Curse: The Dark God Book 2 (18 page)

19

Nettle

ALL THE WAY BACK to the fortress the wind blew. The ragged clouds rushed across the night sky, obscuring the moon and then letting it shine again. And Argoth pondered what had just happened next to the tavern owner’s barn.

All that rubbish about the order of the creation! The Creators had endowed men with brains and the will to use them. Men were not grass to be sown and harvested as others saw fit. That lord, with all his smiles and confidence, was a coward who had traded his freedom for a snug spot in a sheep’s fold.

The perils he talked about—they were nothing more than the burden of freedom. And if the Devourers could contend with these dangers, then so could humans.

Argoth crossed over the bridge spanning the creek in front of the fortress, his horse’s hooves sounding on the timbers. How did Nilliam know who he was? How did they know about Talen?

Mokad would have known about Argoth’s role in the Grove because Argoth had been, if only briefly, a thrall to one of its Divines. As a thrall, Mokad had been able to force him to reveal many secrets. But the Skir Master that had held his bond had been destroyed, and the bond of the thrall had gone with it. Moreover, that bond had been destroyed
before
they’d fought the Devourer in the caves, so how could anyone but those who had been in the cave know about Talen’s part in that final battle?

Perhaps this was evidence that the thrall had not been completely broken when the Skir Master died. When Argoth’s thrall had been quickened, a door opened in his mind that connected him to the Skir Master. Then another door had opened connecting the Skir Master to the Glory of Mokad. And then yet a third door had opened connecting the Glory to a Sublime—no, he wouldn’t use that word—to a Devourer whose beauty still smote his heart.

Perhaps the link to the Skir Master had died, and the bulk of the power of the thrall had died with him. But was it possible the link with the Glory and Devourer still remained?

He had felt a ghost of that connection in the hours and days after he’d been freed. It had faded. He hadn’t felt any of it these last weeks. Surely, their connection to him was now gone. Still he wondered: was he a source of information for the enemy? Were they spying upon Shim’s fledgling army through him?

He cursed. The things the Grove did not know!

Then another idea occurred to him. If Nilliam had made contact with him, had they attempted to make contact with any of the other leaders? In fact, any of the candidates would be good targets. If he were in Nilliam’s shoes, he wouldn’t target just one person.

Argoth rode through the field and now approached the gate in the outer wall. He called up to the men there who opened for him.

It made sense that if the Devourers had their own society, they would communicate with each other. And why not? They probably also had their hierarchies and territories and disputes, their alliances and antagonists. In fact, wasn’t this ploy by Nilliam evidence of such an antagonism between two masters?

Argoth thought it was. Which meant there was a whole world of power and politics that none but the Divines even knew existed. He corrected himself—none but the Divines and now the Order of Hismayas. No wonder the glorydoms were coming to exterminate them.

And with that thought of extermination, Argoth understood something of the history of Hismayas that he hadn’t before. Hismayas had once been a Divine. But he’d rebelled and taught the people of his vale the secrets of the lore. And for that crime all the Divines who could be called from all the surrounding glorydoms, both friend and foe, came to the vale of Hismayas. They and their armies camped about it. And when all had gathered, they entered his vale and slaughtered all his people. Hismayas they took and tortured upon a stone for a full year. Then they sacrificed his soul.

Now Argoth knew why the Divines had reacted the way they had to Hismayas. He and his people threatened the whole community of Devourers. If people really knew and believed the truth, mankind would rise up in rebellion. These accords the lord of Nilliam spoke of probably defined how they would face a common threat.

Luckily, Hismayas had sent a seed into the wilderness to preserve the secrets long before the Divines and their armies were mustered. A seed that had, over the ages, grown into the Groves. The problem was that this was a very old war they were waging. So old that the Groves had forgotten who the real enemy was.

As Argoth rode up to the inner gate fortress, he thought of the Book and Crown of Hismayas that Harnock kept in his fastness beyond the borders of the New Lands. None had been able to open that book and live. Many had tried. All had failed to be found worthy. But now, more than ever, they needed the power that would come with the secrets kept there. If they were going to face the glorydoms of the earth, they would not be able to stand with an army of a few hundred dreadmen. Maybe River was right. As soon as the current crisis was over, he would send her to Harnock once more.

