Servant of a Dark God (32 page)

Hogan stiffened. Alarm ran through Argoth.

It was all moving too fast. But he and Hogan could fight their way out. He had surprise on his side. Yet when the doors opened, he saw fighting would not be an option.

A crier proceeded the Divine’s company. He stood forth and proclaimed Rubaloth, Divine Skir Master, Holy Defender of the Glory of Mokad. All in the chamber stood and bowed.

A dozen guards followed the crier into the chamber. Upon their sparkling brass cuirasses was the white lion of Mokad. All of them were dreadmen. Argoth could see it in their walk. He could read it in the tattoos on their forearms and around their lips.

Another dozen dreadmen stood in the hallway. So many—enough to form what the Mokaddians called a terror. Enough to route three cohorts given the right terrain. More than enough to subdue him and Hogan.

The guards took up positions around the square room, facing all the Council members while the Skir Master and his guide walked to the Divine’s throne.

The Skir Master was ancient, and, some said, failing. But he did not look it. He stood upright and alert in his finely cut clothes. His skin was as weathered as that of a middle-aged man. His hair was cut short, only his beard and eyebrows that shot out like gray growths of wild grass betrayed his real age. He too wore the Mokaddian clan tattoos, but they were from another time—simple, small, and elegant, as were the tattoos of his raising.

The Skir Master surveyed the room. Argoth had seen Skir Masters before in Mokad, before he’d made the journey to these lands, but it didn’t help. The Divine’s eyes unnerved him—glass black and glittering with the light from the windows. The path of magic Skir Masters followed did that to them; it blinded them to the world of the flesh.

Except the Skir Master did not walk with the caution of a blind man. At his side stood a massive man. Another dreadman. But he didn’t wear armor as the rest did. This one moved with the languid power of a great cat. He was speed and power waiting to be unleashed. Odd tattoos flared out from his eyes. This was the Skir Master’s guide, even if he did not hold the Divine’s arm to lead or steady him.

All in the room bowed more deeply. Argoth did as well. He knew this Skir Master was just a man, holding on fiercely to secrets that should belong to everyone. A thief and liar, that’s what he was.

But Argoth’s heart quailed nevertheless. If the reports were true, this Skir Master had once summoned a being that had laid waste to an entire city. He was more than two hundred years old. He’d had a century more than Argoth to learn and grow in the lore. Argoth glanced up at those glittering black eyes and wondered how the Order could ever think to challenge such a man.

He waited for the Skir Master to tell them they could stand upright again. But the Divine did not give the command. Instead, he slowly sweept the room with his black, snake eyes. Then that black, empty gaze settled on Argoth.

Argoth lowered his eyes. He held that pose, but the silence stretched too long. When he glanced back up, the Skir Master held his glance and then looked away. Or had he been looking at Hogan? And why was he looking at them anyway? What could he see with those eyes?

The Skir Master turned and addressed the Council. “Lords of the Nine Clans, the Glory of Mokad bid me come to announce your burden, for you have sat in your ease, withholding resources from your brethren in the heartland. You’ve been hoarding water, while those about you scorch in the sun and faint. You have stood by and watched as the wolves devoured your neighbor’s flocks. You have joined the enemies of the realm. You have but this one chance to repent and turn back to your heart. Refuse and by my hand on the morrow the Glory of Mokad, the Morning Sun, the Guardian of the Righteous shall rise up and utterly destroy you, starting at the head. And these lands will be given to those who do not turn their backs on the slaughter of their brethren.”

The room stood in stunned silence.

What evil had they committed? It was Mokad that had neglected them, refusing to send a replacement Divine.

“Great One, how have we sinned?” The question came from the Prime Councilor, the one who presided over the Council’s deliberations in a Divine’s absence. “Teach us, we beg, the error of our ways.”

“We received reports last year of a weapon that put your enemies to flight. Yet you did not send it to your brethren who were dying every day by the hands of Nilliam. Twice we sent a command to aid us. Twice we were denied.”

This was about the seafire? Argoth had unlocked the secret to a fire that burned on water. He’d seen it used before in battles with the Rajan of the east. They cast it in pots like many other armies cast pots of living snakes or scorpions. In the end the pots of fire were not enough to hold back his army. But they had caused havoc, and Argoth had captured one who knew the lore of its making.

