Servant: The Dark God Book One (Volume 1) (52 page)

“Such little faith,” said Shim.

He put one of his arms around Argoth’s shoulders and turned to his men. “My Lords,” he called.

Lords?

Two men separated themselves from the other soldiers. As they approached, Argoth saw it was Bosser, a captain of the Vargon clan, and the Prime, the head of the clan council.

“Do you see?” asked Shim. “You are not alone.”

Both Bosser and the Prime came forward to stand before Argoth.

Bosser stroked the moustache that grew down to his chin.

“Welcome back, Captain,” said the Prime.

In a quiet voice, Shim said, “It it time, my friend, for us to receive a little instruction.”

Argoth should have felt hope or worry, but after all that had happened, he only felt a weariness descend upon him.

“A new order will arise in this land,” said Shim.

The words struck Argoth. Weren’t those exactly the words the woman had used? Argoth looked to Bosser. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Not all Glories inherited their rule,” said Shim. “Some of them had to take it by force.”

“There are more powers at work here than just those of men,” said Argoth

Shim shook his head. “Then we adjust the strategy,” he said and turned round to address the larger group. “Men of the Shoka!” he shouted. “It is time to celebrate. Argoth the Hammer has defeated the monster that terrorized our lands!”

* * *

They did celebrate that night at the Shoka fortress Lord Shim himself commanded. Shim made sure to ease his men with plenty of ale. They ate and drank and danced and then Argoth told them about how the monster had come after him and Hogan, the two who had first attacked it in the tower. He described the giant night maw in the cave and its bluish light. He described the power of the monster and its beautiful master. He told of Sugar and Talen having the courage and sense to deliver the Skir Master’s ravelers. Of the battle, he spoke little. Then he told of how Legs had led them out again.

He left huge gaps in the story. He had to. Over the next few days the men would begin to wonder—what of Purity, why did the beast rescue her, what was Matiga’s connection, what was the Refuge? He suspected the Crab, before he died, would have revealed that the Skir Master enthralled Argoth. He was sure that report was running, even now, through the clans.

After the tale, someone called out for a song. “That blind one’s a singer,” one of the men said. “Let him earn his keep!”

Legs sat up chewing on a mouth full of frog’s leg.

“Come on, boy,” someone called. “A song.”

Legs swallowed, put down his frog leg, and wiped his mouth. “I shall sing, but only if you promise not to pelt me with vegetables, bones, or knives.”

A few men chuckled.

“I don’t want to be
blindsided
,” Legs said.

More laughed at that joke.

Argoth considered Legs again. The boy was resourceful. He kept his wits. He also was a puzzle. Had the weave that changed Talen changed him as well? It was something they’d need to look into.

Legs took a big breath, made a flourish, then began a song about the Mighty One Hundred—the sleth hunters in old Cath. Again Argoth was surprised. Legs sang with strength. It wasn’t the full-bodied voice of a mature man. It was simple and clear and Argoth couldn’t help but feel the emotion of the story. When he finished there was silence for half a beat. Then the men cheered and called for another. But not all the men were as pleased. Some of them looked at Legs with wariness.

Legs led them in a group song about a one-legged slave who saved the village onions. Then someone called out for “The Hogwife.” It was a humorous song about a beautiful sleth who had consumed the soul of a boar. Usually the singer s ang each verse alone, then the group came in on the choruses.

Legs paused, then started the men clapping the rhythm.

Argoth wondered if he was the only one to see Legs’s brief hesitation.

Legs began.

Her face fired devotion,

Her body fired blood,

If only she’d cease

Her rooting in the mud.

Argoth watched the faces of the men. This was probably not the best song. It would only raise questions about Purity. He wondered if the men would sing the chorus, or if they’d feel the jarring as well, but most of the men joined in, even if some were still wary.

Oh, I’ve got me two wives

All mixed up in one,

A woman and a sow,

But Get have I none

Legs continued.

I married her sweetly

We labored to breed

But, blister me, monsters

Can’t quicken men’s seed.

Legs belted out the last bit like some depressed lout and it was perfect. He sang like one of the entertainers at the gaming fields. More of the men joined in this time.

