Servant: The Dark God Book One (Volume 1) (35 page)

“Bold, eh? Then we would have hunted down those who could threaten us one by one. But I misjudged. I don’t have the Fire I need. I have no weapon to take to battle, which means there will be no fight.”

“Fire?” Nettle asked. “That’s all you need?”

He smiled at his son’s statement. Fire was not so easy to obtain. “Yes, that’s all,” Argoth said. “A man, any man, can learn to speed, slow, give, and receive the days of his Fire. I am old, Nettle. Far older than you can imagine. I have secretly given my last days out to the dreadmen of this land. My Fire gutters low. And I cannot accomplish the task at hand as a normal man.”

“Then teach me how to release my Fire to you,” said Nettle.

“That won’t work. To learn that very elementary skill can take a very long time. Weeks. Sometimes months.”

“But Talen sat at the table with River doing just that, opening and closing his doors, Fire pouring off him.”

“Talen is not what he seems,” said Argoth. “Besides, even if I could teach you in a matter of hours, it would be too late. It takes too long to transfer the quantity I need.”

Nettle pointed at a pine rod lying in the case. “That’s a filtering rod, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Argoth. “Something from before.” He’d kept all the old implements around to remind him of those former days, to remind him what he was so that he could never forget how the Order had changed him.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“It has been a very long time.”

“Then take the Fire from me.”

“Son,” Argoth said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Do I have enough Fire to supply your need?”

“Yes, but that’s not—”

“Then use it, Da. The Divines do this, don’t they?”

He was so brash. He had gotten his clan wrists this year, but he was still a boy. “Nettle, I swore never to take Fire again. Only to receive it from those who freely give. If I take your Fire, you will be changed. When you forcibly take Fire, you cannot avoid also taking portions of the person’s soul. You take their memories. You take the force that controls the very nature of their bodies.”

He continued, “This is why many who go to the temple to make an offering claim to feel as if they’ve lost something. But it is not an effect of being touched by holiness as is claimed. It is the effect of having your Fire ripped from you. The Divines are no better than soul-eaters—both are thieves. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Do you know why some die on the altars? When the Divines take a great quantity of Fire, they will simply drain a man until he dies. Because if they were to stop short, we’d all see the effects of having so very much of their soul leached away into the rod. You might become a drooling invalid or a wild man to be roped and chained. You might lose all memory of us. No one can predict the full effects of taking the quantity of Fire I need. And once the soul is caught in the filter it cannot be returned. At least, none know that lore.”

“But we can predict the effects if I don’t, can’t we?”

Argoth said nothing. Such courage and trust—Nettle did not know what he was saying. Argoth had seen that ardent desire so many times in the eyes of youth going off to their first battle. None of them knew the sacrifice that lay ahead.

“Da,” he said. He held up his wrists with their tattoos. “Do you, even you, mock me? Was I tattooed a man for nothing?”

“No.”

“But you do. Every time you allow others to stand in my place on the patrols. Every time you assign your men to shelter me.”

“I don’t want to risk you unnecessarily.”

“Life is risk,” said Nettle. “I am now a man of our Clan, a man of my father’s house. And I want to protect my sisters. My mother. I want to protect my friends. Would you prevent me? Would you tell me I am not worthy?”

“Son, you’re worthy.” He was more than worthy. He was precious. He was a prize that Argoth did not want to part with.

“Then pick me up, father. Let me be your weapon. Let me be your sword.”

Argoth looked at Nettle, the desire burning in his eyes.

“And if this takes part of my soul,” Nettle continued, “we will count it no less an honor than if I had lost an arm or a leg in battle.”

Such a son! But Argoth shook his head. “I can’t.”

“If you did, would you be able to save Mother? Would you be able to save Serenity and Grace? Little Joy?”

If he took the Fire, he could spring the Skir Master’s trap. The odds were long, but there was the smallest of chances. “There’s no guarantee.”

“There are never any guarantees, Da.”

