Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  He stopped and turned toward the sound. It was not an animal, for no beast that size would have remained close after he’d knocked over the tree. And it was not the sound of a branch falling, but one snapping on the ground.

  Leaves rustled as if someone had tripped.

  Someone was following him in the dark. The burning son, perhaps. Or the older son. Or maybe even Zu Hogan himself.

  She would take them as well, the Mother would. She would command him to kill them, and he would do it.

  Horror rose in him at the thought, and he turned and ran away from the stalker. He crashed through the trees and brush, shielding River from the branches that whipped him. He ran up a slight hill and stopped to listen for his pursuit.

  The sound of running footsteps rose from the forest below. A light sound, not a heavy animal. Not a large person.

  He turned to run again. He would outdistance them in the dark, but what if he couldn’t outrun this pursuit? The family was all part of the sleth nest. No, he corrected himself. Not a nest; the Order. Either way, what if his pursuer followed him all the way back to the Mother’s lair?

  They’d find the Mother, that’s what. And she’d take them there.

  Or would she?

  Zu Hogan had fought him in the tower. But what if there had been three or four with his strength? Perhaps it would have been Zu Hogan taking him instead of the other way around. The Mother had said something once about humans long ago, rising up against their masters. Perhaps Zu Hogan knew such secrets. Perhaps Zu Hogan’s failing to stop him in the sea tower had been more a function of surprise than strength.

  His terror turned to hope. He could lead whoever was down there to the Mother. And that person in turn would lead Zu Hogan. And if not, Hunger could come back and lead Zu Hogan himself. Hunger looked down the dark, wooded hill.

  Nothing moved. They were waiting for him to continue.

  He grabbed a branch and broke it smartly to announce his position. Then he turned and walked away. A few paces later he broke another branch, and a few paces after that, yet another.

  * * *

  Hunger walked through the remaining hours of the morning, keeping only slightly ahead of the person following him. When dawn arrived he stood atop a ridge and looked down at the small valley below that still lay in the morning’s shadow. Just beyond the edge of the wood, a flock of sheep grazed the grass bordering both sides of the road. In the village, the sun had just begun to kiss the thatch roofs with a rosy light. Still farther along, a man drove a wain laden with a fifteen-foot pile of hay. Two boys sat atop the pile, stabilizing themselves with one hand on the side pole while sharing what looked to be a red cheese round. They passed by a woman throwing kitchen scraps to her white and black speckled chickens.

  This was the village closest to the Mother’s lair. He’d smelled these villagers with longing on many an evening. He’d even come in and stolen about the homes in the darkness, listening to the humans, tempting his appetite, until the Mother had ordered him to stay away.

  Hunger looked behind him. He had not heard the person shadowing him for some time, but that probably only meant it was light enough for them to see the way better and avoid things that cracked in the dark.

  This also meant he could leave visible spoor. Nevertheless, it was quicker to follow sound, so he broke yet another branch and continued along the ridge past the village, past the stand of fat spruce from which the Mother had called him, and to the entrance that stood up on the hill above the swamp.

  There were three entrances he knew about. The one in the cliffs by the sea. This one. And another found in the buried ruin of the stone-wights on the other side of the hill.

  Hunger stood at the entrance, the small stream running out of the lopsided mouth of the cavern and down the hill. He looked down at River and released her hands from his mouth.

  She immediately winced and clutched her shoulders in pain.

  He was sorry. He should have thought about the pain and numbness that would result from holding her arms in one position for so long. She looked so fragile in his arms. He smoothed her hair back from her face with one finger. This time, she did not pull away.

  For a moment he lost his courage. The Mother was cunning and strong. How could beings with such frail bodies hope to contend with her?

  But they had. She had said so herself. Hunger looked back. He hoped whoever followed him had such power because it was beyond him. Then he turned and stepped into the thin, cold water with River in his arms and disappeared into the dark.

