Curse: The Dark God Book 2

by John D. Brown

  “No,” the big blond said. “Blunts won’t do it. I know. I sailed with the blighter, and he was murder to fetch out of the rigging.”

  His accent marked him as a mainlander.

  “And who might you be?” asked Shim.

  “Flax from Lem,” he said.

  “Lem,” said Shim thinking. “That’s old country.”

  “Yes,” he said. “My cousin Silver wrote me about the wonders of this place. I’ve come to join him. Maybe see if one of the clans will let me open up new land.”

  Argoth perked up his ears. That statement was part of the code he’d written in his call to the Groves. In order to make more land arable, the clans would sometimes make an offer to any who would do the work. If they cleared the land, they could get the tenure on it as well as the first year’s rent. And so making such a claim wouldn’t seem unusual. The part that marked him as someone from a Grove or order was the cousin named Silver.

  Shim knew the code as well. He said, “There are a lot of Silvers here. Which one were you referring to?”

  “A hayward with the Vargon clan,” he said. His left hand hung nonchalantly down by his side, but it was held with the index and small finger pointing straight out, the other fingers and thumb in. It was the first sign and identified a man as a user of the forbidden lore. Of course, knowing the sign didn’t mean he was a fellow loreman. The Divines had their spies and infiltrators as well. This Flax could very easily be one of them. Only when he’d passed the other tests would they know.

  Then the blond made the sign that identified him as part of the Hand of Mayhan. The men of the Hand were killers. Sleth of the darkest stripe that hunted down dreadmen and priests. In their long years as an order, they had even killed a handful of lesser Divines.

  Argoth had sent no message to any in the Hand. All those in the Hand that he’d known personally had died or disappeared long ago. But that didn’t mean his message might not have been passed on.

  Argoth eyed him warily. “I don’t know you, Zu,” he said.

  “No, but there’s one of yours who can vouch for me, even though he might not like to do so.”

  Argoth was going to ask who, but one of the soldiers shouted out, “Got him!”

  Up on the roof the naked Mungonite glared, then turned back to the bird. The second soldier loosed his shaft. It too struck the man in the back and glanced off.

  The man flinched, but crabbed a bit closer to the bird.

  “That’s going to make a smart bruise,” Shim said.

  The soldiers nocked more arrows. The Mungonite crabbed a bit closer to the bird, which eyed the fish. Then the Mungonite sprang forward and caught the bird in a great flapping of wings and loud squawks.

  The solders raised their bows.

  The Mungonite looked down at them, gritted his teeth, then ran down the far side of the roof.

  The bowmen moved to get a clear shot, but the Mungonite jumped to the next roof, scrambled up to the top, ran to the back, and leapt to the roof of a barn.

  The hammerman yelled to his soldiers to give chase.

  The Mungonite ran to the end of the barn roof, jumped, flying out over a girl in a pea green frock who was leading a cow out to its pasture. It was an amazing leap. An inhuman leap.

  He broke his fall with a roll, then was up in the blink of an eye, running for the woods.

  The big blond said, “Even if your men catch up to that Mungonite priest, they’re going to have a time roping him. Our naked friend has skills.” He emphasized that last word. “It would be easiest if someone with equal skill went after him. Let me fetch him for you. We’ll call it a gift of good intent.”

  A Mungo priest? If that were true, it would mean he wasn’t sleth. But if Mungo were going to send a spy, it would not have been a lunatic wearing nothing but a blue scarf about his neck.

  Shim regarded the big blond for a moment. “Flax, is it?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “You bring him to me at the fortress, and we’ll talk.”

  The naked man raced across the pasture, bird in hand, heedless of the effect his speed was having on the people in the square, who were all moving down the road to watch him.

  Flax smiled. “I’ll have him before the morning’s done.” Then he walked over to a hitching post, untied a fine saddle horse, and mounted it. Then he rode off after the crowds.

