Raveler: The Dark God Book 3

by John D. Brown

  I’ll break the bond! Talen shouted.

  The urgom began to pierce him in what felt like a hundred places.

  Then Talen realized: it wouldn’t understand words. It wouldn’t speak Koramite or Mokaddian. But it could read his intent just as Talen had read its intent to destroy him. Talen pictured the weave grown into the urgom’s back, pictured the Skir Masters. He pictured the bonds raveling apart and the urgom soaring free.

  The urgom stopped.

  The pain seared through Talen’s whole soul, but he focused and pictured the bonds tattering again, pictured the urgom free, pictured his roamling raveling the weave upon the urgom’s back.

  He felt the urgom struggle with those controlling it.

  A moment passed. Another.

  Suddenly the immense presence released him. It withdrew, out of his body, out of the roamling, and left Talen stunned and gasping in pain. The world about him rushed back in, and he found himself looking up into the trees and blue sky from where his body lay.

  An immense relief surged through him as did the realization that man was nothing. Man was a gnat. A worm. How was it possible something so insignificant could control something so vast as an urgom?

  Harnock’s face moved into view, “Boy?” He shook Talen’s shoulder.

  Far above, his roamlings were still clinging to the hide of the urgom, two tiny snakes on the side of a mountain. Talen’s whole soul felt raw, but he reached out with the roamlings and pushed into the urgom’s weave again. This time the massive presence held back.

  * * *

  The collector curled Sugar up to its belly. There were other, smaller skir living in the hairs there. Gray things that skittered about like giant insects. One hair wrapped itself around her leg. Another tried for her arm, but she yanked it free. She still held the spear, but in moments she’d be immobilized and that wouldn’t matter, so she grabbed the spear with both hands, then stabbed up with all the strength she could muster. There was a slight resistance, then the spear broke through something.

  The collector convulsed.

  She stabbed again. And suddenly the spear was ripped out of her hands, and she was falling along with half a dozen other souls.

  The collector blared its pain. It hissed. The other two collectors backed off a bit.

  Sugar tumbled to the ground, then sprang to her feet and backed away.

  The collector had the spear in one of its whips. It flung it away and bunched its body up as if to protect its wound. Then it struck out with a whip at another soul.

  And Sugar realized they were going to lose this battle.

  She and the other souls needed to find some hole to hide in, something they could defend. Except the horn would call them out, and only a handful seemed to be able to resist the thralls in their wrists to any degree.

  One of the souls that the collector had dropped ran back to the monster and raised his arms like a child wanting to be picked up. “Don’t leave me!” he cried.

  At the other end of the field, the Walkers that had been guarding the Skir Masters were moving forward against the few who had been able to resist the horn.

  Collectors above. Walkers and howlers below. Sugar despaired. There were simply too many foes.

  * * *

  Black Knee backed away from the scaffold, bow in hand. Fish and Russet pulled back with him, hands on the pommels of their weapons.

  A terrible melancholy welled up in Black Knee, and he began to weep. He did not know why.

  A tiny part of him cried out that he must not draw the arrow from the arrow bag.

  But the voice of warning shouted over it. The Famished! They are there!

  Fear shot through him. The men on the other side might already be possessed. He drew the arrow, fitted it to the string. The arrow had a good steel head that was long. Good for piercing through armor at close ranges.

  Commander Eresh stood on top of the boulders holding one end of a rope. The men on the ground tied another load of poles to the other end of the rope Eresh held. When they finished, the commander began to haul them up. A few more loads and Black Knee suspected they’d have all the materials they’d need to finish the ladders on the other side.

  But they must not finish them.

  Black Knee looked at Russet and Fish, looked back at Commander Eresh. He would need to shoot Eresh first. Then Fish would need to climb up the scaffold himself with an axe and break it all apart. If the men here resisted, he would fight them. And he would win. He’d survived the forcing and now wore a dreadman’s weave. These men hadn’t even been made candidates yet. They would be slow, and he and Russet would cut them down if they did not listen.

