But none from Hope had come for a number of years. Some of the Order had struck out to find the city. Most did not return. Those that did spoke of terrible creatures that burrowed vast warrens, small men that lived in the tops of the great trees, a salt sea, mountains that smoked, and other wondrous and perilous things.
Fifteen years ago was the last time any group had been gathered in. Since that time, the flow along the great trail diminished to a trickle and then dried up altogether. But the hope of such a city had not died. And Shim was now providing a new, if precarious, opportunity to build it.
Argoth saw a land brimming with Divines. It was a bright and overpowering vision. Maybe too bright.
It was possible that Shim was loyal to Mokad, that he was an agent of the Seeker, trying to ferret out information about the Order. Argoth didn’t think so. He trusted Shim with his life. Always had. Still he would have to test him.
As he rode, he thought of how to write the message and get it to Shim anonymously. When he got home he found a new parchment and wrote:
Show me the depth of your love.
He sealed it with a blob of wax, but not with any mark that would give an indication of who had sent it. Then he secretly gave it to a servant and told him to deliver it without being seen by even Lord Shim himself.
There was nothing more to be done. Hogan would be furious. But he would come around. The vision was breathtaking. The opportunity was right. He could feel it quaking in his bones.
Argoth basked in that bright hope for a moment longer and then brought himself back to the present. Right now he needed to focus on the Skir Master and these dreadmen; otherwise that fine dream would never come to pass.
29
Fright
MURDER, TALEN THOUGHT. That’s what Nettle was proposing.
Except killing those outside the law wasn’t murder. For example, it wasn’t murder to kill Bone Faces wherever you happened to find them. Nor was it murder to kill someone the law demanded exterminated. The Lords would prefer sleth be brought in alive so they could question them, but dead was perfectly acceptable.
Talen had never killed a person. He’d fought in last year’s battles with the Bone Faces as a skirmisher. But who knew if your arrows and stones actually finished a man or merely wounded him?
Just thinking about killing these two turned his gut. It was different from going to battle. It would be a nasty business. If they were simply what they appeared to be—two unlucky children—then an arrow in the back would be enough to bring them down. Another to the heart or through a lung would end it.
Afterwards, he’d need to smoke himself with godsweed to prevent the souls of the slain sleth from trying to attack him. Certainly the armband Da had given him would not be enough.
It was a dark, nasty business. He couldn’t understand why he should hesitate, why he didn’t feel right about it. None of the old tales of sleth hunters ever mentioned them balking at cutting the abominations down. But who was he fooling? He wasn’t a mighty sleth hunter.
What if the hatchlings were innocent? What if they were just like him: caught up in the bad decisions of their parents? Talen said, “It’s possible they learned nothing from their mother.”
“Anything’s possible,” said Nettle. “But that’s unlikely. Either way, masters of the dark or snotty-nosed children, I don’t think anybody is going to care. After all—” Nettle stopped himself.
Talen knew what he had been about to say. “After all, what?” said Talen.
“Nothing,” said Nettle.
“My hairy arse,” said Talen. “You were going to say it didn’t matter. After all, they’re just two Koramites.”
“I knew you’d take it that way, but it’s not how I feel. It’s how the Lords feel, and I can’t help that. All I’m saying is that nobody is likely to accuse you of a crime.”
No, of course not. But that didn’t seem to matter. “It would even be less of an issue if you did it, Mister Mokaddian Captain’s son,” said Talen. “If any murdering is to be done, then you’ll have a hand in it, you can be sure of that.”
Talen sighed. The sins of Purity had done nothing but put his family in danger. And the danger and risk would only increase. They’d have to kill the girl and boy. There was no way around it. A sick feeling welled up inside him, a black numbing.
Nettle must have felt the black numbing as well, for he did not reply.
Talen flicked Iron Boy’s reins. They’d wasted precious time going to the glass master’s. The only consolation was that nobody would expect them along this route. Of course, nobody should have expected them to pass through Gallow’s Gate either, but riders had come after them all the same.
