Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 (32 page)

“Harder!” he commanded the pumpers.

The men put all their effort into it, and the stream shot out forty, fifty, sixty feet. And the burning liquid fell upon the war wolves. He moved the lance back and forth, hosing them. The burning substance splashed on their faces, their wolf head shields, their surcoats with white stars. The Urzmen screamed, and Matiga, her fell-maidens about her, shouted for the men to tighten the line and charge.

The war wolves broke. Those who were not burning fled back up the pile of stones, scrambling for their lives.

Argoth sprayed them as they went, then turned his fire to the men in front of the walls.

Farther down the wall another lance ignited and began to spray fiery death on the attackers. Then Fire and smoke leapt into the sky down by the gatehouse.

And out on the field, the mad skir wind howled and rumbled across the field, now this way, now that, breaking and scattering the men of Mokad, Nilliam, and Urz.

Shimsmen who were waiting in reserve now raced to the walls. From the east wall others hurled a dozen smoking, half-gallon clay balls of fireshot out into the enemy lines. The fireshot broke upon the men and shields and ground, splashing those close to it, igniting their legs and the bottoms of their shields.

Inside the fort, the terrormen and hammermen were yelling, forming their troops of archers up, rushing to walls and gaps to get at the enemy from a range close enough to penetrate armor.

Argoth’s heart soared. The ancestors must have heard their calls. Or maybe it was the Creators themselves turning Mokad’s own winds upon them.

Burning bits of seafire spray blew back from the lance and scorched Argoth’s hands and arms, but he paid it no mind, and didn’t know where the lancer’s protecting leather gloves, coat, and hood were anyway. He turned his lance and rained fire upon the ladders that still stood, then rained burning murder upon the Mokaddians and Urzmen roiling in chaos down on the ground in front of the walls.

30

Flax

BEROSUS STAGGERED BACK a step, shielding his eyes from the debris, as a skir wind blasted past and down toward the river. He turned to Shaymash, the fat Skir Master. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

Shaymash held a skir staff aloft, gritting his teeth, obviously struggling to control the situation. “One of the urgom has slipped its thrall.”

“Skir don’t just slip their thralls.”

“Something attacked,” the fat man snapped back. “I suggest you find who it is before they all slip!”

Across the field, streams of seafire shot down over a large swath of men.

One of Shaymash’s acolytes spoke. “There’s someone causing problems with the souls.”

“Nilliam?” Berosus asked.

“No, it’s . . . the girl.”

“The girl? What girl?”

“The Koramite sleth. She’s here.”

“That can’t be,” Berosus said.

The acolyte cringed at his anger. “It is her, Great One.”

How was that possible? She should have been locked up in Whitecliff. He wondered about the seeking he’d performed. The girl had seemed so ignorant. So pliable. But maybe that had all been a ploy.

He realized now it had all been too easy.

These people had ripped a Divine away from the Glory, ripped the supposedly unbreakable ties that bound that Divine to the Sublime. Argoth claimed it was some other power, but would he spill his secrets at the first meeting with foreign sleth? No. And Ke had told him the same story, but at the same time he’d said that Talen had killed the Sublime.

These people had raised a servant from the earth and lied about its origin. Or maybe they hadn’t done it on their own. They couldn’t have done it on their own. Shim’s army had risen too quickly. The girl and Ke—they had hidden something from him. Or maybe they hadn’t known. Maybe Shim and Argoth had kept some secrets back from them. But Berosus now knew what that secret was.

Nilliam was in this. Cunning Nilliam.

The skir wind blasted into his ships on the river. Out on the field, the lords of Nilliam halted their men.

Oh, yes. It was all clear. Nilliam had engineered this trap. They would let Mokad spend its strength against Shim’s army, then come in for the kill. He’d never thought Nilliam should have been part of the coalition. And now he was proven right.

Fury rose in him. Nilliam would pay for this. He would finish off Shim’s army. Then he would harvest every last man of Nilliam on this field. And then he would march on the villages of the Newlanders until the blood flowed like rivers.

He had other wind riders, but none had his power. And this distraction needed to be done and finished. “A wind!” he shouted at Shaymash. “You’re going to put me right on top of those firelancers.”

The kite men and other wind riders usually wore brass goggles, a leather cap to protect the face and ears, and leather gloves. An acolyte ran forward with the gear, but Berosus only took the goggles, then stepped out onto the field in front of the Skir Master. Moments later the rushing of a great wind howled toward him from the river. It whistled over tree limbs, catching their edges. Then it slammed into the men behind.

Berosus ran a number of steps, then leapt, and the wind took him, carried him aloft. Debris pelted the skin of his face, filled his hair. He shot forward up over the battlefield, dipped, and then another gust took him over the path of the arrows being shot from the walls. He flared his Fire until his might rippled through him.

