The man’s face and head were shaved and painted in yellow, white, and black. Sticking out of his side was the last few inches of a twelve inch crossbow dart. He wore a tunic of otter skins over his mail that was gathered with a red and black sash at his waist. About his neck hung a cord of shark’s teeth. He was still breathing, glaring.
“He’s Bone Face,” the scout said and held out the man’s sword hilt-first to Argoth.
Argoth took it. Letters in Bone Face script had been carved upon the leather wrapping. Argoth turned to the dying man. “Your chief?” he asked in Bone Face.
The man grinned through his pain and made a wretched face. He said something unintelligible in his awful tongue, something about the wind.
Argoth turned back to his scout. “Were there others?”
The man shook his head. “Just this one, Captain.”
An army would have fists and hammers of men positioned as scouts and outriders, not a lone scout, which meant this Bone Face group was small.
Up the hill someone made the warning call of the black crane, signaling they’d found the enemy.
Argoth turned to Oaks. “We’re going in quietly. Tell the men to dismount when they get to the top.”
Oaks passed the order back, and the column moved forward. Argoth scanned both sides of the woods as they rode to the top of the hill and couldn’t help wonder: in all the years the Bone Faces had been coming, they always came to steal goods, livestock, and people, not kill them. Why start killing defenseless villagers now? And what was this blackness?
They reached the top of the hill without incident, quietly dismounted, and tied up the horses. The men removed their bows and other weapons from the saddles. Argoth himself had brought a crossbow and sword. He slung his quiver of bolts across his back and drank the last of his water. When the men were ready, he broke them into three hammers, and then they slipped into the cover of the trees and carefully made their way down the other side of the hill.
As he descended, he got his first glimpse of the blackness through the branches of the trees. It was common enough on some mornings to see small patches of fog lingering in the folds of hills and valleys along the coast. But it wasn’t morning and this mist wasn’t white—it was dark brown, almost black, as if a smoke lay over the village. The mists stretched a few hundred yards across, concealing many but not all of the buildings. The thick heart of the mist flashed, but the colors were all wrong—instead of the red and orange of fire, they were pale lavender and yellow.
Argoth got a better look when he and the three hammers reached the bottom of the hill and crept to the edge of the tree line.
Fishing was a village that lay in the crook where two lines of low hills met. A Y-shaped crossroads sat in the middle of the village. That’s where most of the houses and workshops clustered. But all that was shrouded in the smoky mist. Only a few of the outlying homes were visible. One such home stood along the road up ahead in the thinning edges of the strange darkness.
Three horses lay on their sides in a corral next to the home. In front of the house in the road lay the bodies of a woman and a dog. The mists here were unusual, but they did not move as the Redthorn children had reported.
Argoth scanned the area and heard men’s voices down the lane, from within the village.He took a footlong crossbow bolt from his quiver and placed it in the crossbow. It was true he could put more shafts into the air with a horse bow, but numbers weren’t the only thing he was looking for. A crossbow had a higher speed at close range. Besides, if there were Bone Face dreadmen here, and Argoth encountered them up close, he’d only have time for one shot anyway.
He was about to give the order to move out of the trees, when a man’s scream rose from deep inside the mists. Moments later a great sigh followed it, as if the mists themselves had taken a breath.
The hairs on the back of Argoth’s neck stood straight on end. The men looked at each other in alarm. Argoth turned to Oaks, but he was as baffled and alarmed as the rest of them.
Argoth had never read about or seen anything like this in his life. But he reminded himself that those who held the lore were nothing more than men. Men who fed their own kind to their masters. And he suddenly wondered if they had stumbled upon a feeding, if what created this blackness was one of the Devourers.
He motioned the hammers forward, and the men emerged from the tree line and crossed the open space before them, entering the thinnest parts of the mist. The hammer on is left ran forward and took cover behind a fence. The one on his right found cover behind the corral. Argoth ran up to the house, his hammer behind him. The door and windows stood open. A fire burned low at the hearth, but other than that the house was dark and empty.
Ahead, the towering mists flickered, and another great sigh rose from the heart of the village.
The sound unnerved him. What sort of rough beast would make such a noise?
More houses and buildings lay ahead. Argoth thought he heard the sound of men talking in the Bone Face tongue, but couldn’t see anyone, so he motioned the hammers forward again.
They stole silently across the gardens to the next set of buildings. The homes here were just as the first one had been—dark and empty, thin trails of smoke rising from the chimneys. The hammers moved forward again, hopping fences and passing bird pens.
The mists were thicker here, turning the sun into a smoky, blood-red circle in the sky and partially obscuring the other hammers.
There was another flicker and the mists sighed again, much closer this time. A jolt of fear shot through him. This was surely the breath of something large.
He motioned his hammer out from behind the house, but as they fanned out, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He dropped behind a two-wheeled handcart and motioned for the others behind him to get down.
A small lane ran past a home up ahead and joined up with the road that ran to the heart of the village. Through the mists, two Bone Face warriors forced a short line of women and children down the lane at sword point. The Bone Faces wore the same black and red sash as the man they’d found in the wood. Their faces were painted the same white, black, and yellow. Argoth had not seen this combination of colors on Bone Faces and wondered what it signified.