  This whole scene was unreal, as if he were watching it from someone else’s eyes. As if it were a foggy dream. He blinked and wiped his unaccountable tears away. Then he raised the bow, drew it, and aimed at Commander Eresh standing above. It was a strong bow. A close shot. With an arrow point designed to pierce armor.

  * * *

  Argoth ran along the wall walk, past a fist of men fighting Mokaddians trying to come over the parapet. Up ahead Mokad wheeled a ladder with a boarding bridge toward a part of the wall where the crenellation had been demolished. A number of Mokaddian soldiers had already climbed the wheeled ladder and clung to it like ants. And Shim’s men couldn’t shoot them off with arrows because the skir winds were howling like a gale down the battlements to defeat any defense with arrows or seafire.

  As soon as the ladder was close enough, they would drop the hooked wooden bridge and storm over it to the battlement. Argoth was tempted to help his men who were preparing to jump up on the bridge when it was lowered and try to storm the men wanting to rush over it, but there were bigger problems down in the gap made by the fallen hoodoo.

  Just before he reached the hammer of men waiting for the bridge, he jumped from the wall to the stairway descending to the courtyard, and then to the ground below. His wounds stung and throbbed, but he ignored them, rolled when he landed, and then continued to run toward the gap.

  Groups of men waited in reserve in the courtyard. Shouts went up from one of these groups to look out for stones, and then men quickly raised their shields.

  Argoth looked up and saw a rain of dark stones falling from the sky. He raised his own shield and dodged to the side. A number of stones thumped into the shield. One struck the side of his leg, but he kept running.

  The twenty foot section of wall that had buckled and fallen after the hoodoo was now a jumbled pile of stone and rubble ten feet high. Vance had fought enemy troops charging up the pile, but the top of such a pile is awful ground. The jumble of stones made it almost impossible to maintain a solid line. And Vance’s terror had been beaten back. Vance himself had fallen. His standard was lying at the base of the pile.

  Vance’s slingers were hurling stones and lead shot at the Urzarians clambering over the top. But the Urzarians had shields and armor. And the slingers were being forced to retreat back down the pile of rubble.

  Argoth rushed to the base of the gap, raised Vance’s standard, and planted it in the soft dirt of one of the trenches at the base of the pile of rubble. The best place to meet the enemy’s charge was at the bottom of the pile. That way the enemy’s line would be ragged as they tried to make their way down over the rocks. It would also expose them to slings and javelins.

  Argoth shouted over the wind and motioned for the reserve soldiers to form up. A terrorman urged his troops forward, shields raised over their heads against the occasional volleys of stones that were still falling from the sky.

  They formed up around Argoth. The front men lowered their shields in front of them. The men behind held theirs aloft like a roof. Argoth drew his short sword and roared into the wind, watching the ragged line of Urzarians try to advance over the rubble.

  There were maybe a hundred in this first group. Their beards flowed out
from underneath their helmets. Their eyes raged with murder. They held their shields before them. The slingers continued to throw their stones and lead. Many of the missiles simply bounced off the shields. But one man was hit in the face; he tripped and fell, making two others stumble on the rocks. Another man was hit in the leg. But the majority continued to come.

  Argoth waited at the base amid a scattering of stones. It was difficult to hold a line. Your body cried out to charge forward and meet your enemy. Or, if fear had seized you, to flee. Vance’s men held their line at the bottom. The Urzarians coming down did not. They saw their quarry. Saw how few in numbers they were. A group of Urzarians roared and charged. The roar spread, and suddenly the mass of men were hurrying, jumping, stumbling down the rocks.

  Vance’s men stood their ground and braced themselves. A tighter formation always had the advantage in a clash like this because a tight formation allowed two or sometimes three men to fight just one of the enemy who was in a looser formation. Furthermore, the men in a tight formation were less exposed to the blows of the enemy.