They traveled for many rods, in silence, Talen pondering this bloody medicine and hoping no Fir-Noy had thought to search this road. If he killed the boy and girl, his father would be furious. But how did he know that Da wasn’t threatened? Da hadn’t told him a thing. Why? Why couldn’t he tell them his big secret on the way to Whitecliff? Why wait?
Because he wasn’t going to tell them anything. He just wanted them out of the way so the children could escape. Which meant that Da was involved with something. And that something included a sleth woman and her monster.
As they traveled, Talen began to feel tired, and he realized that the itch in his legs was lessening. They came to a crossroad and turned down a narrow trail that led into a piney wood, and an overwhelming weariness fell upon him.
The baker had probably used something like thresher’s seed. It was the way with such herbs that they left you weaker than when you first took them. And that herb was probably the root of his black thoughts.
Or it was his heart. It was sometimes said the heart perceived things the head could not. It was said that sometimes the ancestors could speak to a man’s heart even when his head was full of stone.
He made a decision then. “We’re not going to kill them,” he said. “Not immediately.” The road here was thick with pine needles. It muffled Iron Boy’s hooves. It seemed to muffle Talen’s words. He knew it was not a smart decision, but the moment he said it, the dark cloud smothering his heart seemed to lift a bit.
“They’re going to tumble mountains of troubles upon your whole family,” said Nettle.
“You’re probably right,” said Talen. “But we can’t just kill them. What if that brings the monster? What if this nest does something to Da in retaliation?”
“Is it right to appease evil?”
“It’s right to oppose evil with wisdom,” Talen said.
“Wisdom can sometimes be used to mask cowardice.”
Talen shrugged. “I’ve never killed anyone like this.”
“Neither have I.”
Talen looked at Nettle. It was unfair to ask him to take these risks. There was trouble down this road Talen was on, and there was no reason Nettle had to travel it. “You’re a good friend, cousin. Maybe you should go home and tell your father what’s going on.”
“Now?”
“Yeah,” said Talen. “He might be able to help.”
“You just want me to get up and go?”
“I think so.”
Nettle gave Talen a frustrated look. “Even you,” he said.
“What?” asked Talen.
Nettle set his jaw. “I’ll leave and you’ll get turned into some wicked minion, and then, no doubt, I’ll be the one that will have to kill you. No thanks. I’m coming.”
“You’ll drag your whole family into this. Even if Da’s right and the children are not sleth, there’s a huge chance anybody involved is going to find themselves hanging in Gallow’s Grove.”
“I’m not running home to Daddy,” said Nettle.
Talen had actually been hoping he would say that. “I guess this means when the monster comes round, you’ll be the man to take it.”
“I said I wasn’t running home. Not that I was an idiot.”
“Oh, you’re an idiot,” Talen said. “That’s already well established.”
“Right,” said Nettle. “And if I’m an idiot, that puts you somewhere just above the level of a cabbage.”
Talen smiled. With all that had happened and all that was a risk, the clear and easy choice was for Nettle to take his leave. A wave of gratitude washed through Talen. There probably wasn’t a finer friend in all the New Lands than the one sitting next to him on the wagon. He reached over and clapped Nettle on the shoulder.
“What?” asked Nettle.
“Nothing,” Talen said. He gave Nettle’s shoulder a squeeze, then let go.
Up ahead there was a break in the tall pines to either side of the road; the sun cast long shadows across that part of the trail. Talen saw one lone firefly shine and wink out as it ascended to a tree. In a few hours the woods would pulse and sparkle with thousands of them.
Iron Boy’s ears suddenly pricked forward.
Talen looked up the road, but didn’t see anything that should alarm him.
Iron Boy raised his head up and slowed.
“What is it, boy?”
Talen scanned the woods and caught movement out of the side of his eye. He turned.
Iron Boy pulled to a stop, blew his lips, and stamped one foot.
