Servant of a Dark God (38 page)

“Yes, Bright One.”

“You may go, Uram. I will see you on the morrow.”

Rubaloth turned to Leaf. “Now our part. We cannot let a pack of traitors think we are uneasy, can we?” He held out his arm for Leaf to take and turned to the pools. “Have you got the wine?”

“Yes, Bright One. I have arranged for a massage.”

They walked out of the chamber and down the path arm in arm. At that moment a clamor arose ahead, punctuated by screams.

Rubaloth felt for Leaf’s mind so that he might see. Had they underestimated the enemy?

Through Leaf’s eyes, he saw a number of knee-high, red-faced beasts run across the path. A troop of green-and-white-clad servants ran after them with sticks and stones.

“G’alls!” he exclaimed. “Woodikin?”

Leaf drew the sword he kept at his side.

The beasts ran up the hill on his left and disappeared over the top with many screeches. The servants followed, throwing rocks and ringing bells.

Another servant carrying the wine walked along another path as if nothing were happening. Leaf called to her. “Hoy, what is this?”

The servant bowed deeply. “Monkeys, Zu.”

“Monkeys?” said Rubaloth.

“Yes, Bright One, we must be ever vigilant to keep them from the baths.”

Rubaloth shook his head in disgust. “What Lumen saw in this land I will never know.” He released his hold on Leaf’s sight. It was not something he wished to do often, for after long periods of that a man could lose himself, leave his body and not return. He and Leaf continued to the pools and their fingers of softly curling steam.

______

Argoth sat upon Courage, his tall black warhorse, sandwiched between five dreadmen who rode ahead and five who rode behind. A breeze blew crossways and carried the dust from the horses’ hooves out over the half-mown fields of hay on his right.

The bright, brass armor of the dreadmen clinked and clattered and blazed in the sunlight. Beneath it they wore close-fitting scarlet tunics and black pants. But this armor was meant only to dazzle the eye. The metal of their cuirasses was exceedingly thin. Brass was not a metal to stop swords.

If they had wanted protection, they would have worn steel segments or plate on top, a chain mail tunic underneath, and padding beneath that. They would have worn helms with faceplates. All the better to deflect arrows. But they weren’t worried about being attacked by cohorts of men. They were worried about him escaping, about facing a smaller group of attackers. That much was transparent.

And why would the Skir Master expect a loyal servant to run? He wouldn’t. He would only expect it from someone he didn’t trust. These dreadmen would be on their guard, watching his every move.

His plan was simple. He would bind the Skir Master and force him to reveal who knew about his secrets. His plan hinged on getting a great quantity of Fire, which he would use to quicken a weave that had been in his family for generations, a weave that would enthrall the Skir Master.

Argoth had sent a messenger to Matiga with two requests. He knew the Skir Master would have the man followed, but what other choice did he have? Besides, the messages would be coded. The messenger would simply relay the news of the Divine’s arrival, then he would ask if she was going to need any help this year preparing her garden for the frost. That was her signal to bear the Grove away.

Next the messenger would say that Captain Argoth wanted a sour apple pie for dinner this evening. Matiga was known for her pies and tarts. In fact, there were some in Whitecliff who sent servants to fetch her pies once a week. What was not known was that this specific request from any of the Grove meant one thing—they needed to tap into the Grove’s reserve of Fire, something that could only be done in extreme need. Matiga held the Grove’s weaves, two of which were stores of Fire.

When he got the Fire, he would replenish his guttering flame. Then he would quicken the weave that would enthrall the Skir Master.

It would not be an easy task, but it was less risky than declaring open war. Keep small, keep quiet, avoid attention—that was the way the Order had survived all these years. But this time he did not want to run. And if he failed? He would fire the ship, sending all who sailed upon it to the depths.

He didn’t relish that idea. But at that point he wouldn’t have the luxury of finding out who had the knowledge of the Order and who didn’t.

This raised another issue. If he succeeded and returned, he would have to deal with Shim.

