Servant: The Dark God Book One (Volume 1) (9 page)

So he set the bucket on the side of the well, cleared his throat, and said, “One of these days, you beast-loving tanner’s pot, we are going to catch you and let you join your mother in the cage.”

He waited for a response.

“You’ve come to the wrong farm, you yeasty boil.”

Talen poured the water into the hoggin then dropped the bucket back down into the well.

He scanned the tree line again. If the thing charged at him out of the woods, it would catch him before he got to the pig pen. But then, if the hatchling were going to attack him, it could have done it earlier.

“Sleth child,” Talen called out, “As you can plainly see, I do not fear you. Nor do we fear your abominable depredations.” He realized his talk had taken the edge off his fear. So he continued, “You want something to eat? Eh? Come out and I’ll feed you. How about a moldy crust of bread eaten and shat out by our pig for supper?”

No response, only the leaves of the trees swaying in the small breeze. This hatchling wasn’t so fearsome, he thought. And had the Bailiff not said that a Koramite should bring the hatchlings in? Something shifted inside him. His fear deserted him, and he suddenly wasn’t thinking about what the hatchlings might do to him. He was thinking of what
he
could do with them. What they could do for him. And he suddenly realized that the villagers this morning had come after him, probably not out of fear, but dreaming of a fat bounty. Dreaming of this very opportunity.

If he were adopted into the Shoka, he would still be Koramite, still owe duties to his ancestors. Being a Shoka by privilege did not change your blood. But Talen didn’t know if the adoption would really change his prospects. He’d still be a half-breed in most people’s eyes. However, if he could catch these hatchlings, it might not only mitigate some of the ill-will against his people, but it might also prove the quality of Da’s line, prove the quality of Talen’s breeding.

Those villagers could dream all they wanted. They weren’t going to get the bounty. Oh, no. He thought of the tales of the heroes who had hunted sleth. Not all of them were from the ranks of the high and mighty. Maybe a little Koramite would win a spot in the chronicles.

He could see himself purchasing that fine, Kishman’s bow, made of wood, horn, and sinew. There wasn’t a people who could make better bows than the Kish. He could purchase a quiver, worked with yellow and scarlet thread. But why settle for a bow? He’d get himself a horse.

Talen drew up a third bucket, emptied it into the hoggin, and replaced the lid.

He addressed the old sod house. “Every soul worth his salt will be hunting your clay-brained trail. You’re going to end up a boiled cabbage no matter what you do.” He paused. “You should have never begun with the Dark Art, but turn yourself in to me, and you’ll avoid a wicked beating. That’s a promise you’ll not get from any other quarter.”

There was no answer, only the voices of Ke and Nettle in the distance.

He realized then if the hatchling were an angry thing, it would kill Talen and stop his mouth. But it was either stupid or scared, for it had thrown away a perfectly good chance. Or maybe it was waiting for its master, the one that slew the butcher’s family in the village of Plum.

That thought sent chills up his spine. That was a creature no lone Koramite would take. But he wasn’t going to let the fear of such things overcome him. It obviously wasn’t here now. And standing at the well all day wasn’t going to do him any good either, so he walked to the house with as much ease as he could muster and fetched the some cheese and apples.

When he came back out, he paused. “You’re a fool to refuse my offer,” Talen called.

There was no response, so he hefted the hoggin onto his shoulder, gave the farm one last glance, and headed back out to the fields. This time Blue and Queen came with him, Conroy bringing up the rear.

It was clear he wasn’t going to be able to talk the hatchlings into giving themselves in, which meant he’d have to catch them. But he wasn’t going to be able to corner them like normal animals. Oh, no. He was going to need something entirely different.

* * *

Talen distributed the apples and cheese and passed the water to Ke. Nettle sat on the trunk of tree Ke and River had just felled. Next to him leaned the two-man saw. A strand of Talen’s hair fell into his face. After Sabin’s yank this morning, Talen was about ready to have Nettle hack it all off with his knife, but he undid the leather strap holding it, gathered his hair up, and retied it. Then he turned to Nettle. “You said you wanted to do something real? Well, we’ve got ourselves a whale of an opportunity.”

Nettle plopped a hunk of cheese into his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Talen faced the three of them. “I spotted the trouser thief.”

“Somebody actually stole your pants?” asked Nettle.

Ke rolled his eyes.

“Not somebody,” said Talen. “The hatchling. And we are going to get the bounty.”

Nettle blinked.

“What are you talking about?” asked Ke.

Talen related what had happened back at the house.

“We need to alert the Bailiff or Territory Lord,” said Nettle.