He gave the signal for his men to hold their bows as the Bone Faces and their captives disappeared into the mists down the lane. Argoth waited a moment more, then motioned the hammers forward.
The men in the hammer on his left moved like ghosts in the mist and disappeared behind a barn. The men in the hammer on his right took up a position alongside a house, the top of which disappeared into the dark, thickening fog. Argoth and his men crossed the road and moved up behind a low wall.
They were close to the Y-shaped crossroad at the heart of the village. He could see movement ahead, but the mists were thick, cutting visibility. It would be foolish to charge in without knowing what they faced. Somebody needed to find out what lay before them, and of all the men here, he was the one best suited to recognize this lore for what is was. So he signaled for the hammers to stay put. Then he quietly lifted himself over the fence and made his way forward through the unnatural murkiness.
The voices of men rose from the mist ahead. A horse nickered. Argoth crept forward to the side of the house that faced the crossroad.Across the road three horses with Bone Face saddles stood tethered to a hitching post in front of another house.
Whatever force the Bone Faces had landed, it was becoming apparent the full army was not in Fishing. This was some small advanced unit.
At the edge of the village the murk was thin, but here it was thick. The mists suddenly glowed and flickered, flashed with the witching yellow and lavender light, and then they exhaled loudly all about him.
Argoth swallowed and crept forward until he saw the crossroad before him.
Long tatters moved in a slow wide circle around the crossroad. Sudden
ly a thick smoky apparition broke away from the circle. It floated along the roof top of the house across the road and curled down its chimney. Another tatter about six feet long moved along the ground and curled around one of the horse’s hind legs. The horse whinnied in alarm and pulled at its tether, the whites of its eyes showing in fear.
A wave of alarm washed up his back and prickled the hairs on his neck. What were those things? A foreboding rose in him—this wasn’t going to end well. But they couldn’t fight an enemy they didn’t know, so he readied his crossbow and crept farther down the side of the house.
A woman pleaded. “Please,” she said. “Please.” A man laughed. But there seemed to be other voices all about him murmuring.
A tatter of mist floated around the corner of the house and came toward him. Argoth pressed himself back against the wall and froze. The tatter approached, but it slid past and continued on.
Argoth exhaled a huge breath. What in the name of Regret had he and his men walked into? His whole body shouted for him to flee, to turn around now, but he forced himself forward. When he reached the edge of the house, he crouched low and looked out at the mist-shrouded crossroad.
A tall wiry man stood in the center. His head was shaven. His chest was bare and painted, not the normal black and white of the Bone Faces, but red and yellow. About his neck hung a necklace of teeth and another of feathers tied to fingers. He held a rough black stone in his hand.
The Bone Faces didn’t order their Divines like the Western Glorydoms. Instead, they had wizards that they called Kragows, which was their term for chief men. This was one of them. There were about a hammer’s worth of warriors with him, some of them dragging bodies away, some of them guarding villagers. Two of the warriors held a woman before the Kragow.
The Kragow muttered something, and it seemed as if the very air about him began to melt, to ripple like old glass. The rippling extended up a number of yards above him and flickered at its edges.
The Kragow spoke again, and the flickering turned violent. A moment later there was a flash of lavender and pale yellow light as a huge rent tore through the rippling. Black mist poured out. As the rippling tore open, it breathed, as if some great beast had opened its maw. But it wasn’t any beast for Argoth could see some different place on the other side of the gash.
Great lords, had that Kragow ripped the very fabric of the world?
Then the Kragow reached, impossibly, into the woman. She groaned, and he pulled forth something as long as his arm that bucked and shone with a pure light.
Argoth watched in horror as the woman cried out and slumped in the arms of her captors.
The Kragow held the shining high. It thrashed, trying to escape, but it could not break free of the Kragow’s grip. It was not clear through the rippling what he did, but the shining thing slowly stilled and stopped resisting. Moments later it began to dull and turn gray. The Kragow shouted and the rippling about the Kragow slowed. The gash between worlds closed up with another sigh. With it went the lavender and pale yellow light. Then the rippling was gone.
The Kragow released the grayness, which rose up and joined the other mass of tatters circling in the mist, circling this Wizard like dogs on a chain. The graynesses seethed, and he realized they were the source of the murmuring.
And then it came to him—wraiths.
That’s what they had to be, but wraiths were things of the world of the dead, not this one. Yet what else could these be?
The woman groaned in pain. A part of her had been ripped out, but not all. Nevertheless, the wounds to the bonds between Fire, flesh, and soul would be fatal. She would die, just as those at Redthorn and Woolsom had. Just as those piled about this crossroad were dying.
Argoth found his breath. He tried to estimate the number of wraiths that roiled in the mist. Were there a hundred, two? Just about the number of those who lived in Woolsom, Fishing, and Larkin.
Argoth slowly drew back around behind the corner of the house, his heart pounding. He had no idea what this Bone Face abomination was doing, but he did know he and his men had to kill him. They had to kill him now.
