Servant of a Dark God (61 page)

“There you go,” he said. “Now give me the torch. If I’m going to meet my death, it’s going to be with thawed toes.”

That was a good idea. They both turned and sat cross-legged facing each other with her holding the torch between their bare feet. Talen’s back faced the main corridor beyond.

The warmth was wonderful.

“That’s going to be a bugger climbing back down,” he said.

“No. Next time, seeing how poor a climber you are, we’ll just be sure to use the rope. I think I’ll tie it around your neck.”

He smiled.

Something sounded in the corridor behind Talen’s back.

Talen slowly reached for the torch and took it from her hand.

Sugar opened the case and withdrew the hag’s tooth. There was not enough room to stand up, and she doubted whether the monster could fit on this ledge, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t climb up just as they had.

They waited until the torch had burned through the rope and now was little more than a fire stick.

“I don’t think anything’s there,” said Talen.

“If something were,” she said, “then at least we could get this over with.”

“Well, we won’t get over anything squatting here,” he said.

She looked at him. He was not some strapping armsman. Not a formidable warrior. But she was happy he was with her.

“What?” he said.

“We’re going to have to light another torch.”

Talen nodded. He took one from the bundle tied with rope and lit it.

“Let me go first,” she said. “The last thing I want is for the monster to snatch you and leave me trying to strike it in the dark.”

“What are you going to do? Crawl over me?”

“Exactly,” she said.

When he saw she was serious, he lay on his belly. She crawled over him, careful to not to touch his ribs or shoulder, and then moved along the ledge until it joined the main passage and they could stand up.

Talen held the torch up and scanned the ground. “There,” he said and pointed to a spot on the tunnel floor. “And there.”

Sugar looked at the ground. There were a brief series of regular markings on the floor. They were partial footprints. Not a human’s. But something two-legged that was large and twisted its right foot slightly as it walked. “We’re in the right place,” she said. “That’s a comfort.”

Talen held the torch higher, illuminating the path beyond the stalactites.

The cavern walls here were much different from the ones below. They rose up to the ceiling in smooth lines with patterns carved into them.

“This is stone-wight work,” Talen said.

“Do you think this monster is one of them?”

“I don’t know.”

At her feet, covered in thick dust, were different-colored stones set in a geometric pattern. She wondered where the bat dung was. A cave such as this should be heaped high, beetles crawling about in it. But there was no dung. No bats. No cave vermin.

“You keep your ears perked,” said Sugar. Then they proceeded down the corridor, always just a stride or two from the swallowing dark.

They passed many carvings. One was of a great tree with all manner of beasts in it. Another of a bear carved with such fine detail she could see individual locks of its fur. Yet another contained a panel of ancient writing carved from top to bottom.

At one point she thought she’d heard something again. They froze, her waiting for the creature to come running out of the shadows, Talen stepping forward and to the side so the torch would illuminate more of the corridor.

She decided the sound was some trick of the cave, and proceeded forward, still tracking the creature by the occasional marks the creature made as it walked. She held the hag’s tooth ready in one hand, the case in the other. The silver glimmered in the torchlight. The tooth was long and felt well-balanced for throwing. But she couldn’t risk a long throw. After seeing the battle with the Skir Master, she knew she’d only have one chance.

With every step she became more certain that their names were going to be added to the list of those fools who had been swallowed by the ancient stone-wight ruins. Soon the second torch burned low. Talen lit the third. They now had only three left. Not long after that they arrived at a fork. Talen held the torch at a low angle to create better shadows that might reveal footprints. They walked down to the right a few paces and found nothing. A few paces down the left passage Sugar found another half print.

Talen froze and sniffed.

Sugar sniffed as well. Sulfur.

“The monster’s up there,” she said. “In that stink.”

“Aye,” said Talen.

Sugar gripped the tooth in her gauntlet, the gold studs gleaming in the torchlight, and took a step forward.