“Where are they?” asked Nettle.
“It’s not a they,” said Talen. “It’s an it.”
“Where?”
Talen pointed at a tree in front of them. Something was standing in the boughs about halfway up. It was not a mountain cat. Not nearly that large. Nor was not one of those troublesome monkeys that were expert in stealing everything from knives to fruit. It was about the size of a small dog, hunched, and long-limbed.
He looked closer. It was a light gray, the color of shadow and bark, and its limbs seemed awkward and long. Or maybe it was just the light. “What is that?”
Nettle followed Talen’s gaze and stared. “Well, it’s kind of hard to say. I can’t be sure, but it looks like a tree to me.”
“Goh, in the tree. About fifteen feet up that pine. There’s something looking at us.”
Nettle looked at Talen; he looked back at the tree, squinted, and looked back at Talen again.
“Nothing’s there.”
“It’s right in front of your face.”
“Hallucinations.” Nettle said. “Maybe those stupid sweet almond abominations did have come-backs.”
Talen wasn’t seeing things. It was right there.
“I never have this problem with bread pudding,” said Nettle.
Whatever it was moved out of the shadows of the trees and into the waning light.
Talen blinked. It was still there.
Iron Boy chuffed.
“See that?” Talen asked. “Iron Boy didn’t have any sweet almond.”
He had to admit the coloring of the thing made it difficult to see. It put him in mind of insects that camouflaged themselves to look exactly like bark or leaves.
“There’s nothing in the tree,” said Nettle. “Nothing on the trail. Let’s just get home.”
Talen flicked the reins and started Iron Boy into a trot. The mule protested and tried to turn away, but Talen gave the reins a good tug to keep him on the road and put Iron Boy in motion.
When they passed by the pine, the creature began to move again.
Iron Boy whinnied and picked up his gait.
The creature swung down the limbs of the tree to the pine needles on the road. Then it began scampering after the wagon in an odd, hunched gait, quickly closing the distance.
“You’re right,” said Talen, “I’m hallucinating.”
Because if he wasn’t, that meant they’d attracted the attention of a small nightmare. What else could it be? As the thing drew nearer, Talen could more easily discern the eyes, hands, and feet. But they were misshapen. The nose was flat and crooked. The fingers too long.
There were creatures not wholly of this world. There were the mighty skir that the Divines enthralled; there were the souls of the dead. But there were also other things, some of which could, under certain circumstances, be seen with the naked eye. This thing matched the descriptions of one of those. Talen had never seen one before, but he’d heard about them. They fed upon the Fire of the weak and dying. Like the creatures that ate carrion of the flesh, they were attracted by death and disease. They shadowed the edges of armies and hid in the cellars and thatch roofs of villages smitten by pestilence. They did not flock in great numbers like crows and ravens. At least, he’d never heard tell of anyone seeing more than a handful together at once. But did numbers matter? When they got a hold of you, they burrowed in like ticks to gorge upon your Fire. And like ticks, they were hard to dislodge and sometimes left bits of themselves behind.
Godsweed was supposed to keep them at bay which is why soldiers smoked themselves with it before battle. Drinking it in a tea was also supposed to help, but such a tea gave men horrible cramps. Talen reached up and felt the godsweed braid on his arm. Even wearing the herb was supposed to have an effect.
Iron Boy trotted down the road, nervously turning his head to the left, then right so he could get a better view of what was behind him.
Talen looked back again and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. The odd-limbed thing was only a few paces behind them.
“Cousin,” Talen said, “I believe that we’ve just attracted ourselves a fright.”
At that moment the creature closed the final distance. It grabbed the wagon bed with one long-fingered hand and disappeared underneath.
30
Secrets
“IT’S UNDER THE WAGON,” Talen said.
Iron Boy kicked and jerked into a canter.
“Will you shut up,” Nettle said. “You’re giving me the willies.”
