Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 (15 page)

“There are more troops coming,” River said. “We need to move!”

There were three bats left. Talen fell upon their thralls and released them. When the Fire sprayed out of the last one, he couldn’t help himself and sucked it up.

Above him, the first orange skir flew over the gap. It made a terrible sound and rushed down to take one of the woodikin souls still struggling out of its flesh. Talen pulled his roamlings back.

Harnock shoved Talen. “Move, you fool.”

Talen picked up his pack and began to run, following River, Chot, and the other retreating woodikin.

On Talen’s right, a group of woodikin high up on the slope hooted and began shooting arrows down at them. They must have traveled around the gap above the cliffs. They were still some distance away, but a glancing cut with a poisoned arrowhead would do as much damage as a square hit.

Talen and the others raced for the shelter of some trees ahead. Harnock took a slightly different angle toward some huge boulders that lay at the base of the slope, as if he was going to take cover there, then race up the slope to meet the woodikin, but when he reached the boulders, a man in dark clothing shot out from behind one of the boulders and charged Harnock.

Harnock heard him, turned and snarled.

It was one of Nashrud’s dreadmen.

The dreadman flew at Harnock, but Harnock batted his head to the side. Harnock turned to go for the kill, but another dreadman sprang out and lunged. Something long and silver, like a thin chain, flashed in his hand.

Harnock spun around and knocked the dreadman to the ground, growling, but then his growl was cut short.

Harnock pulled at something on his arm, something silver. “No!” he roared.

The second dreadman rose and drew his sword, but Harnock ripped the sword from the man’s grasp and grabbed him by the head. He ran to the boulder with the dreadman and slammed the man’s head into the large rock. Harnock continued to slam it into the rock until it was broken in many places, and then he fell to his knees and clutched at the thing around his arm.

Talen and River rushed over to him.

“Sweet gods!” Harnock said in desperation, ripping at the thin chain that had wound itself around his forearm. “I can feel him in my mind!”

The chain moved, constricted, and Talen knew what it was. He sent his roamlings out and fell upon the weave.

Harnock struggled to speak. “You don’t have time. The master has the ring.”

This thrall was different yet again from those in Rogum’s Defense and in the bats. But it was similar enough. He felt along its smooth exterior until he came to the mouth. Then he ripped.

A presence was there. It attacked him.

Talen reeled back, then charged in again. He bit into the weave, pulled, and a gush of Fire sprayed out. He gulped and bit it again.

All about him, the murderous orange skir clacked and fluted. Talen bit once more, then drew his roamlings back. He kneeled next to Harnock and grabbed the weave. Talen was multiplied, and the weakened weave bent easily in his hands. In moments he wrenched it off Harnock’s forearm and sat back.

Pain shot across Harnock’s face. “Run. You need to run!”

“We’re not leaving without you,” River said. “Come on!” She grabbed his arm and helped him up.”

Harnock staggered to his feet.

An arrow thumped into the ground by River’s foot. The woodikin on the slope above had found an angle that gave them a clear shot.

“This way!” River said, and the three of them ran to catch up to Chot and the other woodikin. The arrows snicked past them, but a few yards later, they ran into a thin stand of trees that gave them cover and joined up with the wasp lord and Chot’s warriors. The small group raced forward. Behind them in the distance, the woodikin army hooted and barked as they entered the gap.

“Quickly!” Chot commanded, the Queen’s weave of might flashing gold on his finger. No wonder he had been able to fight that ring warrior.

They fled the area. Soon the hills gave way to a gentle slope that widened and flattened out into a valley, and they were able to pick up their speed, but Harnock seemed to be struggling. They entered a clearing, and Harnock stumbled to his knees in the dry grass and dirt. He picked himself up and continued to run, but it was clear something was wrong.

Talen wondered about the dreadmen. They were obviously working with the Orange Slayers, but how had they gotten ahead of Chot’s party? Then it came to him—the crows. They’d seen where Chot and the others were headed and had discovered a shortcut.

