Servant of a Dark God (9 page)

He got up off the floor in front of his hearth. The cups and stones of a game of transfer lay before him. His daughter had just taken her turn and ruined his next move.

Their censer of godsweed had stopped smoking. So he picked up the tongs and fetched a hot coal from the fire. He put the coal in the censer and blew until the weed began to smoke again.

They’d burned godsweed until the air was thick with it. Burned it in every room as proof against the souls of the dead. Even so, Barg did not feel safe.

They’d done a wicked thing today, killing the smith. Everyone had said he’d fought with the strength of twenty men, but Barg had seen it. He’d been there with his spear, and he knew Sparrow. The smith was clean, may the Six bless him. And that was all the more reason for his soul to seek justice.

The smith’s wife, however, she was something else. She’d probably trapped Sparrow, trapped him like a spider. And like a spider, one day she would have eaten him. The clan lord had demanded they keep her alive for questioning. For bait. They placed the king’s collar they’d taken from the royal house around her neck, laid her in the back of a wagon, and had taken her away to the healers.

And it was a good thing, for those that were sent to chase the girl and boy had searched past the river, they’d scoured the woods all the way to the swamps. Lords, they’d even used dogs. But they found nothing. It was impossible—a girl and a blind boy! But the hunt had come back before dark, haggard and empty-handed. That right there was evidence the children knew her wicked ways.

No, Barg did not feel safe. But he wasn’t a coward. He felt a great welling satisfaction, for when others had run today, he had stood his ground. The Crab had noted it. And he wasn’t going to ruin that honor tonight.

Barg looked at his daughter. She grew brighter each day. He was actually trying to win this game and failing.

He turned to his oldest son. “You’re going to have to take my place,” he said.

“Why should you go?” asked his wife. “Nobody else will be there. Nobody would dare.” She sat at the table braiding the youngest boy’s hair for bed.

“They will,” he said. “They’re counting on me. But I’ll be back soon enough. And I think I know a way to take this whole bloody mess off of your mind. We’ll go fishing tomorrow.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Fishing?”

He leaned in close, then whispered in her ear so the children couldn’t hear. “Happy plans will put the children at ease.”

She looked down and said nothing.

Barg kissed her gently on the cheek. Then he considered his girl and two boys. The firelight sparkled in their dark eyes. To think they had played with that woman’s hatchlings.

“I’ll be back soon enough,” he assured them. “We’re taking quarter watches is all.” Then he belted on his sword and picked up his spear. Foss, their hunting dog, rose to go with him, and Barg opened the door.

The smoke in the room curled out into the night. Barg pointed at the children. “You do your chores and get to bed and when you wake up in the morning, we’ll be off.”

“To the river or the beach?” asked his oldest.

They loved the beach. It would be a long day, but it would give them something to think about.

“The beach,” he said. “We’ll roast crabs.”

Then he shut the door behind him. He took a long drink of water from the bucket at the well then set off down the path that led to the smith’s ruin, Foss padding along at his side.

He could see the last flames of Sparrow’s house burning at the other end of the field. The fires burned low, but they still cast enough light to silhouette the remains of Sparrow’s barn and outbuildings. The smoke of the fires hung heavily in the air.

Barg glanced back at his house a few times as he walked. The shutters were latched and snug. His wife had barred the door. They would be fine.

As Barg got closer to the flames he could see that something was amiss—nobody was there. There were supposed to be ten men on each watch.

Perhaps they were all bunched up behind the barn.

He rounded the corner of the barn and looked across Sparrow’s yard.

Nothing. His wife had been right. None of the others were here.

The house and smithy had burned down to coals and ashes. Here and there a few fires still burned, but they were small. Much smaller than it appeared from his house. Still, he could feel the heat of the coals. The whole mess still produced a blistering heat.

A small flame rose at the edge of a blackened log close to him only to disappear moments later.

All was silent except for the crackling and popping of the fire. The circle of light did not extend far into the swallowing darkness.

Cowards.

He’d roust them out of bed, every one.

