Servant: The Dark God Book 1 (42 page)
Read Servant: The Dark God Book 1 Online
Authors: John D. Brown
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Coming of Age, #Epic, #Historical, #Sword & Sorcery, #Teen & Young Adult
Argoth yanked the hatchet out and kicked the man in the head, knocking him overboard.
Men raced up the stairs to the aftercastle.
Then an explosion rocked the ship, sending the men racing up the stairs sprawling.
Argoth brought the hatchet down with all his might, cutting the rope, and the boat fell the rest of the distance to the water.
A man shouted blood-curdling intent behind him.
Argoth turned and saw a dreadman charging him, sword held high. A large eye had been tattooed on his bare chest.
Argoth brought up his hatchet and parried the blow, but the force of the blow knocked the hatchet out of Argoth’s hand.
The dreadman brought his sword back.
Argoth was not in a state to fight him, so he scuttled backward and flung himself over the edge of the stern. Then he was falling, watching the
Ardent
pull away with the dreadman looking on.
Argoth pulled his broken arm to his chest to protect it, bracing himself, thinking he was going to land on the boat.
But he did not land on the boat. He crashed heels over head into a shock of the cold water. He gasped in a lungful of water, rolled, then came to the surface in a choke and turned to look for the boat. A wave lifted him, showing him the boat only a few yards away. He sidestroked toward it with all his might, holding his useless arm at his chest.
The dreadman who’d come at him on deck flashed down in the corner of his eye and splashed into the water.
At the crest of the next swell, he looked back. The dreadman was swimming after him hard, gaining on him.
Argoth swam with all his might. Two, four, eight strokes.
He looked back. The dreadman was only a few yards behind.
Another stroke and he touched the boat. Argoth reached up with his good hand, grasped the top wale, and swung his leg up, and then it was over the wale and onto one of the thwarts.
He looked frantically about for a weapon. There was nothing but the length of rope that had attached the boat to the davit.
The dreadman’s hand grasped the wale behind him.
Argoth lunged for the rope lying under one of the thwarts.
The dreadman pulled himself up.
Argoth spun around, lunged at the man and slipped a make-shift noose over the dreadman’s neck. Then he looped the rope about his body and heaved back. The rope tightened about the dreadman’s neck and pulled him into the boat. But Argoth knew that wouldn’t be enough. He turned, and before the dreadman could gain leverage to pull Argoth to him, Argoth took one bounding step and jumped off the side of the boat opposite of the dreadman and into the water.
He attempted to swim under the boat, but he could not get the leverage he needed and realized it wasn’t going to work. He grabbed the rope higher and pulled with all his might, expecting the dreadman to haul back on it. But no tug came, and Argoth burst to the surface. He treaded water, fearing what would come, but nothing moved on the boat.
Men cried over the waves. They would see this boat, and those that knew how to swim would come after it. Surely the dreadman was waiting for him, but Argoth saw no other choice. He steeled himself, then reached up and pulled himself in.
The dreadman lay across the thwarts, his neck broken, the water from his clothing dripping into the bilge.
Argoth looked at the man. Strong, clearly someone who had seen many battles. A good soldier gone to waste.
He unlooped the rope, pushed the body aside, then began to tie the tiller. He would not have enough time to erect the ship’s small mast and rig the sail. However, if he tied the tiller, he might, with one oar, row in a straight line away from the burning
Ardent
and her men.
He finished tying the tiller and looked back at the ship. Her sails had caught fire—yards and yards of fire billowing up into the evening sky.
Then an enormous explosion cracked like thunder, shuddering the ship, throwing men, wood, and great gouts of fire up into the rigging and out to sea. One of the thrown men, his entire body aflame, snagged in the rigging and writhed there.
Moments later a rain of fire began to fall to the sea. It fell in great infernos and small drops, all of it streaking through the sky to burn atop the darkening water.
Another explosion tore the air. The force of the blast, even from this distance, almost knocked Argoth into the thwarts. It rent the ship, and she began to list.
Argoth retrieved an oar, fitted it, and sat on the thwart. He was about to turn the boat to row directly away from the
Ardent
when a fierce wind kicked up about him, sending sea spray to sting his eyes.
The Skir wind.
