Curse: The Dark God Book 2 (9 page)

Flax said, “I would need to see these evidences. If it’s true, it simply widens the number of our targets.”

Matiga said, “The point that you have lost is that our enemy preys upon us. We will not join them in that evil. And so if any member of the Hand wants to ally themselves with us, they must take an oath to cease to prey upon others for their Fire, and the soul that comes with it. We will not become the very thing we fight against.”

“There is no crime in stealing from an enemy.”

Matiga looked at Shim. She was clearly not impressed with Flax.

“He’s of the Hand,” said Eresh and tapped his forehead. “You’ve got to speak slowly.”

“Commander,” Shim warned.

Argoth stepped in. “Let me paint the vision. We are not here to overthrow the Divines and take their place. We are here to free every willing brother and sister of the human race. And the only way to do that is to teach them to master their own vitalities. Give them power. There is enough power in the people of this land, if freed from the darkness of ignorance, to overthrow those who rule over the Glories forever. We are going to raise a nation of loremen.”

Flax looked around the room. “A nation of the old gods, eh? You’re going to bring everyone out of darkness and put the lore into the hands of thieves and murderers.”

This was an old argument among those who used the lore. Was it best to monopolize the power like the Divines did, or did every man have the right to use or misuse the powers? “It’s already in the hands of thieves and murderers,” said Argoth. “Better our own poison than that of another.”

Flax considered for a moment. “Let’s say that we agree to join your cause. Your army is still too weak to fight Mokad. You will need us. You will need our Fire. That does not come for free.”

Shim waited.

“We’d want land, and paid passage. We’d want our members to fight together. There will be no splitting of our ranks unless we agree to it. And we want a portion of Lumen’s hoard.”

“The weaves in our possession do not belong to any one of us,” said Shim. “Their use is assigned based on need and ability. To be given one is to be given a stewardship, not ownership.”

“Do not split hairs,” said Flax. “Whoever determines need and ability controls the weaves. That’s the same as owning them.”

“No one person controls them,” said Argoth.

Flax shook his head. “You’re making it difficult for me to convince the others in my order to join your cause. They would need to see a clear value.”

“The hope of what we’re doing should be value enough,” said Shim.

“We will share whatever powers we have with those who join us,” said Argoth. “But if you are to join us, you must do so in very deed. There’s more that’s required.”

“More?”

“A gift of Fire,” said Argoth. “To show your intentions.”

“A payment in earnest,” said Eresh. “If you prove yourself, you’ll be repaid. If not, we’ll keep it.”

“I would think such a sacrifice would by itself prove my intentions.”

“Two weeks ago,” said Matiga, “a man showed up at the gates of the fortress, having, like you, answered our call. He was known to us. Powerful, a master, and he was wild. He’d eaten the souls of crocodiles. You couldn’t see the sign upon his body, but there lurked in him a darkness. He came promising to fight with us. He would have been a formidable addition to our ranks. But in not too many days it became apparent he also came thinking he could feed where he pleased.”

“The one hanging from a pole outside the gates of this fortress?”

“No,” Matiga said. “This one we elected not to publicize.”

Flax shrugged. “If it’s Fire you want, Fire we have aplenty.”

“We do not want that which you’ve stolen from others,” said Matiga. “We want
your
Fire. An Opulence at the very least. This is a personal sacrifice.”

Flax raised his eyebrows. “Are you joking? That’s three years of my life. I’m sorry, but this is foolish. Besides, if I give you of my Fire, I’ll simply replenish it from the stores we already have. Let us not play games.”

“We are not playing games,” said Argoth. “But we do not want to perpetuate the very abominations we seek to fight. What’s been stolen from others is tainted. Your oath, if you join us, requires you give up your stolen Fire to the winds.”

As Argoth spoke these words, his mind ran to Nettle, his son. Stealing Fire
was
an abomination. And his grief at having practiced that abomination upon his son, even though he’d been a willing victim, curdled his heart. He had stolen Fire from his son to battle the Skir Master. He’d lost the battle and been enthralled. In the process, he’d lost his son. Nettle still lived, but parts of his mind were missing.

