Servant of a Dark God (23 page)

It seemed he had only just begun when the Mother stirred again. Hunger bent his concentration, moving faster and faster along the loops and whirls. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She was coming, he could feel it. Feel her fingers reaching out to his mind.

Panic rose in him. She couldn’t have it. She mustn’t have it. Then he found a spot that seemed different from the rest, but he couldn’t tell for sure if it was the spot of joining. It wasn’t a break; it was just a spot.

Hunger?

He tried to unravel the collar at that point, but he could not. It resisted him. Then he mustered all his strength, he pulled, and, when he thought he’d failed, the collar snapped.

Fire and stink billowed up around him and into the sky.

What is that?
the Mother asked.

He could not resist her question.
Fire
, he said.
Fire, from the pretty collar about the Sleth woman’s neck.

She pushed into his mind, and he feared she would discover his secret, but she didn’t care about the collar, only the Sleth woman.

This is the one?
asked the Mother.

Yes
.

She’s weak
.

The men beat her. They do not like ones that stink.

Fool
, she said.
They worship them
.

Not this one
, said Hunger.

The Mother directed her attention at the collar, and Hunger held very still.

A king’s collar
, she said.

Yes
, said Hunger.
I broke it
.

You did indeed
, she said. And then she laughed.

Hunger ran though the woods like a dark wind, carrying the Sleth woman to the Mother. He held her like he had held his bonny girl when she was only a pint. He ran through the dark, piney forest, keeping the branches from the Sleth woman, and the memories of his littlest, Rose, for that
was
her name—the memories of her dark eyes came to him. Dark, little, shining eyes, and him dancing with her held to his chest, her squealing like a piglet for joy. Around and around he had gone with her, dancing his jig on the banks of the stream in a piney forest, his fine wife singing her ballad for the fifth time, the boys clapping the beat, impatiently waiting their turn to whirl in the arms of their da. Around and around until his head spun and he fell into the grass. And little Rose climbing up on his chest to look down at him with those dark, sparkling eyes, the blue sky at her back.

A man of dirt does not weep. He cannot sob. Hunger knew this all too well. But in his deepest parts he felt a longing, an emptiness, a something so vast and lonely and bleak that he stumbled with the Sleth woman and fell to one knee.

The Green Beggar had taught him that if a soul escaped the creatures that waited to devour them; if it managed the long trail in the world of the dead with all its perils; if it were wise, it would find that great Brightness that awaited even the most plain and rude of creatures. The everlasting burnings of joy prepared by the Creators for those who sought the wisdom of the heart.

He, obviously, had not had much wisdom, for the Mother had caught him and devoured great portions of his soul almost as he was born into the other world. And he, in turn, had devoured others. Surely, the Six would destroy him should he ever win his freedom. But Rose, the boys, his good wife. They had done nothing.

The Mother called. She wanted this woman so strongly that her compulsion made him stand.

He held the broken collar in one hand and looked at it.

The Mother had laughed at him. At that moment he’d seen that it was indeed broken. Dead. His hope was nothing more than a scrap of metal, its stink carried away by the wind. But he had the woman. And the Mother had promised to release his family.

No, she hadn’t said that exactly, had she? She’d never promised to release them.

The Mother called again, and he could not resist her. He ran across a meadow and down to the rocks where one of the mouths of the Mother’s caves lay.

This kidney-shaped entrance to the warrens sat hidden in the folds of the ravines and cliffs along the sea. He climbed up to it and eased himself in. It was almost too small for him by himself, so he held the woman close to his chest and belly with one arm and scrabbled along.

Again, he met the Mother in the warm room, the one that smelled of what he now knew was sulfur.

“Here,” said Hunger. “This is the one that will lead us to the others.”

“Yes,” said the Mother. And she took her from him and laid her on a soft bed of grass and furs. “We will need to keep her for a number of days. That will be your task.”

“She’ll die down here,” he said. “They need light.”

