Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 (19 page)

The wasp swarms were in a frenzy, attacking the warriors who themselves were swatting and barking in panic. Those on the extreme edges of the line began to back away. The third wasp lord motioned for two of his servants to pick up his wasp basket and flee back through the lines of warriors into the blasted woods.

Talen was going to chase him, but he heard a clack in the sky and looked up. An orange skir was streaking toward the meadow. Talen let the wasp lord go and pulled his parts back, brought them in safe behind the wall of his flesh, and shut all his doors.

Chot’s warriors began to shoot arrows into the confused troops of the Orange Slayers.

“Shallog!” Chot continued to shout. “Shallog!”

A section of Orange Slayer warriors on the left side broke rank and began to flee back into the woods. Then the whole line faltered, and the Orange Slayers turned and ran.

Chot’s warriors began to bark and hoot. “Ha!” Chot said. “They are worms. You will look at them.”

“And what would you do,” asked Harnock, “if your own swarms turned against you?”

Chot raised the knife in his hand. “I would kill the shallog.” He looked over at Talen.

Harnock folded his arms. “You would die.”

Chot sized Harnock up and down. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I would first bite out your throat.”

Chot’s warriors continued shooting the last of their arrows into the Orange Slayers. Then Chot grunted an order, and they ran out into the meadow and began taking the arrows from the dead and dying Orange Slayers.

Harnock said, “We need to leave while we have the chance. Some of them may start thinking like you, Chot, and turn around.”

“We will take you to the tanglewood,” Chot said. “We will celebrate this victory.”

“We don’t have time,” River said. “We need to get back and warn Argoth and Shim.”

“A warning won’t be enough,” Harnock said. “We’re taking your brother back to ravel Mokad’s army. He’s going to ravel the thralls on the skir. He’s going to ravel the dreadmen’s weaves. When Talen’s done with them, it will be Shim with the multiplied might in his hands, not Mokad. It is time for Mokad to face their own shallog.”

“I am no shallog,” Talen said. “And it’s not going to be that easy.” Talen only had three uninjured roamlings, and there was the matter of the orange skir and who knew what else. Furthermore, Mokad’s Divines would probably have more than spirit blades. But it was true that he
could
fight. If all he did was break the thralls the Skir Masters held, that might be the difference. Like the woodikin, it might put the whole army on its heels.

Harnock turned to Chot. “We cannot go to any sister tanglewood. You must get us back to skinmen lands quickly. We need to be there by tomorrow. Can you get us to the Great River?”

Chot spat, glared at Harnock, and then he and the wasp lord exchanged a few comments in Woodikin. Finally, he turned and said, “It is agreed.”

“Will we make it in time?” Talen asked.

“It depends,” Harnock said. “If they’ve gone south, maybe.” Then he winced and pulled his bloody hand away from the wound on his back.

“Lords,” said River. “Let me tend to that.”

* * *

They collected Scruff and the dreadmen’s mounts. The woodikin claimed the dreadmen’s weapons, then searched their bodies for anything else of value. Talen found Nashrud’s spirit blade. It was black as coal. He took it and its sheath from Nashrud’s waist and strapped it to his own. Then he found a small pouch with two other weaves, including his governor.

On the other side of the clearing, the dead woodikin lay in the sun. The giant orange wasps buzzed about them, probably feeding. One, as big as Talen’s thumb, came a little too close to the horses, and he swatted it away with a branch.

Then they mounted up. Just as they were leaving, Nashrud’s dog came out of the woods. Talen wondered where the crows were; after all, there were enough dead woodikin here to make a feast for a whole flock. The dog sat on its haunches and watched them as they rode out of the clearing.

River sat upon Scruff. Talen and Harnock each had their own horse with a woodikin behind. The other woodikin rode two and three to a horse and tried not to show any fear, but they’d never ridden before, and it was not an easy thing, with our stirrups or training, to stay on a horse at a good trot. They hooted and grunted. The woodikin sitting behind Talen decided it would be easier to stand. So he held onto Talen’s shoulders and shouted at the others. Chot, who was bouncing along with two other woodikin on another horse, saw him and followed his lead. He took a wide stance in the saddle, bracing himself with a foot in front and back. Talen told him to sit down, but Chot ignored him, holding the reins out like he was in some sort of parade.

It worked until the gelding jerked left to avoid a large stone. Chot went flying. He whooped and hooted and tumbled in a cloud of dust. When he rose, his feathers were all askew. The gelding continued on, but to Chot’s credit, he ran after it, latched hold of the stirrup, and scrambled into the saddle. This time he sat.

