Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  Da looked at the soldiers, looked at the lead armsman.

  “Drop it,” the armsman said.

  Da tossed the Hog to the ground, then motioned at Talen with his chin. “Put the dogs in the barn.”

  “Get Queen,” Talen said to Nettle, then rushed forward to Blue. He knelt next to him. Blood matted the dog’s fur and blackened the dust. “It’s okay,” Talen said and stroked him across the brow. Blue tried to lick his leg and let out another cry of pain. “It’s okay,” Talen said again, then slipped his hands under the dog. Blue cried out and turned to nip at Talen, but Talen murmured gentle words, stood, and carried him to the barn and laid him on a pile of fresh straw. Nettle came in moments later with Queen and tied her to a post.

  “Fir-Noy rot,” said Nettle.

  Talen ignored him and smoothed Blue’s head and neck. “You’re going to be all right, Boy. How are we going to stop the bleeding?”

  “Compress it,” said Nettle.

  One of the other armsmen appeared in the barn doorway. “You two. Get out here.”

  Blue whined, but these armsmen had violence in their eyes, so Talen stroked Blue’s head once more, then got up and followed Nettle outside.

  “Over there.” The man pointed with his sword at the well. Talen and Nettle moved to the well, the armsman right behind them.

  “Zun,” Da said to the big armsman. “You cannot come onto my land and threaten me.”

  “Actually, Koramite,” the armsman said, flinging that word at Da instead of returning the proper title, “it’s not your land.”

  “You can’t hunt here.”

  “The Council has opened up the restrictions. Hunters are allowed free rein.”

  Da paused. “Then I’ll need to see your token.”

  The big man pointed to his armband. “Are you blind?”

  “Any fool can put on a band,” said Da. “That means nothing. You need a token, even when restrictions are eased. In these lands it’s the Bailiff that determines who will hunt. I’ve already spoken to him about it.”

  “Listen to this clever Koramite,” said the man.

  “It’s Shoka business. Not yours. If you want to search us, you’ll come back with the Bailiff’s token.”

  The man grinned and dropped his gaze like Da had made some joke. He glanced at his men. “I believe this woman is begging me to plow her field.” He turned back to Da. “Are you begging me to plow your field?”

  “Would you allow just any band of men who came along free access to your home? Especially when they demand it at sword point? You need to move on,” said Da.

  “No,” said the man. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them. “Actually we don’t. Now I’ve given you an opportunity, but it seems you insist.” He walked forward. “I know who you are, Zun.” He used the title in obvious mockery. “You think you’re something—a master archer. But you’re nothing more than a high and mighty camp lady.”

  Among some soldiers, bowmen were considered lesser warriors because they fought from a distance and sometimes included women and boys in their ranks. To these soldiers, real warriors stood their ground and faced the men they would kill. Of course, others didn’t share that opinion, and Da had proven himself many times in battle. Besides, bowmen played a vital role, which this armsman’s crossbow men were demonstrating at this very moment. But he obviously wasn’t smart enough to see that.

  The armsman stopped two paces from Da and raised his sword point to Da’s chest.

  “A camp lady, commanding his handful of cowards. Except, oops, you forgot your bow.” He paused. “You know, all this resistance just makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”

  Fear rose in Talen. This wasn’t going to end well. He didn’t know what to do. If he said something about the footprints and sighting earlier, he could get the whole family in trouble. If he did nothing, who knew what this Fir-Noy would do?

  Da looked the man levelly in the eye. “This has nothing to do with hiding. It has everything to do with order. You come back with a token, and you can pry into every cranny. That’s the law. And you know it.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Koramite. These are the facts. One of your own was practicing the Dark Arts. And one of you is harboring—”

  “Ridiculous,” said Da.

  The man raised his sword to Da’s neck. “Don’t interrupt me again. We’re going to search this place. Then maybe you’ll make us some dinner. Afterward, if we feel like it, your tasty daughter there will entertain us.”

