Raveler: The Dark God Book 3

by John D. Brown

  And all down the wall, more Mokaddian ladders—too many ladders—thumped into place.

  27

  Soul Warrior

  AFTER MOKAD’S ARMY surged forward, Soddam suggested they move up to another thicket. They were now at the edge of the field, and what Sugar saw with the eyes of her soul horrified her.

  A dozen Walkers in their crab-spiked armor were herding the souls of the dead, using their spears to keep the orange skir at bay. Other Walkers were ranging out, calling out to the dead.

  A death ship anchored at the mouth of the river. She knew what was coming: sooner or later those horrid skir they’d used to collect the souls of the dead at Blue Towers would arrive and take the souls to that ship.

  The whole army would be butchered and their souls harvested. The skir had to be stopped. And the only way to do that was to take away the Skir Master’s control. But there was no way Urban’s men would be able to fight through the ranks of Mokad’s army to reach the Skir Masters.

  Withers had told her the lore the Skir Masters wielded gave them power, but it also gave them a vulnerability, changed the nature of the flesh while the lore operated, exposing the soul.

  She peered across the field at the fat Skir Master who’d sat on the rise so he could better survey the battlefield. A body of flesh was dark when compared to soul, but the Skir Master’s glistened. Even from this distance she could see that. This meant his soul was partway revealed. There were two others with him that glistened in the same manner. They wore no skennings, no spiked shell armor. They were exposed.

  Sugar said, “Pray to the Creators for me.”

  “What are you doing?” Soddam asked.

  “Ferrets have teeth, do they not?”

  “Sugar,” Urban said in warning.

  “I cannot stand by and watch,” she said. “If I fail, I fail. But I will at least have tried. There was one time I might have tipped a battle that played out in front of my home. I will not run away from spears again.”

  “You don’t have a weapon,” Urban said.

  “Pray the ancestors come,” she said, “and that I can strike a useful blow.” Then she struck out from the trees, traveling with the speed only a soul could muster.

  * * *

  Talen and the others stood at the edge of the woods just a hundred yards behind the rear of the southeastern part of Mokad’s army. Beyond the army rose the fort where Shim’s men were pinned. Beyond that lay the river with a number of Mokaddian ships on it.

  Harnock crouched over the last of the rear guard patrol he’d just killed.

  Chot looked at the battle at the fort and hissed. “Skinmen are full of shallog.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. The monstrous blue skir dove at the fort, calling to each other in loud whuffs and whistles. Orange skir darted between the behemoths. On the battlefield, the souls of dead horses fled before the greedy orange skir while those of the men rushed to odd spiked creatures with odd spears, which must be guardians sent by the ancestors.

  Then he saw two of those guardians by the Skir Masters and revised his opinion. Maybe they weren’t from the ancestors.

  Harnock returned. “I don’t think you’re going to get any closer. And I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to stay. You should see the size of their dogs.”

  “Then this will have to do,” said Talen.

  After facing Nashrud and his spirit blade, Talen didn’t dare attack the Skir Masters directly. And especially not with those spiked things close to them. But there were only three skir here in operation. He looked up at the creatures and their mountainous bulk. Until now, the weaves he’d raveled had been grown into relatively small things—insects and humans. He wondered if the thralls were any different in such giants.

  The shouts and cries of men in battle carried over the field. Fire and smoke rose into the sky. The souls of the dead continued to gather in front of the fort. Movement on the edge of the field caught his eye: a figure in white ran toward the battle. It was human, but it wasn’t naked like the other souls. This one wore a skein of some sort.

  An ancestor? Or was she some Mokaddian servant? He was out of his depth here; he was going to have to be very careful.

  “Save them,” River said.

  Talen mustered his courage, hoping the orange skir would not notice him. Then he shot his roamlings forth, up past the trees, over the battlefield and toward the closest skir, a monstrous and beautiful blue creature that seemed to fill the sky.

  * * *

  Sugar raced behind a line of trees toward the river. She figured it would be best to come up on the Skir Masters from behind, and from the cover of trees. She entered the strip of woods running along the river and began to make her way toward the Skir Masters.

  Over the battlefield, the orange skir clicked and the big blue urgom trumpeted. In the woods ahead, she saw a column of the white gossamers and moved to avoid them. The piercing sound of a howler rose in the distance and sent a shiver through her, but she continued forward.

  Then she saw a cage on a wagon out on the field and stopped in shock and alarm.

  “Urban,” she said with the mouth of her flesh.

  “Quietly,” Urban said. “You’re going to give our position away.”

  “Legs,” she whispered. “He’s in a cage. Here on the field. About fifty yards down from the Skir Masters. Urban—”

  “We’ll get him,” Soddam whispered in the ear of her flesh. “We will get the boy, I promise you.”

  Ancestors, she prayed. Please come from your hiding place and help us.

  Then she described to Urban and Soddam exactly where he was, the numbers of troops she’d run past on her way here, including the dogmen, and how many were in the hammer that was guarding him.

  “You’ve got to help him,” she said.

  “Soddam’s already moving,” Urban said.

  Sugar turned back to her task and then began to wonder if she’d been rash. What could she do without a weapon?