“No, no. That’s exactly what we shouldn’t do. We don’t want some idiot Mokaddian getting the reward.”

“Excuse me?” said Nettle. “I don’t think Mokaddians were the problem this time.”

“I’m not talking about you,” said Talen. “You know that isn’t what I mean. Think about what people will say when a Koramite brings them in.”

“Except we’re not full Koramite,” said Ke.

“That isn’t the point,” said Talen. “We have an opportunity.”

“Did you see more than a leg?” asked River. “Did you see this thief’s face?”

“No.”

“Then it could have been anybody. It could have been a beggar. Could have been some stranger passing through.”

“Nobody can run that fast.”

“Come on,” said Ke. “We’d all love to catch us a hatchling, but it takes fifty men to conduct a proper hunt.”

“Not to catch children,” said Talen. “Besides, I’ve worked it out. All we need is a counterweight and a rope.”

“Have you forgotten Da’s last words?” asked River. “This is how innocent people get killed.”

“
Somebody
was there,” said Talen.

“Then we keep our wits about us,” said River, “and our eyes open.”

“And our knives at the ready,” said Nettle. He narrowed his eyes at Talen. “This isn’t one of your pig-brained jokes, is it?”

“No pigs,” said Talen. “And I don’t intend on getting close enough to use a knife. I’m perfectly happy to use my bow.”

* * *

At the far end of the dog warren underneath the sod house, Sugar lay still as stone, her back pressed into the dirt wall. She hugged Legs to her chest. Above her head a monstrous yellow spider scuttled along the underside of the floorboards.

“I think he’s gone,” said Legs. “I can only hear the breeze.”

She was hungry and thirsty. Her hair was full of dirt and filth. She had taken great comfort in the dogs, but now realized how childish that was.

“We’re not safe,” she said. “This place is not safe.”

10

Battle

CAPTAIN ARGOTH KEPT himself hidden behind a screen made by an immense rock and a thick clump of blackberry briar. With him on this side of the steep ravine were fifteen of the best fighters the Shoka had. The same number had concealed themselves on the other side of the ravine. All lay in wait, their bows ready.

The mouth of the ravine opened up onto a wide meadow, deep with brown and dark green grasses. A stream ran through the meadow and out of sight behind a thick grove of river birch on the far end.

Argoth looked at the group with him, gauging them. There were a few young men here of Nettle’s age. He wondered: should he have brought the boy? Nettle was eager. He was of age. And when he’d demanded to know why he couldn’t come, Argoth had no answer. Nettle was skilled, but he just wasn’t ready.

A fly landed on Argoth’s lips and he shooed it away. It was almost midday; where was Varro? It was past time. Him and his ridiculously streaked beard should have ridden into view long ago, leading their quarry into the trap.

Argoth was just about ready to break position and organize a search when Varro burst from behind the grove of river birch, riding his spotted steed at a full gallop.

Moments later a dozen riders rounded the same corner, their horses stretched out, racing to catch him. Most of them wore helmets and shaped-leather cuirasses festooned with various furs. One man rode with a mail tunic, another was bare-chested. All had their faces painted white and black. All of them Bone Face rot.

Varro splashed across the stream then cut through the deep meadow grass, making straight for the steep ravine where Argoth and the rest of the men waited.

Argoth gave the hand signal to get ready, and his men nocked their arrows. Each man clutched four others in the hand that held their bow.

A band of Bone Faces had been sallying forth from this quarter, and it was time to be rid of them and find out if they were on their own or scouts for a far larger raiding party. Their goal was to kill most of these dung heaps but keep one or two for the Shoka warlord to question. This was going to be like shooting rabbits in a hutch.

Varro closed half the distance to the ravine, then his horse stumbled and rolled, throwing Varro wide into the tall brown and green meadow grass.

The horse screamed and struggled to its feet, but it couldn’t stand straight. One of its forelegs was broken. Argoth winced; it must have stepped into a fox or ground squirrel hole.

The horsed limped, but Varro was up, running, cutting his way through the tall grass.

His pursuers gained on him, but not by much. Varro was a dreadman, one of those upon whom the Divines had bestowed a weave of might. He ran with the speed of that weave, flying through the meadow with enormous, quick strides. He was fast to begin with, and his weave doubled, almost tripled, the liveliness with which he ran.

But then he slowed.

What was he doing? This wasn’t a time for tricks. All he needed to do was run into the ravine.

Varro slowed even further, slowed to the speed of a normal man. He glanced back over his shoulder, and when he turned back round, Argoth could see from his expression that something was terribly wrong.

Varro wasn’t going to make the ravine. He wasn’t going to make it out of the meadow.