Talen and the others ran a few more minutes and came to a clearing that allowed them to see the valley ahead of them. On this side of the stream the trees were green. On the other side, for miles and miles, the trunks of the trees rose like so many gray and scorched sticks. Here and there some small bit of greenery sprouted from the earth, but most of the ground was barren and dark with ash. A massive forest fire had raged through this valley not many months ago.

They approached the stream, and Chot’s woodikin began to cross over to the burned land on the other side. Harnock stopped. “We need someone watching our rear. I’ll catch up.”

“You can’t face the Divine,” River said.

“I don’t intend to,” said Harnock. At that moment he spasmed and doubled over.

There was a line of blood along Harnock’s belly. The ring warrior must have gotten him. But the wound wasn’t running, so it must not have been very deep.

River crouched beside him. “Harnock! Was there poison on that blade?”

A moment passed. Harnock relaxed and began to breathe again. “It’s not poison,” Harnock said.

“What is going on?” Talen asked.

Harnock struggled to speak. “The master feels after the ring. Not much time before the link’s complete.”

“But I raveled it,” Talen said.

“He wasn’t growing a new one, Hogan’s son. He was simply picking up the one that was already there.”

“No,” Talen said.

River looked devastated. “You’re still your own. We’ll get you back. Matiga will know what to do.”

“It’s too late,” Harnock said.

“This can’t be,” she said. “Harnock, we never meant—”

He waved her off. “Do not take the responsibility for the deeds of wicked men. We don’t have time for long good-byes.” He clenched his teeth in pain.

“Oh, Harnock,” River said and took his hand.

“Please,” he said. “I didn’t heal you to lose you to a mob of flea-bitten woodikin. You tell Argoth and the others they are bound. Tell them to murder the whoresons that did this to me.”

“We can’t leave you,” she said.

Harnock released her hand and unsheathed his long knife. He looked down at Talen. “Better dead and free than alive and a slave to Mokad. You remember that.”

Behind them the clamor of the woodikin army rose.

“Go!” he commanded. “Let me do this in peace.”

“We will see you in brightness,” River said.

“Until glory,” he said and planted himself facing the way they had come.

The sounds of the woodikin pursuing them grew louder.

“Stupid skinmen,” Chot called after them. “You will come now!”

River wiped her eye. “You heard him,” she said. “Run!” And she turned and began to lope down toward the stream.

Talen was in shock. He didn’t want to leave, but what else could they do? The thrall was already grown into Harnock. Obviously, all that had needed to happen was for a master to establish a link to it. And that had been done the first moments the dreadman had whipped the thin chain around his arm.

Harnock had said the only way to break the thrall was to kill the master. But that was only if the person enthralled wanted to remain alive. Harnock was obviously planning to take the route his friend Amak had taken. He was going to provide his own mercy himself.

“Watch out for the orange skir on the other side,” Talen said.

Harnock nodded.

“We will avenge you,” Talen said.

“You always talked too much,” Harnock said. He grunted with pain. “Go, Hogan’s son.”

Talen turned, then ran to the stream. The river stones were large and cut his feet, but he splashed through the water and up the other side to where River and Chot stood.

They ran into the burned trees where the ash and dirt stuck to his wet feet. When they were some distance away, they ascended a knoll and Talen glanced back. Harnock was still standing in the grass, waiting, still holding his long knife out to his side.

Why was he standing there frozen like that?

Beyond him the first of the Orange Slayer woodikin appeared in the woods. They spotted Harnock and hooted.

Now!
Talen thought. But Harnock remained stock still.

If Harnock had wanted to kill himself, he should have done so right after they left him. Why did he risk allowing the link to grow in strength?

The terrible answer to that question rose in Talen like a horror. Harnock wouldn’t have waited. He wouldn’t have risked it. The only reason why he would have been frozen like that was because it was already too late, because the master, even though he didn’t have total control, still had enough to keep Harnock from putting himself beyond his reach.

Talen looked over at River. She was watching Harnock, her face as hard as stone.

“Merciful Lords,” Talen said, “what have we just done? Why didn’t we keep our promise?”