Argoth thought about these things as he dismounted and gave his horse to the stable hand. He thought about them as he walked back to his quarters where his wife and children slept. He lit a lamp and went to the room where Nettle, his son, usually lay.

Argoth found the bed empty. He held the lamp higher and saw Nettle huddled in a corner asleep, lying with his bare legs on the cold floor. A blanket lay on the floor next to him. Argoth set the lamp on a table and went to his son. He felt Nettle’s legs and hands; they were ice cold.

Nettle had a slight beard. Not the scratchy whiskers of a man, but of youth. Nevertheless, he was a man. He’d received his man’s tattoo and had almost immediately made a man’s choice, choosing to sacrifice his Fire so Argoth could fight the Skir Master. He’d chosen knowing that Argoth would have to take that Fire, and by so doing would also take part of his soul.He’d chosen, knowing he’d never be the same again.

Except as every day passed and Argoth saw more and more clearly what he’d done to his son, that reasoning became more and more brittle. Even if Nettle were technically a man, youth was impetuous and rash. Youth didn’t understand the consequences even when they were explained to them. Had Nettle really chosen when his mind was still full of a boy’s idea of valor?

Argoth worked his hands under Nettle’s knees and carried him back to his bed. Then he lay down next to him and pulled the blanket up to warm the boy with his own body heat. Nettle stirred but did not waken. He was almost as tall as Argoth. In stature he was a man, but it was only in stature. When Argoth had taken the Fire, it had taken parts of Nettle’s mind. He was not an imbecile, but he certainly wasn’t full-witted either. This had also affected his coordination, for where he’d once been able to run like a horse, Nettle now moved with a gangly lope.

My son
, Argoth thought, smoothing back Nettle’s hair.
My bright boy
. The regret at what he’d done to Nettle clenched his heart.

He found no use in trying to suppress the fact that Nilliam’s offer tempted him. Trying to ignore such things only seemed to make them worse. You had to deal with such thoughts head on, acknowledge them and pin them down. He’d kept the filtering rods through which he’d drawn Nettle’s Fire, rods used specifically to catch soul. He’d kept them hoping beyond hope that lore existed which would allow him to restore the parts of his son he’d torn away.

He wanted to believe that the lord of Nilliam was speaking the truth. But he also knew a cunning adversary would use just such a hope to turn someone traitor. It was probably a well-spun, half-truth that would only disappoint.

But what if it wasn’t?

He wouldn’t make matters worse by sullying Nettle’s gift with perfidy.

But what if it was true? Perhaps such lore was in the Book of Hismayas.

To have his son back! To ride with him as they once had, galloping down the road to Stag Home in a pell-mell race, the dust rising from the hooves of their horses. Or listen to him tease his sisters. Or labor in the fields and talk about the men and whether the blight would take their new variety of grape.

Those and many other bright memories burned in his mind, beckoning. Argoth allowed himself to revel in those dreams as he lay next to his son, trying to warm his limbs. But he knew he could not stay. When Nettle’s hands no longer felt like ice, he rose and tucked the blankets securely about his son. Then he picked up the lamp that had burned low and quietly moved past his sleeping family and out the door.

* * *

Argoth found Shim, not in his chambers, but in the armory. His shirt was off, and he was sweating, practicing with his sword in the light of one single candle flame. Upon his upper right arm was a new weave. Shim was all muscle, hard and knotty and scarred. He danced past Argoth in his bare feet, the sword slicing the air, glinting in the small candlelight.

“So you survived the forcing,” Argoth said.

“That woman Matiga is a torturer. I think she actually enjoyed watching me writhe.”

“How do you feel now?”

“Jittery,” Shim said and thrust.

“But you feel strong.”

“I feel like I’m riding a horse that’s much too big for me and galloping far too fast.”

