Servant: The Dark God Book One (Volume 1) (24 page)

Talen glanced about. Nobody had come to investigate the cries. His best bet was to leave now and get some help.

Fabbis looked at Sabin. “Maybe he’s right. What were we thinking? Deliver the boy to Master Half Breed.”

Sabin approached, malevolence in his lazy eye. But Talen knew exactly what he was going to do, and he wasn’t going to let Sabin within a dozen feet. “Just let him go,” said Talen taking a step back. “I’m sure he’s seen the error of his ways.”

“Of course,” said Sabin, but just then Talen heard something behind him. He turned and saw Cat, painted eyes and shining hair, with a rope that had a simple noose tied at one end. Talen dodged out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough, and the rope fell about his shoulders.

Talen grabbed at the rope, but Cat gave it a yank, and the rope tightened about his neck. Cat yanked again, and Talen stumbled to his knees, the rope choking him.

Talen pulled at the noose with one hand and grabbed the rope with the other.

“It looks like we’ve rolled double pleasure with today’s dice,” said Fabbis. “Get his feet.”

Talen imagined them forcing the snake to bite his face, the fangs sinking through the flesh of his cheek. He imagined Sabin the day before, raising that huge liver-colored field stone to crack his head. Panic flooded through him. And then anger. He yanked at the rope with all his might so he might loosen its hold upon his neck. He expected Cat to stumble forward. Instead, Cat yelled and opened his hands like they’d been burned, giving Talen full control of the rope. Talen loosened the noose and rolled to his feet and found Fabbis swinging the snake at him.

But Fabbis hadn’t taken a good stance, and Talen delivered a sweeping kick that knocked Fabbis’ feet from underneath him.

He fell, arms wheeling, the snake flying wide.

Talen saw his chance. He snatched the snake as it flew. And before it could coil about his arm and bite him, he grasped it by the base of the head.

Fabbis landed with a thump, and Talen fell upon him, driving his knee into Fabbis’ gut.

Fabbis grunted. He tried to roll, but Talen stuck the serpent in his face.

“Should we see if Zu Snake wants a taste of walnuts and sausage?” asked Talen. “No? How about a kiss?” Talen shoved the mouth of the snake against Fabbis’ cheek.

Fabbis turned his head away.

“No kiss?”

Fabbis tried to struggle away, but Talen found he could hold him.

He couldn’t explain it. This shouldn’t be happening. Da forced Talen to wrestle Fabbis in the musters. He said the best practice for fighting someone bent on your death was to fight someone bent on your death. And since they didn’t have a large supply of young Bone Faces about, he found the next best thing—a Fir-Noy. Fabbis always beat him. Once he’d broken Talen’s nose just to spite him. But perhaps Talen had finally begun to get his speed and size. He glanced over at Sabin to make sure he didn’t get blindsided, but Sabin just stood there with his mouth hanging open like some great fish.

Cat had not moved. He still stood in the same spot, his hands out in front of him.

Nettle stood just beyond Cat, a look of surprise on his face.

“Oh, now you show up,” said Talen. “Grab the boy.”

The beggar boy looked at Talen with fright.

Nettle moved to help the boy up, but the boy scrambled back, then turned and fled down the lane.

Talen looked down at Fabbis. “Looks like your bounty just took heels.” He got up, making sure to push down extra hard on Fabbis’ gut with his knee.

The snake tried to coil itself around Talen’s arm, but Talen simply changed his grip, grabbed the tail, and let it hang loose.

Fabbis scrabbled to his feet and backed away, weeds clinging to his clothes and hair. He had a strange look in his eyes. “Nobody moves like that,” he said.

“I just did,” said Talen. Then he swung the snake at Fabbis. “Don’t be scared.”

Sabin and Cat backed away as well.

“Oh, come,” said Talen to Sabin. “You were willing enough to tangle with me yesterday.”

“Stay away,” said Fabbis. He backed up, Sabin and Cat not a pace behind him.

Talen couldn’t believe it. Da had always told him that the meanest bullies were always the biggest cowards. He had never believed that, but maybe it was true.

“Cowards,” said Talen.

Fabbis pointed at him. “You’re a dead man.”

“Ya!” Talen shouted and lunged at them.

The three of them startled, turned, and ran.

Ha! Who knew it would be so easy? Except Talen was certain Fabbis wasn’t running away. Fabbis wasn’t one of those who could be satisfied knowing he’d been beaten. He’d be back, and he’d bring others with him.

“That was,” Nettle said in astonishment, “unexpected.”

“You were right,” said Talen. “I didn’t need to spook.” Then he gently let the snake to the ground, and the creature slithered away toward the cover of the trees.

