Servant of a Dark God (12 page)

And they would have been right seventeen years ago before he found the Order. But that was all behind him now. He was a changed man. The Order had opened his eyes.

It was going to be risky going up against this foe, for who would believe a regular soldier, even one as skilled as he was, could best a dreadman? Nevertheless, he gathered his Fire, that spark of life that animated a man. Once he had enough of it gathered, he could expend it all in a rush, multiplying his natural abilities. Of course, it wasn’t without cost. A man only had so much Fire, and when it was gone, the soul and body quickly separated from each other. But Argoth had decided long ago that there were things for which he’d trade the limited days of his life. Those close to him, including the men of his company, were worth such a sacrifice. But it took time to gather enough Fire to make any difference, and he didn’t have time.

The dreadman galloped hard at the hindquarters of another of Argoth’s riders. He raised his sword and slashed the animal’s rump. The horse faltered, and the dreadman pulled even with the rider.

The rider parried two blows from the dreadman, but the third took him square in the face, knocking him into the grass.

This couldn’t continue: the dreadman would kill them all.

Argoth cried out a challenge.

The dreadman saw him and turned his horse.

Argoth was not fully multiplied. But he didn’t care. This bare-chested piece of rot was going down. He was going to be strung up with his own guts.

The dreadman put his heels into his horse, and, within a few strides, he and Argoth rode full gallop at each other. Joy gleamed in the dreadman’s eye, and he smiled. The diseased beast-lover smiled.

Well, Argoth had a trick or two of his own. He took his sword in his left hand and drew his bodkin. With all the strength he could muster he threw it.

The bodkin flashed in the sun. The dreadman saw it and tried to swerve, but the blade buried itself in the horse just below its shoulder.

The horse stumbled and cast the dreadman off balance. But he didn’t have time to leap away.

As Argoth’s horse closed the distance, he swung his sword in a backhanded arc and sliced the man in the side.

The dreadman cried out and fell.

It was not a mortal blow. But it was a start.

Argoth brought his horse around for another charge. He put his heels into the horse’s flanks and shot forth, sword held ready to strike.

And that is when the dreadman made his second mistake. He should have run. Instead he turned to face Argoth. One of Argoth’s men had kept his bow. And it only took a moment for him to draw, release, and speed the shaft deep into the dreadman’s back.

The dreadman arched, twisted. A second arrow followed the first and struck him in the ribs. Then Argoth thundered down upon him. The dreadman turned, the joy replaced by hate. He raised his sword, but it was too late, and Argoth drove his own weapon deep into the man’s chest and left it there.

He galloped a number of yards farther and turned his horse, waiting for the dreadman to fall. When he did, Argoth’s remaining men converged.

Argoth whistled and signaled for a portion of those remaining to find and help the ten who had split off from the main group to chase the other Bone Faces down.

The men would hack the dreadman’s head off to ensure he was dead. Then they would remove his weave, although none would dare touch it directly. It was impossible to know what traps might be worked into any given weave by looking at it. And even if the men knew the weave had no traps, they would still handle it with great care.

Weaves were endowments, created by a special order of Divines called Kains, and bestowed upon a man or woman for a special task. Sometimes the Divines bestowed a weave upon a group, a family or company of men, who shared its use. There were many types of weaves. Some were crowns, others armbands, others necklaces or piercings. There was even one made by the Mungo Divines that was a coat of grass. Some weaves were given for healing, some for sight, some to allow its bearer to speak to the dead.

Some needed a loremaster to use them. Others, called wildweaves, could be used by anyone. Varro had been given one of these—a ring that would magnify its bearer for war.

Whatever the purpose of the weave, only those included in its covenant could wear it. And then only the specific weave given them by the Divine. To use a weave outside a specific covenant was high treason and punished by death. And none of these men would want to be accused of even the slightest infraction.

Argoth turned to ride back to Varro.

Just a little more than a year ago Varro had been recommended by the Shoka warlord to become a dreadman. It was a great honor to him and his family, but it was also a burden. Dreadmen wielded immense powers, but they were expected to fight more frequently and with greater valor. Placing oneself in so many battles exposed a man to enormous risk, even for a dreadman. And so it was that while a weave might claim a long genealogy of heroes, it also claimed many who had ended up maimed or dead.