Out in the bay, darkness gathered above the Bone Face ships. He’d been apprised of their threat and had placed galleys to deal with them. But he wondered about that blackness. He’d wondered about it since Argoth and Eresh had come back with tales from Woolsom and Fishing. Something moved inside the blackness that caught his eye, but he didn’t have time to assess it. Right now, his job was to take care of Shim and then Nilliam.

He flew over his troops. Then the wind lessened and dropped him toward the firelance crew in the middle of the wall.

He had wanted an orderly harvest, a beautiful procession, and by the Mother’s love, he would have one.

The skir changed its direction, releasing him in a howl of wind. Berosus dropped out of the sky onto the wall right behind the lancers. They’d seen him coming, but his might and speed were upon him.

The Shimsman closest to him shouted and struck with his axe.

Berosus ripped the axe out of his grip and slammed the butt of the axe into the man’s head. He crumpled under the blow and tumbled off the wall.

Another raised a bow at point blank range and released an arrow with a bodkin point. Berosus dodged it and hurled the axe, burying it deep in the man’s chest.

Another one of the crew charged. Berosus snatched up an arrow from the fallen archer and stabbed the man in the eye with it.

The firelance crew had stopped to avoid having his wind blow their flames back in their faces. The lancer now turned the brass weapon on Berosus and yelled for his pumpers.

Berosus sprang. A stream of fire shot under him. He flipped and landed behind the crew. He kicked one pumper in the knee and caved his leg in. He struck the other pumper in the chest and sent him flying through one of the gaps in the crenellation.

The lancer tried to turn his stream, but Berosus already had his sword in hand and skewered the man.

A number of Shimsmen on the wall lined up and drew their bows.

Berosus threw himself to the ground. The bows twanged, and the arrows sped above him and into the Shimsmen at his back.

He grabbed the lance, rolled up, and kicked the barrel of seafire over so the contents spilled along the wall and down into the courtyard. Then he hurled the firelance out over the wall.

More Shimsmen ran down the wallwalk toward him. He charged them, and they stopped, then tripped over themselves trying to get away. One man did hold his ground and slashed with his sword, but Berosus sprang to the top of the crenellation, took two huge strides, dancing on the merlons, then jumped back down onto the wallwalk behind the man and ran for the other firelance crew that was spraying a hammer of Urzmen trying to get over the gap of rubble made by the fallen hoodoo.

He passed a fallen Mokaddian, reached down, and picked up the man’s sword, then charged two Shimsmen who tried to protect the crew. With the first stroke he hacked an arm from one of the men’s bodies. With the next, he slit the second’s throat. The men fell. Behind them the firelance crew turned.

“Time to die,” he said.

“Regret’s eyes it is,” one of the pumpers said and drew his war axe.

It was Argoth.

“Excellent,” Berosus said. “When I’m done with you, I’m going to stick that fat one-eyed pig.”

* * *

Argoth had taken this filth of a man in, put everyone at risk, maybe destroyed the one good chance mankind had received these last thousand years to throw off its chains. He was furious. Furious he’d allowed himself to be duped. Furious that he’d let Shim talk him into moving so fast. Furious that this vile creature and his masters thought they could harvest whom they pleased.

His Fire rippled in waves of power through his body. He was multiplied to his very limits and swung his axe in a blow that could cleave men in two, but Flax dodged to the side and scuttled away.

Argoth pressed forward. Flax rose, thrust, but Argoth easily batted the sword away with his axe.

Flax smiled. “When this fort falls,” he said, “we shall raise a monument here and call it Shim’s Folly.”

Argoth lunged.

Flax parried and danced back a step. “Not bad,” he said.

“We will beat your masters,” Argoth said.

“We had a debate,” said Flax. “What to do with the sleth we found here. The fledgling Glory, of course, we will preserve. The majority wanted to utterly destroy everyone else. However, I spoke up on your behalf. When I infiltrated the Hand, I learned you have quite a reputation, Argoth.”

“And I’m going to add a bit more to that today,” Argoth said. He rushed forward, his Fire raging. His axe flashed. But Berosus blocked it, dodged. He flicked his blade out in a move that was almost too quick to see and sliced Argoth in the back of the leg down by his calf.

Argoth didn’t feel any pain, but he did feel his calf lose some of its stability and strength. He pressed forward, swung his axe, and drew his dagger.

Flax parried again, lunged, but Argoth met him with the dagger. He would have stabbed Flax square in the chest, but Argoth’s sliced calf turned traitor on him and made him stumble. He lurched, missed Flax’s chest, slashing harmlessly across the mail protecting Flax’s arm.

Flax struck Argoth in the face with his fist. The blow sent Argoth reeling backward, turned his world into light purple spots against black. The rushing sound of water filled his ears, and then his vision and balance returned.

Flax smiled and struck again. Argoth blocked the blow, but Flax flicked his sword up, scraping Argoth’s face from jaw to cheek with the sharp point.