  The Urzarians tried to form up, but the blood lust was upon them, and they crashed into Vance’s line, trying to shove shields aside so they could stab and thrust.

  A huge black-bearded man slammed into Argoth’s shield. But Argoth was multiplied. He hit the man’s shield with his shield boss, knocking it to the side. Then he lunged forward with his sword, a straight thrust into the man’s belly. The sword pierced the mail, pierced the padded tunic underneath. Argoth felt the give as it slipped into the flesh. He twisted the blade, then pulled it out, and stepped back.

  The big man bellowed, brought his axe around. But the Shimsman next to Argoth thrust his sword into the man’s neck, right up under the base of his jaw, and into the skull, and the big man fell.

  There was now a wide gap exposing the Urzarian to Argoth’s right. Argoth stabbed forward into the man’s side, piercing mail and tunic again. The man cried out.

  Someone cut the man’s calf, and he fell back, creating an obstacle for the men behind.

  An axe slammed into Argoth’s shield, splitting a hole in it. Argoth shifted to his left, punched the boss at the axeman’s face.

  The man raised his shield to protect himself, and Argoth crouched and stabbed into the man’s groin. The leather strips turned his blade, so he stabbed again, this time punching through and cutting the man’s inner thigh. The man swung his sword down, but the man next to Argoth raised his shield and shed the blow. Argoth stabbed just under the man’s coat of plates. His sword broke through muscle wall of the belly. He twisted the blade and pulled it out.

  The unholy rage of battle filled Argoth. Made him feel invincible. And as a loreman of many years against these unmultiplied, he was invincible.

  All around Argoth men screamed and grunted, but the Urzarians had been too eager. And more of their men fell. Argoth thrust the point of his sword into another man’s face, cleaving the skin along his jaw and breaking teeth. Vance’s man on Argoth’s left stabbed the man in the side, and he fell.

  And then the remaining Urzarians were falling back, scrambling up the slope of rubble.

  A cheer rose from Vance’s men.

  “Hold your ground!” Argoth shouted, although he knew most of the men wouldn’t hear it. They would want to pursue now that their targets were easy, but to fight on those rocks was death.

  “Hold your ground!” he shouted again and motioned for the men to stay back. The men next to him picked up the order and shouted it down the line. And Vance’s men held, the wind and dust and black seafire smoke gusting about them.

  The original line of Urzarians fled over the wall, past another line of men coming up. The new group crested the pile of rubble. Their helmets gleamed silver blue with faceplates fashioned to look like snarling wolves, faceplates that turned their eyes to dark pits. They wore black tunics over their armor. The rawhide leather covering their shields was dark gray. And on the dark shields was painted the outline of a wolf’s head in white.

  The war wolves of Urz.

  These were men bred to be dreadmen. In Urz there were wolf studs, dreadmen with superior strength and speed. And families paid to have these men breed with their wives or daughters or slaves. For if the child was called up to the ranks of dreadmen, the family would receive not only honor, and the wealth of war, but their line would then also become a breeding line. And the sums paid to the most fearsome wolf studs were great.

  The war wolves of Urz were literally a breed apart. Magnify a worm, and all you have is a slightly stronger worm. Magnify a wolf, and you had something truly terrible.

  Argoth looked down his line. Most of the men with him did not even wear a candidate’s weave. Murmurs of fear rippled through the formation.

  The jumbled rocks would give Argoth’s ranks of men an advantage, but not a big enough one. They would fall to the wolves.

  He looked up at the battlements. Soldiers from Mokad’s army had broken through in many places and were now fighting on the wall walks. He looked at the gate. Shim and the dreadmen were being forced back. He looked toward the arches at the back of the fort, but there was no sign of Eresh.

  The army was at the precipice. The lines were going to buckle. And when they broke, the slaughter would begin.