Argoth hoped Varro had escaped that fate today. He was one of the best men Argoth had ever commanded, and that was well before he’d been called to the covenant.

A Bone Face with a wounded leg tried to crawl away through the grass. “Bind him for questioning,” said Argoth. Then he went to Varro, dismounted, and knelt at his side.

Varro was more than just another fine asset, he was a friend. His hands and feet were bound and he bled from a deep slice in his gut. He obviously had not gone down without a fight.

Argoth looked for Varro’s bodkin, but it was not in its sheath. So he used a stick to work loose Varro’s knots.

Varro groaned and looked up at Argoth.

“Are you alive, man?” Argoth asked. It was a joke among his troops to ask this. For if the man were dead, it was said Argoth would reach through to the other side and punish the man for slacking. Not even death would hide his men from discipline and drilling.

“Skewered, Captain,” said Varro. Then he winced. “Only a scratch, mind you. I’ve got a jig”—another wince—“or two still in me.”

Argoth smiled grimly. The cut into Varro’s bowels might prove to be his death. Yet another life consumed by this weave.

“What were you doing, running like that?” Argoth demanded.

“The weave,” said Varro. He took in a sharp breath. “It failed.”

But that was impossible.

Argoth picked up Varro’s hand and looked at his ring.

The ring was gold. Cursed gold. Not black with magic, not even gray. Grass, silver, or gold, it didn’t matter what the weaves were made of; when the Kains drew Fire into them, the device turned as black as a crow. The more power that went into it, the blacker the weave. But this one was now nothing more than a ring.

Argoth finished untying Varro. It was possible to damage a weave so that it leaked Fire. Argoth asked Varro if he might remove it, and Varro consented. Argoth held it up in the light, acting as if he were inspecting it, and probed it with his own magic. There was no flaw. The Fire had simply been used up. The magic was gone.

There were only three other such weaves among the Nine Clans with any blackening at all. All the rest had run dry. And Argoth could not fill them. Not because he didn’t know the secrets. He knew the forbidden lore and had secretly bled his Fire into a number of the weaves they had. No, he simply didn’t have any more Fire to give. He’d already sacrificed enough Fire to reduce his life by tens of years. Measuring the Fire of a man’s days was an inexact art; he feared if he gave any more, he would forfeit his life. And he couldn’t gather the Fire publicly. The Clans would rise up and kill him for that.

“There will be more,” said Varro. “What are we going to do?”

He meant the Bone Faces, coming in the dead of night, with only a crust of moon in the sky, dozens of galleys scraping up on the beach. They would come, their dark faces painted as white as bone. They would come as they had for the last four years.

Except this time they would easily overpower the force of the Nine Clans because the Nine had no Divines. They didn’t need those who were Kains or Skir Masters. They just needed one Fire Wizard, a Divine who could fill their weaves of might. But they had none, which meant they also had no dreadmen.

“Mokad will send a Divine,” he told Varro. “Why would they abandon us? Now muster your strength. We’ll get you back to the fort and have the surgeon look at you.”

The Bone Faces had come last year with dozens of dreadmen in their armies. Only Argoth’s seafire had saved the Nine Clans. But it would not save them this year. The Bone Faces knew about the fire that burned on water. They would not make the same mistake of letting their ships be caught on the sea.

But even if they did, with dreadmen at their oars they would easily outdistance the clan galleys. His ships might be able to spew fire, but they’d never catch their prey.

Argoth cursed. In his heart he cursed Lumen, their Divine, their only wizard, who’d disappeared last year. He cursed Mokad for not sending another.

Unless the boy Glory of Mokad, the overlord of the Mokaddian Divines, sent help, the Nine would stand unmultiplied before their enemies, and they would fall. The boy Glory had failed to subdue the islands of the Kartong, failed to heed advice and prepare for the famine that blasted Mokad a few years ago, failed to protect them against the Bone Faces. Weren’t his failures proof enough that the Creators had nothing to do with the selection and raising of Glories and Divines?