Oh, I’ve got me two wives

All mixed up in one,

A woman and a sow,

But I want a son.

When they sang the last line, the men raised their fists and shook them in demand.

E’re long came my pretty,

Blackened weave in her hand,

To bed, and I’ll make you

A proper hogman.

Someone made a love sick call. Legs sang on in a secretive voice.

To bed, and in darkness

Irresistible she

Fed me the boar

And enhanced my breed

Now dirt’s my moustache,

And worms muddy my eyes

Legs changed his tone back to the full gusto.

But, oh, honeyed heaven

There’s nothing so fine

As Hogwife and I

Rooting side by side

The men joined in again, some swinging their mugs of ale.

Oh, I’ve got me two wives

All mixed up in one.

She bore me a litter—

Five smart piglet sons!

Many of the men clapped, whistled, hooted. But not all. Someone called out for another, but Legs waved them off, took a bow, and sat down. The men around him clapped him on the back. The ale had loosened them, but tomorrow when they were sober, they would begin thinking.

Argoth looked at Shim who, it appeared, had been watching him. Shim pointed at the door with his chin, indicating he wanted to talk with Argoth outside, and Argoth exited the room into the night. Above him, the stars hung bright in the heavens. Behind him, a group of men began another song. In front of him, in the middle of the fortress inner court lay the eight bodies of the monster’s brethren. He shook his head: there was so much the Order didn’t know.

A few moments later Shim exited the building. “That blind one’s full of surprises,” he said.

“I’m sure we don’t know the half,” said Argoth.

Shim nodded. “Come with me.” He led Argoth to his command room across the bailey. Shim lit a lamp. The shutters were closed, but Shim pulled a small, thick blanket across each. In the winter such would keep the cold out. But they also muffled sound.

They sat in chairs, the lamp burning on the table to the side of them. “My friend,” said Shim. “I have shown you my love. I have shown you my trust. You need to honor that now and tell me your tale.”

Argoth hesitated. Such secrets were too dangerous to tell, but he had hidden all his life, and it had led to nothing but loss. How could bringing the truth into the light of the sun be any worse? “Give me your hand, Lord.”

Shim stretched out his rough and callused hand. Upon the wrist was the tattoo of the Shoka clan. Surrounding that and running up Shim’s arm were the tattoos of Shoka manhood and his military orders.

Each Clan had their own designs for manhood, military orders, and other markings, but each was built around the same simple clan pattern. Each child was required to have that pattern dyed into their flesh by a Divine. The pattern of Mokad.

And suddenly something the woman in the cave said fell into place. He looked at Shim’s clan tattoo again.

Those who were ruled by other Glories had a different base pattern. And if they should be conquered or immigrate, the tattoo of the new ruler was added. He thought of Hogan with the simple Koramite tattoo and the Mokaddian added to it. He thought of all those he’d seen—the men of other nations, Bone Faces, Cath—all wore tattoos. All of them inked by Divines.

How could he have not seen it before? So simple. Despite all the flourishes added by the clans, the heart of the tattoo, the clan marking, was nothing more than elaborate livestock brand. The woman was right: they were indeed cattle, marked by their various masters.

“What?” Shim asked.

“All in good time,” Argoth said. “All in good time.” Then he took Shim’s hand. It was a rough hand, strong, full of experience. Argoth looked Shim in the eyes then poured a small amount of Fire into him. He still had great portions of Nettle’s Fire in him, and Argoth realized his son’s sacrifice might not have all gone to waste after all.

A moment later Argoth connected with Shim’s soul.

Shim took in a breath, his eyes widened, but he did not let go.

Argoth said into Shim’s mind, “In the beginning, all men were gods.”

* * *

Argoth told Shim the fragments of the history of the humankind as he knew it. He told of the wars between the Divines and the old gods, knowing now it was not a war between men, but one between men and the race of the creature in the cave. He told of Hismayas, one of the last remaining gods, who sent his followers into the wilderness to hide, to preserve the truth until the time would come that they might throw off their masters. Then he told Shim about his tale, of his days of darkness and stepping into the light. He told everything important up to and including the recent events with the Skir Master and the battle in the cave.