  She didn’t know, but she knew the result of doing nothing. Da had always said that many ideas only come when you’re on the move, when you’re working. She prayed he was right and picked her way closer to the Skir Masters, following the trees until she stood in soul behind a group of seamen who had come up from the river to watch the battle. And that’s when she saw the Walkers. There were half a dozen of them with howlers on the leash guarding the Skir Masters. Even if she’d had a weapon, there was no way she could fight so many. It would be suicide.

  One of the howlers turned its head toward her. Sugar pulled back behind a tree trunk and froze. She reached out with her hair. She couldn’t feel as clearly with it while wearing the skenning, but she could still feel the presence of the howlers.

  She looked around and finally decided that the best escape would be to take to the trees. As a soul she could run along the limbs all the way to the sea if she had to. She prepared to climb, but the howlers did not approach.

  What was she going to do?

  On the battlefield, Mokad’s troops pressed forward while the souls of the dead leapt from the walls to the protection of the Walkers. There were hundreds of souls there. If she didn’t do something, the whole army would soon be under the control of the Walkers.

  She paused.

  The whole army . . .

  Maybe she couldn’t overcome a few Walkers, but an army could!

  She knew what she needed to do, but it wouldn’t happen here, so she drew away from the Walkers and Skir Master and made her way to the bottom of the field and back to the fort.

  A number of the Walkers guarded the souls of the men, circling them like shepherds circled sheep. There was maybe a fist of them. And there were more Walkers in the fort and on the walls calling to the other dead, directing them to the fold. One of these was maybe fifty paces away with his back toward her, gathering
a group to him and the safety of his pike.

  She looked up at the sky. Three orange skir darted down, trying to snatch a soul from a group being led by a Walker to the main group, but the Walker stabbed up at them and sent them wheeling away. As the orange skir flew up, one of the big blue urgom dove down and caught two of them in its hairs. The rest of the orange skir scattered, flying far out over the plain.

  Sugar figured now was her opportunity, and she ran out of the trees across the field toward the main group of souls.

  One of the Walkers spotted her.

  “Shimsmen!” Sugar shouted.

  A number of the souls turned.

  “These are not ancestors come to protect you!” she yelled. “They’re servants of Mokad’s Skir Master!”

  More souls turned. Other Walkers noticed her.

  “Famished!” one of the Walkers shouted and lowered his soul spear.

  She ripped the skenning cap off her head. “Shimsmen!” she said. “It’s me. Take their weapons!”

  A Walker rushed toward her. Another joined him.

  “It’s Sugar!” One of the Shimsmen shouted.

  A ripple ran through the crowd.

  “It’s a phantom!” a Walker shouted. “Ignore its illusions.”

  “They’re here to harvest you, not protect you!” Sugar roared. “Take their weapons!”

  “Filth!” the closest Walker shouted. He charged, his soul spear lowered. The spear’s blade was smoky red, just like the red blade of the Walker she’d killed.

  She ran from him, skirting the crowd of souls. “The battle is not yet over!” She shouted. “You can fight Mokad still. Take their weapons and attack the Skir Masters!”

  Three Walkers were running at her from different directions. A fourth Walker charged her. She dodged aside, but two others cut off her escape. She tried to charge past one of them, but he scrambled and blocked her. She turned, looking for an escape, but was surrounded.

  And then there was shouting behind her. Five souls were wrestling with a Walker. The Walker struck one with a spiny arm, and the dark essence of the soul began to flow. But the others wrested his spear away. Another soul took his sword.

  “Look out!” one of the souls shouted at her.

  Sugar sensed the Walker coming and sprang to the side. His blade swung down and cut through the skenning on her leg, making a shallow slice across her leg. A glittering essence leaked from her that turned inky black in the air, but it wasn’t a deep wound. She rolled and scrabbled back.

  The Walker advanced on her, but then more souls rushed from the crowd and attacked two of the other Walkers, disarming them and stabbing them with their own blades.

  The Walker coming after her saw the crowds moving forward. He stopped, backed away a few paces, then fled.

  “Take him!” she shouted. “You need his weapons!”

  A number of unarmed souls chased after him, but he turned and menaced them with his spear. He stabbed one soul. Slashed another.

  She had at least some kind of protection with her skenning. They did not. “A spear!” Sugar called.

  One of the souls tossed one to her. It was about as long as her blackspine had been. It felt good in her hands. Furthermore, she felt a power in it and realized this weapon was not an inanimate object—it was alive.

  She charged the Walker. He turned to meet her attack. Sugar feinted a thrust. He parried. Then she charged him, turned the butt of the staff and struck him in the head. He fell back, and one of the naked souls caught the shaft of his weapon.

  The Walker fought for control.

  The weakest point of segmented armor was at the joints. This crab-like armor wasn’t segmented exactly like normal armor, but there did appear to be a thinning where the arms and legs connected. Sugar lunged for the Walker’s armpit.

  He turned, but not quickly enough, and the point of her spear penetrated. She lunged with all her might, and the shaft sank deeper. The Walker yelled in pain, tried to retain his weapon, but the soul of the Shimsman wrenched it free and stabbed the point into the Walker’s face.