Tucked under his sash was a message forced into his hand back in Whitecliff by an unmarked messenger:

To Argoth, an Old Woman’s Delight:

I was right; we are now in our extremity. Remember the offer of a practical
friend. Do not turn your back on those who love you. We await your reply.

There was no seal or signature, but Argoth knew the sender. “Old Woman’s Delight” made that clear. Shim gave him that name one day long ago when he and Shim found themselves past the Gap in the wilds with the sun going down. They were forced to sleep in hammocks far above the ground to avoid the wurms that hunted below. It took them almost a week to escape that death trap, and during that time he told Shim a story from his distant past.

Of course, he didn’t reveal to Shim his true age, but eighty years ago, as a boy of sixteen, prime, and available for marriage, his father began to receive and make marriage offers. One such came from a very ugly, but very rich woman. She tried to seduce Argoth and, failing that, tried to pressure his father into marrying him off to her.

Shim found the story hilarious and made Argoth tell it a number of times. However, he’d never passed the story on. Only Shim had ever called him “Old Woman’s Delight.”

The practical offer obviously alluded to Shim’s offering to ally himself with Sleth. Shim knew what Argoth was, but that wasn’t as fearful as the “we” in the final sentence.

Shim had told others; he’d won them to his idea. Who they could be, Argoth did not know. Would it be men of Shim’s clan? Or had he talked to other warlords?

The Grove would have three choices when he returned: flee, kill Shim and all those he’d told, or bring them into the Order.

And if he brought them into the Order, as Shim desired, they would want to fight as multiplied men. Knowing Shim, this would not be a handful of men. Shim was thorough. He would have gathered up enough to defend the land.

There was no way to hide that many. Introducing such a force would reveal the Order.

He imagined this people throwing off the blinders put upon them by Divines. Some would live to the age of trees like the ancients had. A man and a woman would have the power to heal their children, but also every living thing in their domain: oxen, goats, chickens, a generous fruit tree succumbing to a blight. It was said that the ancients at times walked with the Creators. If then, why not now?

Of course, they’d tried. Many years ago, Lord Shaydis, the head of the Order, disappeared with many eager members into the deep interior of this land, intent on laying the foundations for a city patterned after the ancients.

A great secret trail led to that city. Groves manned the waypoints, each knowing only the preceding and subsequent waypoint and the places and signals for meets. This ensured the traveling members found help along the way, but it also reduced the risk that any in the standing Groves might be caught and questioned. Hogan’s was the last waypoint, but none in this Grove knew the final destination. Their instructions were to lead whoever was traveling to the city to a certain lake three days’ travel through the mountains. Lord Shaydis would send someone to gather them in.

But none from Hope had come for a number of years. Many had struck out to find the city. Most did not return. Those that did spoke of terrible creatures that burrowed vast warrens, small men that lived in the tops of the great trees, a salt sea, mountains that smoked, and other wondrous and perilous things.

Fifteen years ago was the last time any group had been gathered in. The flow along the great trail diminished to a trickle and then dried up altogether.

But the hope of such a city had not died. And Shim had unwittingly pointed out the opportunity to build it.

Argoth saw a land brimming with Divines. It was a bright and overpowering vision.

He had never thought it possible. Not here.

He took a deep breath.

It was possible that Shim was loyal to Mokad, that he was an agent of the Seeker, trying to ferret out information about the Order. But Argoth didn’t think so. He trusted Shim with his life. Always had. Still he would have to test him.

As he rode, he thought of how to write the message and get it to Shim anonymously. When he got home he found a new parchment and wrote:

Show me the depth of your love.

He sealed it with a blob of wax, but not with any mark that would give an indication of who had sent it. Then he secretly gave it to a servant and told him to deliver it without being seen by even Lord Shim himself.

There was nothing more to be done. Hogan would be furious. But he would come around. The vision was breathtaking. The opportunity was right. He could feel it quaking in his bones.

Argoth basked in that bright hope for a moment longer and then brought himself back to the present. Right now he needed to focus on the Skir Master and these dreadmen; otherwise that fine dream would never come to pass.