  Talen’s heart began to beat in his throat. What was Da doing talking to the armsman like that?

  “This is why hunts are regulated,” Da said. “Now, you goat lover, you’re going to move on.”

  No, Talen thought.

  The armsman narrowed his eyes in anger. “I’m done with that mouth,” he said and lunged to skewer Da in the throat.

  But Da moved. One moment he was standing heron still, the next he dodged to the side and, as the armsman lunged past, delivered a kick to the man’s sword hand with such violence that the sword leapt from the man’s hand and flew to the dust a number of yards away.

  The big armsman gasped, clutched his hand.

  Da delivered another kick to the side of the man’s leg that sent him to one knee.

  “Shoot him!” one of the other armsmen cried.

  One of the crossbow men pulled his trigger. The bow thunked. The dart sped out.

  Da dove over the armsman’s back, rolled away, and came up in a crouch.

  The dart struck the side of the house.

  The other armsman aimed and pulled his trigger. The dart flew, but Da lunged back to the big fallen armsman and the dart flew past and into the wood.

  “Get him,” one of the armsmen shouted.

  But Da took the big armsman’s knife from his sheath, ripped off his helmet, and then held him by a fistful of his shaggy long hair with a knife at the side of his neck where one deep cut would slice the artery. “Back up!” Da commanded. “You—”

  The armsman Talen had forgotten was behind him took Talen by the hair and pressed a knife to his back.

  “Two can play that!” the armsman yelled. “Throw down that knife, you buggered Koramite, or I skewer this boy.”

  Da turned to look at him.

  “I’ll poke him!” the armsman said. “I’ll poke him!”

  Each time the armsman said it, the pitch of his voice rose, and the knife point pushed a little harder into his back.

  There was a deep thud like the sound of a stick hitting a melon, and the man suddenly slacked his grip and fell to the ground.

  Talen turned. Nettle stood holding a hunk of firewood like a club.

  “Good work,” Talen said.

  “Get his sword!” Nettle said.

  Talen bent over and snatched the sword from the dirt. It was heavy and did not feel right in his hands. He picked up the man’s dagger and tossed it to Nettle. Then he felt his back where the man had pricked him. When he pulled his hand away, blood stained his fingers.

  “You call your men off,” Da said to the big armsmen. “You tell them to drop their weapons.”

  “You’re dead, Koramite,” the big armsman said. He tried to break Da’s grip, but Da simply pushed the knife closer.

  “Now,” Da commanded.

  “We can take them,” one of the other armsmen said. The other five armsmen spread out a bit and moved forward.

  Ke darted out, grabbed the Hog, and stood to face them. Ke might be able to hold his own against one of these armsmen, but there were six. Talen wasn’t going to be of much use. River backed up to the house. Talen knew she was going for her bow, but by the time she got in, strung it, and came back out, these men would already be upon Talen and the others.

  Da stabbed the big armsman’s shoulder, then put the blade back to the side of the man’s neck.

  The big man cried out in pain. Blood began to soak into the cloth of his tunic.

  “One more step, and this big fellow bleeds out in my yard,” Da
said.

  “Put them down!” The armsman called out.

  The armsmen hesitated.

  Da pressed the knife closer. Blood welled up on the armsman’s neck.

  “Drop them!” the leader bellowed.

  The men hesitated, then reluctantly dropped their swords.

  “Everything,” said Da. “And kick them away.”

  “Do it,” the leader said. His face was red and strained, a massive vein standing out on his forehead.

  The men threw daggers after their swords. The two with the crossbows added their weapons.

  “River, Nettle,” Da said. “Bows.”

  River and Nettle dashed into the house to retrieve the bows.

  Da stood the big man up. A few moments later, River and Nettle returned. They tossed a bow and quiver to Ke and another to Talen. Talen caught his, strung his bow, and then nocked an arrow.

  Da shoved the big man away; the armsman stumbled forward a number of steps.