He crouched low in the boat, the wind whipping about him. Moments later a violent gust slammed into the boat, knocking him into the wale. And then, as quickly as it had come, it departed with one final line of spray that receded away toward the
Ardent
.
Argoth’s fingers throbbed with pain. They were black, and where the outer charred skin had sloughed off, a bright pink. They didn’t hurt as much as he would have suspected, but that only meant the fire had burned all of his nerves. He suspected he might never feel in those fingers again.
The splint about his broken arm hung loosely. He tightened it up as best he could with his burned hand. Then he set his one ore, sat upon a thwart, and began to row, the red and green eye of the paddle dipping in and out of the water.
He hadn’t gone very far when he heard the Master’s command in his mind. “Come to me.”
“Nettle,” he said. “Serah. Serenity. Grace. Joy.”
“Come to me!”
But Argoth repeated the names of his family members again like some murmured prayer.
The Skir Master shouted again in the back of his mind.
But Argoth rowed on. “Nettle, Grace, Joy, Serenity, Serah. Nettle, Grace, Joy,” he muttered.
The ship burned brightly. Any ship within miles would be able to see it. His only hope was that the others were nowhere nearby. Or, at least, too far out to make it here before the Skir Master died.
When he did die, Argoth would feel it, for a thrall only had power when the Master was alive. When he died, so did the bond. Of course, he had read that the bond worked through a man like roots in the soil. So although the bond might die, the roots would remain, and it would take some time before all traces of the thrall were gone.
Argoth wondered how many thralls the Master had. Dozens? A hundred? Surely, the inlay by the pulpit was some type of thrall, which made Argoth question how many of those slaves were skir. Certainly Shegom was one of them.
He looked up and found that the sky was clear. The first evening stars shone in the heavens. He took a moment to get his bearings by them and considered trying to rig the sail.
A wind buffeted him, then another.
At first he thought it a normal gust, but it did not abate.
The sound of sea spray hastened toward his boat. Argoth turned and saw the Skir wind racing toward him. Shegom was coming. He had heard of Skir Masters summoning whirlwinds to the field of battle, of men being picked up and carried away.
Argoth released the oar and immediately wriggled underneath the thwarts, wedging himself as best he could.
Moments later the wind knocked the boat, lifting one side and pushed it sideways. Then the pitch of the wind rose, screeching over the wales.
The oar jerked violently in its lock. It jerked the other way, then broke free with a wrench and flew up and away. The pitch of the wind screamed over the wales until it howled like a hurricane. The boat tipped precariously on its side and scudded over a wave.
The dead dreadman dislodged and tumbled out into the water.
Sea spray kicked up, driving into Argoth’s face like needles. He shut his eyes against it and turned his face into the side of the boat as the wind picked at him.
The boat lurched, twisted, was tossed about like a leaf. And then it was airborne. He began to slip and braced himself. Then the boat slapped down on the water in the midst of heat, fire, salt spray. And then as quickly as it had come, the wind abated.
Argoth opened his eyes and saw the sky full of smoke. He listened for the wind, but it was gone, so he wriggled halfway out from under the thwarts and surveyed the scene. All about him pieces of flotsam burned, smoke piling into the sky.
Someone shouted.
A hand grasped the wale.
Argoth kicked at the man’s head as he came over. He bent over to untie another oar so that he might use it as a weapon. But the boat rocked.
Argoth turned, oar in hand.
Leaf stood before him, water running from his clothes into the boat. The skin about his eye was blackened and cracked from the burn. Raw pink and red flesh shone where much of his eye tattoo had been.
Argoth drew back to strike, but Leaf simply snatched the oar out of his hand and kicked him into the prow. Argoth’s head smacked against the side of the boat.
He tried to get up, but couldn’t seem to get his balance.
Another dreadman entered the boat.
Then Leaf reached over the side and pulled the Master up. Clutched to his breast was the weave that had been inlaid into the deck of the ship—Shegom’s thrall.
The Master wore no boots. The legs of his pants were scorched. The flesh underneath blistered.
A normal sailor tried to climb into the boat.
“What are you doing?” said the Master and kicked the man in the face, sending him back into the water.
Then he stepped over the thwarts to where Argoth lay and looked down upon him. “You should have drowned yourself, Clansman. You should have tied a stone to your neck and jumped into the sea. For now you will taste the fury of the Glory of Mokad.”