A small shadow passed across the ground. Talen looked up. Two hooded crows cawed and soared over the scorched trees.

13

Argoth’s Choice

FROM ATOP THE battlement Argoth watched a scout gallop toward Shim’s temporary camp at Cold Fort. But Argoth didn’t need to hear the scout’s report to know the news he was going to bring. He could see the destruction for himself, could smell the burning on the wind.

Cold Fort stood on the crown of a tall hill far to the west of Whitecliff and had a commanding view of the all the country around it. The fort had been built to watch one of the main passes into the Wilds. But no threat had come from the woodikin through that pass in decades. The threat now was to the east, marching through Shoka lands. Five massive pillars of smoke marked its path. The village of Lister, the town of Marks, the villages of Hawks and Reason and Shady’s Point—all of them, and the homes on the road that ran through them, were burning, the smoke and smell of their destruction spreading out over the land. Other pillars of fire rose down by the coast.

Argoth walked down from the wall, filled a clay pitcher with water from a barrel, and met the haggard scout as he rode through the wooden gate. He handed the pitcher up to the man. “What’s your news?”

The scout took the pitcher. “Mokad’s Skir Master lives. I saw him with my own eyes. He conjured up a wind full of flame.”

And with those words, the small bit of hope that Argoth possessed died. He nodded. “Shim’s inside. He’ll want to hear the full report.”

The scout lifted the pitcher and drank long and deep. “Thank you, Zu,” he said and handed the pitcher back.

“Go,” said Argoth. “I’ll take care of your horse.”

The scout handed him the reins and dismounted. Then Argoth led the horse to the stables. The earlier reports had confirmed that Mokad was not taking prisoners, that their orders were to exterminate every last man, woman, child, and beast in the Shoka lands, to butcher them as sleth. Shim had sent word through all the Shoka clans to be prepared to flee, but Mokad had cut off the escape of these villages and had landed ships down south in Koramtown. To the west were the Wilds and the woodikin. To the east was the sea and Mokad’s ships. To the north was Fir-Noy lands. Where were they going to go?

It was going to be a massive slaughter. And all those souls, according to Sugar’s report, would be harvested, taken to the Mokaddian death ships.

The war was lost. He and Shim had gambled, and lost.

There were three choices at this point. He could turn his back on his friends and flee with his family, try to escape through the south lands. But Serah would balk, as well she should. Or he and Shim and their army could surrender to Mokad and beg for mercy. Mokad would slay every last man and their immediate family, but they might spare the rest of the Shoka. Or Argoth could beg for mercy from Nilliam. The people would be spared. Argoth, if Loyal was telling the truth, would be given a position of power. A position that would allow him to save some from the harvest, to do something that would not otherwise be done, for it was clear from Sugar’s report that there were no ancestors waiting to save the newly dead.

He handed the scout’s horse off to the grooms and turned to find his daughter Joy running toward him, grief and fear written all over her face. She darted heedlessly through a fist of dreadmen practicing with their swords and almost took a blow.

“Da!” she called. “It’s Nettle!”

From her expression something was terribly wrong. He rushed to her, and together they ran back to his quarters. When he flung the door wide, he found Serah at the bed.

Argoth tried to keep his voice calm. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Serah did not turn. She rubbed Nettle’s arm vigorously. “I can’t get him to respond.”

Argoth strode over to the bed and looked down upon his son.

Nettle stared glassy-eyed up at the ceiling. Drool ran in a thin line out of the corner of his mouth.

“Is he breathing?”

“Barely,” she said. “His heart is as unsteady as a drunken sailor.”

A fly landed on Nettle’s cheek, hopped to his nose, then flew away.

“Did you give him more of the tea?”

“He’s full of it. It’s not working.”

Argoth built his Fire. “We need to fetch Matiga,” he said.

“I already sent for her.”

Argoth nodded. He would give what he had. He would bestow Fire and hope it was enough. He called to Grace, his oldest daughter. “Take your sisters,” he said. “Pray to the ancestors. Pray that Nettle may be strong.”