  Da said, “I’m going to give you ten seconds to get across that stream. Then I don’t want to see you here ever again. You can make complaints to the Shoka warlord to get your weapons back.”

  The man looked at the arrows pointing at him. “You’re going to pay for this, goat lover.”

  Da took a quick step toward him. The man raised his arm in defense, but Da was too quick. He punched the man, once, twice, in the face and folded his nose to the side. The armsman yelled out. Da stepped forward and kneed him hard in the groin.

  The man doubled over in pain and dropped to one knee. Blood ran out his nose into his moustache and beard.

  Da grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back. “Am I going to see you again?”

  The man sucked in great breaths. “No, Zun,” he managed at last. This time there was no mockery in the tone. “No.”

  “Because if I do,” said Da, “I’m just going to assume you’re one of those men who hasn’t got the sense to know when to leave well enough alone. And there’s only one way to deal with those types. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good,” said Da. “You’re a big man, a fine asset; I’m sure your Fir-Noy commanders would hate to lose one with your good sense. And just in case you change your mind, I’m going to alert the Shoka warlord that there’s someone lost on his lands.”

  Then Da released him, looked at the other hunters, and began his count. “One,” he said.

  These weren’t cowards, but Talen could see they knew they’d been beaten.

  The big man got to his feet, holding his nose, the blood darkening his unkempt beard, but he didn’t say a word. He limped off toward the stream. Two others helped the man Nettle had brained.

  Talen and his family followed a comfortable distance behind the men, stopping at the crest of the stream bank. Talen kept his bow up but did not dare to keep his arrow fully drawn lest he accidentally loose it and strike one of them. Da may have beaten the leader, but the presence of these men still frightened him. The possible consequences of this altercation frightened him even more. You couldn’t shame part of an order and not expect the rest to rise up against you. Who knew what string of events this had initiated?

  The hunters splashed across the creek. On the other side, one of them turned. It appeared he was going to say something, but before he could speak, Ke’s bow hummed.

  The man dodged to the side, but Ke hadn’t been aiming to hit him. The arrow sped past and sunk into a tree.

  “Keep moving,” Ke shouted.

  The man climbed to his feet.

  “Don’t badger them,” said Da.

  But Ke had another arrow nocked. “I won’t. I’ll just maim a few.”

  “Ke,” Da warned.

  The armsmen hurried to the woods. Just before they disappeared round a bend, one of them turned and gestured an insult. Then he too turned and slipped into the trees.

  “Those men will be back,” said Talen. “And they’ll bring the rest of their cohort with them.”

  “There’s no cohort,” said Da. “This wasn’t a military mission. If it had been, we would have seen many more. And it would have been led properly. These were opportunists. Nothing more.”

  “Someone ought to follow them anyway,” said Ke. “Just to be sure.”

  Da nodded. “But you use that bow only as a last resort. We blew the fire out of them. I don’t want you stoking it up again.”

  “They won’t even know I’m there,” Ke said, then loped after the men.

  “River,” said Da. “I need you to scout the hills around the farm. I don’t want any more surprises.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Da turned to Talen and Nettle. “And you two, go see to that dog.”

  12

  The Mother

  HUNGER STOOD UPON the cliff. Hundreds of feet below him a river surged. He knew its name—the Lion. He knew many names now, all of them taken from the villager named Barg. And more would grow in him over the next few days as he finished digesting the soul of this man. But he wanted no more.

  At first, each name had been a delight and thrill. Each had added to a building ecstasy, but then it all changed horribly. The image of the girl he’d killed in the village of Plum—the son, the pretty wife—they rose in him again. Those images swelled like a tide of grief, and he floundered in it like one drowning because it was not the girl, the son, the wife, but his girl, his son, his lovely, precious wife.

  Somehow, in some wicked way, he was the villager Barg, twisted beyond all reckoning.

  It made no sense. But new words tumbled into him every hour. New ideas. In some inexplicable way he’d mixed with the villager like copper and tin mixed to make bronze. He was Hunger and Barg and all the small things he had eaten: a rat, two lazy dogs, a multitude of insects, a horse.