Leaf eyed Argoth malevolently.
The Skir Master looked out over the waves. “Dreadmen!” he shouted. “To me!”
41
Muster
TALEN LUGGED LEGS through the woods until his collar bone felt like it was going to break. He rested. Picked him up again. Rested. He lugged him across two creeks, paddled him across a river in a canoe they’d found, and then lugged him into the woods on the other side.
He’d scuttled their trail as best he knew how from any dogs that might be following. But that didn’t prevent him from having to skirt around two more groups of men on the watch, nor did it help them avoid the farms and wooden shacks that stood in their path. In the end, they’d used a whole day to do what should have taken, at most, two hours.
At last, they crested a hill that led down to the Creek Widow’s valley. They were both bloody-footed, but they’d made it. Except who knew if patrols had already come for the Creek Widow? They could be waiting right now for someone like himself to show up.
Talen didn’t dare climb a tree to get a look below. The branches would shake too much as he ascended. But he knew a spot on the hill that opened to a good view. He and Legs sat there for some time watching. He saw nothing but vultures circling in the updrafts, the horse the Creek Widow called the Tailor eating away at the grass in the apple orchard, and digging herself a new cesspit for the privy was the Creek Widow herself.
He was satisfied nobody waited for them there, but nevertheless, he waited until the sun set to descend the hill and enter the Creek Widow’s yard. He and Legs stole across the yard and weren’t more than a dozen paces from the front door, when someone spoke from behind. “That will be far enough.”
Talen froze.
“State who you are and what business you have sneaking about my yard at night.”
He sighed in relief. But how had she sneaked around behind them?
Talen turned. She held a pitchfork out in front of her with a fair amount of menace. Warrior, her ancient dog, stood at her side. He mustered one woof and fell silent.
“I told you before,” said Talen, “one old woman out here on her own—you’ve got to have a dog that will chase more than biscuits.”
“Talen,” she said. “Lights, you’re lucky you haven’t got the tines of my pitchfork in your back.” She turned to Legs. “And you’re Purity’s, aren’t you?”
“I am,” said Legs.
She looked out into the yard, across the pasture. “Get in the house.”
“I hope you’ve got something to eat, cause we’re starving.”
“Food?” She stabbed the pitchfork at him. “I think I promised a beating the last time you were here. Now get.” She eyed the woods behind them. Perhaps the valley wasn’t as peaceful as it had appeared from the top of the hill. Talen turned with Legs and hurried below the creator’s wreath hanging on the lintel of the door and into the house. A Creator’s wreath hung above the widow’s door. The festival of gifts was coming, and everyone wanted to thank the Creators and invite their blessings. The wreaths would soon be everywhere—above the gates of each city, on the bows of ships, over the windows of barns.
The Creek Widow came hard on their heels and shut up the door behind them. Then she turned on Talen. The fire from the hearth was the only light in the house. Something delicious cooked on the stove and filled the room with the smell of beef and onions.
“What are you two doing?” she said.
“Is River here?”
“River?”
Talen’s heart sank.
She saw his expression. “You tell me what’s happened,” she said. “Quickly.”
Talen did. He told her about going into Whitecliff, his encounters with Fabbis and the hunt, the weave and the little creature at the window. He told her about packing up to leave, about the monster, River and Sugar going after it.
His tale elicited a running commentary of grunts from her. When he finished, she put her hands on her hips. “Men,” she said in disgust. “I told them it was time when Purity was first caught. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Men,” she said again. “Always leaving the woman to clean up.” She looked at Talen and Legs. “And you can be sure I will clean up. We must leave; this house isn’t safe.”
“Where are we going?”
“The refuge, my boy. The refuge.”
Talen knew of no such place.
“I knew it was fraying apart when your da sent his letter. I told him. I told your da. I told him, I told him, I told him. But no. That man won’t listen. Now if I were his wife, I would have made him listen. River, bless her heart, I know she tries. But a daughter can’t hold her own like a wife can. Men get stupid when they run on their own, Talen. That’s just how it is. And your father got stupider than most. Your mother kept the beef out of his brain. But she’s too long gone. Too long without a good woman. And that’s the truth.” She grunted and looked to the rafters for answers. “May the Six bless him. He’s going to need it.” Then she directed her attention back to Talen. “Fetch the Tailor from the field.”