  Shim watched the big man for a moment, then turned back to Argoth. “That Mungo has no sense of fashion, but, Regret’s arse, he can move. Did you see that?”

  “It was hard to miss,” said Argoth.

  “Scampering around like a squirrel, batting away arrows—I want him in our army.”

  Argoth looked around. Almost everyone was trailing down the road after the spectacle, including a pack of village dogs.

  Argoth pitched his voice low. “No. A man like that can’t be counted on.” There were indeed many that might bear the title of sleth that would be useful, but it was clear that the Mungonite was damaged. Argoth knew his call would bring all sorts, and he wondered now if he’d made a mistake.

  “I didn’t say put him up front,” said Shim. “I said we could use him.”

  “You know what your opposition claims.” There were those the Clans who feared Shim was controlled by dark masters. “Someone like that would only confirm their bad assessment.”

  “Captain,” Shim said, “you fight lies with the truth. Our friend has skills. If we can learn them, we will. If he turns out to be unstable, then we’ll use him to remove some of the fears the people feel. We don’t want to hide him or make him mysterious. That simply starts rumors and turns him into something to be feared. If we were Divines, that’s exactly what we’d want. But we’re not. I’m going to let the people get up close. I want them to see that he’s nothing more than a man. I want to make him common.”

  Shim had no caution. And yet, hadn’t Hogan said the same of Argoth? He found it ironic that he had taken the role of the conservative now that Hogan was gone.

  “He’s from no group I know,” said Argoth. “We have no idea where he’s from, no idea of his purpose. We need to be careful.”

  “Careful is my name,” said Shim.

  This from the man who was bringing the Order out into the sun. “In your world,” said Argoth, “careful is nothing but a soggy flatulence.”

  6

  Meat

  BEROSUS, WHO HAD GIVEN the false name of Flax to Lord Shim and the sleth with him, rode away to follow the naked Mungonite. Berosus was blessed. There was no other explanation. During Berosus’s recent voyage across the sea, the Mungonite had learned what Berosus was. Being a priest, the Mungonite knew what to look for. But Berosus had prevented him from revealing the secret. However, the Mungonite had still escaped him out at sea.

  All thought he’d jumped overboard and drowned, but here he was, like an offering from the Creators. A gift that would help Berosus begin to earn the trust of Lord Shim and his sleth, Argoth.

  The naked Mungonite ran into the woods. Berosus followed. A few of the villagers wanted to tag along, but Berosus motioned them back. He followed the priest for a mile, and when he was sure he was beyond the eyes of any of the villagers, he called his dreadmen to join him.

  Some priests were nothing more than menial servants, cleaning the living quarters, keeping records. But some were taught the lore and wielded the vitalities, helping with the sacrifices, working in the forges of the Kains, hunting sleth. No spy or messenger would make a spectacle of himself as this man had. So Mungo hadn’t sent him. Something else was afoot. But he’d find out. He’d find everything out.

  When he succeeded here, the Sublime’s approbation would shine down upon him. She would bless him. She might even put him above the Glory himself. He could almost feel the bliss rising though his bones as he and his men chased the priest down a road and into an abandoned ba
rn that lay in the woods near the beach.

  The distant sound of the surf mixed with a flock of gulls that wheeled and shrieked high above. This barn and house had probably belonged to a fisherman, but that had been some time ago. The roof of both the barn and the small house that went with it sagged with holes. There were no shutters on the house. No door. Someone had hauled them off long ago. Weeds grew up all around the base of the structures and in the yard.

  And yet Berosus smelled the remnants of wood fire. As if someone was hiding out here.

  Movement in the small farmhouse drew his attention. Berosus motioned for one of his men to deal with whoever was there. He assigned two others to search the perimeter for anyone else, and then he turned to the barn. Its old doors were closed.

  “Friend,” he called. “You escaped on the ship, but there are no prying eyes to hold us back here. Come out, and we’ll talk.”

  Something knocked inside the barn.

  “Come,” said Berosus. “Do not try my patience.”