Then he unlaced the collar of his boy’s tunic and laid his hands upon his chest.

* * *

An hour later Argoth, Matiga, and Serah stood back from Nettle. The boy’s heart had stopped twice. It was beating now weakly.

Matiga picked up a cup of a special tea she’d brewed and tried to spoon some down Nettle’s throat. None of them spoke. They all knew Nettle needed more than tea.

Argoth would not have feared Nettle’s death, but the boy would be exposed in the next world. He would enter with his soul torn.

They could burn the filtering rods in which his soul was caught and hope the parts of his soul reunited. But there was no guarantee. He would go into that world wounded, unable to defend himself. Unable to find the ancestors, if they were even there. Letting Nettle die now would send him, not to the ancestors, but into oblivion. It would be tantamount to delivering him to the Devourers.

He castigated himself for taking Nettle’s sacrifice. How could he have been so reckless with his own flesh and blood?

Matiga set her tea aside. “We’ll give him some time,” she said.

Time only brought Nettle’s destruction closer. They had no time. None of them did.

Argoth bent and kissed Nettle on the forehead. The sparrow Loyal had given Argoth rested against Nettle’s chest. Argoth reached out and touched it. Then he walked out of his quarters to the storeroom where they kept different signal flags and found a red pennant on one of the standards. It was made of sturdy canvas, dyed a rich red. The color of blood.

He carefully untied it from its pole. The sad irony that he would betray them with this rose in his mind. A standard was used on the battlefield so the men of that terror would know where they were to be and what they were to do, whether advancing, retreating, or performing some other maneuver. In the heat and dust and melee, you could look up and take your bearings from your standard. While the standard flew, you knew you were standing with your comrades in arms. Standing where you should be.

Argoth told himself he wasn’t betraying anyone. He was saving them. Which meant using the pennant wasn’t ironic at all.

He folded the cloth, stuffed it under one arm, and exited the room.

Three dreadmen passing by saluted him as he closed the storeroom door. He returned their salute and headed for the stables. He looked about at the men bravely manning their posts, cleaning their weapons. One fist was by the well, carefully preparing fireshot. But against a Skir Master, such things would be worthless.

He did not like the choice that had been placed before him. He supposed this was the bitter harvest of the wicked actions he’d sown in his past. But there was no use in looking back and wishing things were different. A man faced the current situation and took the course that looked the best from the information he had. A man made hard decisions and didn’t look back.

He entered the stables. “Saddle up Midnight,” he said to one of the grooms.

“Yes, Zu,” the man said and inclined his head.

Midnight had been his best horse for many years. The two of them had seen many battles together. This time he would take him into another kind of fight.

A couple of minutes later, the groom brought Midnight out. “Thank you,” Argoth said.

“The Six bless you,” the groom said.

“Let’s hope they bless us all,” Argoth said and mounted.

He turned Midnight and headed for the gate. Two soldiers stood there, an old veteran and his son. The son was a new man, just about Nettle’s age, a boy who had only recently received the tattoos marking him as a boy no longer. His face was full of confidence.

The father and son hailed Argoth. He returned a salute and trotted out the gate and down the road strewn with fallen autumn leaves.

He knew he would lose Serah over this. She would not follow him. She would not countenance Nettle being saved while so many died about him. Argoth would have to force her compliance. She would speak out, and then he’d have to force her silence. And the more he forced, the more she’d withdraw and resent him. And it wouldn’t end there: she’d poison the children against him. In the end, there would be nothing between them but hate.

He could accept that. If her hate was the price he had to pay to save her soul, then he would do it. If he lost Nettle and the girls forever so that they might live in brightness, then he would count his sacrifice a blessing.

Loyal of Nilliam was right. His duty was to preserve his own seed and then as many others as he could. He didn’t see any other way.

The clopping of Midnight’s hooves echoed about the hill. It was a lonely sound. Lonely as the naked trees about him clutching at the sky. The image of that father and son at the gate filled his mind. Nettle would have been as healthy as that soldier if Argoth had not chosen a forbidden path. His mind cast back to that night when he and Nettle descended into his secret chamber. He could still see Nettle so clearly, ardently choosing to give his Fire so Argoth could fight. And then the boy reaching up in pain as the filtering rods tore away his soul.