Shim said nothing for a long time. Then he pointed at small chest on the table next to him. “Open that,” he said.

Argoth did. In it lay folded a cloth. Argoth picked it up by two corners and let it unfurl. It was a device in the shape of a shield that Argoth had never seen before: a field half blue, half white, and upon that field lay a sun, the thread of which was the color of brass. The sun glistened in the lamp light.

“What is this?”

“White for purity,” said Shim, “blue for courage and loyalty. The sun for knowledge and power.”

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s old, my friend. Very old, passed down for generations. This is going to be our standard.”

“Ours?” asked Argoth.

“All those,” Shim said, “who fight those that would be our masters.”

“I’ve watched the faces of the men,” said Argoth. “They are going to have a difficult time accepting this. We cannot simply dump the whole truth upon them.”

“No,” said Shim. “First we will demonstrate our power. And when we have the confidence of those who matter, we shall tell them by what means we work.”

“We will not have long. A few days at the most before they begin to question the fine points of our story.”

“What I need from you is living weaves,” said Shim. “A hundred in three days.”

“Three days?” It was impossible.

Shim nodded. “We have some dry weaves. Two dozen maybe. You can fill those.”

That would leave about seventy-five weaves to create. Nobody in this Grove knew how to make anything but crude weaves in metal. River could weave them of other things, but a hundred was out of the question. Besides, they didn’t have the Fire. Only the current members of the Grove could give Fire. And Argoth would never take it again. “I can deliver another ten.”

“Twenty,” said Shim. “We must come to them in power.”

“You can’t train up a dreadman in a few hours.”

“We don’t need full dreadmen. We just need to show them the power is available. Can you train the men and women you give the weaves to perform some feat?”

“Yes,” said Argoth. “But even if we’re able to convince the lords of the Shoka, the Fir-Noy will not go along. And if they turn against us, three of the other clans will follow.”

“In the beginning,” said Shim, “they will resist us, but it will not last. The Prime is with us. Bosser as well. Furthermore, I have reports. The death of the Skir Master has shaken Mokad. The lords of Nilliam are pressing this advantage. Mokad, more than ever, has no resources to spare. The Fir-Noy will receive no help.”

“They have weaves,” said Argoth.

“How many? A dozen? And every day we will add to our numbers. In a few weeks we shall have hundreds. And then we shall raise dreadmen who need no weaves. Men like yourself. When the Bone Faces come and these Mokaddian loyalists have to contend with them on their own, they will find their objections are small things.”

“Yes,” said Arogth, “But we do not fight against the men of Mokad or Cath or even the Bone Face ships. We fight against their masters. We have attacked, maybe killed, one of their kind.”

“You think the glorydoms will join forces against us?”

“Look at how Seekers work. They hunt soul-eaters across the glorydoms of the earth, and none bar their way. Why? Because they hunt a mutual threat.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Shim said. “But perhaps they are not so different from us. Who is to say that some of these creatures might not find it in their interest to stand aside, to delay, in order to weaken an enemy? From what you told me of the creature in the cave, they are not unified.”

“We should prepare for the worst,” said Argoth.

“If they come at us with all their might, can we withstand them?”

Argoth had witnessed the power of the Skir Master first hand. He’d felt the might of the being in the cave. She’d raised living things from stone. She’d smitten him so powerfully with the illusion of her beauty that it echoed in his heart still. “The old gods once fought them, kept them at bay for years. But it’s clear have lost much. And we’ve let the lore we do know lull us into a false sense of security.”

“Then we shall find a way to open the seal on this book of yours and learn the things we forgot. We shall raise an army of dreadmen. And we will find someone who can bear the weight of the Victor’s crown. We cannot hesitate, my friend. Mankind’s hour is in our grasp.”

Argoth looked at Shim and wondered. The man had a weave his family had passed down; he had an ancient device—what was his history? Not all humans could wield the powers of life with equal effect. Not all could quicken themselves to the same degree. Bloodlines mattered. Was he simply a man with a powerful family heirloom? Or was Shim part of a line that stretched back to the old ones?