Argoth rose. “Mount up,” he called. “Mount up!” It was possible the Bone Faces had a dreadman among them, but he wouldn’t be one of those in heavy armor. Dreadmen only wore such when they were sure to be fighting their own kind. In most battles it was speed they desired. Brutal, blinding speed.

Argoth put away his doubts about sending Nettle to help Hogan with his harvest. This type of battle would have thrown the boy into a situation he was not prepared for. Exactly the type of situation into which he’d put his son, of a different wife and in a different land, so many years ago.

In one step he mounted his stallion. Then he gave him his heels and was flying down the narrow trail, hugging his steed’s thick neck, dodging branches all the way to the bottom of the ravine.

By the time Argoth galloped out of the ravine, holding his bow and guiding his horse with his knees, the Bone Faces had surrounded Varro and beat him to the ground. He lay on his face with two men holding him down; Argoth could not tell if he was alive or dead.

The bare-chested man knelt at Varro’s feet, binding them with a rope. The man’s face, from his forehead to the crack of his mouth, had been painted black; from his lower lip down was white.

Argoth let out his battle cry and guessed if they had a dreadman, it would be the bare-chested one. None of them wore insignia, but that one had the hard-cut look of one who used a weave.

The Bone Faces turned.

Argoth stood a little higher in his stirrups and released his first arrow. He immediately took the second from the clutch he held in his bow hand.

The first arrow would have skewered a normal man. But Bare Chest dodged to the side, and the arrow flew past into the lower leg of the rider behind him, pinning the rider’s leg to his horse.

The horse reared and screamed.

A volley of arrows from the thirty behind Argoth whispered past. Two of the raiders fell to the ground and writhed. More horses screamed and bolted.

Argoth raised his fist and made the sign for a split attack. There were two ways to deal with dreadmen. Either you smashed their support, or you ignored the support and hoped you got to the dreadman before he could build his Fire. Argoth chose the second. He signaled ten of his men to attack the regular Bone Faces. And he hoped with all his might they were indeed all regulars. Then he broke off with his remaining twenty men.

The two who had been holding Varro to the ground grabbed the reins of their horses and tried to mount. One took an arrow in the back and fell. The other made his saddle.

The end of the rope that held Varro was bound to the pommel of the saddle of a third rider. The rider put his heels to his horse and shot away. Varro yanked about and began to drag behind. But, thank the Creators, the man only dragged Varro a few yards before he cut him loose to gain speed.

Argoth focused on the dreadman. The man had not attempted to mount his horse. That, and the fact that none had been able to catch Varro before, meant that his horse had not been multiplied.

Bare Chest ran through the grass with a wild speed toward the wood. They couldn’t let that happen. With the cover of bush and branches, he’d effectively reduce the odds to from one-to-twenty to one-to-two or three. And that would be suicide for Argoth’s men.

Argoth raced his steed, gave him full rein, but it wasn’t enough. The man was too fast. Argoth’s men loosed another volley of arrows, but within two strides the dreadman stopped, turned, and all the arrows flew long.

Then the dreadman rushed at them, sword drawn. It was a simple tactic, and Argoth saw it for what is was, but they didn’t have time to adjust. Within seconds they were upon him, still holding their bows.

The dreadman entered their charge on the far side, away from Argoth, and drew his sword.

Steel flashed. Two horses stumbled and cried out. The dreadman turned, pulled a third man from his saddle. Then the dreadman, running alongside, jumped onto the mount’s back and guided it close to another of Argoth’s men. Another flash of steel. An arm fell to the ground. The dreadman turned to another, threw a knife into the rump of the man’s mount. When the horse cried out and stumbled, the dreadman leapt with his sword and severed the man’s head from his body.

By the time Argoth shoved his bow into the hooks behind his saddle and drew his sword, the dreadman had either killed, dismounted, or incapacitated four others.

The remaining riders separated so the dreadman would be forced to commit to one target, allowing the others to regroup.

At that moment the dreadman could have made his move toward the wood, but he didn’t. He rode after the closest man.

Brash, foolish. This one was a risk-taker.

Argoth wheeled his horse toward Bare Chest and gathered the Fire of his days. He didn’t need a gift from the Divines to multiply his strength and speed, for Argoth knew the lore of the Divines. Or, at least, a part of it.

But none of his men would see it that way.

The Divines had proclaimed and enforced their lies for so long that none knew the truth when they saw it. According to the Divines, any power wielded outside their control was slethery, and since the Divines held the power who was to gainsay them? It was true many who had used the lore on their own became abominations and horrors, but even the Divines were not immune to that. It was true that many sleth stole life from others, but so did the Divines.