“No,” said Nettle. “I meant you.”

What was his cousin talking about?

“You plucked the snake right out of the air.”

“So?”

“So,” said Nettle, “I came around the corner and saw Cat holding the rope and Fabbis coming at you. But before I took another step you were on him. It was . . . too fast.”

“Too fast? Maybe, at last, my speed has come upon me.”

“Yeah,” said Nettle, but Talen could see he wasn’t convinced.

“Is it impossible that Hogan’s runt suddenly got some of his old man’s growth?”

“No,” said Nettle. “But I can tell you this: Fabbis won’t see it that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“That was dreadman quick, Talen.”

“I just grabbed the snake . . .” he said and trailed off. It was luck. He’d just been lucky. He’d been a little extra lively with alarm and fear.

Nettle said nothing.

But he was right about one thing: Fabbis would twist what had happened; then Sabin would add his own version of what happened yesterday. They
would
be back. And if they ran into that group of men by the baker’s, they’d bring back a pretty mob.

“We need to get out of here,” Talen said.

“Act normal,” said Nettle.

“Normal? We’re way past normal.”

21

The Divine

THE SEVERED HAND of the creature lay upon a table in the center of the Mokaddian Council chamber. Two-dozen Council members crowded about Argoth as he probed the hand. They had heard almost two hours of testimony about the hunt at the village of Plum, the taking of Barg’s family, and the battle at the fortress. It was now Argoth’s turn to relate his portion of the tale. He wondered where Hogan was. He should have arrived an hour ago.

Argoth picked up one of the fingers they’d managed to cut and flaked away small pieces of dirt and grass with his knife. “You can see,” he said, “what appears to have been bone and sinew. But look”—he scraped at the finger innards with his knife—“It crumbles like common dirt.”

Shim stood next to Argoth, his bright eyes shining in his leathern face. “As if it were nothing more than a child’s mud doll.”

The men crowded in. One near-sighted lord leaned over close.

Another of the lords cursed. “Who can fight dirt?”

All knew the answer to that question. But Argoth wondered. Matiga kept the weaves of the Grove. One of those weaves was an ancient crown which gave its wearer incredible might. The powers it bestowed were not just those of the flesh as were the powers given to dreadmen. It was power from the very earth itself. Victors is what the wearers of such crowns had been called. And, though the records were sparse, it appears these Victors had put armies to flight. They had toppled fortress walls. Surely, such a one could overcome this beast.

Of course, much had been lost. The Grove knew how to quicken the crown. But could they wield it like those of old? Abilities ran in bloodlines. Some men could multiply themselves. Others who couldn’t might be able to do other things. Hogan and Ke could control some of the crown’s power, but they had been waiting to see what Talen might do. He had not yet been awakened, and so whatever gifts he might have still lay dormant. But he was full of peculiarities. Full of possibilities. It seems all were given some gift, and so there was always much anticipation seeing what gift a new member of the Grove would bring.

The Crab caught Argoth’s gaze. He was not looking at the hand like the other men. He was looking directly at Argoth as if he had something to do with this; as if Argoth was involved with the magic.

The Mithrosh warlord spoke up. “And what of its bones? Are those dirt as well?”

Argoth started to answer, but a clamor arose outside the chamber. The men crowding around the table turned and the doors opened. In walked three dreadmen, the only three with any power left in their weaves. Between them they escorted Hogan as if he were a criminal. About his neck was a King’s Collar.

Argoth’s heart dropped like a stone. Did they know about the Order? He caught Hogan’s gaze, but he could read nothing there.

Shim turned to the dreadmen. “What is the meaning of this?” He did not raise his dry voice, but every face turned to look at him.

The Crab, the red-faced Fir-Noy Territory Lord, raised his hand in a placating gesture. “It is what prudence demands. If he’s innocent, we’ll find that out. If he’s not, it will have prevented us from having to hunt him down. Because, once alerted, I am sure we would not have gotten a second chance.”

Argoth looked at the Council, wondering who was in on this. The Council was made up of a primary and secondary body. The Primary, those who spoke for each clan consisted of the Territory Lord and Warlord for each Clan. It also included three lords of the Koramites. Their faces revealed nothing. Argoth looked at Shim.

Had Shim revealed his secret? Had he been trying to trap him before at the fort?

Shim did not look like a man playing cat and mouse. Argoth knew his lined face. The expression he wore now was the same he wore when preparing for battle.

“You cannot simply collar a man without cause,” Shim said to the Crab. “Unless, of course, this is some ploy to goad us into doing the same to some troublesome relative of your own.”