Argoth called his men to make a litter. Gut wounds were evil and tended toward corruption. They could only wait and see if Varro would survive. Of course, if they’d had a Divine or a working healing weave, they might be able to better Varro’s odds.

He turned to the three Bone Faces lying on the ground. He needed information, and he needed it now. He commanded that the two prisoners who seemed likely to survive their wounds be stripped and bound to a tree at the edge of the meadow. While the prisoners were being dragged off, he helped Varro onto the litter.

At that moment a company of men on horse thundered out of the ravine and into the meadow. Argoth turned. He immediately saw it was Shim, the warlord of the Shoka, Argoth’s clan. When they came closer, he saw that Bosser, a captain from the Vargon Clan, rode with them.

Shim pulled his large chestnut horse up in front of Argoth. It was slicked with sweat and tossed its head. Shim was not a large man, but wiry, weathered like an old post, and cunning as a snake. His voice was as dry and raspy as weeds.

“Always in haste,” Shim said. “Can you never wait for us?”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” said Argoth. “I believe it’s in my lord’s nature to be like a blister: always showing up when the work is done.”

Shim grinned.

Bosser, who grew a short-haired mustache on both sides of his mouth down to his jaw, laughed.

But Argoth did not feel the humor of his own joke. “Varro’s weave is as gold and shiny as a lady’s ring.”

Shim’s face soured. He grunted. He motioned at the Bone Face prisoners with his chin. “At least I’m not too late for that.” He turned in his saddle and addressed his captain. “Bring my tools.” Then he rode to the prisoners who were each tied up at a tree.

He took his tooth pliers from the bag his captain gave him and turned to the Bone Face who seemed to be holding out the best. One of Shim’s men spoke the Bone Face language. Shim turned to him. “Tell him I want to know where their island base is. Tell him he’s got one chance.”

The translator relayed the message. When he finished, the Bone Face spat at Shim.

Shim narrowed his dark eyes. “So be it,” he said. He turned to his captain. “Get the wedge.”

The captain withdrew from the bag a brass wedge used to force a man’s mouth. Argoth took the Bone Face by the hair to steady his head then worked the wedge into the man’s mouth. Shim gripped one of the Bone Face’s molars with his pliers.

The man groaned and bucked, but Shim was not a man to play games. The Bone Faces had slaughtered thousands for no other reason than that they could. Shim squeezed the pliers, and with a sharp yank, pulled the tooth out.

The Bone Face cried out. His head lolled down with the pain. Blood mixed with saliva and drooled out the corner of his mouth. He looked up, rage in his eyes.

Shim held the bloody tooth out for him to see. “I’m fully prepared to hold you prisoner for a future exchange. But it’s going to cost you some information. I am not a man that will be delayed.”

The translator relayed the message in that sour Bone Face tongue.

The Bone Face replied.

The translator arched an eyebrow. “He says only a woman would think of taking a tooth.”

Shim simply shook his head. “Perhaps we should cut off something more important to him.” He pointed at the man’s groin. “Tell him we’ll take one, and if he still doesn’t talk, we’ll take the other.”

The translator relayed the message.

Arogth looked at the second man. Shim’s performance was having its intended effect upon him.

“Where is your ship?” asked Argoth.

The translator spoke.

At that moment, a messenger rode into the meadow at full gallop. He called out to two soliders searching the saddlebags of a Bone Face horse for the location of the warlord. One pointed in Shim’s direction. The messenger galloped through the tall grass to Shim.

“What is it now?” Shim asked.

The messenger looked down at the prisoners. “My Lord,” he said. “May I suggest a more private place?”

Shim sighed. “Probably more council instructions. Very well.” He turned to his captain. He pointed at the Bone Face who had lost a tooth. “Lay out all our tools for them to see. A little think should do them good.”

“Forgive me, Lord,” the messenger said. “But I was asked to give the message to Lord Bosser as well.”

“Very well,” said Shim. He turned to Bosser and Argoth. “Why don’t you both come?”

They walked a number of yards away and stood in the grass.

“What is it then?” asked Shim. His voice was so dry it made Argoth thirsty.

“Sleth have attacked at the village of Plum,” said the messenger.