Flax shook his head in disbelief.

Argoth had known these requirements would cause many to balk at joining them. They asked applicants to make too large a change. Two potential allies had already refused or said they needed more time to think which amounted to the same thing. He wondered again if these standards were too high. They so desperately needed the Fire this man could bring to the Order. But he thought of Nettle again. He thought of their enemy.

The price wasn’t too high. They had to draw a line. And if it meant their doom, then at least they would die with a clear conscience.

“Goh,” Flax said and shook his head. “You people are mad.”

Argoth knew they’d lost him then. Lost his Fire. Lost the experience of those in his hammer he could have persuaded.

Flax continued, “Only lunatics would dare challenge the powers as you have. I’ve studied you since I arrived on these shores. And I now have heard and seen enough to know that this is not an opportunity, but a trap. A trap set with bait so incredible I’m finding it hard to resist. So, while I cannot make promises for any others of the Hand, I will pledge myself. I will take your ridiculous oath. I will pour out my Days, but only half an Opulence. And then I’ll send back word. And if others join me, then you will provide them passage and lands. And you will assign them ‘stewardships’.”

Argoth couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Perhaps Shim’s vision was enough for this Flax. Or perhaps Flax had always been willing to join and had just started high in his bargaining. Or maybe it was a bit of both.

“I can accept that,” said Shim. He looked at Argoth and waited for his opinion.

What was there to dispute? Argoth nodded in agreement.

Eresh grunted. “A full Opulence. No less. Because he will turn his back on you.”

Flax said, “Once I set my hand to a tiller, I do not look back.”

“A full Opulence,” Matiga agreed.

Flax gritted his teeth. “A full Opulence with a guaranteed return plus interest.”

Shim looked at Argoth who nodded. “Accepted,” he said. “You’ve made a good choice.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Flax. “I tend to think that the intelligence of any one choice depends on all the choices that follow.”

“So it is,” said Shim. He rose. “Welcome, brother.”

Flax nodded at Eresh. “He’s not really part of this family, is he?”

“Och,” said Eresh, his one good eye hard and cold and disapproving, “I’ve just become your loving uncle.”

Argoth smiled. “You can still back out.”

“And let the Kish have all the glory? I think not. In fact, I want to deliver my part now. Let’s be done with it.”

“This way then,” said Matiga and motioned to where Flax could make his offering.

Sometime later when they were finished, Matiga led a sweating and drawn Flax out of Shim’s chamber.

“May I quarter here in the fortress?” Flax asked.

“Yes,” Shim said. “Matiga will make arrangements.”

He nodded. “I’ll go gather my things from where I was staying and will return in a few hours.”

Argoth led him out of Shim’s chambers. When they stepped into the sunlit bailey, Flax said, “What I need now is a tankard of strong ale and some oysters.”

“To celebrate?” asked Argoth.

“Gods, no,” said Flax. “I think I’ve just sealed my own doom. I need something to help me forget.”

Argoth smiled. Despite his wariness, Argoth suspected he might end up liking Flax after all. He led him back to his horse and then the outer gate. When Flax was well on his way, he went back to Shim and the others.

When Argoth walked back into Shim’s chambers, Eresh looked at him in disgust and shook his head.

“We know of your reservations,” Argoth said to Eresh. “But he gifted Fire. He passed our tests.”

“And so you just take him into your bosom?”

“No,” said Argoth patiently. “Now we watch him, just as we’re watching all our old friends, including you.”

“Save yourself the trouble,” said Eresh. “Let me rid you of that stinking pus today. We’ll come out an Opulence the richer.”

Shim held his hand up for Eresh to stop. “No more. You have free rein to watch him. If he proves out, you will swallow your anger and welcome him.”

“If he proves out, I’ll be all hugs and kisses,” Eresh said.