  And with that, the souls of the Shimsmen were free.

  “Are you all right?” one of them asked. “Your leg.”

  She looked down, but her skenning was already moving to cover the wound.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said and recognized him. He was the son of a fisherman and the leader of a hammer of men. “Swan,” she said, “We don’t have much time. We need to attack the Skir Masters.”

  “Where are the ancestors?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But we can’t wait for someone else to save us. We need to attack now and give those that live a chance.”

  Across the field, a few of the other Walkers ran from the souls that pursued them, but the souls soon caught up and dragged them down. An orange skir took advantage of the chaos and dove, snatching up one of the Shimsmen.

  Other glistening souls turned to her, waiting for her orders.

  Then a horn sounded across the field. Sugar did not hear it with the ears of her flesh, but with the ears of her soul. The sound reverberated inside her. It was the same call she’d heard at Blue Towers.

  The horn sounded again. The compelling note held, stretching long. Something stirred in Sugar’s wrists, then fell silent again. But around her, the men were exclaiming in wonder. They were holding their hands up, looking at their wrists, at the tattoos that were moving there. Small wisps began to rise like steam from the tattoos. The wisps hovered above the men for a moment, then the horn sounded again, long and loud, and the wisps shot out toward the source of the sound.

  “What’s happening?” one of the men said. “What are those things?”

  “It’s some kind of dark thrall, and the horn commands it,” she said. “You must fight its compulsion!”

  “It’s going to be okay,” the man next to Sugar shouted to the others. He gazed at his upheld wrists in wonder. “The ancestors are coming. That was their call.”

  “That was not their call!” Sugar shouted.

  Down by the death ship, one of the collector skir rose. It looked like a humped ray with a long body. Its back was gold. Its belly was brown. The image of the souls at Blue Towers rose in her mind: all here would soon be wrapped in the hairs of these creatures like flies wrapped in spider silk.

  “No!” Sugar screamed. “No! Fight them. They’re coming to harvest you!”

  Some of the souls did indeed seem to be fighting the compulsion, but others were walking out to meet the collectors.

  “The ancestors are coming to take us to the everlasting burnings,” another soul said and walked past her toward the collectors.

  The horn sounded again.

  “Shimsmen,” she cried, “defend yourselves!”

  The first collector soared over the trees toward the field and reached down with one long whip and plucked a soul up and buried it in the hair on its belly. It picked up another. Sugar ran toward the creature.

  The collector picked up another soul, and another, its half-dozen whips striking down. Two other collectors joined it.

  She ran past a number of souls standing in a stupor, waiting for their doom, and, with all her might, hurled her spear at the collector. It was a solid throw, and the spear struck.

  The creature jerked back, dropped three souls from the hairs on its belly.

  Sugar turned, saw a soul standing motionless, holding another spear, and ran to him. She grabbed the spear from his hand, then felt something wrap around her waist. She struggled, but the collector tightened its grip and heaved her off the ground.

  28

  The Raveler

  TALEN’S ROAMLINGS SHOT high above the field. He didn’t think he was going to be able to catch the huge blue skir, but then it turned, and his roamlings caught up. The size of the creature up close was even more awe
-inspiring. His roamlings were nothing compared to this creature. They were like two blades of grass in a meadow. Like two small stones on the side of a mountain. The Fire and soul of the urgom surrounded him, immense and delicious.

  The monstrous beast rose with powerful speed, and Talen had to burrow deep into its hairs to stay with it. He immediately began to work his roamlings across the body, searching for the thralls.

  The urgom rose a dizzying height above the fort, then dove. Talen continued to search, thinking he’d never find the thrall in time. Then one of his roamlings, the one closest to what must be the creature’s head, found the edge of something that looked familiar.

  Talen felt along the weave imbedded in the urgom’s back and found the weave was huge. It was so large, he could not see where it ended, but it felt familiar, and so he gathered his courage and struck. In a moment he was in, but he was not ready for the presence he met there.

  Before, when he’d attacked the wasp lord, he had felt the wasp lord’s soul, felt it flee before him. This time he faced a vast consciousness, but it did not flee. It turned and regarded him, and before he could begin to ravel the weave, it seized his roamling. From the roamling, its consciousness leapt into Talen himself, filling him up. He had felt panic when River had pushed through the doors of his soul, but this was magnified tenfold.

  “Lords!” he gasped, and the shock of it sent him reeling backward.

  Harnock leaned over his body. “Boy?”

  Talen saw Harnock’s face for a brief moment and the tops of the trees and the sky beyond, and then the monstrous presence of the urgom pushed all that aside and filled his mind. Talen tried to flee, but everywhere he went, the urgom was already there.

  He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

  I’m trying to save you, he shouted in his mind.

  But the urgom did not listen. It pressed forward, took him in its grasp as the orange skir had done. Talen could feel its intent. It was going to kill him. Kill the thing that had tried to worm into its being.

  For a brief moment Talen caught the flicker of a doorway and a man standing beyond the mind of the urgom. He felt the vaguest sense of another. Maybe a group of them. And then they were gone. He’d felt that doorway before with Hunger, felt the Mother beyond it.