“Then you fetch it. If you want those pitiful souls, you keep her alive.”

“Yes,” he said. She would need food. She would need someone else to be with her. But someone who would not run away.

He did not want to ask her the question, but he had to. He had to know. “Will you release one of the souls to me now?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“You said—”

“Quiet!” she commanded.

She wouldn’t do it. She was a liar. But a thought had been forming. All was not lost. No, he had an idea buried deep down. If the collar could be made, then it could be remade. He didn’t know how. But those men . . . he turned to leave.

The Mother stopped him. “I want the others as well,” she said.

She’d heard his thoughts, knew who she spoke of. And his inability to hide from her filled him with dismay. “What others?” he asked.

“You’ll bring them here, those two men, and keep them as well.”

“Even you don’t have the appetite for three,” said Hunger.

“I’m not going to eat them,” she said. Then she sighed. “It is unfortunate that, when I found you, your soul was bound to the Mother of Mokad. I could only recover pieces.” She shook her head. “Understand, the human wizards, those that stink, must swear allegiance to me. All of them.”

A memory rose in Hunger’s mind. Before, when he was not in this body, he had been searching for something in her caves. Something dangerous. He had been under orders from a different master then who had yet another master. And the Mother had stolen him away from them. “I had a name,” he said.

“That name doesn’t matter,” she said. “You are no longer that creature.”

It came to him. “Lumen,” he said, and knew it was true. “That was my name.” He himself had been a master.

And a thrall. The realization of this crashed upon him—the Divines, the Glories, the rulers of men were nothing more than servants to creatures like her.

But that wasn’t right. He was Barg. He was many names. Confusion clouded his mind.

“You are mine now,” said the Mother.

That also was true, but it didn’t mean he was hers willingly. “The Sleth will fight you. They will not serve you.”

“They will all serve me, one way or the other. I will find my human to lead the harvest. And those that rebel will be put to another purpose.”

“They will die here in the dark.”

“Not before we use them to quicken the children.”

“Children?”

Hunger tried to probe her mind to find out what she was talking about, for there were no children here.

“Come,” she said and led him down a passageway he did not know to a large room.

The Mother sang and suddenly the ribbons of light that wove their way about her ranged out into the room and illuminated it. Half a dozen bodies lay slumbering in the dirt. They were not human or animal. And they were not small, not the bodies of children. They were bodies like his, made of earth, but they weren’t exact matches—one had multiple arms, another had a vicious snout and head, another was tall and thin. One had a head shaped like an onion.

“These,” said the Mother, “are your brethren.”

Hunger knew she’d formed these bodies just as she’d formed his. And he knew when they were ready, she’d call them forth just as she had called him.

“There will be more. We shall quicken them, you and I. And the master of the harvest shall lead them.”

“You’re going to make war on us?”

“War?” she said. “You weren’t listening.”

But then what were these for?

“War is the last thing I want. This land and people have been neglected. Koram is ours. It always has been, even far-flung fields like this one. We could not stop the Mother of Mokad from taking them before, but we have recovered some of the old ways. The Mother of Mokad is failing. Soon all her human herds will be mine, and I shall make them fruitful. They will become the envy of the earth and yield a rich harvest for many, many years to come. And these,” she gestured at the children, “will be the first of those that will protect them.”

Hunger stared at the Mother. Memories tumbled in, stories of a time when there were many minor beings with power. The old gods—this one ruling a valley, that one a small village, this one living on her own in the woods, that one farming with his people. Some protected and blessed. Some, like the Goat King, did not. “You’re one of the old gods,” he said, “aren’t you?”

The Mother shook her head. “What you call the old gods were humans and, sometimes, other creatures who knew the lore. They were like wild animals. They fought us, but in the end, we tamed them and put them to the use intended by the Creators.”

Hunger looked at the children. He knew the powers the Mother had taught him: how to separate Fire from body, how to shuck a soul. He knew what she ate. But he’d never seen the implications, probably because until he’d eaten Barg he’d never had the mind of a man to grasp them.