He turned to his men and signaled the numbers of the enemy, their armament, and placement and waited while his men passed the signal to the other two hammers. He raised his crossbow, checking to make sure the bolt was properly placed. He’d have one good shot, and it needed to sink deep into that wizard’s wicked heart.
Oaks signaled back that the message had been received. Argoth prepared to give the order to charge.
Then a small group of Bone Face warriors with more prisoners marched around a corner and saw his hammers. One of them shouted a warning. Two others drew their bows.
“Charge!” Argoth bellowed and stepped around the corner of the workshop.
The Kragow turned to look at him. Argoth leveled the crossbow, blew out a breath, squared the man in its sights, and pulled the trigger. The crossbow thocked, the bolt shot out and sped like lightning across the crossroad at the Kragow.
The Kragow twisted, snake-quick, and the bolt flew into the inside of his forearm and out the other side, blood shooting out in an arc.
Argoth tossed the crossbow to the side, drew his axe, and charged with a bellow. He was multiplied, his Fire raging.
The Kragow raised his good hand, holding his ragged stone aloft.
Argoth’s men charged past the house. The Bone Face warriors picked up their weapons, but Argoth’s men released a volley of arrows, which streaked across the short distance and pin-cushioned five or six of them.
The Kragow did not flee or draw a weapon, merely looked at Argoth with disgust, the blood running down his one arm and mixing with the yellow paint. The Kragow shouted a command.
Argoth raced across the road, raised his axe for a killing blow, but one of the wraiths shot down and struck at his face. Argoth reeled back. Another wrapped about his arm.
The faint murmuring he’d heard before turned into a wailing of anguish. The first wraith tried to push into his mouth and down his throat. Then the one around his arm bit in, trying to enter his flesh.
He slammed shut his doors, but the dark creature that writhed at his wrist, pushed its way partially through. It clawed and bit its way in further. It was crazed, maddened. Argoth recoiled then realized it was the tattoo—somehow it was giving the thing ingress.
He yelled in anger and focused. The thing was full of menace, but Argoth pushed it out and closed the doors at his wrists. Immediately, the wailing receded.
All around him the wraiths fell upon his men who cried out in terror and dismay. One dreadman slumped to his knees, tearing at his chest. Another stumbled backward.
Many of the Bone Faces had been killed or injured, but the dozen or so that remained raised their weapons. One shot a dreadmen from a pace away with an arrow into his throat. Another charged a dreadman and thrust him through with a spear. One man with a long knife charged Oaks, who was down on one knee, struggling with a wraith wrapped about his arm.
Argoth yelled and hurled his axe. It flew with massive velocity and sank deep into the side of the man rushing Oaks. Argoth turned back to the Kragow who was holding his wounded arm.
But another gray tatter attacked Argoth, and he was forced to stop and fight to keep it from entering him and taking possession. A few more wraiths and Argoth would be immobilized.
The Kragow backed away and shouted out another command. More of the wraiths broke away from the mist.
Argoth glanced about him. All but four of the men in his hammer were clutching at their throats or arms, staggering and fighting the things. The second hammer was reeling in the same way.
It was their weaves, he realized. The weaves opened a door! And even though his dreadmen had practiced closing the paths to the soul, the weaves would prevent a complete closure.
“Take off your weaves!” Argoth roared. “Remove them!”
Argoth ran over to one of them and ripped off his weave. He tore off the weave of another. But the Bone Face warriors were wading in with their weapons. One hacked into one of his men’s neck, then stabbed another in the back.
Two more wraiths fell upon Argoth. Their cries reverberated in his mind, and he staggered and yelled in frustration, struggling to keep them out.
And he realized this fight was lost. They needed to flee.
“Fall back!” Argoth shouted. “Fall back!” He picked up the bow of a fallen dreadmen, nocked an arrow, and shot at the closest Bone Face. Nocked and shot another.
Many of the dreadmen began to fall back, a number of them dragging fallen comrades with them. Most of the third hammer were moving. They’d had been farther back when the attack began and had been able to remove their weaves.
“Give us cover!” he shouted to them.
A volley of arrows sped past him at the Bone Faces. A few struck targets. The rest sent the Bone Faces diving for cover, and that gave Argoth and his men a chance to escape. “Run!” he shouted. “Run!”
The third hammer continued to fire at the Bone Faces, and then the wraiths found them, and they too fled back past the dark silent houses, past the dead animals, down the main road and away from the horrors of that crossroad.
The wraiths attacked Argoth and his fleeing men the whole way. More of his men fell, tangled in the horrible coils, before the remnants of the hammers reached the edge of the village and staggered out of the thinning mists into the sunlight.
They fled another fifty yards, but the wraiths did not follow them into the full sunlight.
“Look,” Oaks said.
The wraiths roiled at the edges of the mist, some darting out, then immediately racing back in.
“It contains them,” Oaks said.
“I don’t want to test that theory,” Argoth said. “And I don’t want to wait for that Kragow to realize he made a mistake. He should have sent his men to chase us.”
Curse: The Dark God Book 2 Page 28
