Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  Coward, he told himself, and bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He was such a coward.

  “Where’s the handcart?”

  Talen turned. Da sat in the shady side of the barn sharpening his scythe. Relief washed through Talen at the sight of his great horse of a father.

  “Back at the bridge,” said Talen. He took a breath.

  “Ah, that’s what I like to see. A boy who races home to work and leaves the chickens to fend for themselves.”

  “Da,” said Talen. “The Bailiff wants you.”

  “We’re mowing the fields now. The Bailiff can wait.”

  Then he stopped and looked at Talen more closely. “Is that blood? What happened to your face?”

  Talen poured out everything that had happened including his run through the woods. As the story progressed, Da stroked the braids of his beard with increasing anger.

  When Talen finished, Da set his scythe aside and stood.

  “Are you going?”

  “It appears I am,” said Da.

  “Should we bring our bows?” asked Talen. “Or would billhooks be better?”

  “Billhooks?” asked Da.

  “In case we’re attacked.”

  Da grunted. “You’re going out to glean. We’ve got a field that needs stacking.”

  “But the hatchlings,” said Talen.

  “The hatchlings,” said Da. “Son, did you not learn anything from your adventure this morning? Even if the children were sleth, the greater risk is being mistaken for a Soul-eater by an idiot with hunt fever. We’re talking about two children, however ferocious they may be.” Da shook his head. “You said a Fir-Noy rider brought the message? That’s the problem right there.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least give the warnings some credit until we find out otherwise?”

  “Sparrow was a good man,” said Da. He heaved a great sigh.

  Talen had not known the smith very well. However, he’d always wondered about his name. He’d thought it funny that such a mighty man would be named for such a little bird. Talen, Ke, and Nettle were named after noteworthy ancestors. His sister was named so she might be granted all the qualities—the strength, life, purpose—of a river. But Sparrow? Talen had found out that the smith’s family had a long line of Sparrows all named after an actual bird that had saved one of the family’s progenitors from drowning. He’d always wanted to hear that tale, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  A great weariness seemed to descend upon Da. “You could search this whole land. You could search the whole Nine Clans, and not find Sparrow’s better.”

  “But he was sleth,” said Talen.

  Da shook his head. “If Sparrow was sleth, then fish swim in the deep blue sky.” He turned to Talen. “Do you still have the peppercorns?”

  Talen nodded.

  “Give them here.”

  Talen removed the pouch and necklace from around his neck and handed them over.

  Da put the pouch around his own neck, then said, “Get out to the field and help with the stacking. It looks like I’m going to fetch us some hens and go talk to the Bailiff.”

  “You’re going alone?”

  “Yes,” he said and headed for the barn. After a few steps he called back. “By the way, I found your pants wadded up under your bed. They’re lying on the table.”

  “I looked under my bed,” said Talen.

  Da shrugged. “They were there, plain as day.”

  That was impossible. Talen had moved his bed out. He would have seen them.

  Talen turned and went into the house to get his old pants. These were stained, thanks to the Stag Home idiots, with blood and grass, and would take an hour of washing to get them clean. When he came back outside, Da had Iron Boy saddled.

  Da’s unstrung hunting bow stood in the leather bow bag strapped along Iron Boy’s side. He should have been taking his warbow. “I’ll be back before dark,” Da said. He secured what he called the Hog behind the saddle.

  The Hog was an axe with a handle about as thick as four fingers and a shaft as long as Talen’s arm. The head was not broad like a timber axe, but short and narrow with a blade at one end and a pick at the other. But it was used for other things. An archer needed a weapon for close work. He needed something for when he exhausted his supply of arrows. The Hog could pierce armor when wielded by a man half Da’s size, and Da had killed three Bone Faces last year with it. But he did not reverence it as many men would: most of the time he used it to break up the bee propolis in the hives or chop kindling.

  “If you find any sleth,” said Da, “be sure to tell them you’re tough and gamey and not at all fit for dinner.” A little bit of a smile softened his grim expression.