This would put his family at such great risk. But they were already at risk. They were already targets. He could kill them all tonight. Or he could fight and try to save them. If he failed, their deaths would not be easy. But if he succeeded—if he succeeded, he would save not only his family but the lives of many others. The Divines stole so much. They made so many people suffer. And he’d been wrong: Serah did have a chance to escape. Someone would surely follow her, but it would be some Fir-Noy, not a dreadman.

He looked down at Nettle. He didn’t have to draw all his Fire. He didn’t have to kill him. He knew of no lore that could return the soul once it had been taken. They’d hoped such things would be contained in the Book of Hismayas, but he could not make this decision based on a wild hope of opening that tome. If Nettle sacrificed himself, there would be no restoration.

Argoth found tears in his eyes. Nettle reminded him so much of Ummon, his son of so long ago. His son who had ridden out and never come back. His son whom he had risked unnecessarily. Argoth wished this crisis had come upon them six months later. By then he would have brought Nettle into the Order, and Nettle would have been able to give him his Fire. But Argoth knew that was a lie. He wouldn’t have brought Nettle into the Order. He’d pushed the testing off for more than two years now. He would have waited another year. They would have been in the same position they were now.

“Pick me up, father. Let me stand at your side. Let me be a man and fight for what is ours.”

Yes, Argoth thought. they should not falter in the moment of crisis. The Divines were no better than soul-eaters. And was he not a Root of the Order of Hismayas? An Order established by the Creators themselves to bring humankind back into the light, to restore that which was lost.

He looked at his son with new eyes. Nettle was a man. It was time to let Nettle stand at his side as what he was, to treat him as Argoth would any other man.

“I will pick you up,” said Argoth. “You will stand at my side. And together we shall smite the enemy.”

He reached out and took his boy in his arms and hugged him tightly, hugged him for what would be the very last time because if he did survive, if he came back from this battle, the Nettle he knew very well might be gone.

* * *

Argoth left Nettle in the secret room and went to the kitchen and put a pot of water over the fire to boil. He listened to the sounds of his family sleeping upstairs and a memory of Nettle as a little boy pushed its way into his mind. Years ago, he and Serah stood to the side of the kitchen window spying on Nettle playing with Grace and Joy. Each child had a number of Nettle’s new, brightly-painted wooden animals. The animals mustered a defense against raiders in the flower pots. When the waves of Bone Faces had all been tromped, gnashed, and thrown in the privy, Nettle’s pig said, “Want to roll in the mud?”

“A triumph celebration,” said Grace’s horse. Soon all the bright animals and the children were covered with mud. The children had played until dark fell, and Argoth and Serah had been content just to watch.

Tonight that little boy had shown his mettle. And Argoth, for all intents and purposes, was going to have to kill him.

Kill his own son.

But maybe not forever. His heart swelled within him, and then the water began to steam.

He swung the pot off the fire. He poured steaming water into a teapot, brought a pitcher for himself, fetched a cheesecloth teabag, and returned to the hidden cellar to make a wizardsmeet tea.

A fire burned in the hearth of the underground room. Nettle stood at the case examining a rough necklace.

“That is your great, great, great grandfather’s weave,” said Argoth. “A thrall that we will use upon the Skir Master.”

He took a porcelain crock on the shelf and placed it on the table. He unstopped the crock, removed a pinch of the small wizardsmeet leaves, measured a small amount into the cup of his palm, then put the rest back.

“Wizardsmeet has a stench that makes many gag. And not only does it smell, but it will leave a taste in your mouth that will take a day to fade. But you need this, for your first response will be to fight me.”

Nettle picked up the cup. “How old are you?”

“I am in my ninety-sixth year,” said Argoth.

Nettle’s mouth hung open in shock.

“Nobody here knows because we emigrated from the old lands. Back there, before I joined the Order, I did what the Divines do—consumed Fire harvested from others to renew my body and extend my days. I was more than eighty when I joined the Order and swore to live by the Fire I possessed or that which was freely given.”

“Then I have brothers who could be my father.”

“No,” said Argoth, and he did not expect it to hurt so much to remember. “They were all murdered. But that’s another story.” He motioned at the cup. “It doesn’t need to steep long. You can drink it now.”

Nettle drank it with a grimace. Then he handed the cup back. Argoth took the cup and set it aside. It would take a few minutes for the herb to work.

