friends.”

She stamped down hard on his foot.

“Oh!” he grunted and loosened his grip just enough for her to yank herself free and whirl around to face them.

Then she recognized the one that had come up from behind. It was Urban, one of the foreign sleth, the one that had all the women talking. That meant the big one was not one of the Famished, but part of Urban’s crew that kept themselves out of sight.

The big one backed up and held his hands wide to show her he meant no harm.

Urban felt his eye. “Goh,” he said. “Remind me next time I rescue someone to suit up in full armor.”

“That’s going to be a pretty one,” the big one said. “Swell up real nice.”

Sugar’s heart was still beating wildly from the fight, her breath still coming fast.

“You can drop that fighting stance,” Urban said and stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, but didn’t dare relax.

In the scuffle, she’d dropped her sack. She’d not tied the top shut, and the necklace she’d found in her mother’s cache had spilled out along with the cherry tart and lay on the floor.

Urban went to pick up her sack for her and saw the necklace. “Now that’s a pretty piece,” he said and picked it up. He fingered the segments, then held it up to get a good look at it. When he fingered the horse, he immediately winced as if it had bitten him and dropped the necklace.

He looked at her with a bit of puzzlement on his face, then squatted down and used the point of Sugar’s knife to pick up the necklace again. “Is this what you went in for?”

He was a handsome man. His clothes were not sumptuous, but they were well tailored and the green of his shirt set off his dark hair and eyes, making him a striking figure. But she didn’t know what to tell him or how much to trust him. “Just put it in the sack,” she said.

He held it out to her instead. “Grasp the golden figure of the horse.”

Sugar took the necklace, felt the weight of it. The memory and loss of her mother welled up in her, but she refused to let it show on her face. She curled her fingers around the horse.

“What do you feel?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“No pricking, no fear?”

“No,” she said a bit confused.

Urban nodded. “Do you know what it is?”

She said nothing.

He shook his head in disapproval. “Sometimes I wonder about the Grove here.”

“They’ve been good to me,” said Sugar.

“I do not doubt their intentions,” said Urban. “But their methods, well, that’s something we can discuss later. Right now we need to get you back. You’ve got a lot of people worried.”

Behind them in the main room another soldier shouted. “Gods!” he said. “Urban!”

Urban turned and hurried back down the short hallway. Another one of his crew held the door of the main bedroom open with the tip of his sword. “They’re like leeches.”

Sugar picked up her sack and followed to get a view. A man with dirty feet lay on the floor in the room. He was naked except for his small clothes. All about him, lined up like suckling pigs, were a dozen grotesque creatures. Some were the size of rats, others as long as his arm. All of them looked starved. They were knobby and twisted, the color of pale driftwood. Their many fingers, as thin and spidery as the roots of a tree, grasped their prey. They were attached to his thighs, his stomach. One at his neck. The mass of them moved and undulated in the dim light, sucking the Fire from him.

“Frights,” Sugar said.

One of the things turned and looked up at her with one cancerous eye. Then the man on the floor opened his mouth and gasped.

“Godsweed,” Urban said. “Fetch the godsweed!”

The soldier ran out and came back moments later with a braid of godsweed, then took it to the hearth. He lit the braid in the embers of the dying fire, then brought it to Urban who took the smoking knot from him and walked into the room.

Frights were creatures not wholly of the world of flesh. They fed on Fire, and so it was common to find them lurking about the sick and dying. They haunted battlefields. For reasons unknown to Sugar, when feeding they sometimes became visible to the naked eye. It was said they could kill a man, but there was one thing they didn’t like.

Urban waved the smoking braid, spreading the sweet godsweed smoke about, poking the braids at the creatures. The frights began to become agitated. One struck at Urban. The soldier brought another smoking braid and waved it about. Urban waved his braid closer to the frights. Then one of the smaller frights detached from the man and fled out the window.

Urban and his man continued to wave the smoking braids about. As the smoke in the room thickened, a number of the other frights detached. Then they all fled out of the room, some disappearing through the window. One of the bigger ones charged between Sugar’s legs and out into the common area.

Sugar yelped and danced aside.

“Creator’s love,” the big one cursed. “The filthy beasts.”