Flax was far faster than he had assumed. Far faster than any dreadman or sleth Argoth had ever faced. A terrible foreboding filled him.

Flax pointed at Argoth with the tip of his sword. “You should have learned when you were enthralled to Rubaloth that you cannot resist. Man is too weak. And today will prove that yet again. It’s true, in the beginning the Mothers experienced some setbacks domesticating you. But we learned.”

“You mean t
hey
learned,” said Argoth.

“I am one with them. They are one with me. And since our rise we have never fallen.”

“You’ve never fallen,” Eresh bellowed, “you vomitus maggot, because you’ve never faced a proper Kish before!”

Argoth turned. Eresh was rushing up stairway with his sword, his helmet gone, hair askew. “Out of my way!” he shouted and pushed through the clutch of Shimsmen trying to get a good shot. “You’ve been stinking this place up ever since you showed your face. It’s time we got down to cleaning.”

Flax narrowed his eyes. “You,” he said, “were not one any of us wanted to preserve.”

“I’d say that was your loss.”

Argoth swung. Flax stepped back and shook his head. “Did you know, Grandfather, that when the men of the Hand watched the ranks of your Kish die, that was on my order. It was on my order that your house was raided and burned. You prayed for your sons and wife. Unfortunately, they didn’t make it far. We harvested their souls even as you petitioned your ancestors to protect them. There’s a market for sleth souls; did you know that? Some of the Glorious Ones enjoy the peculiar taste. We would have had yours, but I let you live at the time because you were useful. But you’ve long since stopped being that, old man.”

The anger in Eresh’s face turned cold, calculating, hard as steel. “Today,” he said, “I will feed you to your own dogs.” He strode forward.

“You’re a fool,” said Flax.

“You’re a greasy flatulence,” Eresh replied. “At least I don’t offend the ladies.” He raised his sword.

Flax flew at Eresh in one blinding leap, bringing his sword down to cleave Eresh from collar bone to navel.

Eresh side-stepped the blow, and struck with his own sword. But Flax was too quick. He twisted around and struck Eresh hard in the chest with his elbow.

Eresh staggered back.

“Come on, old man,” Flax said, “you can do better than that.”

Argoth was still dizzy. He glanced down and saw the wound on his leg was deeper than he first thought. Blood was streaming out of it. The eye on the side of his face where Flax had struck him was swelling closed. He didn’t have much time before his strength and ability would begin to seriously diminish.

Argoth charged.

Eresh rushed Flax from a different angle.

Enjoyment lit up Flax’s face. And he lunged at Argoth first.

Argoth dodged, swung his axe, let Flax slap it away with his sword, then stepped in and slammed Flax in the face with his fist. Flax’s head whipped to the side. Argoth stepped forward, struck him again, a solid powerful blow, and Flax staggered back.

Argoth whipped his axe around, two-handed, to strike Flax in the side of the head, but Flax caught the axe and smashed Argoth in the face again. The blow felt like an anvil. It broke Argoth’s jaw, twisted him sideways, sent the whole world reeling.

Argoth crashed into the wall, then to the dirt and stones littering the wall walk.

Eresh roared and lunged. Flax held his own sword and Argoth’s axe. He blocked Eresh’s blow, but was forced to give ground. Eresh struck again. Then again. He was a blur. Flax was forced back another step. He feinted a thrust with his sword.

Eresh blocked the false blow.

It was all Flax needed. He struck Eresh’s sword hand with the axe, and the weapon flew out of his hand to clang onto the wall walk between Flax and Argoth.

“And now it ends,” Flax said. “I think you’ll find the world of souls enlightening.” He lunged with his sword. Eresh tried to dodge it, but the sword plunged into his side.

Eresh grunted in pain. His face curled in anger.

Flax pulled the sword back, snake quick, and raised it to server Eresh’s head from his body in one swinging blow.

Eresh lunged, growling, and stabbed two fingers deep into Flax’s eye.

Flax punched Eresh in the face with his fist, knocking him backward to trip over a dead Shimsman.

Flax put his hand to his ruined eye, and then his face turned feral, and he drew back his sword to finish Eresh. “I have plans for you,” Flax snarled.

“Somebody kill that whoreson!” Eresh thundered.

The world was still unstable, but Argoth’s Fire roared through him. He still had much strength. Argoth grasped the hilt of Eresh’s sword.

A Shimsman charged Flax with a spear, but Flax cut the man down. A couple of archers shot at him, but Flax picked up the spearman’s shield, and the arrows sank into the wood. Then he turned to face Eresh again.

“Now it ends,” Flax said and stepped forward to subdue Eresh.

Argoth rose and lunged from behind with all the multiplied might and speed he could muster and drove Eresh’s sword into Flax’s lower back.

The sword point bit in, punctured the mail and the padded tunic underneath, penetrated skin.