Iron Boy tossed his head. He might bolt, and it would not do to lose control of the wagon, so Talen braced himself, but he felt like he did after an exceedingly hard day’s worth of work. And then such a wave of weariness fell upon him that he could not keep his eyes open. He sagged into Nettle.
Nettle elbowed him back to his senses. “What are you doing?”
“I think the come-backs have finally worked their way through,” Talen said. “Take the reins. I’ve got to lie down.”
“What about your fright?” asked Nettle.
Talen looked down at the boards beneath his feet. Frights did not have power to steal from a healthy man. He and Nettle had nothing to fear. And panicking might only lead to them crashing the wagon. Besides, they had godsweed with them.
“It’s gone,” said Talen. “A vapor of my mind.”
“Lords and lice,” Nettle said, “I’ve never heard of come-backs like this. We’ve got to get you to River.”
Talen wasn’t going to argue. “Sure,” he said. Then he handed the reins to Nettle and half-climbed, half-fell into the wagon bed.
He rode that way, flat on his back, looking up at the tops of the pines and the darkening sky beyond. Nettle drove too fast. Once, Talen almost bumped completely out of the wagon bed. But he couldn’t bring himself to object. Nettle kept turning around to look at him. At one point he reached down to feel Talen’s forehead for fever, then turned back and spurred Iron Boy even faster.
Talen said nothing. The moon and the stars shone through the breaks in the tops of the trees. After a time he realized something cold lay on his ankle. Talen looked down. There, squatting in the back corner of the wagon bed was the fright. It was a hideous thing, all twisted and gray like a piece of knotty driftwood. One of its long fingers touched Talen on the bare skin of his ankle.
He kicked, and the thing released him, but it soon stretched out its finger once again.
“Nettle!” he said.
But Nettle did not turn.
Then Talen remembered the godsweed charm about his arm. Maybe he could brandish it and chase the thing off. He yanked on the charm, but it would not tear free, and the knot was suddenly too complicated for his fingers. He was so very tired. The touch of the fright was so very cold. It wasn’t supposed to touch
him, not with the godsweed. So maybe this wasn’t a fright. Or maybe it was, and godsweed didn’t have the virtue everyone claimed it did.
They bumped along the road, and the creature reached out with another finger.
Talen kicked again. But he could not kick a third time—he was exhausted and in a cold sweat. His thirst was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. There was not enough spittle to even wet his tongue, much less swallow. And so he let the thing’s cold fingers wrap about him, wondering if frights took more than Fire.
Iron Boy was trotting at a good clip. Then the wagon passed under some trees Talen recognized. He recognized the run of the slope off to his left. Nettle drove the wagon across the stream and up the bank on the far side. The barn was just ahead.
Nettle did not slow quickly enough and almost side-swiped the well. When he finally got Iron Boy to stop, he turned around and looked down at Talen. “Goh, you look rotted through. This isn’t come-backs. This is some plague. Can you stand?”
“I can get up,” said Talen.
But he couldn’t. He could hardly move. His lower left leg was ice. The fright had elongated its fingers, split and multiplied them, and wrapped them around his calf. It looked as if the spidering root of a young tree had attached itself to him.
Nettle called out for help. Then he jumped into the wagon bed and helped Talen sit up. The fright moved slightly, but it did not disengage.
“The fright,” Talen said.
“Yes,” said Nettle, then he looped his arms underneath Talen’s and around his chest and dragged him to the back of the wagon. Then he dropped the back gate of the bed. In one fluid movement Nettle jumped out, then pulled Talen over his shoulder like a sack of meal.
“River!” Nettle called.
Talen’s head hung low. The fright still clung to him with one of its odd hands. Talen kicked, but the fright just swayed with the motion. Then Nettle pushed the front door of the house open, and Talen found himself in the main room. River stood from where she’d been sitting at the table. The candlelight shone off the beads about her neck. In her hands, she held clippings of Da’s hair that she’d been braiding into an intricate decoration.
Servant: The Dark God Book 1 Page 32