Urban walked over to look down at the dying man. He was glassy-eyed and drooling. Urban bent down and took the man by the face. “Zu, what’s going on here?” he asked the man. “What happened?” But the man didn’t respond. It was clear he wasn’t long for this world.

Another one of Urban’s crew entered the house. “Urban,” he said. “We’ve found the bulk of the villagers.”

Urban gave orders to keep the room smoked and wait to see if the man revived. Then he followed the other crew member out. Sugar, not wanting to stay another moment in the house, joined them.

They found the villagers lying at the edge of a cherry orchard by the remains of a bonfire. There were sixty-three in all, men, women, and children. The bodies were crawling with frights.

Like the others, these villagers showed no marks that would indicate how they’d died. There were a lot of footprints, but nothing special.

Another one of Urban’s men called out. He was crossing the road, carrying a girl and a boy in his arms. He was followed by another man carrying a second boy. All three were alive. None of the children looked older than seven or eight years. Their eyes shone with weary shock.

“We opened the hay door to let some light in a barn, and there they were, three little owls lined up in a cubby.”

Urban addressed the oldest boy. “What’s your name, son?”

The boy did not speak, just looked at the dead bodies arrayed before him, dismay filling his face.

“It’s all right. We’ll protect you.”

Sugar stroked the girl’s hair. “Where’s your mother, Sweet?”

The little girl’s face broke into tears. Then she leaned forward, holding her arms out.

She was Fir-Noy, but it didn’t matter. “Come here, Precious,” Sugar said and took her. She clung to Sugar, heavy and solid as a little stone.

“It’s okay,” Sugar said and stroked her hair.

The girl buried her face in Sugar’s chest and panted like she would cry at any moment, but she didn’t cry. She just kept panting.

“Boys,” Urban said to her brothers. “We need to know what happened here.”

The older boy closed his eyes, his face scrunching up in pain.

“The woods filled up with darkness,” the smaller boy said. “Da came running, and a man yelled, and the whole wood was breathing. And mother ran with us to the barn and told us to hide. But when we got to the cubby mother was gone.” His lip began to quiver and he stopped, the horror of that moment filling his eyes.

The older boy finished the thought. “They took her to the horned evil in the smoke.”

10

Grass

ON A HILL a few miles from the Fir-Noy fortress of Blue Towers, Berosus squatted next to the body of the young woman that had been with the Mungonite priest. She was a thing of beauty: dark hair, stunning jade eyes, and clear skin the color of caramel. But her body was merely a husk now because Berosus had removed the vast majority of her soul in preparation for the harvest.

The remnant soul which lingered within might live on for a few days, maybe even a few weeks, but there was no point in allowing that to occur. The body would seek the familiar; it would walk back to some place it mistook for its home, go about its old habits. Maybe it would sit in a favorite chair, eat a piece of bread or go through the motions of drawing water. It wouldn’t respond to the conversations of those about her, or their later pleadings. Nor would it be able to resist the frights and other creatures from the world of the dead. Eventually it would succumb to them.

But Berosus did not want to think of her that way. Such an untidy end would spoil this moment. So he killed the young woman’s body with a sharp twist to the neck and laid it down upon the dried autumn grass at his feet.

The captain of Berosus’s guard had brought a small meal, and Berosus picked up a salted herring from the cloth spread upon the grass and took a bite. “Life is meant to be lived consciously,” Berosus said, “deliberately.”

“Yes, Bright One,” the dreadmen said.

Berosus ran a handful of the female’s luxurious dark hair through his fingers. He traced her brow and the ridge of her cheek bone, the delicate curve of her lips. She was so beautiful in her repose. As graceful and sensuous as the rich petals of an iris.

“Every day a banquet is spread, Captain. And if you’re not careful, you’ll miss it.” Berosus disdained the Divines who sent others to do their work. Life was full of gifts, full of opportunities such as these. And every day they missed it. In their excess they thought they lived more, but in reality their excess constrained them like blinders upon a horse.

He took another bite of herring.

The captain said, “This fledgling Glory, do you want him alive or dead?”

Berosus ignored him. The breeze blew gentle waves through the dry meadow grass about the girl. The heads of the grass nodded to and fro, as if reaching out to touch her.

He contemplated her a moment more and picked up the rough, black gloryhorn where the essential parts of the girl’s soul still lived on and put it in its sack.