THE GROVE

A

rgoth could not stop shaking. The tremors came in waves, starting deep within and building until his whole body spasmed. When each wave began, the monster carrying him would hold him tighter to keep him from shaking loose. He thought at first the tremors were signs of his terror at this beast. But the fear of the creature had quickly subsided, and he realized he had begun shaking as soon as it killed the Skir Master.

It was an effect of the breaking of the bond, he was sure of it. What it meant for his survival, he did not know. It might build until, like a case of lockjaw, he died in a horrible contraction. Or it might eventually pass.

Between tremors he examined the creature, the dark pits of its eyes, the rough edges of its hideous mouth protruding like the spines of a cod, the exposed skeleton of stone. A smattering of tiny, pale, white flowers grew across its neck and shoulder. He wondered why they had not wilted and supposed the earth from which they grew was living, part of its skin. At one point in the journey, when the monster stopped to kick a tumbled tree out of its way, a fat bumblebee droned about the monster’s head and landed on its shoulder. It had time to probe one of the pale flowers before the monster began running again and the bouncing shook it off.

Argoth could not understand why the creature had taken Legs. Perhaps he would deliver Argoth to the master and then reward itself with Legs as a meal. Whatever the reason, in between spasms, Argoth talked to Purity’s blind boy, soothing him, thinking all the while of Nettle, and the sacrifice he’d made—the sacrifice that had been wasted on his cursed, foolhardy scheme.

The creature kept, for the most part, to the woods. Argoth knew there was no use calling for help. He’d tried, and the monster had clamped a rough hand over his mouth. Besides, this was not a weave of flesh and blood. How it lived, he could not guess. What he did know was that it could only be undone by special lore. Lore of which he had no knowledge. He could only hope that the Creek Widow had mustered the strength of the Grove. He was spent, but there still was a chance the Grove could defeat this thing.

The tremors continued for the many miles, but he noticed they were coming farther and farther apart. Perhaps he would survive the breaking of his bond to the Skir Master.

The monster carried them along a ridge of hills. It came to a small bluff, covered in trees, and jumped down to the ground a few yards below. They landed with a thump, and when the creature turned, Argoth saw why they’d come here.

Before them a cave opened into the rock. The monster repositioned them in its arms and strode into the darkness. It splashed through water, icy spray wetting Argoth’s exposed feet and face.

“We’re in a cave,” Argoth said to Legs.

“I know, Zu,” said Legs. “Please, unless you see something, it is important that I listen and smell.”

Argoth startled at the mild rebuke, but thought perhaps this is how the blind dealt with the unknowns in their world.

The monster climbed hill and valley, taking them ever deeper into the bowels of the rock. His tremors lessened. After some time, Argoth saw a bluish light up ahead. He mentioned this to Legs, who said, “I don’t know that I can keep the orientation points all in my head.”

Orientation points? Then he realized that the boy was keeping a map of sounds and smells in his mind. Argoth looked at him with new admiration.

As the monster jogged, the light grew stronger. Soon Argoth could make out the walls of the passage they were in. The monster took them past a chamber containing a large pool of black water, past pillars, past openings to other dark passageways. The light grew, they turned a corner, and Argoth found himself in the room that was the source of the light.

The light came from the dead body of a large, pallid beast with an eyeless head. There was no odor of rotten flesh, which meant it must have been recently killed. It lay on the far side of the chamber. It looked like a monstrous salamander, as long as a man, but with a stubby tail and the tusks of a boar. Two vertical cuts ran along its belly. The creature’s juices oozed out of the cuts, and when the separate juices ran together, the mixture shone with a white and bluish light. A bowl had been set on the floor beside the creature to capture the fluorescing liquid as it dripped from the creature’s side.

Argoth had seen creatures similar to this before. They were called night maws. But those were never longer than a man’s hand. And they were rare. That same light shone from two other bowls set in the room. It was not the blinding light of the sun, but an odd light that still left much of the room in shadow.

The monster released Argoth and Legs to stand.

“No,” a woman said.

The voice surprised him.

Argoth turned and saw figures chained at even intervals along the walls to his right: Hogan, the Creek Widow, Ke, River, Purity.