Then he saw someone standing in the shadows at the edge of where the house had stood. The man moved aside a log, kicking up sparks. He reached into the hot coals and pulled something out.

“Ha,” Barg called to him. “It’s good to see there’s more than one stout heart among us.”

Foss stopped and began to growl.

Then the man straightened up and turned, and Barg got a look at him in the firelight.

He was taller than anyone Barg had ever seen, but his arms and legs were thicker than they should be. And his face—it was all wrong. He had a mouth that was dark, ragged, and huge. A mouth that seemed to crack his head in two.

This was no man.

A tuft of hair on the creature’s arm caught fire. The flame sputtered, flashed, and receded into red and yellow sparks that fell to the ground. Then Barg realized it wasn’t hair. It was grass. Patches all along its arm had burned, some of them still full of dull red sparks. A clump of smoldering grass fell from the creature’s arm to the ground.

Barg saw what the creature held. It was Sparrow’s scorched leg, reduced to bone.

The creature flung Sparrow’s leg aside and began to walk toward Barg. The ashes and coals of the smithy stood between them, but the creature did not walk around them. It walked straight into the blistering coals, over a tangle of charcoal logs, and through one of the remaining fires. The long ragged grass about its legs began to burn and smoke, but the creature did not waver or cry out.

Gods, Barg thought. Keep your calm. Keep your calm.

The thing’s mouth gaped like a cavern. Its eyes. Lords, where were its eyes? And then he saw them—two pits all askew.

Filthy rot. Filthy, twisted rot. Regret himself had sent this thing.

Barg set himself for a throw. Then he took two steps, yelled, and, with all his might, hurled the spear.

The creature did not flinch or step aside, and the spear buried itself in the creature’s chest.

“To arms!” Barg shouted and unsheathed his sword. “We’re attacked! To arms! To arms!”

There would be others here shortly. And together they would dispatch this monster. All Barg had to do was keep his courage. Keep it like he’d done this morning and not run away.

The creature strode on as if nothing had happened. It plucked the spear out of its chest like a man plucking staw from his tunic and flung it into the ashes.

Foss surged forward to the edge of the coals, but Barg took a step backward, turned, and fled.

Foss snarled and barked. Then he yelped.

Barg heard the dog’s footfalls behind him. He turned and saw Foss, neck stretched out, galloping for his life. Foss caught Barg up and sped past.

And behind, the creature loped after them, a thin line of fire burning up one of its sides.

Barg realized he was running the wrong way, away from the the other houses and help. But to go back to the houses meant he would run back toward the beast.

Then he saw the door to his house open, the firelight behind, and his wife standing silhouetted in the door.

“No,” he yelled. “Go back!” But it was too late and he knew it. The creature would have seen her. Even if he were to change his direction now, the monster might not follow him.

“Get the children!” he yelled as he ran into the yard.

“Barg?” his wife said in alarm. Then her face twisted in horror and she backed into the house.

Barg heard the creature chuff behind him.

He turned around, holding his sword at the ready.

It stood not ten paces away. The fire had risen and burned the creature’s shoulder and head.

Courage. All he needed was a bit of courage.

He saw movement in the village. He heard men shouting. But they were running the wrong way, running to the smith’s.

“To me!” he cried. “To me!”

The creature opened its mouth wide and drew in a hoarse breath. It turned its head toward the door of the house.

“No, you won’t,” said Barg. “You filthy abomination, you’ll feel my steel first.” He let out a yell and, for the second time today, charged, his blade held high.

The creature took a step toward him.

Barg brought his blade down in a cut that would have cleaved a man from collarbone to belly.

But the creature simply grabbed the blade in midswing, reached out with its free, rough hand, and took Barg by the face.

Barg struggled in its stony grasp. And then he was slipping, twisting, falling into another place entirely.

Miles away, Sugar crouched in the moon shadows at the edge of the forest and looked across a river at the farmstead of Hogan the Koramite. The man she knew as Horse.

“Is the water deep?” whispered Legs.

“I don’t know,” said Sugar.

“Do you think he will help?”