The memory stabbed his heart. His eyes watered and stung. He’d been such a fool. How he wished he’d had good counsel in that moment of crisis.

He rode around a bend in the road.

Good counsel
.

How did he know that Loyal of Nilliam wasn’t lying? Deceit was the essence of the Devourers.

Certainty fled him. What was he doing? How could Argoth choose to become the very thing he was fighting against? The very thing Nettle had sacrificed his soul to overcome.

How could he not?

He thought about Serah back at the fort watching over their son. Serah, good even-keeled Serah.

Serah.

How different would things be now, if he’d counseled with her about Nettle? Why should he not honor her request and share his secrets? When had she ever proved herself anything but wise?

If this course was sound, she would see it. She might not like it, but if it was right, Serah would drink this bitter cup with him. Furthermore, she would be able to help him convince Shim and Matiga.

Argoth reined Midnight in. He looked out at the plumes of smoke and back at Cold Fort, then turned Midnight around.

* * *

He found Serah still at Nettle’s side, wiping his mouth, singing a soft lullaby that Nettle probably could not hear.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, referring to Nettle.

“That’s up to you.”

She looked at him, confused.

“I have some things you need to know,” he said. Then he sat down beside her and told her everything about his meetings with Loyal of Nilliam, about Sugar’s views into the world of soul, and the report about the Skir Master. She listened the whole time, her finger stroking Nettle’s hair back behind his ear.

When he finished, she said, “I’m not a warlord.”

“This is not a decision of tactics,” he said.

“You don’t think we can outlast Mokad through the winter?”

“The odds are vanishingly small. And even if we, through some impossible fortune, do win, that does nothing for Nettle. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to lose him.”

She smiled tenderly. “You don’t have to.”

Argoth was confused.

“You outlined two options: lose Nettle or join with a great wickedness. But there is a third. The root of our problem is that Nettle will be exposed in the world of the souls. But we will not lose him if he’s safe there. What he needs is a companion. A guardian.”

“Sugar has not seen any ancestors watching over us.”

“I’m not suggesting we rely on them. When the time comes, husband, Nettle will have someone with him. I will go before him. I will be with him on the other side.”

It took a moment for Argoth to realize what she was saying. She would take her own life, releasing her soul to wait for their son. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“I am his mother,” she said as if that explained everything. “Although I do not relish the idea of you raising my daughters.”

“But what do you know of the world of the souls?”

“I took some time to speak with Sugar about the yellow world when she first began to walk. She directed me to the cook in Urban’s camp. The man called Withers. I know about blackspine. There’s a sulfur spring nearby. Withers had other suggestions. I probably know as much about the world of the dead as you.”

She didn’t, but she’d had the clarity to see the one way out of this morass. She’d seen it because she possessed something far more important than the lore. She possessed clarity of heart. His blatant lack of it shamed him. He had never once considered offering himself up. The thought hadn’t even existed in his mind. He had only thought of the sacrifices others would make on his behalf.

It was Nettle who had made the sacrifice before. Now it was Serah. Good, wise Serah.

Argoth said, “Let me go and make the journey with our son. I will do it, now that you have shown me the way.”

“Are you forgetting our daughters?” she asked. “And all the people that depend on you?”

“Never,” he said.

“I want you to win this war,” she said. “I want you to raise the girls to be strong. I believe in yours and Shim’s dream. But I cannot command your men. I cannot face this enemy. You can. You almost killed the Skir Master. You might get another chance. So fight with all the hopes of mankind in your heart. If Nettle fails, I will go with him. And if Shim’s dream dies, then you will need to save our daughters from the harvest. You will need to send them into the world of souls far away from the clutches of Mokad, something I don’t think I could bear to do.”

Tears rose to Argoth’s eyes. He imagined Serenity, Joy, and Grace looking up at him with trust as he held the knife. He imagined their little hands and smooth hair.