Servant of a Dark God (15 page)

Da grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back.

“Am I going to see you again?” asked Da.

The man sucked in great breaths. “No, Zun,” he managed at last. This time there was no mockery in the tone. “No.”

“Because if I do,” said Da, “I’m just going to assume you’re one of those men who hasn’t got the sense to know when to leave well enough alone. And there’s only one way to deal with those types. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Good,” said Da. “You’re a big man, a fine asset; I’m sure your Fir-Noy commanders would hate to lose one with your good sense. And just in case you change your mind, I’m going to alert the Shoka warlord that there’s someone lost on his lands.”

Then Da released him and looked at the other hunters. “I think I’ll start counting at one.”

These weren’t cowards, but Talen could see they knew they’d been beaten.

The big man got to his feet, holding his nose, the blood matting his unkempt beard, but he didn’t say a word. He limped off toward the stream. Two others helped the man Nettle had brained.

Talen and his family followed a comfortable distance behind the men, stopping at the crest of the stream bank. Talen kept his bow up but did not dare to keep his arrow fully drawn lest he accidentally loose it and strike one of them. Da may have beaten the leader, but the presence of these men still frightened him. What would happen next frightened him even more. They’d been sent by the Fir-Noy at Stag Home. You couldn’t shame part of an order and not expect the rest to rise up against you. Who knew what string of events this had initiatied?

The hunters splashed through the water. On the other side, one of them turned. It appeared he was going to say something, but before he’d fully turned, Ke’s bow hummed and Talen watched an arrow miss the man by only a foot and bury itself in a tree behind him.

The man jumped back and cursed.

“Don’t badger them,” said Da.

But Ke had another arrow nocked. “I won’t. I’ll just maim a few.”

“Ke,” Da warned.

The hunters hurried to the woods. Just before they disappeared around a bend, one of them turned and gestured a curse at them. Then he too turned and slipped into the trees.

“Those men will be back,” said Talen. “And they’ll bring the rest of their cohort with them.”

“There’s no cohort,” said Da. “This wasn’t a military mission. If it had been, we would have seen many more. And it would have been led properly. These were opportunists.”

“Someone ought to follow them anyway,” said Ke. “Just to be sure.”

Da nodded. “But you use that bow only as a last resort. We blew the fire out of them. I don’t want you stoking it up again.”

“They won’t even know I’m there,” said Ke. Then he loped after the men.

“River,” said Da. “I need you to scout the hills around the farm. I don’t want any more surprises.”

“Yes,” she said.

Da turned to Talen and Nettle. “And you two: go see to that dog.”

THE MOTHER

H

unger stood upon the cliff. Hundreds of feet below him a river surged. He knew its name—the Lion. He knew many names now, all of them taken from the villager named Barg. And more would grow in him over the next few days as he finished digesting the soul of this man. But he wanted no more.

At first, each name had been a delight and thrill. Each had added to a building ecstasy, but then it all changed horribly. The image of the girl he’d killed in the village of Plum—the sons, the pretty wife—they rose in him again. Those images swelled a tide of grief, and he floundered in it like one drowning because it was not
the
girl,
the
sons,
the
wife, but
his
girl,
his
sons,
his
lovely, precious wife.

Somehow, in some wicked way, he was the villager Barg, twisted beyond all reckoning.

It made no sense. But new words tumbled into him every hour. New ideas. In some inexplicable way he’d mixed with the villager like copper and tin mixed to make bronze. He was Hunger and Barg and all the small things he had eaten: a rat, two lazy dogs, a multitude of insects, a horse.

After devouring Barg, he had reached out and, with his own rough hands, wrenched the life from his daughter. He’d separated her, taking her Fire and soul and casting her body aside. He’d swallowed her whole, but he hadn’t eaten her like he had Barg. He’d swallowed her into the place the Mother had told him to.

But he could have chosen not to. He could have run.

The image of his wife’s back breaking, of her folding over like a stick of wood, took his vision away.

Lords, he could have spared her, his son, and little Rose. Oh, sweet little Rose. His grief stretched wide and he roared at the confusion and pain. But Hunger had no tears. No way to purge the pain. And he could not escape. The souls of his family struggled within him, imprisoned inside that place the Mother had made. They would not get out. Even he didn’t know how to release them. That was the power of the Mother. So he could not open his stomach, but perhaps it was possible to break this body and, thereby, set them free.

He looked down at his legs and arms. Earth and grass . . . it was not right. It was not his body. He could feel worms burrowing through his limbs. This morning he’d pulled away chunks of the grass growing on his legs and stomach and dug in. He was nothing more than dirt and sticks and stone.

There was a name for what he was, but it floated away from him. But name or not, he knew he must die.

The river surged at the bottom of the gorge below him. If he broke himself upon the rocks below perhaps he could undo the horror. It would not bring him back as father or husband. But perhaps it would release their souls, and they could find a way to continue in the world of the dead.

The Lion was a treacherous river and had drowned many men. He spotted a run of thick rapids and marked it as his target. He would break upon the rocks there and sink to the bottom. In time the rushing waters would carry his body out to sea.

Stop
. It was the Mother, reaching out to him.
This will do you no good. Have you not learned yet to trust me? I told you not to eat the humans. But you disobeyed.

He felt her pull. Felt the pain only she could give him. But maybe she could ease the grief. Maybe she could ease his yearning and emptiness. Hunger looked at the waters below and hesitated.

She would hurt him. She would be furious.
I only ate one. Only one. And he didn’t have any stink. You said not to taste the ones with stink.

That is what I said, you’re right. And you did cease your frenzy when you’d consumed one. Come back to me.

Maybe she wouldn’t punish him.
But even this one
, he said,
even this one hurts.