FRIGHT

M

urder, Talen thought. That’s what Nettle was proposing.

Except killing those outside the law wasn’t murder. It wasn’t murder to kill Bone Faces wherever you happened to find them. It wasn’t murder to kill someone the law demanded exterminated. The lords would prefer Sleth be brought in alive so they could question them, but dead was perfectly acceptable.

Talen had never killed a person. He’d fought in last year’s battles with the Bone Faces as a skirmisher. But who knew if your arrows and stones actually finished a man or merely wounded him? With these two it would be very clear. He’d need to smoke himself with godsweed to prevent the souls of the slain Sleth from trying to attack him.

Just thinking about killing these two turned his gut. It was different from going to battle. It would be a nasty business. If they were simply what they appeared to be—two unlucky children—then an arrow in the back would be enough to bring them down. Another to the heart or through a lung would end it.

A dark, nasty business. But he couldn’t understand why he should hesitate, why he didn’t feel right about it. None of the old tales of Sleth hunters ever mentioned this. Those men and women had never balked at cutting the abominations down. But who was he kidding? He wasn’t a mighty Sleth hunter.

But what if they
were
innocent? What if they were just like him? Caught up in the bad decisions of their parents.

“It’s possible they learned nothing from their mother,” Talen said.

“Anything’s possible,” said Nettle. “But that’s unlikely. Either way, masters of the dark or snotty-nosed children, I don’t think anybody is going to care. After all—” Nettle stopped himself.

Talen knew what he had been about to say. “After all, what?” said Talen.

“Nothing,” said Nettle.

“My hairy arse,” said Talen. “You were going to say it didn’t matter. After all, they’re just two Koramites.”

“I knew you’d take it that way. But it’s not how I feel. It’s how the lords feel, and I can’t help that. All I’m saying is that nobody is likely to accuse you of a crime.”

No, of course not. But that didn’t seem to matter. “It would even be less of an issue if you did it, Mokaddian captain’s son,” said Talen. “If any murdering is to be done, then you’ll have a hand in it, you can be sure of that.”

The sins of Purity had done nothing but put his family in danger. And the danger and risk would only increase. They’d have to kill the girl and boy. There was no way around it. A sick feeling welled up in Talen, a black numbing.

Talen flicked Iron Boy’s reins. They’d wasted precious time going to the glass master’s. The only consolation was that nobody would expect them along this route. Of course, nobody should have expected them to pass through Gallow’s Gate either, but riders had come after them all the same. Nettle must have felt the black numbing as well, for he said nothing. They traveled for many rods in silence, Talen pondering this bloody medicine and hoping no Fir-Noy had thought to search this road.

If he killed the boy and girl, his father would be furious. But how did he know that Da wasn’t threatened? Da hadn’t told him a thing. Why? Why couldn’t he tell them his big secret on the way to Whitecliff? Why wait?

Because he wasn’t going to tell them anything. He just wanted them out of the way.

Da was involved with something. And that something included a Sleth woman and her monster.

As they traveled Talen began to feel tired. The itch in his legs was lessening. They turned down a narrow trail that led into a piney wood, and an overwhelming weariness fell upon him.

The baker had probably used something like thresher’s seed. It was the way with such herbs that they left you weaker than when you first took them. And that herb was probably the root of his black thoughts.

No, it was not the herb. It was his heart. It was sometimes said the heart perceived things the head could not. It was said that sometimes the ancestors could speak to a man’s heart even when his head was full of stone.

“We’re not going to kill them,” said Talen. “Not immediately.” The road here was thick with pine needles. It muffled Iron Boy’s hooves. It seemed to muffle Talen’s words. He knew it was not a smart decision, but the moment he said it the dark cloud smothering his heart seemed to lift a bit.

“They’re going to tumble mountains of troubles upon your whole family,” said Nettle.

“You’re probably right,” said Talen. “But we can’t just kill them. What if that brings the monster? What if this nest does something to Da in retaliation?”