Argoth nodded. “Your body, marvelous thing it is, will grow accustomed to its new powers.”

Shim leapt, but he leapt too far and had to correct himself at the last moment to avoid crashing into a table he’d moved aside. “You realize how dangerous this clumsiness will be until it passes?”

Argoth nodded. “And I’m afraid that’s not all that has increased our peril.”

Shim paused. “What? Mokaddian dreadmen aren’t enough?”

Argoth told Shim then of his meeting with the lord of Nilliam. He told him of the offer for power and the enemy’s accords. He told him everything except for what had been said about Nettle. He didn’t know why he kept that part back, but he told himself it wasn’t a necessary part of the discussion.

When he finished, Shim said, “The fact that they are making offers suggests to me they are not strong enough to simply come in here and take what they want. They may even fear us.”

Argoth nodded. “Two Divines have died on these shores.”

Shim scratched the beard growing under his jaw. “And all this attention on Talen. He’s a good soldier, but fearsome would not be the first word to come to mind when describing him.”

“The hatchlings of a Mungonese crocodile are not particularly fearsome. And yet they grow up to be horrors.”

“True,” said Shim.

“I still say we proceed as planned. We send Talen to a safe place. Then we break up and increase our reconnaissance. I fear there are more enemy troops here than we realize.”

“You need to watch yourself as well, since I’m merely a—what was the exact word the lord of Nilliam used?”

“A distraction.”

“Yes, a distraction. You thinking of taking my place?”

“And have to answer to all the wives of the Clans? Never.”

Shim grinned. “Very wise.”

* * *

A few hours later in the darkness of the early morning, Berosus worked with the newly forced candidates on the training field, trying to help settle them into their new powers, for none of them could sleep. The last of the storm clouds had blown away, and the moon shone down on the training bailey bright and clear.

Argoth’s methods had proved to be effective. Of the candidates they’d forced so far, they’d only broken a handful. Berosus was impressed; these sleth had come up with a number of surprising innovations.

Next to him, two of the candidates practiced swordplay with wooden wasters. They looked like children, swinging with all their might. “A light touch,” he said to them. “Your range of speed and power has just been extended. Stop going right up to the top. Ease into it.”

The candidates modified their strokes, but not enough. He moved to another pair, and then another, always keeping close to the road from the inner fortress to the outer gate. A carriage wheeled past. But there was nothing of interest in it. A few minutes later a wagon loaded with two large barrels rolled by. He almost passed over the wagon, but caught a glimpse of the horse’s shoe in the moonlight. The shoe was not open, but completely round. And with large caulkins to boot. You didn’t put that kind of shoe on a draught horse. That was a shoe used for horse sport. And for firesteeds. He looked at the horse again. It was River’s horse!

He felt for the small escrum in his pocket that held a bit of the soul of the captain of his dreadmen, allowing him to communicate with him over distances.
Follow the wagon
, he said to the man’s mind.

The line of communication was not as clear as with a full thrall’s bond, but the reply was clear enough.
It will be done, Bright One
.

The wagon disappeared through the gate. Berosus smiled. Soon Talen would be in hand. Once he was secured, there was only one piece left—he needed to know the identity of the real power behind Argoth and the others, the one who had actually defeated the Sublime Mother in the stone-wight warren. He’d visited the warren when he’d first arrived, but this Grove had emptied it. There was very little there that would give him any clue as to what had happened.

So what he needed was someone to tell him the truth. Of all those who had been present, it was clear who the weakest link was—Legs is where he’d begin his investigation.

He turned back to the candidates. One almost tumbled into him. Berosus helped the man up. “Think of it like a voice,” he said. “Start off with a whisper. Move up the scale of volume slowly until you get control.”

20

Suckle

SUGAR WOKE TO something pulling on her toe. She kicked at it, but found it too large to be a ferret.

“Good morning,” Legs said and pulled her toe again.

She opened her eyes. The cellar door hadn’t been shut all the way, and a sliver of early morning light shone through the cracks.