  “Easy for you to say,” said Talen.

  “We’re going to be fine, Talen,” he said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” He picked up the reins and led Iron Boy away.

  Talen watched him go, then scanned the woods and swallowed.

  9

  Hatchling

  TALEN WORKED WITH his brother and sister until midday. His swollen eye hadn’t improved much, nor had many of the aches from the beating he’d taken at Stag Home, but work was work. He stood, took off his wide-brimmed straw hat, wiped his brow, and gingerly felt his ribs.

  Nettle had returned from taking his message to the Creek Widow long ago. He and Talen were hauling three windrows of dried bracken off the hill. Nettle threw another pitchfork full onto the wagon bed and said, “You’re going to milk that all day, aren’t you?”

  “You let the Early brothers kick you, and then we’ll talk.”

  Nettle shrugged.

  Talen ignored him and looked for Da, who had not yet returned, and then eyed the woods. He’d been eying them every chance he got, but after hours of vigilance, and seeing nothing more exciting than three boar rooting for acorns in the distance, he began to think less of the dangers of sleth and more on the promised bounty.

  The reward was a miller’s annual wage. Goh, he could buy a Kish bow for that.

  And why couldn’t a Koramite bring them in?

  Why couldn’t he bring them in?

  Sleth were wiley and dangerous and strong. It was said sleth had animal strength and could twist your head off as easily as a housewife could twist the head off a chicken. So maybe he’d need help. But they were, after all, only children. Not full sleth.

  Talen put his hat back on and joined Nettle in the work again. They piled the wagon high with another dozen forkfuls of bracken, then took it to the last hay stacking site. Prince Conroy, their red rooster, clambered up on top, surveying the world as the wagon moved along. In the meadow, River and Ke turned the rows of cut grass with their hay forks so it could finish drying. A flock of black birds followed behind, picking through the grass for a meal.

  Talen and Nettle spread a thick layer of the long fronds at the base of this last site for the hay they’d use this winter to feed their horse, cattle, and small flock of sheep. A thick bracken base kept a dry layer between the hay and ground. They’d also cut enough for lining bundles of foodstuff, for the rats did not like chewing through it because it made their mouths sore.

  When they’d finished the last stacking site, Nettle said, “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry,” said Talen. “You stinking Mokaddian garlic eater.”

  “Koramite goat lover,” Nettle shot back.

  Talen smiled. This name calling had been their joke for some time now, and with the possibility of Talen being adopted into Argoth’s clan as a member by privilege but not blood, it took on a new meaning.

  “I’ll start on that acre your da wants cleared for the oats next spring,” said Nettle. “You get some food.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be patrolling the coastline with your da today anyway, not here eating up all our food.”

  “No, the Captain wouldn’t let me come on patrol.” Nettle referred to his father this way when he was dissatisfied with him. “He made some excuse again.”

&nb
sp; “He’s just trying to protect you,” said Talen.

  “I don’t want protection. Half of the men resent me because they’ve been ordered, behind my back, to keep me safe. So instead of being a full member of the patrol, I’m a burden. To the other half I’m nothing but a joke. They might as well bring along an infant in arms.”

  “You don’t know what they’re thinking.”

  “I can read a man’s eyes,” said Nettle. “I’ve heard their whispers and seen their patronizing smiles.” He shook his head in disgust.

  Talen didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. Of course, why court death when you didn’t have to? He was happy he didn’t have patrol duties and was about to say this when Nettle looked at him honestly.

  “I envy you,” Nettle said.

  “Me?” asked Talen. Nettle had everything. Looks, wealth, good blood. He might not be a giant like Da or Ke, but he was larger than Talen. And he had a father who was a captain in the Shoka clan.

  “Not you exactly,” Nettle said and grinned. “But your da trusts you. You have your braid. He treats you like a man. You almost have your life taken and he simply dusts you off and sends you out to the fields to work.”