They rode all the rest of that day, pacing their horses, riding, then running alongside, then riding again. They did not go back the way they had come, but cut at a diagonal that would take them more quickly to the river which fed into the Lion. They made good time.

By early evening, they entered the territory of the Long Stings, one of the Spiderhawk confederation. The Long Stings wanted to eat the horses, but Chot haggled with them. In the end, the Long Stings promised to bring the horses to the skinmen lands in exchange for two of the dreadmen’s swords. Talen and River expressed their fears that the Long Stings would not deliver Scruff, but Chot waved them to silence. “They have agreed,” he said, as if that was all that mattered.

They hurried through the Long Sting territory, and before dark, they were on the river in small round craft guided by three Long Stings. They traveled a number of miles on the river before the sun set. The stars came out. Sometime in the night, the Long Stings beached the craft. A number of the Spiderhawk got off the craft, including the wasp lord. He gave Chot a small basket, and then he and most of the Spiderhawks left.

“What’s going on?” Talen asked.

“They need to report to their queen,” Harnock said. “There’s going to be war with the Orange Slayers.”

And then they shoved off again and continued down the river with the Long Sting boat guides, Chot, and four of his warriors. There were spots with rapids where Talen had to hang on for his life. There were other calmer areas where he had to help paddle, or where he slept. And so they traveled with the stars above them and the soft light of the thin moon shining down on the autumn woods and the swift waters, and the whole time he prayed to the ancestors they would arrive early enough to help Shim and the men of Rogum’s Defense. Early enough to identify the Divine hiding in their midst before he or she plunged a knife into their collective backs.

15

On the Road to Whitecliff

SUGAR’S SECOND MORNING in the dungeon arrived with more cold, hunger, and thirst. Her limbs ached from her bonds, and she suspected if they removed all her fetters, she’d still not be able to run for the stiffness in them.

The guards brought a light gruel which Oaks refused. But Sugar didn’t see the point. She ate the food and was glad of it. Then the guards led them out of the room and up the stairs. Even though the morning was chill, she was grateful to shuffle out of the shadows of the castle wall and into the light. She squinted up at the sun.

Three or four dozen other captives were lined up. Most were fettered together with neck irons, one chain connecting a person to the next person in front, another chain connecting them to a person in back. But the captors had obviously run out of chains and irons, for a good number of them were fettered about their necks with rope.

A handful of the largest men were locked into pacifying yokes. Such yokes were made of a large branch or log, four to five feet long, that had been forked at both ends. Into each fork was fitted a captive’s neck. A bolt of iron was run through the ends of the forks so the captive could not pull his neck free. In this way two captives were yoked together. There were six men yoked this way, chains or ropes connecting them to the person in front of them and the one behind.

The guards shoved Sugar to her knees in front of a one-man yoke. It had a fork at one end with a heavy tongue of wood extending about five feet out from it. They fit her neck into the Y of the fork and ran a bolt through the ends of the fork and fastened it with a thick iron pin. One of the guards hauled up on it, forcing Sugar to stand on her feet. They tied her wrists tightly behind her back and put rope manacles on her ankles to keep her from being able to take anything but small steps. They did the same to Oaks.

A guard came by with a black horse hair brush and a bucket of yellow paint. He painted a crude V on Sugar’s chest, then smeared a stroke of paint across it. The small V at the bottom represented a face. The four lines above represented horns. It was the mark of sleth. He painted the mark on Oaks and three other men. Sugar shook her head. They were marked, but this guard served the true enemy.

The captives were strung out in two lines. A guard tied a rope from the back of a wagon to the collar of the lead captive in each line. Sugar was placed into one of the lines, and the head guard handed the tongue of Sugar’s yoke to the man in front of her.

“Keep a hold of this,” he said. “She falls or breaks her neck, and you’ll lose a hand.”

The captive in front of Sugar took the yoke.

They tied a rope from Sugar’s waist to the man behind her. Oaks was placed in the other line.

The captives were mostly Shoka and Vargon, although there were also a few upland Fir-Noy. The guards in charge of the captives wore the red and white of the Glory of Mokad. They stood for another quarter of an hour waiting until another dreadman arrived holding a small box. It was wrapped with a cloth. However, one red lacquered corner stuck out.

The same red lacquer she’d seen in Flax’s tower room. She wouldn’t be surprised if it were the exact same box. Flax probably wanted to transport the weave and skenning to safekeeping. He wouldn’t want to take them with him back to Shim’s troops and certainly wouldn’t want to leave them here with Lord Hash.