  33

  Body and Soul

  HUNGER LAID RIVER down next to Purity in the ink-black chamber. Both River and Purity cried out at first, but then they recognized each other and began to sob. For joy or despair, Hunger did not know. He left to get some of the firewood he’d stored in another chamber and to fetch hobbles for River.

  They’d tried to keep Purity without them, but she kept running away, so the Mother had him steal hobbles from a smith and put them on her ankles. Hunger gathered the wood and hobbles.

  In the other room, River and Purity talked in low voices, but they stopped when they heard him return. He placed his small nest of tinder and kindling a pace from them on the floor, struck the flint against his fire-steel until three sparks fell into the tinder. Then he blew. A small flame leapt up. He added small bits of kindling. The fire grew. And he finally added a small stick.

  He felt the Mother behind him.

  Had she discovered his plan? A small panic rose within and he turned.

  But it was not the Mother that stood before him. Instead, a woman of strange and exquisite beauty, clothed in brightness, looked upon him. Dark hair tumbled down her naked shoulders. Pale shoulders. Pale skin. He’d seen this woman before: the memory of that face lay just under the surface of his mind. But she was not human. Was this another of the Mother’s kind then, come to steal the souls of these women?

  He rose in alarm and prepared to defend them.

  “You’ve lost your focus,” the beauty said.

  Hunger could not tell if she spoke the words with her mouth or directly in his mind, but he knew it was indeed the Mother.

  “You are beautiful,” he said in both wonder and confusion. But this was some trick. He looked closer to see if he could detect the lie, then reached out and touched her arm, but she was as real as the rocks about him.

  What kind of power must one have to change the very form of their body? Surely, more than anyone in the Order, and that thought filled him with dismay.

  He looked at her again and swore her visage shifted. “What are you?” he asked.

  She ignored his question and held up the stomach that contained the souls of his family. “You still fight me. Have I ever given you a reason not to believe I will do what I say?”

  Why was she holding that stomach? She was wicked. Wicked and cruel and the slightest slip would mean the end of his wife or children. His panic began to rise again, but he could not let her know that, so he looked at the stomach and said nothing.

  “Wicked?” she asked. “Is it wicked for the master to demand obedience from his dog? Is it wicked to break a beast of its rebellious ways? And if it demonstrates quality, is it wicked to administer praise and reward?”

  “I am not your dog.”

  “Oh, but you are. And I will have loyalty from you. It is your decision. Obey me and you will eat from my table. Defy me and you will learn by the things you suffer.”

  “I can withstand your pain.”

  “Perhaps I did not state myself clearly before—you can be free one day, and so can your family. I’m not a cruel master. I don’t want to be such, even when such methods do have their advantages. No. I govern by giving you choices. You’ve chosen poorly and shall reap what you’ve sown. But I will give you this: I will let you decide which one I shall eat.”

  His panic swelled. “No,” Hunger said.

  “Choose.”

  “I’ll do whatever you say,” he said. “Spare t
hem.”

  “It is too late,” she said.

  “Take me then. Eat my soul.”

  He was close enough to reach out and steal the stomach from her, but he could not move. And the horror of his helplessness rose up to drown him.

  “Then I shall choose,” she said. “I will take the lesser of them to show you I am merciful. I shall take the young male.”

  “No,” he said. Not his son. Not any of them!

  She opened the mouth of the stomach, reached in, and withdrew a shining form. It bucked and sparkled like a hooked fish in the sunshine.

  Souls held the same rough form as the bodies they animated, or so the wise ones said. And while Hunger could see part of the form, he could not see it all. It was like glimpsing something in the water, seeing only one distorted facet. But distorted facet or not, he knew this soul. “Russet,” he whispered. “Son!”

  “I keep my promises,” she said. “Remember that.” Then she opened her mouth and fell upon the shining like a cat might the neck of a large hare.

  This was a nightmare. “No!” Hunger cried.

  The silvery light struggled violently.