Of course. Don’t you see?
she said.
It’s the man you ate that’s riding you, filling your mind with these thoughts. The filthy man. You’ve given him power over you.

The man wasn’t filthy. He was . . . Hunger. Himself.

I am an
. . . he paused, then the word came to him, tumbled in with the weight of a massive stone.
I am an abomination
, he said.
Let me go.

Come to me,
she said.
I will give you rest. I will show you how to eat these men and not suffer.

Her pull was not overwhelming here, not like in her cave, but he could feel the ease only she could give him. He almost turned then. Almost returned to her. But Hunger now knew the name for what he was, and that thing was not meant for this world.

No,
he said.
You made me. Not the man. You are a river of darkness. But I choose one of light
.

Then he stepped back, and before he could change his mind, before she could say another word, he charged the chasm and, with a mighty leap, flung himself into the yawning gorge.

A satisfaction washed over him, for at least this deed was right. He plummeted in silence. He knew he should feel a giddiness, a rising thrill or panic. A man would feel that. And that’s what he had been. But all he felt was the black hunger of his heart.

Then the surging river rushed up at him and he crashed violently into the rocks. Part of his body slipped away. He thought it would continue: he’d dissolve and disperse like sediment.

But the water pushed him off the rocks, and he did not die.

He did not die!

The rushing current carried him along.

Dirt! Cursed, rotten dirt! He should have known—how could you kill dirt? He hadn’t even felt the pain of impact.

He sunk into the river’s depths, scraping, rolling, bumping along the bottom as the water ran its turbulent path.

Maybe the river would carry him out to sea. He might walk in the depths there, might even be eaten by a leviathan. Surely such a beast could kill him. Or maybe it would avoid him altogether, for what creature of the sea ate dirt?

The force of the water soon lessened and he found himself in a deep eddy, deposited in the shadow of an overhanging rock. He lay in a bed of sand at the bottom of this calm nook of the river. A school of large trout eyed him in the dark green and blue depths. Far above them, the sun shone like a pale dot. Maybe he could lie here forever, let the river cover him up with sand and mud.

Lie here. But his family would lie here with him, imprisoned in his gut.

He needed help. And of the seven Creators, there was only one he thought might answer.

Regret
, he prayed in his mind.
Deliver me. Destroy this creation, dissolve me forever.

But it was not Regret who answered him.

If you will not learn obedience through pleasure
, said the Mother,
then you will learn it through pain.

Hunger braced himself. He did not know what magical bond she held him with. But she could always find him. And she could deliver a white-hot flame that burned all thought from his mind.

Come to me
, she said.

Then she did something. She pushed at him, and Hunger found himself rolling over to get his footing.

The trout darted out to the bright water then into shadows farther away. But he stopped himself.
No
, he said.
Never again
.

You can fight me
, she said.
But in the end, you will obey. It is your nature.

She pushed again, and Hunger found himself looking for a path up out of the riverbed. He took two steps and stopped.

She pushed again.

Another few steps.

It will cost you
, Hunger said.
I will fight you every bit of the way.

There was a pause and he felt the first trickle of the pain. A trickle that grew into a raging fire. It hurt. It seared. It rose in him and consumed him in a soundless scream.

When Hunger regained his senses, he found himself still under the water, lying on a stretch of river stones. This was a different part of the river. It took all his might, but he pushed himself up.

Hu
, he said.
Do you see? I can withstand your pain. Perhaps you will always beat me, but it will cost your attention and time. I will take that from you. I will force you to always think of me so you can think of nothing else.

There was a pause.

He felt her push.

He took a step, and then another. He tried to fight her.

But she flooded him with ease. He could trust her. She was good. And if he asked very carefully, with much obedience, she would release those he had so horribly imprisoned.

Hunger turned and climbed up the steep, slippery rocks of the bank of the riverbed, up out of the water and into the sunshine. When his strength returned, he began to run along the banks, leaping between massive boulders, back toward the Mother and her caves.

Hunger could smell the Mother here in the darkness. The warrens were full of her. She smelled of rock and sweet, clean magic.

She was smaller than he was, but quick and strong. He’d felt her sharp teeth and powerful hands. He’d seen her. She rarely left the caves, but she’d ventured forth with him a time or two, walking abroad in the night. He’d also seen her in the smallest of light that found its way into the depths from the mouth of the cave. She was pale. Pale as a mushroom. Pale as the moon.

He didn’t know what she was. She had two arms, two legs. A head. She had a muzzle, which the villagers did not. Her skin was covered with a fur. Smooth and soft as the small things he had eaten: the mice and squirrels, the rat.

His ease grew the deeper he went in the inky tunnels. Her powers were always stronger when he was close.

He felt along the walls as he walked, smelled the scent of rock and water, of the sulfur springs, and of the strange beasts that lived in the bowels of this mountain. When he came to the carving that marked the hole leading to the lower chambers, he climbed down. Then it was up a small slope, over the bridge that spanned the cold waters of the underground river.

He found her in the warm room, surrounded by her light. But now he considered that light as if for the first time. It wasn’t just light. It was—the word was “ribbons”—it was ribbons of light, ribbons flowing around her, circling her limbs. Living ribbons of light wriggling like the snake he’d eaten. And then he saw that her appearance was changed.

She no longer had a muzzle. Nor was she covered in soft fur.

The Mother was human. And beautiful. So stunning it took his breath away.

He wondered and marveled at the change. He looked closer at her. She looked like . . .

She looked like his wife. He was confused. “Lovely?” he asked.

“Come here,” she said.

The ribbons of light reached out to him and circled his arm, caressed his neck, wreathed his head. A continual shimmer.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He only wanted to be here with her. But no, that wasn’t right. Deep in his mind he knew there was something else. And then the nightmare of his family struggled past the feel of her beauty and stared him in the face.