“Will the others be there?” asked Talen.
“Others?”
“Aren’t there a number of other people in the Order?” asked Talen. “Won’t we need them to attempt a rescue?”
“Son,” said the Creek Widow, “Your Uncle’s on a ship headed for Mokad. Your Da’s who knows where in the custody of Lord Shim and the Fir-Noy. We’ve got some creature from the tales taking us down one by one. I don’t know where your brother is. We weren’t many to begin with. You want others?” She spread her arms wide. “I’m afraid you’re looking at it.”
“But—”
“There might be a few more. If anybody has survived, we will find them at the refuge. I was waiting for the final word. I cannot wait anymore. We must leave immediately.”
* * *
Talen fetched the Tailor from the field and brought him around the front of the house, worrying the whole time that someone was spying on them. The Tailor was named after a man the Creek Widow had loved once. Talen had never gotten the full story and didn’t know if the man died or was killed or simply jilted her.
He helped Legs up and then held the horse as the Creek Widow filled the saddle bags with a few necessities and what she said were her three most prized possessions—a fat codex of lore she’d been hiding in a stone box under the floor, two yards of bright yellow silk she had not yet been able to bring herself to wear and probably never would, and an ancient cooking pot her great grandmother had given her.
When she finished tying everything off, the Creek Widow walked to the well, drew a bucket of water, then carried it to the south side of her home where her almond tree starts stood in a single straight line of pots on a narrow table. She watered them, gently brushed each with her hand, then stood back and addressed the group. “I cannot promise I’ll return, lovelies. And there’s no time to put you where you belong.” She grunted over that fact and shook her head.
Then she changed her mind. “No, I just can’t,” she said. She turned to Talen. “Bring me a spade.”
“But—”
“Cha!” she said.
Talen fetched a spade from the barn and brought it to her. “I thought we had to leave immediately.”
“Hush,” she said. “Gather an armful and follow me. Those pots will dry out in a day.”
They carried the nine starts to the garden and hastily planted them between two rows of cabbage.
“I know you’ll be a bit crowded,” she said to them. “But it will have to do.” Then she stood and said good-bye to her apple trees and the two walnuts she prized the most. She walked to the chicken coop, opened the door, and bid her birds farewell. Then she walked to Warrior lying on the porch.
“My lovely old man,” she said, giving him an affectionate rub about the neck. “Keep a good watch on the ladies. I’m counting on you.”
A branch cracked in the woods that started just on the other side of the road running by the house. All three of them froze. The crack was followed by the sound of someone pushing through brush.
The Creek Widow pointed at the barn. “Hide,” she whispered.
Talen pulled Legs off the horse, then sprinted with him across his shoulders to the barn door. He rolled it open just enough to slip inside.
There was more cracking and sweeping of limbs, then a female “Hoy. Anyone?”
“Sugar!” Legs shouted. He let go of Talen’s grip and darted out of the barn, running toward the sound, one hand high, one low in front of him. “Sugar!” he shouted.
“Quiet,” the Creek Widow commanded.
Sugar ran to her brother and wrapped him in a hug. “Thank the Creators,” she said.
“Thank Talen,” said Legs.
Talen walked out of the barn, and Sugar looked over at him.
“Oh, we’ve become bosom buddies,” said Talen.
“Have you been followed?” asked the Creek Widow.
“No,” said Sugar. “Well, I don’t think so.”
“There was no way you were coming back from chasing that monster,” Talen said in awe.
“You obviously underestimated me.”
The Creek Widow waved off their conversation. “Tell me what you did. Hurry, girl.”
“I trailed the monster to its lair. But I did not go into the cave because it returned. I was close enough to almost reach out and touch it. It chased me for a time, but I haven’t seen sign of it since this afternoon.”
“You’re a brave one,” said the Creek Widow. She looked at Talen meaningfully. “That’s something to mark, boy.”
He couldn’t tell if that meant Sugar was to be lauded or that he was cowardly in comparison or that this should be tallied in her favor as a potential quality mate.
“Are we going to help my mother?” asked Sugar.
“What happened to River?” Talen asked.