Some in the room smiled at his joke, but the Crab did not.

“We do have cause,” said the Crab.

Shim folded his arms and waited.

If the Crab and his allies knew Arogth’s secrets and had devised a trap, this would be a good time to spring it. Argoth glanced at the dreadmen to see if they were positioning themselves to overcome him, but they remained by Hogan. Nevertheless, Argoth began to build his Fire.

“The Koramite was there when the creature broke into the tower,” said the Crab. “You yourself say that you were only there for a short time. What are the odds that this beast would show up exactly at that moment?”

“Nonsense,” said Shim. “I ordered Captain Argoth to be there. And the Koramite himself fought the beast. Look at him. The bruising on his neck and face belies your charges.”

“Almost,” said the Crab. “But when Captain Argoth was cast aside and only the Koramite stood in its way, it suddenly fled. Isn’t that odd?”

“That is not what happened,” said Argoth.

The Crab turned on him. “Your devotion to the man’s deceased wife might be clouding your vision.”

Argoth had born all the backbiting when his sister had first decided to marry Hogan. He had told everyone that Hogan had indeed enchanted her—with his wit, his handsome strength, and his good-hearted laugh. He thought that had all been put to rest, but he saw that there would always be people like the Crab who thought it their duty to keep such doubts and rumors alive.

“My vision is crystal clear,” said Arogth. “I was there. You were not. We were outside when it broke into the tower.”

The Crab turned back to the Council. “It had no eyes. The Koramite might have been acting as its guide.”

Argoth had seen something that looked like eyes on the monster, but they might have just been deep pits, all askew and in such an unnatural position. “You assume it needed to see,” said Argoth. “But, if you remember, we found it in the dark. It navigated well enough to elude the cohorts of the fortress. If it could do that, I do not think it needed a guide.”

“We only want to be sure,” said the Crab. “Nobody can speak with any authority about this creature. But even if we could, you are right, the timing of the creature’s appearance is certainly not enough to accuse a man. But there’s more, a pattern, if you will. The Koramite refused a legal search.”

“Legal?” asked Shim. He looked to a Bailiff with the ice-cold eyes. “Did those armsmen apply to you for a token?”

“No,” said the Bailiff. “Nevertheless, I myself conducted a search.”

“And?”

“We found nothing but two youngsters sporting behind a closed door.”

“They were alerted by the first attempt at a search,” said the Crab. “They had a night to remove anything that might compromise them.”

“Oh, come,” said Shim. “Your zeal has exceeded all bounds.”

“And here is the third part of the pattern,” said the Crab. “We just received word that the Koramite’s own son has been seen in the city performing feats only dreadman can.” He turned to the whole Primary then. “And this witnessed by at least five Mokaddians. What’s more telling is that Captain Argoth’s son was with him.”

A murmur arose in the chamber.

What had happened in the city? Argoth hadn’t even known Talen and Nettle were here.

Shim waved his hand, calling for quiet. “Anyone can make up a story. Where is the corroboration?”

“If it were one or two stories,” said the Crab, “I agree, we could discount them. But too many swirl about this man. He was a friend to Sparrow the smith.”

Argoth looked at Hogan, still wearing the token of the Council, obviously a ploy to get him to come in. The Crab and his allies here had maneuvered Shim.

“On that basis then you yourself should wear this collar,” said Shim. “Didn’t you visit Sparrow’s smithy many times? And did you not visit the tower on the night it was struck? A pattern, is it not?”

Argoth could see that Shim’s comments had struck true with some of the Council members.

“We will proceed with the correct protocol,” said Shim. “Let those who accuse Hogan’s son come forth and swear to take upon them the punishments prescribed by law should they be found to bear false witness. If they swear, then we shall proceed. And we shall do it fairly with me or one of the Shoka overseeing the questioning.”

“But we have already applied to a Divine to oversee the questioning,” said the Crab.

Argoth felt he’d been punched in the stomach. This was going from bad to worse.

A murmur arose. A lord of the Vargon spoke. “Mokad has finally sent us aid?”

“No,” said the Crab. “Not just aid. The Glory of Mokad has sent us Rubaloth, Lord of the Winds.”

Many of those present stood straighter and looked at each other. Surprise shone on their faces, and then it turned to hope.

There were only a few dozen Divines in the whole realm of Mokad. Unless, of course, the Glory had raised others since Lumen disappeared. Rubaloth, the Skir Master, was the most ancient of them all. He was powerful. Some said as powerful as the Glory himself.

“When did he arrive? We heard no report,” said Shim.

The Crab smiled. “His ship came in the harbor just after the Council convened.”