“The others have gone to eat,” Legs said.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Last night the Creek Widow said you needed rest. Who am I to gainsay her?”

She turned and sat up. She had been tired to begin with, and the chaos with the Mokaddian dreadmen had only kept her up longer. She couldn’t quite believe Mokaddian dreadmen were already here. The upcoming battles had seemed so far away. “I’m famished,” she said. It felt like she’d been fasting for two days. Then she noticed in the wan light that Legs was wearing the necklace.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Her alarm rose. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know how to use it,” he said.

“That isn’t an answer.”

He was silent, which meant he
had
tried to do something.

“We’re playing with lions,” she said. “If we’re not careful, one of us is going to end up being eaten.”

“I didn’t quicken it.”

“Legs,” she said.

“Would you deny me sight?” Legs asked. “I want to see. And not just the enemy. I want to see you, sister, even if it is only with the eyes of my soul. I want to see Mother and Da.”

“Give it to me,” she said.

Legs removed the weave and handed it to her. “Don’t deny me this,” he said.

“It’s not about denying. The vitalities are not to be toyed with. The last thing I need is to lose you. Whatever Urban teaches me, I’ll teach you. But you need to be patient.”

“Patience is overrated,” he said and put a few mint leaves in his mouth to chew.

“So says Legs the Wise. Come on.”

Sugar dressed, and they exited the cellar. The morning air was clean from last night’s rain. Much of the ground was cobbled, but where it wasn’t, the earth was still dark with moisture. All about the bailey, soldiers were moving things, loading up wagons. Two fists of candidates worked with Ke and Eresh. Then she saw what they were doing and corrected herself—they weren’t candidates any longer. These fists had been forced some time during the night. They were dreadmen, albeit of the first level, but dreadmen all the same.

Part of a dreadman’s training included running various courses designed to increase strength, speed, and endurance. The saying was “multiply a runt and you just get a bigger runt.” So you wanted to do everything you could to increase your normal base strength. The courses also taught you how to move at those higher levels, for, as she had learned, it was one thing to run through a forest. It was quite another to try to run through that same forest at double the speed.

Ke had a fist of dreadmen working on the platforms. One of the new dreadmen jumped from a standstill straight to the six-foot platform. That was like jumping over a man standing straight up. And he didn’t squeak by—he had room to spare. He sprang off the other side. Another followed him up. A third candidate didn’t quite make it. He tried again and failed and moved down to the five-foot platform and succeeded.

Eresh worked with another group scaling a fortress wall with ropes. Each man climbing the wall wore a fall harness made of rope around his waist and legs. A man above on the parapet reeled that in as the man below climbed. The men were scampering up the walls like squirrels, and Sugar wondered if they needed fall harnesses. But then Eresh started shouting at one man above him. “Breath!” he yelled. “Watch your breath!”

The man didn’t seem to hear. He was wavering, barely clinging on.

“Breathe, you idiot!”

The man collapsed and would have fallen to some damage if it weren’t for his harness and the man above slowly letting him to the ground.

Eresh bent down next to him and put his ear to the man’s mouth to see if he was breathing. A moment passed, then Eresh said, “He’s alive. The fool.”

Sugar made her way over to the great hall where she assumed her fist was since they’d been helping with the forcing the night before. A fist of candidates waited their turn by the entrance. Inside, Argoth and the Creek Widow were taking a breather by one of the massive hearths. On the far side of the hall, a dozen or so men lay unmoving on tables and cots. They were bundled up in quilts and blankets. And all about them godsweed braids burned, filling the hall with smoke to keep frights and other creatures away.

“Are these the last?” Sugar asked.

“Those are the ones that broke,” one of the waiting candidates replied.

Sugar remembered the night Talen had almost died. His da had forced him on accident, and he’d bled out a horrendous amount of Fire. He would have bled it all out if River hadn’t been there to stop it. Talen must be made of tough stuff, for he’d survived and was using the lore. She hoped these men here survived. Her heart went out to them. Yesterday, they’d been dreaming of what they could do as loremen. Today that was now gone. She knew she’d be devastated if she’d lost the chance to learn her mother’s lore.