“No,” said the woman again. It was the Creek Widow, full of despair.

His heart sank. He’d hoped, at the very least, that Ke had escaped to call in the last two members of the Grove. But that would not be. There would be no muster.

Purity looked like the walking dead. Hogan did not look much better.

“Legs!” Purity said.

Argoth stepped toward Hogan, but the monster grabbed him by his injured arm and wrenched him to an open set of manacles. The pain shot up Argoth’s arm. He took in a sharp breath.

Legs carefully walked to his mother, hands out front.

The monster stood Argoth a few paces from River, manacled his ankles, then his wrists. It passed a chain through both to a stout ring in the wall. Then it bent two links of the iron with its bare hands to secure Argoth to the ring in the rock. It yanked on the chain to test its strength.

Then the creature gaped open its mouth and coughed. It coughed again and plucked something dark and wet off its tongue. The object writhed like a worm between the monster’s two rough fingers. It was as thick as a man’s thumb and maybe a foot long.

Argoth backed up against the rock wall.

The monster reached out, steadied Argoth’s head with its free hand, then held the wet worm close to Argoth’s throat.

Argoth felt a cold touch at the hollow of his throat. Then the creature slithered up and around and circled his neck.

The monster stepped back.

Argoth braced himself, but nothing happened.

The monster ran a finger along the creature, then turned and walked over to Legs. He plucked him up from his mother and exited out of an opening in the far side of the chamber by the pallid beast.

“Mother,” he heard Legs call from the corridor.

Argoth stood frozen, still expecting the creature about his neck to bite or burn. He reached up carefully and touched it. It was cold and smooth as silk.

“It’s a king’s collar of sorts,” said the Creek Widow. “At least, none of us can work any power that it doesn’t immediately consume.”

Argoth looked at each of them in turn—all wore a similar creature.

The Creek Widow shook her head in the pale light. “You were our last hope. We are not going to be able to resist her for long.”

Her?

Argoth tested the chains. They were heavy and strong. The weight of them made his injuries throb.

Another tremor built in him. “Who is this enemy?” he asked.

The shaking increased. He braced himself, but it faded as quickly as it had come.

Argoth rubbed his arms despite the fact that this room was warm. “Is this Mokad? Or some rogue soul-eater?”

“Neither,” said Hogan. “She is nothing like you have ever seen.” Hogan sounded weak. He was covered with bruises and lacerations. The Fir-Noy had obviously tortured him.

“She is looking,” the Creek Widow cut in, “for a young male.”

“What? Who is this woman?”

“They see a woman,” said River. “I see a man.”

“She’s right,” said the Creek Widow. “It’s no woman. No human. We are dealing with something else entirely.”

And it was searching for a male. They were talking about Talen. They had to be. Except the creature had cast Talen aside and taken Legs. “But how could she know about him?”

“Brother,” Hogan said. “We were stewards of a great gift. But we were fools.” Hogan coughed wetly. “Rose warned us he was special. We should have known that dark powers would seek to destroy him before he came into his powers and could threaten them.”

“We did know that,” said the Creek Widow. “But who could have suspected this?”

“At least he’s not here,” said River.

“No, but who will train him?” Hogan asked. “Who will hide him? Harnock refused to come. And so he is alone.” Hogan pulled at the creature about his neck. “It will only be a matter of time before she cracks his identity out of us.”

And then Argoth realized what Hogan had just said—it wasn’t just a king’s collar they wore. Argoth looked at the others. They were all wearing some kind of thrall.

“No!” he said. He reached up and tore at the creature, but it only constricted tighter. He could not bear wearing another thrall. He pulled again, but it was as strong as iron. “No,” he said, defeated. He shuddered and his heart sank even lower. “We cannot end this way.”

River pointed toward the side of the chamber where the pallid beast lay. “It is not just us that will be broken.”

Something lay on the floor beyond the pallid beast. He’d missed it in the surprise of seeing the Grove. It was a body, crude-featured and dark. It looked to be made of earth.