  After devouring Barg, he had reached out and, with his own rough hands, wrenched the life from his daughter. He’d separated her, taking her Fire and soul and casting her body aside. He’d swallowed her whole, but he hadn’t eaten her like he had Barg. He’d swallowed her into the place the Mother had told him to.

  But he could have chosen not to. He could have run away.

  The image of his wife’s back breaking, of her folding over like a stick of wood, took his vision away.

  Lords, he could have spared her, his son, and little Rose. Oh, sweet little Rose. His grief stretched wide and he roared at the confusion and pain. But Hunger had no tears. No way to purge the pain. And he could not escape. The souls of his family struggled within him, imprisoned inside that place the Mother had made. They would not get out. Could not. Even he didn’t know how to release them—that was the power of the Mother. So he could not open his stomach directly. But perhaps there was another way.

  He looked down at his legs and arms. Earth and grass . . . it was not right. It was not his body. He could feel worms burrowing through his limbs. This morning he’d pulled away chunks of the grass growing on his legs and stomach and dug in. He was nothing more than dirt and sticks and stone.

  There was a name for what he was, but it floated away from him. Nevertheless, it was a body. And bodies could be broken. And would that then not break the binding within him and set his family free?

  Hunger knew he must die.

  The river surged at the bottom of the gorge below him. If he broke himself upon the rocks below, perhaps he could undo the horror. It would not bring him back as father or husband. But perhaps it would release their souls, and they could find a way to continue in the world of the dead.

  The Lion was a treacherous river and had drowned many men. He spotted a run of thick rapids and marked it as his target. He would break upon the rocks there and sink to the bottom. In time the rushing waters would carry his body out to sea.

  A voice came into his mind. “Stop,” it said. It was the Mother, reaching out to him. “This will do you no good. Have you not learned yet to trust me? I told you to not eat the humans, but you disobeyed.”

  He felt her p
ull. Felt the pain only she could give him. But maybe she could ease the grief. Maybe she could ease his yearning and emptiness. Maybe she wouldn’t punish him. Hunger looked at the waters below and hesitated.

  She would hurt him. She would be furious. “I only ate one. Only one. And he didn’t have any stink. You said not to taste the ones with stink.”

  “You’re right. That is what I said. And you did well to cease your frenzy. Come back to me.”

  “It hurts,” he said. “I only ate one, but even this one hurts.”

  “Of course. Don’t you see?” she said. “It’s the man you ate that’s riding you, filling your mind with these thoughts. The filthy man. You’ve given him power over you.”

  The man wasn’t filthy. The man was . . . Hunger. It was he himself.

  “I am an . . .” he paused, and then the word came to him, tumbled in with the weight of a massive stone. “I am an abomination,” he said. “Let me go.”

  “Come to me,” she said. “I will give you rest. I will show you how to eat these men and not suffer.”

  Her pull was not overwhelming here, not like in her cave, but he could feel the ease only she could give him. He almost turned then. Almost returned to her. But Hunger now knew the name for what he was, and that thing was not meant for this world.

  “Come to me,” she repeated.

  “No,” he said. “You made me. Not the man. You are the river of darkness. But I choose one of light.”

  Then he stepped back, and before he could change his mind, before she could say another word, he charged the chasm and, with a mighty leap, flung himself into the yawning gorge.

  A satisfaction washed over him, for at least this deed was right. He plummeted in silence. He knew he should feel a giddiness, a rising thrill or panic. A man would feel that. And that’s what he had been. But all he felt was the black hunger of his heart.

  Then the surging river rushed up at him and he crashed violently into the rocks. Part of his body slipped away. He waited for the breaking to continue, waited to dissolve and disperse like sediment. Waited to die.

  The water pushed him off the rocks, and he tumbled into the torrent, bounced off another stone, turned in the rush. He waited for another part to slip away, but the rushing current simply carried him along.