Before the captor died, Argoth learned part of it was firewater distilled from the substance that came out of black springs. But he didn’t know what else had been mixed with it to make it into a semiliquid. He’d experimented with various mixtures until he mixed it with pitch from pines and terebinth trees and sulfur. He did not re-create their fire pots, he went beyond it, for his substance burned and would not be extinguished except by vinegar, urine, or earth.

But that wasn’t what had turned the clan gally into fire ships. Fire pots of various kinds were used by all armies. No, Argoth had dreamed one night of a brass tube that hissed and spat fire on the ships of the Bone Faces.

Argoth’s smiths had forged four brass tubes the length of a man. On one end of each tube was a nozzle fashioned to look like the head of an animal or person with its mouth open wide. Argoth’s favorite was of the beautiful woman looking like she was about to kiss her lover. The other end of the tube was connected to a flexible leather hose, which led to a barrel of seafire. Midway from the tube to the barrel was a pump. A five-man team operating the tube, pump, and barrel could spray a thick stream of the fiery liquid almost sixty yards. More if the wind was at their backs. One tube was placed on each of four ships.

The violent sound and large quantities of brown and yellow smoke was enough to shock any man. But when the Bone Faces saw that it burned on water, clung like tar, and could not be extinguished, they surely must have prayed to their bloody gods for deliverance.

Being able to force the fire out in a stream turned fire into a weapon that, instead of merely harrying an enemy, could turn the course of a battle.

His men had sent five of the raider’s ships to the depths that way, spearing those that survived the flames in the water like so many carp. Then they’d burned the Bone Face secret island port.

His fire, Argoth’s Fire, had saved the Nine Clans last year.

The Prime inclined his head in respect. “Great One, we did not deny your request, but sent, asking the Glory to provide a ship of dreadmen so that we might convey the fire lances. We dared not send them forth only to be lost into the hands of the enemy.”

“You should have supplied your own dreadmen.”

“But we had only a handful, Great One.”

“You had enough for the battles last year.”

“But the winter storms were too severe; besides, sending them would have left us defenseless. We—”

“Do you argue with the Glory’s envoy?”

“No, Great One. I merely explain that we delayed not from indifference or traitorous alliance, but from the greatest concern that this weapon would fall into the hands of those who would use them against you.”

“And when you fell, when your weaves failed, and the enemy overran you, what then?”

But their weaves shouldn’t have failed. Mokad should have sent a replacement.

“We were foolish, Great One,” said the Prime. He prostrated himself on the floor. “Please show us how we may repent.”

“Who cast the lances? Who devised the liquid?”

“The lances were cast by a smith of the Fir-Noy, Great One. As for the liquid,” the Prime pointed at Argoth, “the Glory’s servant who created it stands there.”

Argoth deepened his bow, but he saw that the Skir Master did not turn.

“A Shoka,” the Skir Master said, still facing the Prime. “Hard to believe a Shoka could devise this. Besides, wasn’t it a Shoka who spied for the old widow of Cath so many years ago?”

Decades ago there had been one family of Shoka who had spied for the widow Glory of Cathay. But their perfidy had been discovered and the family destroyed decades ago. The Skir Master had a long memory, but that isn’t what bothered Argoth—how was it that the Skir Master knew the Prime had pointed at him?

“A blight upon our name, Great One,” said Shim. “But those elements were culled from the clan. Our loyalty has been tested. Was it not a Shoka who saved the Glory’s blessed father from the avalanche?”

The Skir Master turned and smiled. “Indeed. And now, it seems, the Shoka have yet another opportunity to do a great deed or a greater evil. What will it be?”

An anger began building in Argoth. But Shim dropped to one knee and Argoth followed his lead.

“The Shoka serve the Glory of Mokad,” said Shim.

“Does anyone else know the secrets of your firewater?” asked the Skir Master.

“No, Great One,” said Argoth. “A handful know parts and help with preparation. But only I know how it all combines at the last.” Actually, that was a lie. Hogan knew all the steps. And Hogan had sent the secrets along so that the Order might have this weapon.