Argoth motioned for Nettle to take the other end of the table, and they moved it close to the hearth. “Take off your tunic, then lie here.” He went to the case and retrieved the draw collar, tongue, filtering rod, and stomach. “You’re going to feel a relaxing comfort come upon you. Next, you’ll find you can’t move, not without great effort. Do not panic.”

Arogth laid the harvesting weaves onto the table beside Nettle. He covered Nettle’s lower torso with his tunic, leaving his chest bared. Argoth picked up the draw collar. “Do you know why weaves are so often made of gold?”

“Because it’s a noble metal?”

“Yes, but why is it noble?”

Nettle shrugged.

“You can make a fine, powerful weave out of willow. In fact, in some ways it’s better than gold, but only if the branches are still green. Still, over time it begins to leak. Gold, on the other hand, holds it tight as a drum. Gold can also be wrought into many shapes. You can pattern a weave with Gold wire that’s impossible with plant materials or harder metals. Now I want you to look at this”—he held up the collar—“Such things are woven by Kains. And they would have you believe only they possess the secrets. But you see here that it is a lie.”

He paused. This was the moment where his words became deeds. One last time he considered giving up and killing them all with a quick poison. But he looked at Nettle again. He thought about the girls and their eventual children. He thought upon grandchildren and great grandchildren. Sometimes the choices of one father or mother affected generations. Nettle’s might be the sacrifice that opened the way to thousands throwing off the yokes of the Divines.

And if he and Nettle failed? Then they went down fighting.

“You,” said Argoth, “are a lodestar shining in our bright heaven.” He loved him, loved him with all his heart.

He lifted Nettle’s head and placed the collar around his neck. Into a lock on the collar he fitted the end of the rod of pine.

“The collar is woven to draw the Fire forth. The rod will catch your soul. But we shall not burn it as the Divines do. No, we shall keep it as the testament of your sacrifice. We shall keep it in hopes of restoring you one day.”

He stroked Nettle’s hair. “Can you move your arm?”

Nettle just looked up at him. The wizardsmeet was taking effect.

“In reality any wood might do as a filter. But it was found long ago that pine held onto soul better than any other wood. I will not suffer one particle of you to be lost. The varnish adds a layer of protection.”

Argoth picked up the tongue. He inserted one end into the pine rod, the other fitted into the stomach, a weave of gold, shaped like a grip.

Collar, filter, tongue, stomach—all was ready. It was said that those who stole Fire opened themselves up to invisible influences from the unseen world. Evil Skir or even Regret himself. Perhaps what Argoth did now was evil, but the cause was just.

“The collar will grow cold,” he said. “Very cold. Can you blink?”

Nettle did nothing at first, but then he blinked once very slowly.

“I’m going to begin,” said Argoth. “We should have heated blankets, but that cannot be helped. I’ll just have to keep the hearth stoked.”

He hesitated. Nettle looked up at him with such serenity. He knew it was from the wizardsmeet, but he couldn’t help but see the trust in his gaze. “I’m proud of you, son. I will not disappoint you.”

He took a breath, and the whole world seemed to hang on that moment, and then he began to sing the ancient forms.

After a time a grayness seeped into the collar like a thin wash of paint. Argoth continued singing, and the grayness slowly darkened and turned black.

Minutes sped by and the blackness entered the filter and slowly rose up toward the stomach.

Without tasting the Fire, there was no way to tell if it was polluted with soul. But this unused filter had been cut from a thick, long branch. It was three feet long, more than enough for the souls of a dozen men.

He continued to sing and soon was sweating with the effort. Water condensed on the collar and rod, then the tongue. He threw more wood on the fire, and continued. The fire grew, but the water did not evaporate. Despite his efforts, a fine frost began to form along the collar.

He continued to feed the fire and sing. An hour passed. He was drenched with sweat, his voice hoarse. He stopped to take a long drink.

Argoth smoothed Nettle’s hair back. Tears sprang to his eyes again, tears full of sorrow and pride. “We’re halfway there, son. You’re doing fine.” He raised the pitcher for another drink, then set it down, and continued.