“Everything in its time,” said the Creek Widow. “And now is not a time to chat in the yard. You three will follow me. And not a word until I say so.”
Talen looked at Sugar for his answer.
“It took her,” she whispered. “I saw it, in the morning light, carrying her like a baby.”
“Sst,” said the Creek Widow to silence them. She pointed at Legs. “Get him up.”
Then she walked out into the road.
“Was she alive?” Talen asked.
Sugar hesitated. “I couldn’t tell.”
Talen nodded, then lifted Legs onto the Tailor’s back. At least River wasn’t twisted in a broken heap like the Shoka back at the house. He took the reins and followed the Creek Widow into the night.
At their departure, Warrior hauled himself up, padded over to the chicken coop, and dropped his bones squarely in front of the door. Talen considered the dog. Perhaps liveliness wasn’t the only asset a hound might possess.
Sugar walked alongside the Tailor, holding her brother’s ankle. She
had
been brave to follow that creature. Braver than he. The thought had never occurred to him to follow River. It was true that she’d ordered him away, but he hadn’t given it a second thought. He looked at Sugar with new eyes.
They walked in silence, the Creek Widow in the lead, Talen coming behind, leading the Tailor and Legs. As they walked, Talen whispered a prayer to the ancestors to protect River, Da, Argoth, and Ke, whom he hoped was waiting at the refuge.
The moon rose and moved across the starry heaven. Talen’s weariness threatened to overwhelm him. He tried walking with his eyes closed, but stumbled over a rock and upset the Tailor.
The old stallion jerked his head back and lurched to the side. Legs, who
had
drifted asleep, lost his seat and fell to the ground. He landed with a thump and cried out. Obviously, Sugar herself had been too tired to react swiftly enough to catch him. Talen steadied the horse and moved him away from Legs. Sugar knelt at her brother’s side, feeling for breaks and cuts.
“I’m fine,” he said and climbed to his feet.
“Tie him in the saddle this time,” said the Creek Widow.
Talen moved to the saddle bags to find the rope the Creek Widow had put there.
“Look at the three of you,” the Creek Widow said. “Bone tired,” she tsked. “This will help.” She produced a little satchel and removed three square pieces of crystallized honey that had been cooked with vinegar and horehound. She’d given them to Talen before—they were bitter and sweet. Then she cupped each of them in turn about the neck just as Da had cupped him about the neck when he’d tied the godsweed charm about his arm before they’d gone to Whitecliff. Just like Da’s, the Creek Widow’s hand was icy cold.
She smiled at him. “We cannot afford to be caught sleeping.”
In moments, Talen’s fatigue lessened, and he knew she’d just worked some sleth business on him. He sucked on his honey horehound. “What else have you got in those pockets?” he asked her.
She smiled. “That’s my secret.”
They continued on around hills, through black ravines, always traveling the smaller roads. Twice they took disused trails that had surrendered to weeds and thin saplings. And while the honey didn’t last long, the effects of the Creek Widow’s magic did. But eventually the fatigue returned. He’d been up for more than twenty-four straight hours, fleeing, and lugging Legs all over creation. He soon wanted nothing more than to lie down in the dirt. He looked back at Sugar walking alongside the Tailor. The effect didn’t seem to be wearing off with her. She smiled at Talen and he turned back around. When they finally branched off onto what could be no more than an animal trail, the Creek Widow spoke. “I think we’re safe. The refuge is only a mile or so away.”
“This is by Boar’s Point, isn’t it?” asked Sugar.
On the south end of the settled lands, at the edge of a vast, fertile valley, a line of hills ran like a great crooked finger down toward the sea. At the tip of that finger two rivers converged. Sometimes, in the heat of the summer, you could see hundreds of boar there. They came to wallow in the mud on the banks of the shallow, wide river, not only to cool themselves, but also to protect their hides from insects.
“It is,” said the Creek Widow.
“Does it have a bed?” asked Talen.
“Beds, baths, and dancing girls,” said the Creek Widow.
“You can watch the girls,” said Talen. “I’m going to sleep.”
“That’s a good boy.”
They walked a few more paces, and then Talen asked, “And how will River know to come here?”
“Because it is the refuge.”
“And if she doesn’t come?”
The Creek Widow looked over at him. “What do you want me to say, Talen?”