In fact, not only did the Divines steal Fire, they stole Soul. That was the difference between the secret order Argoth followed and that of the Divines. It was the Divines who were the sleth.

But who knew that secret? Not even his men would believe him if he told it to them, which meant that if he was exposed, they would kill him. They’d be bound to; they’d be compelled to, for in their minds he would present the worst danger they could imagine.

And they would have been right seventeen years ago before he found the Order. But that was all behind him now. He was a changed man; the Order had opened his eyes.

It was going to be risky going up against this foe, for who would believe a regular soldier, even one as skilled as he was, could best a dreadman? Nevertheless, he gathered his Fire, that spark of life that animated a man. Once he had enough of it gathered, he could expend it all in a rush, multiplying his natural abilities. Of course, it wasn’t without cost. A man only had so much Fire, and when it was gone, the soul and body quickly separated from each other. But Argoth had decided long ago that there were things for which he’d trade the limited days of his life. Those close to him, including the men of his company, were worth such a sacrifice. But it took time to gather enough Fire to make any difference, and he didn’t have time.

The dreadman galloped even with the hindquarters of another of Argoth’s riders. He raised his sword and slashed the animal’s rump. The horse faltered, and the dreadman pulled even with the rider.

The rider parried two blows from the dreadman, but the third took him square in the face, knocking him into the grass.

This couldn’t continue: the dreadman would kill them all.

Argoth cried out a challenge.

The dreadman saw him and turned his horse.

Argoth was not fully multiplied. But he didn’t care. This bare-chested piece of rot was going to be strung up with his own guts.

The dreadman put his heels into his horse, and, within a few strides, he and Argoth rode full gallop at each other. Relish gleamed in the dreadman’s eye. Then the diseased goat-lover grinned.

Laugh now, Argoth thought, because your joy is at an end. He took his sword in his left hand, drew his bodkin, and then, with all the strength he could muster, threw it.

The bodkin flashed in the sun. The dreadman saw it and tried to swerve, but the blade buried itself in the horse just below its shoulder.

The horse stumbled and cast the dreadman off balance. But he didn’t have time to leap away.

Argoth swung his sword in a backhanded arc that sliced the man in the side.

The dreadman cried out and fell.

It was not a mortal blow. But it was a start.

Argoth pulled his reins and turned around for another charge. He put his heels into the horse’s flanks and shot forth, sword held ready to strike.

And that is when the dreadman made his second mistake. He should have run. Instead he turned to face Argoth. One of Argoth’s men had kept his bow. And it only took a moment for him to draw, release, and speed the shaft deep into the dreadman’s back.

The dreadman arched, twisted. A second arrow followed the first and struck him in the ribs. Then Argoth thundered down upon him. The dreadman turned, the joy replaced by hate. He raised his sword, but it was too late, and Argoth drove his own weapon deep into the man’s chest and left it there.

He galloped a number of yards farther and turned his horse, waiting for the dreadman to fall. When he did, Argoth’s remaining men converged.

Argoth whistled and signaled for a portion of those remaining to find and help the ten who had split off from the main group to chase the others.

The men would hack the dreadman’s head off to ensure he was dead. Then they would remove his weave, although none would dare claim it. It was impossible to know what traps might be worked into any given weave by looking at it. And even if the men knew the weave had no traps, they would still handle it with great care.

Weaves were endowments, created by a special order of Divines called Kains, and bestowed upon a man or woman for a special task. Sometimes the Divines bestowed a weave upon a group, a family or company of men, who shared its use. There were many types of weaves. Some were crowns, others arm bands, others necklaces or piercings. There was even one made by the Mungo Divines that was a coat of grass. Some weaves were given for healing, some for sight, some to allow its bearer to speak to the dead,

Some needed a loremaster to use them. Others, called wildweaves, could be used by anyone. Varro had been given one of these—a ring that would magnify its bearer for war.

Whatever the purpose of the weave, only those included in its covenant could wear it. And then they were allowed to use only the specific weave given them by the Divine. To use a weave outside a specific covenant was high treason and punished by death.

Argoth turned to ride back to Varro.

Just a little over a year ago Varro had been recommended by the Shoka warlord to become a dreadman. It was a great honor to him and his family, but it was also a burden. Dreadmen wielded immense powers, but they were expected to fight more frequently and with greater valor. Placing oneself in so many battles exposed a man to enormous risk, even for a dreadman. And so it was that while a weave might claim a long genealogy of heroes, those heroes often very quickly ended up maimed or dead.

Argoth hoped Varro had escaped that fate today. He was one of the best men Argoth had ever commanded, and that was well before Varro had been called to the covenant.