“Then you shall be the savior to lift the burden from this people’s neck,” said the Skir Master. “You now have your ship of dreadmen. You will gather up every fire lance—every part, from the cannon to the fittings on the ships. You will collect every drop of the firewater and all the tools and substances used to create it. You will have them loaded on my ship by morning. And you,” he turned to Shim, “you will deliver all those who help prepare it. Do this and the Glory of Mokad will forgive this people its cruel inattention.”

Argoth was stunned. Did the Divine not know he was taking their last defense? With those words he’d just ordered the deaths of all the fine warriors of each clan. He’d ordered the rape of their women. With those words he had put the collar of slavery upon every child born for as many generations as it took to rise up against the the invaders and finally throw off their chains. With those words he had cut the hearts out of hundreds to be burned upon the barbaric altars of the Bone Face priests.

“Do you waver?” asked the Skir Master.

“No,” said Argoth. “I—”

“Great One,” said the Prime. “Does this mean that the Glory has blessed us with your wise leadership?”

The Skir Master shook his head. “All of the arms of Mokad must now defend the heart. I too will sail in the morning.”

Again, the room fell silent. Argoth could not believe he was hearing this. And then he realized he did not believe this. The Skir Master was deliberately provoking them, testing them.

Why would he do that?

“Deliver your burden,” said the Skir Master, “and I will reward you immediately with a replenishment of three weaves.”

Three? Three would never be enough to protect this land.

“Great One,” the Crab said. “Did you have time to consider our request for a seeking?”

“A proper seeking takes many hours,” said the Skir Master. “I cannot draw for your weaves and perform a seeking by morning. And I will not delay my departure. No, take your prisoner and put him to the question yourself. You can break through a man’s defenses with a proper questioning almost as easily as you can with a seeking.” He gestured in a way that took in the whole Council. “Or is this seeking the boon you desire?”

“Weaves,” said the Prime. “Bring our weaves to life.”

The Skir Master signaled for his guide, but before he left, he gazed at Argoth again. “Lest something happen to such a valuable resource as yourself, ten of my dreadmen will accompany you. Losing you is a risk I will not bear.”

“Very wise, Great One,” said Shim. “Very wise.”

Argoth looked into the Skir Master’s eyes—did he know Argoth’s secret? Argoth glanced at Shim. Had he revealed his suspicions about Argoth?

Argoth bowed. Ten dreadmen to guard him, but only three for the whole of the New Lands?

“Do not disappoint me,” the Skir Master said to the whole Council. “Now, I have heard of your baths. Lumen wrote incessantly of them and the delights of your blueberries, and I mean to enjoy them both before I leave.”

The Council erupted after the Skir Master left. But the Crab, ever fixed upon his purpose, came to take Hogan.

“It appears we’ll have to find another to oversee the questioning,” he said.

“It will be one of the Shoka,” said Shim. “And it will be done in the fortress of Whitecliff.”

The Crab hesitated and Argoth wondered if he was going to try to forcibly take Hogan from him, but he only made a gesture of surrender with his hands. “As you wish.”

Shim caught Argoth’s eyes, as did the Shoka territory lord, but Argoth ignored them. He took Hogan, pushed through the Council’s chaos and rushed him outside. The ten dreadmen assigned by the Skir Master followed behind.

Before they had exited the building, a messenger entered and set off another round of alarm—Larther the hunter had been found dead on the upper plains with the same blackening about his face as was found on Barg’s family.

Hogan looked at Argoth.

Larther was one of the Grove. At one time he had thought River would marry Larther, but that had never come to pass. Instead, Larther had cleared numerous acres of Argoth’s land up on the plains that he might satisfy Gil the carpenter. The carpenter had demanded that his daughter, who was smart and clever and had waited so very long for a man to notice her, would not spend her life in a dirty hut. Three years Larther had cut and cleared. They were to be married this season.

Hogan passed his hand over his face. Then he spoke with his eyes closed. This was his habit when trying to catch and pull together the threads of many elusive thoughts. “It is not a coincidence.”

The dreadmen were too close for Hogan to speak loudly. So Argoth put his friend’s arm in his and began walking out of the hall and left into the street, toward the fortress. The dreadmen followed a few paces behind.