“By Glory,” a bailiff from one of the outlying vales said, “Why did you keep this good news? Word must be sent. He must come here and see this creature.”

“Word has already been sent,” said the Crab.

Smiles broke out on many faces. On the outside Argoth mimicked those who welcomed the Skir Master, but on the inside he cursed. There was nothing he could do should the Divine agree to seek Hogan. Of course, members of the Grove practiced avoiding a seeking, one of them playing the role of the Seeker, the other the subject. But none of those in this Grove were masters. So their practice sessions, in reality, were like preparing for war by fighting boys.

“Gather your witnesses,” said Shim. “Even Divines are bound by protocol. And when the Divine comes up empty-handed, you, since it seems you are Hogan’s primary accuser, will proclaim his innocence and act as his footstool. The sight of the Fir-Noy lord bowing to a Koramite, perhaps, will be worth it all.”

The Crab’s face revealed the smugness of a man who had just won a battle. He inclined his head, accepting Shim’s burden, but he couldn’t do otherwise. The laws governing the hunting of sleth were very strict. Heavy consequences were put upon those making accusations to prevent any from bringing casual charges.

Both Argoth’s and Hogan’s life now approached a precipice. If the Divine searched Hogan and uncovered his secrets, they would collar Argoth. The Grove would be exposed. His family would be tortured.

Argoth knew his duty. His duty was to eliminate yet another friend, then run and take the Grove with him.

Hogan looked at him and Argoth knew he was thinking the same thing.

Argoth did not want that burden, even if many lives were at stake. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t be able to kill Hogan here. No, he’d have to contrive his death. More poison or some torture gone awry. Perhaps he’d kill him on the way to the Divine. And then he’d have to face Ke and River and tell them he’d just sacrificed their father for the good of all.

He groaned inside even as he looked at Shim and said, “I will escort Hogan to tower.” Then he turned to Hogan. “Come, brother.”

Hogan gave him a look, and it was as if Argoth could read his mind. Hogan was a man of duty, but Argoth would not kill him. Not yet. There had to be another way.

Suddenly, the trumpeters outside the building blew a fanfare and a crier announced the arrival of the Divine.

Hogan stiffened.

Argoth tried to move him forward to get out the door before the Divine arrived, but the lords moved to greet the Divine and blocked the way.

Argoth and Hogan skirted round the group. If all else failed, they had surprise on their side—they could fight their way out. But then the doors opened, and he saw that fighting would not be an option.

A crier preceded the Divine’s company. He stood forth and proclaimed Rubaloth, Divine Skir Master, Holy Defender of the Glory of Mokad.

A dozen guards followed the crier into the chamber. Upon their sparkling brass cuirasses was the white lion of Mokad. All of them were dreadmen. Argoth could see it in their walk. He could read it in the tattoos on their forearms and around their lips.

Another dozen dreadmen stood in the hallway. So many—enough to form what the Mokaddian’s called a terror. Enough to route three cohorts given the right terrain. More than enough to subdue him and Hogan.

The guards took up positions around the square room, facing all the Council members while the Skir Master and his guide walked to the Divine’s throne.

The Crab looked over at Shim and smiled smugly.

The Skir Master was ancient, and, some said, failing, but he did not look feeble in the least. He stood upright and alert in his finely cut clothes. His skin was that of a middle-aged man. His hair was cut short; only his beard and eyebrows that shot out like gray growths of wild grass betrayed his age. He too wore the Mokaddian clan tattoos, but they were from another time—simple, small, and elegant, as were the tattoos of his raising.

The Skir Master surveyed the room. Argoth had seen Skir Masters in Mokad, before he’d made the journey to these lands, but it didn’t help. The Divine’s eyes unnerved him—glass black and glittering with the light from the windows. The path of magic Skir Masters followed did that to them; it blinded them to the world of the flesh.

Except the Skir Master did not walk with the caution of a blind man. At his side stood a massive man. Another dreadman. But he didn’t wear armor as the rest did. This one moved with the languid power of a great cat. He was speed and power waiting to be unleashed. Odd tattoos flared out from his eyes. Argoth guessed this was the Skir Master’s guide, even if he did not hold the Divine’s arm to lead or steady him.

All in the room bowed deeply. Argoth did as well, knowing this Skir Master was just a man, one fiercely hoarding secrets that should belong to everyone, which made him nothing more than a thief and a liar.

But Argoth’s heart quailed nevertheless. If the reports were true, this Skir Master had once summoned a being that had laid waste to an entire city. He was more than 200 years old. He’d had a century more than Argoth to learn and grow in the lore. Argoth glanced up at those glittering black eyes and wondered how he could ever think to challenge such a man.