9

Redthorn

SUGAR WAS BEYOND exhaustion. She’d run all night and through the morning. She was nearing some kind of breaking. She thought she’d given the Fir-Noy the slip, but they’d raised the hue and cry throughout all the surrounding villages. They’d sent riders downstream. She’d tried to keep to the cover of the trees, but then she’d accidentally run upon a group of woodsmen taking a morning breather, and it had all started up again.

She paused in a wood thick with pines and shadows. The scent of the trees was rich and deep. Above her a breeze swept through the tops of the trees, but the thick carpet of needles upon the ground under her bare feet muffled the sound. Here and there, shafts of light filtered down, dust motes shining, to illuminate the forest floor. A moth flew into a fat shaft of light and then out again.

She listened for her pursuers, but heard nothing. Her weariness settled upon her, and she sat on the trunk of a fallen tree to regain her strength.

Her lips were dry. Her mouth was dry. So dry that she found it difficult to swallow. She felt twinges in her knees and other joints. She felt light-headed. Three times she’d almost lost herself to the firelust. The last time she had almost failed to put her weave of might back on. Lords, but the Fire was sweet. All she’d wanted to do was burn and burn.

She knew she’d just consumed a large quantity of her Days. Most living things were made up of three vitalities—body, soul, and a store of Fire, or Days, as some of the masters called it. Fire was consumed or “burned” like wood or grass. When a person used up all their Fire, the binding of the three vitalities broke. The body died. Every time you burned Fire, you hastened your own death.

This danger was compounded because when you built your Fire to multiply your might and speed, you couldn’t do so in a linear fashion. If a man wanted to increase his strength by half, he might have to use double or triple the normal amount of Fire. If he wanted to double his strength, he might have to burn five to eight times the normal rate. Sugar couldn’t gauge exactly how much Fire she’d burned. But she was sure she’d shortened her life by a number of days. And such a multiplying took a toll on the body, especially one that wasn’t used to it. She needed to get back to Rogum’s Defense. Needed to talk to River and make sure she hadn’t done permanent damage.

She slid her pack around and opened it yet again to look at the items she’d retrieved from her mother’s secret cache.

Of the items she’d taken from the cache by the hearth, Sugar could only remember seeing one of them before. And that had been when she was very young. The first was a codex of parchment sheets as square as a roof shingle. Five bands of soft leather ran along the spine of the sheets. Groups of sheets had been sewn together and put in a stack. The sheets had then been sewn to the bands of leather along the spine. The bands also secured two thin wooden boards—one covered the front of the codex, the other the back. The boards were lacquered red. Two brass clasps attached to the front held the codex shut. She’d unclasped the codex earlier and looked at a few pages of the writing. Mother had taught her how to read, but the blue script on these pages would take some deciphering.

The second item was a necklace. The chain was made of silver, segmented every few inches with carved figurines. Some of the figures were made of wood, some stone, two appeared to be woven of wire. There was a horse, birds, a man, a woman, a bear and other animals. The necklace had been wrapped in a cloth with a sprig of godsweed.

The third item was a lacquered box that contained another sprig of godsweed as well as a metal otter as long as the flat of her hand. It was black and heavy and felt like it was made of gold wire. The other item was an armband much like the candidate’s weave she had been given by Argoth and the Creek Widow. She wondered if that was the weave that had awakened her mother to the lore. Was it one she had planned on using to awaken Sugar herself? The thought of Mother teaching her filled her mind and brought with it a sharp pang of loss.

Sugar sat there a few moments, contemplating her mother’s things, and caught a whiff of wood smoke. More than anything else, she needed water. She needed it now, before her body became enfeebled and found herself unable to go on.

She knew the village of Redthorn lay somewhere up ahead. It was Fir-Noy, but she didn’t have a choice. She needed food and water.

Sugar brought her dark scout scarf up around her face. Despite the brief rest, she still felt a bit light-headed, but she hooked her thumb through the strap of her sack across her chest and, with a sigh, heaved herself to her feet.

She traveled some distance through the pines, then came to the edge of an apple orchard. Sugar squatted to get a good look through the rows of trees. Nobody was in the orchard.