  Berosus had multiplied himself. He’d been multiplied for some time now. There were levels of dreadmen and Divines. Most breeds of men could not progress past the second or third level. There were a few individuals who could multiply themselves to the fifth. But Berosus went beyond even that. He was as different in his breed from those who were meat as a staghound is from a lapdog mutt. As different as a gummy-eyed barn cat is from a lion. There were things that happened when you could multiply at this level. Things beyond strength. For example, he knew exactly where the priest stood, for he could hear his breathing.

  Berosus signaled his men to stay back. Then he walked up to the barn doors and opened both of them wide. The priest stood exactly where Berosus knew he would be, a two-tined pitchfork in his hands. He lunged forward and stabbed Berosus in the gut with it. Berosus let him. If you did not know the bitter, you could never taste the sweet. Pain blossomed inside him, and he savored the sensation.

  The pain would soon pass. His blood would soon clot. The wounds to his bowels would mend. When multiplied at this level, the healing process became miraculous. Yet another sign of the Creators’ favor and his superior breeding.

  “That won’t do,” said Berosus. “It really won’t.”

  The priest pulled the pitchfork out and lunged again. He was fast, but Berosus caught the fork. He wrenched it out of the man’s hands and cast it aside.

  The priest picked up a fishing knife that lay on a table and slashed. But Berosus grabbed the priest’s knife hand, twisted, and broke the man’s wrist.

  The man winced with pain, wrenched his arm free, and stepped back.

  “Who is your master?” Berosus asked and stepped forward. “Who sent you?”

  With his good hand, the priest picked up an old wooden mallet and hurled it at Berosus’s head. He was a strong man, multiplied. The mallet would have smashed a normal man in the face, for none of the lesser breeds would have been quick enough to avoid it. It would have struck a dreadman of the third. But to Berosus it was as if a child were tossing him a ball. He batted the old mallet away and took another step forward.

  The priest backed up against the wall of an animal stall, eyes darting. He was going to try to bolt past Berosus, but before the priest could move, Berosus reached out and grabbed the man by the throat, hauled him off his feet, and slammed him into the wall. Not to kill him, only to daze him a bit.

  The priest tried to swing at Berosus, but Berosus slammed him into the wall again, bouncing the Mungonite’s head smartly against the wall, then dragged the man out of the barn and into the light.

  The priest might have been of a lesser breed, but he was strong. And he did not quail. Berosus had to give him credit. There was nothing but murder in his orange eyes. And they were wonderful eyes—wild with darker flecks.

  “Hold him,” Berosus said.

  Two of his dreadmen converged on the man, grabbing his arms and twisting them behind his back. When they’d secured him, Berosus pulled down the blue scarf. He expected to see a thrall, but there was only a scar where a thrall had been.

  The priest looked up with angry satisfaction in his orange eyes. “You can’t hold me,” he said with a thick Mungonite accent. “There’s no thrall that can catch me.”

  “We shall see,” said Berosus. Thralls grew into a person. In some instances, depending on the type of thrall, the weave itself became unnecessary. He felt the man’s neck, expecting to encounter the binding of master to servant, but none was there.

  Now, that was interesting.

  Once someone was accepted into the service of the priests, they never left. It was forbidden. They were thralls for life. But the fact that nothing was there meant this priest had escaped his thrall.

  Berosus pulled a weave from his pocket. It looked like a thickly segmented necklace.

  When the priest saw it, he bucked, but the dreadmen held him, and Berosus placed the weave about his neck and clasped it shut.

  It was a king’s collar, a weave that prevented its wearer from using many forms of the lore. It would cut the priest off from his ability to multiply his Fire. Berosus waited a few minutes for the weave to fully take hold.

  He said, “I have always appreciated the Mungonite form. It’s a good breed, and your eyes—the amber in the sun is quite amazing.”

  Above them the gulls cried.

  “You’re sleth,” said Berosus. “Did you also receive a call from Argoth?”