“This is where Mother sent us,” said Sugar. But in her heart she knew the chances of him helping them were slim. If Horse harbored them, he put his whole family at risk. But if he delivered them to the hunt, he, even as a Koramite, would earn a fortune.

“I think I’m wicked,” said Legs.

“You’re not wicked,” said Sugar.

“I should have listened to the wisterwife.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sometimes, when I held the charm, she would call to me like I was lost.”

Sugar looked at her brother. She’d never heard of such a thing. “She called to you?”

“In my mind. I could see her. She was beautiful. And sometimes I could see something else with her. Something made of earth, dark and wild and . . .”

Sugar waited while Legs found the words.

“Something in her voice,” he said, “it was horrible and wonderful. Every time I heard her, fear stabbed me because I didn’t want someone to think I was like old Chance. I didn’t want to be mad and taken to the altars for hearing voices in my head. And so I never answered. She said that the fullness of time had come. She promised to make me whole. Promised all sorts of things. Lunatic promises. But I was too scared. I think she wanted to help.”

Sugar thought about the wisterwife charm. All this time they’d thought it was a blessing, a gift. It was an annual ritual for most people to fashion a Creator’s wreath and hang it above their door to draw the blessings of the wisterwives. It was fashioned with rock and leaf, feathers and bones. Many set out a gift of food or cast it upon the waters. But Regret had his servants as well. So who knew what this charm really was? She thought of Mother and her horrible speed, her terrible secrets. That charm could be anything. “You think it was real?”

“I don’t know what to think.” No sound escaped him, but his eyes began to brim with tears, and he ducked his head the way he always did when he was in pain.

Sugar wanted to cry with him, wanted to feel overwhelming grief. But she was empty, as desolate as rock. And that pained her as much as anything else. What kind of daughter was it that had no tears for the butchering of her parents? What kind of daughter was it that ran? She had a knife. She knew how to use it.

“Da always said you were an uncanny judge of character,” said Sugar. “If your heart tells you to be afraid, then let’s trust it. Da always did.”

Legs leaned into her, and she took him into an embrace, putting his face in her neck and stroking his hair.

Things to act and things to be acted upon. She had a knife. Lords, she’d had at least six, for there were a number in the kitchen. She could have done something. She could have sent Legs to the pheasant house, gone around back herself, and surprised that line of bowmen. She could have distracted a whole group of men. She might have tipped the battle.

Why? Why had she run?

And if she hadn’t run, if, beyond hope, she’d tipped the battle, what then? She’d seen Mother. Seen her horrible power.

Legs gently pulled away. “Will we talk to Horse?”

They had no tools to survive in the wild. Besides, an army of hunters would be combing the outer woods, expecting them to run there. If Horse helped them, and that was a desperate if, then maybe they might be able to survive until all but the most patient hunters gave up dreams of a bounty and went back to their normal labors. If she and Legs survived that long, that’s when they would escape.

“I don’t know,” said Sugar. “Let’s just take this one step at a time. Right now we need to find where they ford this river.”

HATCHLING

T

alen still ached from the beating he’d taken at Stag Home. He stood, took off his wide-brimmed straw hat, and wiped his brow. Then he gingerly felt his ribs and looked for Da. Nettle had returned from taking his message to the Creek Widow long ago. But there was still no sign of Da.

Nettle threw another pitchfork full of dried bracken onto the wagon bed. They still had three windrows of the stuff to haul off the hill. From the time Da left until now, Talen had eyed the woods every chance he got. But after hours of vigilance, and seeing nothing more exciting than three hogs rooting for acorns in the distance, he began to think less of the dangers and more on the promised bounty.

The reward was a miller’s annual wage. Goh, he could buy a Kish bow for that.

And why couldn’t a Koramite bring them in?

Why couldn’t
he
bring them in?

Sleth were wily and dangerous. And maybe he’d need help. After all, it was said Sleth had animal strength and could twist your head off as easily as a housewife could twist the head off a chicken.

Nevertheless, they were, after all, only children. Not full Sleth.