She listened, expecting to hear the sounds of the villagers up and about their daily tasks, and heard nothing but the breeze. Maybe Redthorn was one of those places that celebrated the Apple Dance a bit too heartily. Maybe the inhabitants were all still asleep.

She entered the orchard, her feet sinking into the smooth cool grass, and immediately saw an apple lying under a few long blades. She picked it up. It was partially rotted, gone to soft brown goo and fungus on one side. But the other side was whole and blushed with red. She bit into that part. The apple flesh burst like honey and sunlight on her tongue. But even better was the juice that ran down her throat. She found another apple lying in the long grass, a small thing with a couple of brown dots indicating worm holes. She devoured it in three bites. She made her way down the row toward the village, but only found one other apple. It was clear the Redthorn folks were diligent with their fruit.

Something moved a few rows down.

Sugar’s heart leapt to her throat, and she froze.

A moment later a handful of spotted deer moved into view. They had come, like her, to eat what fallen fruit the tidy villagers had left. She sighed in relief, and then one of them saw her, stopped, and bounded away in a fright. The rest followed.

Sugar shook her head. She should have seen them. Her thirst and weariness were making her stupid and slow. They were going to get her caught.

The villagers had begun to prune this part of the orchard. The cut branches were gathered in piles between the rows. Sugar crouched down behind a pile and peered through the tree trunks at the village beyond.

Nothing moved.

She thanked the Creators for Fir-Noy reveling, hoping they weren’t anywhere close to sleeping off their cider binge.

She proceeded to the end of the orchard and crouched behind a low stone wall to scan the road running past the orchard and the village on the other side. Her throat still ached for water.

A number of homes lined a main road. About them stood outbuildings, gardens, fields, and three large orchards. The upland villages grew apples and cherries far sweeter than anything that could be grown in the lowlands. Heaps of pruned branches stood in the other two orchards. There probably should have been crews of adults and children finishing the pruning in this orchard, but all was silent. The only thing that moved was a thin ribbon of smoke rising from the chimney of a house down the road. Behind that house stood a community well with a number of paths leading to it.

She looked down the main road, looked the other way, and saw nothing but three brown chickens a few houses down the lane, pecking at something in the dirt. So she hopped the stone wall, hurried across the hard dirt road, and slipped into the shadows alongside one of the houses, silent as a cat, and moved to the back.

She turned the corner and almost trod upon a brindled bulldog lying on its side. Her heart pounded, and she jumped back, expecting the animal to rise up. But the bulldog didn’t move. It just lay there. A fly buzzed about, landed on the tongue hanging out of the dog’s mouth, then flitted to the dog’s nose.

The dog’s ribs weren’t moving. It was positioned oddly. Sugar looked closer. The dog was dead.

She blew out a soft sigh and paused a moment to relish her luck. She looked about. The early morning sun lay softly on the yard fences, the privies, and gardens being prepared for winter. It illuminated the well’s small wooden roof and very clearly revealed that nobody was out. A large set of wooden windpipes had been fastened onto a pole at the edge of the garden. These were uplanders, after all, and believed in giving the wind a voice. The morning breeze whistled through these pipes and a number of others throughout the village, making an eerie, lonely sound. This village’s Apple Dance must have been quite the reveling.

She darted across the garden. The rows of beets and carrots were covered with a thick layer of leaves against the coming cold and held down with a thin layer of dirt. She hopped the fence on the far side to a path leading to the well and almost landed on a pale ox lying on a swath of yellow birch leaves. Its large dark eyes had dried. Its mouth hung open.

Sugar paused. Beyond the ox lay a man. He was sprawled along the fence, wearing red festival trousers embroidered with blue loops around the cuffs and a festival shirt embroidered about the shoulders with leaves and fruits.

Alarm ran up Sugar’s neck. She carefully approached the ox and man, circling around until she could see the man’s face.

The man’s face was painted with festival swirls. There was no wound she could see. No blood on the leaves or ground or clothing. Farther down, a boy lay slumped alongside another house. The body of a woman sprawled in the grass by the orchard fence across the road.

