Servant of a Dark God (11 page)

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, wrapped at the ends with yellow and scarlet thread. There wasn’t a people who could make better bows than the Kish. 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 figs.

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

On the way he began to think of ways to catch the hatchlings. 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 figs 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 had come out of the leather string Talen had tied it with. After Sabin’s yank this morning, Talen was about ready to have Nettle hack it all off with his knife. But he undid the string, gathered his hair up, and said, “You said you wanted to do something real? Well, we’ve got ourselves a whale of an opportunity.”

Nettle plopped a fig in 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 their faces?” asked River.

“There was only one of them.”

“But did you see more than a leg?”

“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 one. But it takes fifty to a hundred 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 looked up at Talen, the turning of his mind showing in his eyes. “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.”

BATTLE

I

t was almost midday and 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. Where was Varro? It was past time. He and his ridiculous, bleach-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, and then he 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.

Their goal was to kill most of these dung heaps but keep one or two for the Shoka warlord to question. 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.

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 the hole of a fox or ground squirrel.

The horse 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.

He slowed even further until he ran with the speed of a normal man.

Varro glanced back over his shoulder, and when he turned back around, Argoth could see from Varro’s expression that something was terribly wrong.

He 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, but Argoth could not tell if he was still alive.

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 him buzzed 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 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 which they’d used to bind Varro was tied to the pommel of that saddle. 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. He 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 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 he wasn’t catching up to the man. He and his men sent forth another volley of arrows, but within two strides the dreadman stopped, turned, and 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.

Argoth saw a flash of steel. 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 to strike at another of Argoth’s men. A 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 servered 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. 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 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.