He was stunned. Horrified.

The Mother smiled. “You need not worry about facing the wrath of the Creators,” she said. “Did they not make us? And is it not the nature of creation for one thing to master and devour another? Humans feed on cattle, cattle on grass, grass on the earth. It is only natural that something should feed on humans.”

It was natural, Hunger realized. And there were creatures that did so—bears, lions, sharks. But something about her logic was wrong. It took him a moment. “It’s natural to devour a body maybe. But not a soul.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “There are all manner of creatures that feed on the soul.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Hunger. But he knew about the perilous journey after this life. She spoke the truth. “There may be predators,” he said, “but the prey sometimes turns and fights.”

“Your cattle and chickens do not fight you, do they? They do not flee, but come to you, depend on you. And that’s what humans have been doing for ages—they’ve been depending on us. And just as it’s easier for you to manage your cattle, it’s easier to manage humans when they don’t know they’re mastered.”

Hunger thought of his family. Were humans delicacies or the staples of her diet? It didn’t matter: she would eat his family. She had never planned on doing anything different.

“I’ve made you a promise,” she said, “and I keep my promises. An obedient servant deserves a reward. That is the best way. Do you not sometimes pass over a favorite cow or goat when it’s time for slaughter and instead let it die from old age? This is no different. Fulfill your duty. I will let them free, and you, not your family, will be the first fruits of the harvest.”

A COLD KISS

S

ugar was not safe here, not with men in the woods, and that idiot Talen making a scene. Goh, that one, that stinking load of scours, scaring the life out of her. He’d nearly broken her nose throwing that door in her face. He’d nearly killed her and Legs both.

But then . . . what would she have done in his position? These folks were risking their lives. Obviously, he hadn’t been asked if he were willing to do that. Wouldn’t she want to be asked to risk her life for a stranger?

Nevertheless, she could not sleep. Yes, it was vastly more comfortable in the cellar under the kitchen floor than out in that hole. Hogan’s family hadn’t filled the cellar yet with their winter stores, and so it was both wide and deep. She didn’t have to contend with mosquitoes, and she had not found any of the monstrous black and yellow spiders that seemed unable to stay out of the dog warren. But the cellar was also the first place anyone would look.

Legs slept on the narrow bed River had placed down here, next to old cabbage leaves and the scattered old potatoes with their multitudes of long, pale stems, looking like a nest of ghostly, spindly legged crabs. He’d fallen asleep brushing her hair with his fingers, picking out the knots and debris.

He was putting a brave front on as Da had always taught him to do. And Da had taught him so much. He had spent hours, days demanding Legs learn do hard things despite his blindness—chores around the yard, holding pieces on the anvil while Da hammered them, working the bellows, learning every foot of the village and the surrounding fields so he could take water in his goat cart to those that toiled there.

Da had seemed a force of nature. And now he was gone.

What would he do here? He’d tell her to stop worrying over things she couldn’t change. He’d tell her she was bred to do hard things, it was in her blood.

She began to organize the potatoes and cabbages, putting them into tidy rows and stacks. It comforted her. Calmed her. Tidiness helped a person think.

They
weren’t
safe here. This was why she couldn’t sleep. Sooner or later these folks would find out that Mother really was Sleth. It was hard to admit. But that was the truth. The Questioners in Whitecliff would pry things out of Mother. And then these good folks would turn both her and Legs in. No, it wasn’t safe. She and Legs needed to leave. They would do so tonight under the cover of darkness. But that left a whole day of danger. What would she do if they turned on her today?

She pulled the spindly legs off of a potato and placed it on the pile she was making.

And if they didn’t find out about Mother, they still had to deal with the hunters in the woods. It was likely another group would come. She needed to plan should that occur. Because, sooner or later, here at Hogan’s or in some other bolt-hole, they would come. They would find her, and she’d better have a cover.