Her arms goose pimpled. Her senses went on full alert.

This wasn’t cider, unless the cider had been poisoned, but then who would be giving an ox cider? It could be the effects of too much of the herb sinnis. But again, who would be giving that to dogs and livestock?

She used the shaft of a garden fork to roll the man at her feet over. He was heavy and stiff and moved more like a big log than a man. She used the end of the stick to raise his tunic, examining his belly and chest. She lifted the tunic higher to check his armpits. Nothing.There was no sign of any pestilence.

Woodikin lived in the Wilds beyond the borders of the land. Half the size of a man, they made their homes mostly in groves of huge trees called tanglewoods. When the first Koramites had settled in the New Lands, the woodikin had fought them. They were wily, using ambush and poison and insects, but in the end, they had lost, and their tanglewoods here had been destroyed. The woodikin themselves had retreated into the Wilds. It was rare to see them within the borders of the land, but in the last few weeks there had been a number of sightings.

She looked for the markings of woodikin darts. But there were no wounds, no insect bites, nothing at all. The man was just dead.

She felt someone watching her and spun around. A small flock of sparrows swooped over a garden and perched on the peak of a roof.

She needed to get out of here.

But she needed water more. She was still dizzy with thirst, a small ringing in her ears. The well stood just a few paces away. The gate at the end of this path stood open. Despite her fear, Sugar left the man and quietly walked to the well. The smell of cold sweet water rose up from the depths. She carefully dropped the bucket down, the whole time keeping an eye out.

The house closest to the well was a simple structure: board and plaster, thatched roof, with a main room for living and cooking and another to the side. This was the home she’d seen before with the thin stream of smoke coming from its chimney. Painted on its back door were two stalks of barley which announced this as the residence of an ale-wife. The door stood ajar, revealing a hallway to the main room, the end of a table there, a chair, and three baskets sitting on the floor. A covered ceramic pot sat in one of the baskets. The contents of the other two baskets were covered neatly with cloths.

Food, it had to be. Leftovers from last night’s festivities.

The well bucket hit the water below. Sugar let it sink. When it felt good and heavy, she gently cranked it back up. The water was cold and clear, but part of her said it could be poisoned. Maybe that’s what killed these folks. She held the bucket up, sniffed it, tasted it. It was sweet and pure. She took a large gulp, and felt the lovely relief washing down her mouth and throat. She lifted the bucket higher and drank, the delicious cold water spilling down her chin and into her tunic. She drank until she knew she couldn’t hold more, then filled her waterskin.

She needed food. She didn’t know how long she might be on the run. She might be in Rogum’s Defense by the end of the day. But it also might take her another day to make it back. It had been drilled into her that you took your opportunities when they presented themselves. You ate and slept when you could, because you might not be able to eat and sleep later.

She didn’t know what had killed these people, but she didn’t think it was the food. No one would have brought enough for everyone to eat. They would have all brought a dish or two, which meant the food wasn’t poisoned, if poison is what killed these people.

There were tales of the Famished, the souls of sleth that refused to move on. They would enter the bodies of the living and, in perfect disguise, drain all those about them for their Fire. After a number of days or weeks, when the neighbors and loved ones were all consumed, the famished soul would travel to a new out-of-the-way place, jump to a new victim’s body, and begin all over again.

But those were tales told by Divines, and who knew if they were true? Like all the rest of their lies, it was probably part of their propaganda. Nevertheless, she drew her knife, then sidled up to the house and listened.

She heard only the breeze whistling through the windpipes in the gardens. She looked through the door. The house was still.

She pushed the door open with her foot. It glided silently on its iron hinges, uttering one creak. The main room had one window that stood unshuttered, allowing the light of the day to dimly illuminate what was inside.

Sugar stepped inside, her knife ready. The door swung gently behind her. The floor in this main room appeared to have been replaced in the last month, for the boards were unpainted and so newly cut she could still smell the wood.