When the box was stowed, the fistman sitting up on the wagon stood. He wore mail like the rest and held his helmet in his hand. “You’re all going to Whitecliff. A grand parade through the villages along the way. Something for folk to look at. Something to whet their appetite. Please try to look as evil as possible.”

A few of the dreadmen laughed at this joke. Then they moved out: ten dreadmen, a wagon loaded with water and food, and two lines of captors shuffling along behind. Sugar thought about Flax. He’d fooled them all.

The man in front of her raised the tongue of her yoke onto his shoulder, forcing her to raise her chin. It was uncomfortable walking that way, her hands tied behind her back. It became even more so as they paraded down from the castle through the town. People came out of doors to watch them. Some spit. Some tried to strike or hit them, but the dreadmen were feared enough that when they shouted for people to get back, they did. From a high window, someone threw potful of urine upon the captives just in front of Sugar. Someone else flung dog turds.

By the time they reached the gate, everyone in the line was covered with some sort of filth. A few had been hit with rocks. They shuffled through the outer town and received the same treatment. Then it was onto a ferry that took them over the Lion.

Back at the river docks, drums beat and ship pipers played as a troop of Mokad’s army marched onto one of its ships. There were substantially fewer ships here than when Sugar and Urban’s crew had attacked the Kains two days ago. Flax had said that Mokad would attack. She suspected those ships had carried the army into Shoka lands.

The sound of Mokad’s send-off faded as Sugar walked through the ferry town, then out onto the road to Whitecliff. She reminded herself that she was going to meet up with Legs and must keep her spirits up for him. Every now and again, she hummed out a few notes of one of his tunes.

It was slow going up and down the hills and along the dirt road, for none of them were able to take normal-sized strides. Sugar’s neck was killing her when they finally arrived at a crossroad three miles beyond the ferry town. The crossroad hooked up with a larger road leading to Whitecliff, but the dreadmen halted the captives to let a mounted patrol of Fir-Noy trot past.

The man trudging two spots in front of Sugar was bound only with ropes. He was a tall, thin man with honors that proclaimed him a Shoka. He turned around and pushed the man holding the tongue of Sugar’s yoke to the side, forcing Sugar to twist. The tall Shoka spat upon her. “You brought this ruin upon us, just like they said you would.”

Someone from behind Sugar spoke. “Shut your hole. Shim will win this war. And he’ll be happy that filth like you was already culled from the herd.”

“They’re going to make her wriggle on a stake,” the first man said. “And I hope I’m there to watch it.”

One of the guards walking along side them jabbed the tall Shoka in the ribs with the butt end of his spear. “No talking.”

The tall man flinched and returned to his place in line, but his hate still burned. She could not blame him. There would be many more who would hate her and Shim before this was all over.

When the mounted Fir-Noy patrol had filed past, the dreadmen started the procession again and turned to follow the patrol. The hooves of the mounted patrol ahead, the wagon wheels, and the feet of the shuffling captives all kicked up dust which coated her teeth and filled her nostrils. Soon the Fir-Noy patrol disappeared around a bend up ahead, but the wagons and captives made more than enough dust on their own.

The only thing Sugar could think to do that might help Shim’s army was to shout out the truth about Flax should they see anyone. But who would they see on this road? Shim had ordered all Shoka to seek shelter in one of the fortresses. And if they hadn’t sought refuge there, then they had fled to some other private place: a cave, a hideout in the woods. Some might have even braved the Wilds. There would be no spy here to take the message.

Her neck ached, but her jaw was being rubbed raw by the yoke, so she tried to keep her chin high. It was better to look up at the sky than stare at the dirt anyway, for the sky above her, although dirtied by the smoke, was still blue. About her, the tops of many trees had turned with autumn color. It was a glorious day, and they were walking along a beautiful stretch of road flanked by meadow and the woods beyond. Four flocks of geese honked overhead, their long V formations trailing in the sky as they made their way south.

Oh, to be a bird
, she thought,
and fly away over the mountains
. She imagined how it would have been had she, Legs, Mother, and Da been able to fly away and find a pond in some land that never felt the chill of winter. Some place that didn’t care if you knew the lore.

Her spirits lifted for a moment. Perhaps that was where Mother and Da were right now. Perhaps their souls had flown away to some safe glen away from the skir and howlers. She and Legs would not follow, but at least Mother and Da would find peace.

She prayed to each of the Six. She prayed to her ancestors, prayed thanks for her few years, even though she doubted anyone heard. And as she was praying, something flashed in the woods.

She looked closer, and suddenly a swarm of arrows streaked out of the trees and over the swath of meadow. One struck the wagon driver in his neck. He dropped the reins and clutched at the shaft sticking through his throat. Other arrows struck the two dreadmen walking ahead of the wagon. Sugar could not see behind her, but heard someone cry out.