  He thought of Serah and the children. A cohort of older men and boys too young to fight were with them. They would go into the south lands. They would carry the truth with them. They would keep the light of knowledge alive.

  He would need to follow, to be there when Nettle entered the world of souls. He prayed to his ancestors and steeled himself.

  Then the war wolves of Urz began to make their way down the pile of rubble.

  “Stand your ground!” Argoth roared over the wind. “Then kill them like we did the last ones!”

  * * *

  High above the battle field, Talen brought all his roamlings to bear on the thrall in the skir. He bit and tore. Fire sprayed forth. But this thrall was so immense it was like eating a whale.

  Talen felt the doors to a Skir Master open. Then another door to someone connected to the Skir Master. The Skir Master tried to attack him, but Talen struck out at him with one of his roamlings. The Skir Master roared and charged again, but Talen met him and stopped his attack. With the other roamlings, he continued to ravel, the fire and soul flying about him. He fought and raveled, time stretching. And then the Skir Master was gone. Not long after that, he found himself surrounded by nothing but tatters.

  The urgom shuddered. It examined Talen once more, almost suffocating him, then it hurled his presence out, hurled his roamlings from its body, and slammed its doors shut.

  The massive creature careened away from the fort and roared. It roared again, this time even louder. The sound was immense. It shook Talen’s roamlings until he thought they would fall apart. It shook his body of flesh, driving him to his knees.

  The orange skir darting about the field seemed to wither. A few fell to the ground and lay there as if dead. The larger golden long-haired skir scattered.

  The urgom roared again and seemed to shake the very earth. Then it flew at the Skir Master.

  One of the other big urgom trumpeted a challenge and intercepted it, the two great creatures colliding above the battlefield.

  The second urgom was protecting its master. It was still enthralled. But that could be fixed. Talen knew the thrall. Knew where it would be located. He sent two of his roamlings to the urgom protecting its master; he sent the other two to the skir flying over the fort.

  29

  Seafire

  THE ROAR OF the massive blue urgom stole all thought from Sugar’s mind. It flattened her to the ground, cut her to the core. Another wave of pain burned along the bones of her flesh, making the soul wound she’d inflicted upon herself by using the necklace even worse.

  But this was unlike anything she’d
felt before. Her very bones felt like they were aflame, and she realized she needed to get back to her flesh.

  This was what Withers had warned her about.

  She pushed herself up onto her knees, trying to gather her strength. The collectors had fled. Above her, two of the blue urgom struggled against each other. She didn’t know what was happening, but she wasn’t going to wait for those collectors to come back. However, before she fled back to her body, she needed to help the others get as far away from that horn as possible.

  In pain, she climbed to her feet, saw a soul spear lying not too far away, and picked it up. All about her the souls of Shim’s men were rising and shaking themselves.

  Over by the Skir Masters, the howlers barked like Regret himself was among them. Each of the Walkers was holding the leash to a number of the spiked howlers that strained to be released.

  “Shimsmen!” she shouted. “Find your weapons!”

  Men finally began to move.

  “Here!” she called. “To me!”

  The two behemoth skir locked in battle overhead roared and careened toward her. Such mass would surely crush her soul. She dove to the ground, sure that her soul would be squashed. But the skir passed an arm’s length over her head, clacking and groaning, then thundered into the ground beyond.

  Sugar and those around her looked for an escape. The struggling skir blocked the way to the plain. The Skir Masters and Walkers were coming from the river. The fort and cliff were behind them. “Up the canyon!” she cried.

  A wave of pain washed through her, and she sagged against the spear. She waved the souls coming to her on, and they rushed past her toward the canyon.

  “Are you all right?”

  She looked up. A soul holding one of the Walker’s red blades stood before her. She recognized him. The men had given him the nickname of Charge because he was always jumping the battle lines. In life, he’d been a wiry man with a face scarred by acne. Here his hair was waist-long, his eyes dark and shining. His soul glorious.