“There you are,” a woman said.

Sugar turned to find the Mistress.

“You’re with me today, slug-a-bed.”

“Where’s my fist?” asked Sugar.

“They’re with me too. Come on. Have you taken your breakfast?”

They hadn’t, so the Mistress led them over to the cook’s for a generous helping of swamp and hard bread.

“Can you believe it?” the Mistress asked. “There were Mokaddian dreadmen on this very ground, swords clashing, men shouting, and I slept like a baby through the whole thing. Slept late, and I never sleep late.”

“Maybe that will teach you not to dip into someone else’s wine,” said Sugar.

“Ach,” said the Mistress, “that Creek Widow doesn’t want you drinking spirits. Besides, the wine was fair payment.”

“For what?”

“For having to be fistmaiden over you, the other fell-maidens, and Master Legs.”

Sugar furrowed her brow. River was their fist leader.

“Temporarily, of course. River’s gone. The Creek Widow is still working with the candidates. She didn’t sleep a wink last night. Just worked right through. I tell you that woman is iron. If Shim weren’t here, I think she’d be running this whole show. Anyway, with both of them gone, you are assigned to me. The rest of the fist is already out working.”

“Where did River go?”

“That’s the question on everybody’s lips. It appears both she and Talen were sneaked out sometime last night. Disappeared like ghosts.”

“Sneaked? Why would they need to be sneaked?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you? Those dreadmen were after him. Not Shim or Argoth or that fine piece of beef that’s his brother. That’s the word. I tell you, there’s something about that boy you’re keeping mum.”

They had been told not to reveal all the details of what happened in the Devourer’s warren. It would not play well to spread it about that Talen was some tool of the same master that controlled the monster that had terrorized the land. She didn’t like lying to the Mistress, but what else could she do? “I’m sure I don’t know what it is,” Sugar said.

The Mistress turned to Legs. “And what about you, Master Legs? What do you know?”

“Me?” Legs asked. “I’m blind. What would I know of such things?”

“Plenty,” the Mistress said in a tone that clearly revealed she wasn’t buying any of that. “There are many secrets not meant for the chief washerwoman’s ears. I’ll grant you that. But, sooner or later, I find them out anyway.”

Sugar said, “Then you must tell me when you solve this mystery.”

“Oh, I shall,” she said.

Sugar changed the topic. “Did the Creek Widow convince that Kish to force the fell-maidens?”

“I heard tomorrow,” the Mistress said. “But I wouldn’t depend on it. That Kish has Shim’s ear. From what I hear he convinced our warlord that the women’s fist should be the last to go. Mark me: with all that’s going on, he’ll push it out for weeks.”

“I don’t know that I like that man,” said Sugar.

The Mistress shrugged. “If the old badger is as good as Argoth thinks he is, we don’t have to like him. And after yesterday’s demonstration, I’m inclined to think he might be. I can tell you I don’t intend to fight him. I suggest you do the same and content yourself with slaying piles of laundry and an equal mound of ducks instead.”

The Mistress told Sugar to fetch a bowl of swamp. When she and Legs finished, the Mistress led them to the outer bailey. A number of crows congregated on the wall.

“They’ve got the dreadman that Flax beheaded out there on a pole next to Pinter,” said the Mistress. “He’s holding his head in his own hands. Want to have a look?”

Sugar did. They walked out of the fortress to view the spectacle. The naked body was already beginning to stink, but she held her hand under her nose to mitigate the smell. Half a dozen crows flew about trying to get their chance at the flesh. Flies and wasps buzzed about too. She described the man to Legs, including the strange tattoos.

“No mistaking Lord Shim’s defiance now,” said the Mistress.

“He’s clearly Mokad’s,” Sugar said of the dreadman. He’d also been very clearly a powerful man. Even in death his muscled limbs and torso looked fearsome. And Mokad would be sending hundreds more. They contemplated him a bit longer, then went back inside.