The Mokaddian fistman shouted and jumped from the wagon seat and took cover behind the wagon. He brought his horn to his lips and blew a loud distress call. He blew it again, the blast sounding into the sky. The Fir-Noy patrol and any others in the area would hear. The fistman reached into the bed of the wagon for a bow and shouted for the others in his fist to get behind the captives with him.

A few more arrows flew out of the wood, and then thirty, maybe thirty-five men followed, charging out into the swath of meadow. Their faces and arms were daubed with war paint, turning them ghastly gray. They wore a motley collection of colors and armor, but upon each chest was a white V with a slash through it.

Who were these men that marked themselves as sleth?

Sugar peered at the large man running at their head. At first she didn’t recognize him because of the war paint. But then she couldn’t mistake him. Praise the Six! It was Soddam running at the front, war axe in hand. Two paces to his right was Urban. Following behind were a number of others she did not recognize but had to be part of his crew.

Urban’s men roared. A number of the captives murmured in fear. The Mokaddian dreadmen guarding Sugar and the others turned and lowered their weapons, but the fistman ordered his men to retreat, and the seven dreadmen guards raced for the trees on the opposite side of the road.

The mules pulling the wagon startled into a trot. The captives tried to keep up, but one of the men yoked in a two-man yoke stumbled and fell, taking the other man with him to the ground. The man behind cried out as he tried to prevent his neck from breaking.

The wagon continued forward, the others in the line fighting to keep their balance, but the two fallen men forced another man to stumble. He pulled on the man in front of him, who pulled on the one in front of him. Then the whole line wavered and toppled into the dirt and started to drag behind wagon, the men clutching the ropes and iron collars about their necks. Sugar and the man carrying the tongue of her yoke struggled to keep up with the other line.

Urban’s crew swarmed around the captives. One of Urban’s men jumped up onto the wagon seat, took the reins, and halted the mules. Others rushed past and began to shoot arrows at the fleeing dreadmen.

The rest began cutting through the ropes holding the captives. Soddam fished around in a box up by the wagon seat, found a manacle hammer, then rushed down the line to Sugar.

“You came,” she said, tears rising in her eyes, almost unwilling to believe.

“You’re one of mine,” Soddam said. “I vowed I would never let another one of mine die again. Now hold still while I knock this pin out.”

He struck the pin holding the iron bolt that spanned the forks. He struck it again, and it fell to the ground. Then he pulled the bolt out and flung the yoke away from her.

She could not help herself, but turned and embraced him, her face barely coming up to his chest.

“Now,” he said, giving her a quick fatherly squeeze. “No time for that. Not with murderers all about us.”

She looked up into his ghastly face. “Flax is the traitor,” she said. “He’s a Guardian of Mokad. We must tell Shim.”

He handed her a knife and motioned at the captives. “Cut them loose.” Then he moved to the one man still alive in the two-man yoke lying on the ground.

Sugar gingerly felt her neck and jaw where the yoke had damaged it, then began cutting others loose. She had freed two men when Urban called out, “That patrol’s coming back!”

Sugar turned. The captives that had been bound by ropes were mostly free. Those bound with chains and iron collars were not. However, they were free from the chains binding them to the back of the wagon. Urban ordered Soddam to give a large man who’d already been freed the hammer. “Get into the woods,” Urban said. “We’ll try to draw them after us.”

The captives fled, chains clinking, ropes trailing.

Urban turned to his men. “Harry them with arrows from the tree line, and then we’ll run.”

“Captain!” one of the men shouted in warning.

Urban turned. The first of the mounted Fir-Noy patrol came around the bend in the road ahead. They were coming at a fast canter.

“Move!” Urban shouted, and he and the others ran for the woods.

Sugar did not follow. She dashed to the wagon, looked for the wrapped red lacquered box, and found it lying on the floor behind the buckboard. She picked it up and only then raced for the trees.

Soddam saw her and turned back. “Lords, girl! I didn’t save you so you could get yourself killed again.”

She sprinted to join him, and then they both ran to the woods.

Farther down the tree line, the first of the captives reached the trees. A shout rose from the Fir-Noy riders, and they kicked their horses into a full gallop. Their spears shone in the sun, their banners streamed. A few dozen split off from the main group to chase after the captives that had made it to the trees. The rest charged after Urban and his crew.

Sugar ran for the woods. Farther back, the hooves of the Fir-Noy horses thudded over the turf. However, about twenty of Urban’s men were already in position with bows and began shooting arrows into the Fir-Noy.