  “If it’s damage you want,” said Talen, “let me find a stick. I’d be happy to give you a good thrashing. Especially since you failed to come to my aid this morning.”

  “See,” said Nettle. “My passivity is becoming habitual. I’m sick to death of being coddled. I want to do something real.”

  No he didn’t, Talen thought. There is no joy in being on the receiving end of the stick. “The acre that needs to be cleared is real,” said Talen. “And don’t worry about stumps. We’ll just plow around them. When they’re good and rotted, they’ll come out just fine.”

  Nettle shook his head, frustrated. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Obviously,” Talen said.

  “We’re almost out of water,” Nettle said.

  Talen picked up the hoggin and found Nettle was right. He turned and saw something move back by the house. A chill ran down his spine. He looked closer, but saw nothing. There were stories of one sleth lord who had lain in wait for his victims in their cellars. Talen and the others had been working out in the fields since before noon. That was plenty of time for hatchlings to move about and hide in a cellar.

  “What are you doing?” asked Nettle. “I thought you were going to get some food.”

  He was getting spooked is what he was doing. He screwed up his courage. “I was just thinking about what we’re going to have for a snack,” he said, then strode toward the house as quickly as his injuries would let him, hoggin slung under his arm.

  Prince Conroy jumped off the wagon and accompanied him back.

  Conroy was fierce beyond all reckoning. To rodents, that was. Or cats. Or weasels. Lately he’d been giving the squirrels what for. But it was his violence with rats that had won him his name. The real Conroy was a prince of story who had scoured his city of a nasty infestation of rats. Talen’s Prince Conroy loved nothing more than to drop like a stone upon a rodent, skewer it with his talons, and then peck it to a bloody pulp.

  There were other roosters that would fly into an attack when they felt threatened or one of their hens screamed. And many chickens might snatch up a mouse and run off with the prize to eat it. But Conroy, it seemed, went looking for rats. He was, in his rat hunting, better than a dog. Of course, he wouldn’t be much against sleth.

  Conroy darted ahead of Talen to chase a white and black butterfly, following it into the tall weeds.

  The barn, old house, and smoke shed stretched away from Talen like a crooked arm on his left while the pigpen, garden, and privy stretched out on his right. As he approached the barn, something made a scuffle by the wood stack alongside the far wall.

  Talen’s heart jumped, and he realized he had no weapon but the hoggin.

  “Conroy,” he called. He made the trill and yip that always brought the rooster. When Conroy came running, Talen looked down at the bird. “It’s time to earn your keep,” he said and pointed to the side of the barn to where the wood was stacked. They’d gone rat hunting like this many times before. He made another trill and yip, and Conroy dashed around the corner of the barn.

  Talen waited and heard nothing.

  He shook his head. This would go down well in the stories: the mighty hunter stays back and sends his rooster in to deal with the danger. Talen took a deep breath and marched around the barn so he could get a good look down the wall.

  Conroy stood alone, eyeing the woodpile.

  So, it was a rat. Talen walked down to the spot where Conroy was and kicked the wood. He expected to hear a scrabble of tiny claws. What he heard instead was someone running away from the back of the barn.

  Talen’s heart quickened again and he thought that maybe he should back away. But that isn’t what a man would do. He’d been recognized by the Koramite Council and granted a man’s braid to hang from his belt. The Koramites didn’t proclaim their clan or male-rights by elaborate tattoos like the Mokaddians did. One small tattoo was sufficient. Your clan was in your blood. What more did you need? Your male-rights were things you earned or lost by your actions. Talen’s braid, which was only to be worn at formal occasions, was kept in a box with those for Ke and Da. It was a simple leather braid with three silver beads. Other men with greater capacities extended their belts and added discs. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless of the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.

  Action, Talen told himself, defines the man. And this man was not going to run back to the meadow—he was going to investigate. He took a bracing breath, then strode to the back of the barn, giving the corner a wide berth just in case something was there.