The Mistress assigned some of the women to gather firewood and others to pick more wild rosemary for the laundry. Sugar and Legs she assigned to the group scalding and plucking a large quantity of ducks that would be roasted for the candidates. The hunting boys had brought back more than a hundred of them. The pile was mostly green-heads with some smaller browns mixed in and a half a dozen geese. Big as it was, the candidates would eat through this pile in short order.

The pluckers kept a small cauldron of water hot, not boiling. Sugar sat and dunked her bird in the hot water, holding it by its head. When it was good and wet, she hauled it out and began with the big feathers of the wings and tail. Once those were out, she held the bird belly-up in her left hand, picking and rubbing out the feathers from breast to tail, careful not to break the skin since it was what would keep the meat moist while cooking. Once the belly was done, she did the same to the back and sides, going from neck to hind, in the direction the feathers grew.

After the fourth bird, her hands stunk of the duck’s feather oil. After a dozen more, the muscles in her shoulders and back tightened up and began to ache. She plucked on, wet feathers clinging to her tunic and trousers and catching in her hair, but her mind was not on the ducks.

The whole time she tried to find and follow a thread of her mother’s weave about her neck. Twice she thought she had found one, but both times it slipped from her. It was like trying to hold a pea on a knife.

Candidates rode past. Some called out greetings to the women. To others, the women made their own calls. At one point Commander Eresh rode out along the path to the bridge, a fist of men with him. When he was only a number of yards away, he turned to the Mistress. “Good morning, Mistress,” he said. “I’ve talked to Shim. You’ll be given a rank in short order. Captain, I would think.”

The Mistress rose and bowed to him.

“You tell those women the army’s built on the backs of the laundresses,” he said. “Tell them they’re saving lives! I’d trade a whole hammer for a good crew of washerwomen. Remember it!”

“Aye,” the Mistress said and put her fist to her chest in salute.

He rode on.

“Captain is it?” one of the other women teased. She was plump and missing a tooth at the side of her grin. “And when did you have time to get into his bed?”

“This has nothing to do with his bed,” said the Mistress.

“Is he mocking us?” Sugar asked.

“He’s an odd one, to be sure,” said the mistress. “But he’s not joking. He made it a point to visit with me earlier. After looking me over quite openly, he proclaimed that if I were to marshal my troops correctly, I’d save more of Shim’s army than he would.”

“I don’t think that one’s rowing with all his oars,” said the plump woman. “Did someone hit him in the head during last night’s fighting?”

The Mistress continued. “He said disease and pestilence can do more damage to an army than most foes. He said a clean army is a healthy one. ‘I’ll train them to fight flesh and blood, my good woman, but it won’t do a lick of good if you don’t keep the vermin out.’ Those were his very words. And he was particular in verifying how we go about our wash and the consequences if we failed to follow his odd demands.”

“If you’re a captain,” the plump one asked, “what does that make me?”

“The captain’s boot polisher,” another of the women said.

Sugar laughed along with the other women. But she wondered about this Kish even more. She would not complain about fewer lice and fleas, but to say the army was built on laundry?

“So, my lovely warriors,” said the Mistress, “back to work.”

They turned back to the ducks and conversation. As they approached lunch time, the Mistress nudged Sugar. “You keep watching the road. Who are you pining after? Certainly not that foreigner.”

Sugar realized she had indeed been continually glancing up the road. “I’m going to be working in his crew,” she said. “Nothing more.”

The plump woman said, “Oh, dearie, that lie is written plain on your face.”

“It’s not a lie,” Sugar said innocently.

“How many hares are you trying to catch?” another woman asked and brushed a curly lock of hair out of her face with the back of her hand.

“None,” Sugar protested.

“Sweet Pie,” said the Mistress, “you can’t hide it from the likes of us.”

Sugar thought of Talen. He’d certainly become more attractive to her. And then the weaver from Koramtown, although now that Talen had pointed it out, he did have a nose that was fairly dainty. There might be others. But she couldn’t tell these ladies. It would fly through the camp before dinner. “I’m training for battle,” she said. “I don’t have time to be worrying about men.”