  Then she wrenched it. The light flexed in one brilliant flash, then hung limp in her hand. She gulped a portion of his son like a swamp snake gulped in part of a piglet, like a man gulped overlarge quantities of blood pudding.

  Hunger’s mind split. His world turned white.

  Rage and horror and grief flooded him. He turned to the women behind him. The Mother wanted them, well, he would deny her that. He might not strike her, but he could strike them and deprive her of their service, whatever hideous form that would take. And by so doing, he’d save them from her awful bondage.

  “Halt!” said the Mother.

  “Let me go!” he demanded and fought her binding with all the force he could muster. He succeeded in taking one step toward the women. Ha! He crowed in triumph.

  “Enough,” said the Mother, and Hunger found he could not move. A smoke of confusion clouded his eyes, and he knew no more.

  * * *

  Hunger woke on the cave floor and smelled the women. He smelled the coals of the dead fire and remembered Russet, his son.

  His grief rose like a tide. And then anger. He lunged to his feet and tried to strike the Mother, but his limbs would not obey.

  “You have a choice,” said the Mother.

  “I will not listen to you.”

  “Quiet.”

  Hunger fell in on himself.

  “Pursue this course and I will eat them all. There are three others here in this stomach. Live to free them. I’ve given you my promise. I am not cruel. Obey me and reap your reward.”

  He could not trust this creature. “When will you free them?”

  “When your loyalty is thoroughly tested. And then, after a time of service, I will free you.”

  “You lie.”

  The Mother shook her head. “Prove to me your loyalty. Stop fighting me. You will see I am just.”

  He could be freed if he could only fix the collar.

  “No,” the Mother said. “Do you think I did not know your plans the very moment you removed the collar from the woman? Do you think I was ignorant of the man washing himself or the burning son? Did you think you could hide your thoughts from me?”

  “Yes,” said Hunger in defeat. And he knew it was hopeless. It had been hopeless from the beginning. He should not have resisted her. And now his stupidity had cost him his son.

  “Your people will prosper under my hand. Not be left to fend for themselves as happened with your last, inattentive master. I will make your lands fertile. I will fight your battles and keep you safe. Serve me and all your kindred will flourish.”

  He could not die. He could not disobey. He could not even hide his thoughts. What was left to him? He was indeed a dog on a chain. A horse corralled for the breaking. The Mother, this creature, whatever it was, held more power than any human. More power than the Divines. She was as far above him as a man was above a beast. She was a god. And he—he wasn’t even a man. He was something else: a soup of souls and stone. Why then should he not obey?

  “That is correct,” the Mother said.

  Perhaps she was just. Perhaps she was doing nothing more than teaching the dog that it was a dog, not a master. And in that thought he saw a clear path, a small glimmering of hope—he would be her best servant. He would meet her every whim. He would be the dog that the master grew to love and called to feed at his lap. And by so doing he would save his wife and daughter and remaining son.

  He would serve this creature with all his mind, might, and strength. “Will you forgive me?” he asked.

  “Forgive? That word has no meaning. But I shall give you one more chance to prove yourself. And in time you may win my trust.”

  “Tell me then what you desire.”

  “We shall continue what we’ve begun,” she said. “Gathering the ones that stink. Yours was a good plan, even if wrought with the wrong intent.”

  He felt a lightening in his mood. He had chosen the right course.

  “The one you led here,” she said. “You will take her and see if she is fit to lead or ripe for the harvest. And then you shall find the rest.”

  “As you command,” he said and turned back toward the mouth of the cave. The last moments of his son’s existence played before his mind—all his cursed fault. He should never have plotted against the Mother.

  Never.

  And he would never do it again; he was the Mother’s now, body and soul, and he would demonstrate that to her.

  34

  Sacrifice

  ARGOTH HELD SERENITY, his youngest daughter, in a great hug, her legs dangling loose. She growled like a bear, bit him on the neck, and then giggled.