  The priest shifted.

  “You are going to tell me everything. There’s no sense in fighting. The only question is whether you’ll be of any use to me. If so, I’ll let you live.”

  Berosus wore his honors on his hands. It was common enough, and wouldn’t raise any questions. Many clans wore their honors there. However, he also wore the eye of Mokad in the palm of his left hand. It was a weave, grown into his skin, that allowed him to reach into the souls of those who’d been marked. It was not made with metal, but with a part of the Sublime’s own flesh. Anyone looking at his palm would see nothing more than common tattoos. But to those upon whom he laid his hand it would burn like flame.

  Berosus placed his hand upon the priest’s head and pushed through the bindings of flesh and soul. Oddly, he did not feel the normal initial wall of resistance. He pushed farther, and suddenly there was nothing. It felt like he’d entered a broken and windswept room.

  Usually he would find an intelligence waiting for him. He would ride it, bring it to heel. There would be a struggle. But there was none of that here.

  The priest began to laugh.

  Berosus searched for the man’s soul, but found gossamer tatters. Thoughts passed by him, but they were as elusive and insubstantial as cobwebs.

  “Fish,” the priest said, laughing. “The skin that shines, the belly that’s soft and white. You won’t have me, Seeker. You’ll never have me. I will never again be someone’s dog.”

  Berosus stepped back and thought. The gulls cried above them. One lone black-headed gull stood upon the peak of the house roof. It stutter-stepped to one side, revealing that it was missing one toe. This was the bird the priest had been courting back at the village. Berosus looked back at the priest.

  His mind flashed back to the ship. When he’d gone for the priest, the man had escaped up the rigging. Just before Berosus had reached him, a gull had cried and flown away from the crow’s nest where the man had secured himself.

  That too had been a black-headed gull.

  Suddenly it all became clear. “Friend,” Berosus said. “That’s a dangerous and tricky lore. Easy for things to go wrong, eh?” It explained the priest’s behavior at the village. The lore had indeed gone wrong, and the Mungonite was trying to get his pieces back. Of course, the bird must have been at turns confused and terrified, fighting the soul that tried to inhabit its body. It would only get worse as time wore on. A poor saddling could never be a l
ong-term arrangement.

  “I could use a man like you,” said Berosus. “Come back to the fold, live a good life in the service of your betters.”

  “Never,” said the priest, murder still in his eyes.

  “Never’s a long time,” said Berosus. He turned to one of his dreadmen. “Get that bird. I need it alive.”

  When the dreadmen moved to capture the bird, the priest bared his teeth in a snarl. He kicked back, yanked one arm free. He spun and wrenched his other arm free, then snatched the knife from the sheath of one of the dreadmen and hurled it at the dreadman going for the bird.

  The hilt of the knife hit the man in the head and bounced off.

  The dreadman turned.

  In that moment the gull screamed and launched itself from the roof.

  “I am free,” the priest said with manic glee. “I am free.” Then he turned to run.

  Berosus caught him.

  The priest struggled.

  The man was astonishingly strong. Too strong. Then Berosus realized the king’s collar, having no soul to constrain, wouldn’t have worked on this man. The priest was still multiplied, anger burning in his marvelous eyes.

  The priest chopped at Berosus’s grip, but Berosus kicked the man’s feet out from under him and dropped him face first to the ground. Two more dreadmen fell upon him. The Mungonite heaved and bucked, but the dreadmen held him there.

  The dreadman who’d been charged to get the bird picked up a stone and hurled it at the black-headed gull, but the bird veered, beating its wings wildly, then shot behind the house, then swooped up between two trees. Up to the sky beyond.

  Without the soul that lived in the bird, Berosus couldn’t compel the priest. The bird wheeled higher and higher into the sky. There would be no catching it. Which meant there was nothing more Berosus would get from this man.

  No matter. Lord Shim hadn’t stipulated he bring him back alive. Berosus pulled out his knife.