  Conroy lingered for a moment, eyeing the wood stack, and then trotted after Talen.

  Talen rounded the corner and found nothing. He let out a breath of relief, and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it and watched someone’s back and one of their legs disappear behind the old house.

  His whole body went on alert.

  “Sammesh?” he said.

  Sammesh was the ale-sot’s son. Da had caught him once stealing meat from the smoke shed, but instead of putting some fear into the boy, Da told him if he wanted meat, he’d have to bring something to trade. So from that day on, Sammesh slinked in and out of their place with his trade. Sometimes it was fair; other times, it wasn’t. He’d once taken a rope and left a small bowl of blueberries for it. The blueberries had been delicious, but they were not worth half the value of that rope. Talen had told his da that he was only fostering dishonesty—Sammesh needed to be taught a lesson. But Da, referring to the many bruises Sammesh often seemed to have, said he had received far too many of those kinds of lessons already.

  Talen picked up a short cudgel from the woodpile and walked toward the old house.

  “Sammesh! Come out, or I’ll thrash the stumps with you.”

  There was no answer.

  “An honest trader doesn’t skulk.”

  Something scuffled behind the old house. He paused and listened, but all was quiet.

  Something was there.

  Then he realized the back of the figure he’d seen was too small to be that of an adult. Too small even for Sammesh.

  “Who are you?” said Talen. “Come out.”

  Of course, maybe he didn’t want them to come out. He glanced out at the meadow. Ke and River were too far away to be of any help; and if this were a hatchling . . . who knew what it might do? He wished he had his dogs. Then he realized he hadn’t seen them at all for some time. And that was odd. Where were the dogs?

  Talen called for them.

  Moments later Blue appeared from behind the old house, exactly where the skulker had disappeared. Blue wagged his tail and gave a happy bark.

  Conroy made a low sound and hopped a few paces away. Then, with a great deal of noisy flappi
ng, he flew up to the roof of the smoke shed. Despite Talen’s attempts to make them reconcile, the bird and the dog did not get along.

  The dog’s warren lay underneath the old house on the far side. Blue must have been there the whole time.

  But he should have barked at whoever was here.

  Talen took a few steps, again giving the corner a wide berth, and peered down the side of the old house.

  He saw nothing but Queen wriggling her way out of the mouth of the warren they’d dug underneath the house.

  Perhaps whoever it was had run around. Talen darted back to see between the old house and the barn. If it was Sammesh, he’d clobber him. This was no time to be running about stealing meat. But Talen found nothing.

  So he yelled and ran about the old house itself; halfway around he reversed directions to trick whoever it was. Blue thought it was some game and followed him with playful woofs.

  Talen raced back to where he’d begun. There was nothing, nobody. Yet Talen had seen someone. He wasn’t imagining it.

  He looked down at Blue. What good was a dog that didn’t bark? “You’re a fine fellow,” said Talen.

  Blue licked Talen’s hand, then wiggled his way between Talen’s legs.

  Talen groaned and shook his head. Overfed and underworked, that’s what that dog was. Talen pushed Blue away and gave him the eye. Then he walked over to the side of the old house where he’d seen the figure disappear. The line of the woods was a good thirty yards from here. It would have to have been an exceedingly lively creature to cover that distance between the time Talen had heard that last noise and seen Blue. And it would have had to run very quietly.

  That ruled out Sammesh.

  Goh. He gripped the cudgel tighter.

  He thought of the sod roof. The edges were low enough for someone to climb. They could be up there getting ready to spring. Talen spun around and scampered back.

  There was nothing on the roof.

  He circled the whole house again, scanning the ground for footprints.

  Nothing.

  He took a step back and out of the corner of his eye saw something in the grass: one of their painted wooden spoons lying at an odd angle. He bent over and picked it up. Soft bits of fresh barley porridge still clung to it. Whoever or whatever it was had been in the house and dropped it here.