  He growled and bit her back. “Little beast, you go help your sisters outside. Your mother and I need to talk.” Then he set her down. She ran out the back door of the kitchen, and Argoth shut the door behind her, then turned to Serah.

  She leaned back on the dry sink, one long dark tress curling across the sweat on her neck, and stretched. Before her on the table lay the carcasses of five pheasants along with the celery, raisins, and cut onions she’d been stuffing them with. The giblets from the birds soaked in a bowl of brine. Serah’s eyes brimmed with onion tears.

  It could not be easy being pregnant as she was and carrying the workload she did. And he wasn’t going to make it any easier.

  “The servants are all outside?” he asked.

  “You could have sent someone ahead to give me warning. We have so little time to pack. I can’t show up in Mokad in rags. And I’m not going to leave my sisters in these lands to face the Bone Face attacks that will surely come.”

  Argoth shook his head and spoke in a low voice. “I’m not taking you with me on the ship. In fact, from this day forth, Mokad will be your death.”

  Confusion clouded Serah’s expression.

  “Listen to me. You and the children must disappear tomorrow before noon. Go into the wilderness, book passage on a ship under another name to another nation—I don’t care. In fact, I must not know how you do it.”

  “Why would we need to—”

  “Do not contact your sisters. In three days I will either return whole, or your world will begin to fray like a cheap rope. I am sorry, Serah. I never wanted this. But it has come upon us. Do not wait. You will not be able to flee in the moment of your crisis.”

  Serah’s face turned from confusion to disbelief. “Mokad has made some treaty with blackheart Bone Faces, haven’t they? Just like Koram did with Mokad.”

  Argoth shook his head. “No. Nothing to do with the Bone Faces. I cannot explain it to you now.” He held his hand out to her. “Trust me. As soon as the Lions depart with me, you must go. Pack light. You will have only a short time.”

  Serah did not take his hand. “This isn’t just another battle you’re riding off to, is it? You’ve plunged into some idiot’s plot.”

  “My lo
ve,” he said and reached out for her again.

  She took his hand this time, but did not embrace him.

  “You will come back to me,” said Serah.

  He hoped that would indeed be the case. He thought of his children, of his girls begging him to take them on his hunting trips. Of Serenity’s growls and bites and Grace’s affinity for dogs, training his proud coursers to jump through hoops and wear bright ribbons in their collars. He thought of Joy leaving messy clay puppets in his pockets and Nettle who wanted so much to be a man, He thought of Serah’s contagious laughter.

  But he always knew his joys in this life might suddenly end. Any man of war knew that. If that happened, he was prepared, and he’d wait for them in the world of souls.

  “Husband,” said Serah, more tears brimming in her eyes. “I am weary of worry.”

  “I would rather you eat that bitter bread than feast on the bleakness that comes with oppression and slavery.”

  She looked down, and he stepped toward her, enfolding her in his embrace. Her hair smelled of the lager she used to bring forth its brilliance.

  This time she yielded to him. “I know you must go. But sometimes I wonder if you love war more than flesh and blood.”

  “My capable and sweet wife. I love our life so much I cannot see it ruined or stolen by greedy men.”

  She sighed. “If you were a little less noble, I think we’d find a little more peace.”

  He did not respond. How could he?

  “Come back to us,” she said. “Come back and put down the sword.”

  “And what would I do?”

  “Grow vegetables, race your dogs, and sit in the sun. When our children are grown, you can dote upon your grandchildren with figs and cakes. And when you die, you will be old, shriveled, and happy.”

  The vision of it tugged at his heart. “Will you be shriveled by my side?”

  She looked up at him, her smile full of weariness, pain, and love. “Women do not shrivel.”

  Argoth laughed. And in that moment he realized he’d made a huge mistake. He should have never kept the Grove from her despite the risk her blabbermouth sisters posed. If he survived, he would never keep another thing from her. He only needed Matiga to deliver the weaves so he could face the Skir Master, and then everything would be different. He’d start anew.