The gloryhorn was the weave he would use to call the souls, including those that had escaped during the time this land lacked a Divine. He could have used anyone’s soul to quicken it, but it pleased him to think of the girl in there, for every time he saw the horn, he would also think of her, this hill, and the grass rippling in the breeze. Sooner or later the soul in the horn would degrade, and he’d have to find another. Until then, he would relive this moment of beauty, this reminder of the fierce, short fire of life.

Humans were grass—designed by the Creators to feed greater beings. It made no sense for grass to spend its days complaining about its lot. It made no sense to think about the dark when the sun was shining. Better to spend your days reveling in the feel of the wind and the sun and your roots growing deep.

And yet, there were some who were spared, by the grace of the Mothers, to live on. For whom death wasn’t the end. He might become one of those. Then again, he might not. Other Divines soured the moments of their lives, jockeying for position and approbation. But he’d learned long ago that was fruitless. The Sublime Mothers graced who they would with a long life in the world of souls for their own reasons. And even those souls did not live forever.

He finished the herring and sucked his two fingers clean. The dreadman captain stood silently waiting for his answer. He was a good man. One of the best. But he too one day would be grass. And another would grow up in his stead.

In the distance, the blue towers of the Fir-Noy fortress rose above the trees. Berosus looked out at the towers and said, “The fledgling Glory is a holy thing, Captain. And useful. We would not want to lose the part of the Mother that quickened him. Take him alive. We’ll find out who fashioned him soon enough. And the Sublime Mother of Mokad will be pleased. If nothing else, she’ll feed upon him. And Her Exquisiteness shall add to herself the power placed in him. She will smile upon us. You have felt her approbation?”

“One glorious time,” said the Captain.

“Do well, and you shall feel it again.”

“It shall be done, Bright One.”

Berosus looked down upon the body of the girl. She had solid bone structure, wide hips for bearing children, a full set of teeth. She was good stock. She would have grown up to bear many fine children and increase the herd. She would have provided many souls as meat for the Mothers.

“I need to get back to the traitors,” he said. “Be ready.”

“Yes, Bright One.”

Another of his dreadmen came up the hill. “We have a report, Bright One.”

The wind gusted about the hill. Above them two red-tailed hawks circled. Berosus waited for the dreadman to continue.

“There is an upland village called Redthorn. One of the sleth fled through that village earlier this morning. All of the inhabitants there are dead, including many animals and livestock.”

Berosus shrugged. This was not news. One or two dreadmen, of sleth or Divine making, could easily kill any number of unorganized villagers.

“I sent men,” the captain continued. “They say the frights are feeding, thick as fleas. There was no sign of struggle, but there was a living blackness, a wisp of mist. It lay upon the floor of a barn. When they opened the door, it attacked one of the men.”

Berosus looked over at the captain. “A mist?”

“That is their report, Holy One.”

He narrowed his eyes. These sleth were turning out to be more formidable than he thought. How delightful. After all these years, had he found a true sleth challenge? “I want to see the bodies,” he said. “I want to see the ground.”

* * *

A few hours later Berosus stood before a pile of bodies that lay in front of an orchard of the village of Redthorn. A hammer of dreadmen had spread out in a perimeter around him. The rest of the hundred he’d brought with him were stationed back at the Fir-Noy fortress of Blue Towers. More were coming on the ships that should arrive in just a few days along with thousands of troops from Mokad and three other Glorydoms. His Skir Masters, who were going to be necessary both for the fighting and the harvests, would arrive with that armada as well.

He bent down to the body of a dead woman. She was older, short, her hair beginning to streak with gray. There were no wounds upon her. No blackening of the skin around her neck or wrists that would indicate a Fire harvest. He cut open her tunic with his knife. The skin was clear, but there was a bruising that spread over her chest.

He leaned in. Sniffed. There was something here. He’d smelled it when he’d first gotten close to the village. He leaned in closer and sniffed again.

Magic. Old magic. Something about it tugged on his mind, but the memories were so old they had fallen to dust.

Berosus stood and surveyed the stiffened bodies about him.

“What is this?” the captain of his dreadmen asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. But it was powerful. He could feel it in his bones.

“It’s a Fir-Noy village. Do you think Shim’s sleth drained them to fill their weaves?”

“I think we’ll find out many things when we take the boy.”