Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  “When I return,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a story about a man who held too many secrets and the woman he loved. And then you will tell me what the woman did when she found out she married a monster.”

  * * *

  It was well past midnight. Argoth stood outside his house in the dark, his chances of ever returning to his wife and children slipping between his fingers like sand.

  There had been no word from Matiga. He wondered if perhaps the Skir Master had killed or intercepted his messenger. Had he killed Matiga?

  No, the Skir Master wouldn’t be so foolish. He wanted to only give them a scare so they would run and he could follow.

  Perhaps the messenger delivered the coded requests, but Matiga felt it too risky to send him the weave he needed so desperately. Or perhaps she had already gone to the Grove’s refuge to prepare to bear the Grove off, and the messenger found her house empty. Whatever the reason, dinner had come and gone. And now it was late, exceedingly late, the stars shining above.

  Argoth did not have the Fire to battle a Divine. And even if the weave arrived this very minute, he suspected it was too late. Fire could be poured out in great quantities. But to swallow such a flood would be the death of any man. Fire could only be accepted in a trickle. It took time. And time had slipped away.

  Out in the darkness, half of the Lions patrolled the border of his yard. One stood just a stone’s throw away, his bright helm gleaming in the moonlight.

  Argoth thought of Shim. He could send word to him. And what? Have him arrive here only to be slaughtered by this troop of dreadmen?

  No. This was his burden. His mind raced for other options, but all of them ended in death. And then he heard the Lion below him call out for someone to identify themselves. Nettle’s voice came in reply.

  Argoth’s hopes soared. Perhaps Matiga was sending the weave with Nettle.

  Argoth left the side of the house and went to greet his handsome boy. He found the dreadman holding him at the point of a spear. Nettle’s face was anxious, and there was no sign of his horse. Something was wrong.

  “He’s mine,” said Argoth.

  “Yes, Zu,” said the dreadman, raising his spear out of the way.

  Argoth put his arm around Nettle and began walking him back to the house.

  Nettle looked up at his father with urgency. “Da,” he said.

  Argoth shook his head. “When we get in the house.”

  They walked to the front door and entered. When Argoth shut the door behind them, he turned to his son. “Did the Creek Widow send you?”

  “No,” said Nettle. “We’re on the way there.”

  Argoth’s heart fell. Without a weave he could do nothing. Nothing. “Who’s we?” he asked.

  Nettle spoke in barely a whisper. “River told me everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know, Da,” he said. “I know what we are. River sent us to the Creek Widow’s. The hatchlings were at Uncle Hogan’s. Then the creature came, and River led it away. Talen and the boy are waiting in the woods.”

  “You mean the monster from Whitecliff?” Argoth asked.

  “Yes.”

  Argoth’s heart fell. This confirmed his previous guess—it was the Divine’s creature. And that meant the Divine would be watching his family. It meant Serah and the children would be caught when they ran. Caught and questioned and tortured. In the end, they would die horrible deaths. The picture of Serenity being flayed to make Serah speak rose in his mind.

  “Da?” asked Nettle.

  He couldn’t believe the end had come like this. He was caught. His family was caught with him. There was only one way out. He still had the tin of poison he’d given to Purity. He looked down at Nettle. He had enough for all of them.

  “Come with me,” he said, motioning to his library. He opened the door, the comforting smell of the two well-oiled sets of armor that sat in either corner filling the room. He followed Nettle in, then barred the door behind him.

  “Da,” said Nettle, his voice full of intensity, “Are we soul-eaters?”

  Argoth sighed and looked about the room at the smudged maps he’d used on campaigns in other lands, at the feather-festooned spear he’d broken in the leg of Black Hill giant and the lock of hair from that giant’s head. He looked at the necklaces of teeth. Years of prowess at war, and he still had to hide. Still had to face his son as if he were some murderous criminal.

  Argoth walked to the hearth and grabbed one large flagstone set at the bottom of the face on the right. It was about four feet high and two wide. He caught the hidden ring that would release the catch and pulled. The stone swung inward to a dark compartment.

  “In, to your right one step, then take the ladder down.”

  Nettle looked at Argoth with disbelief.

  “Hurry now.”

  Nettle crouched, then twisted through the opening and disappeared into the darkness. Argoth followed. It was a tight squeeze, but just big enough for him. He stood in the oversized space between the walls and shut the narrow flagstone door. Then he descended the ladder in perfect blackness to the hidden cellar below.

  Nobody knew about this place. Not even Hogan. This is where he kept his secret books, his weaves, and the implements of his life before the Order.

  “Da,” Nettle said in the darkness. “What is this?”

  Next to the ladder stood a case with many shelves. He felt for the lamp and flint striker, then worked the striker until a spark ignited the lamp’s wick. He blew on the spark, and when the flame burned brightly, he set the lamp down on the small table and motioned for Nettle to take the one chair.

  Nettle sat, looking about the room with puzzlement.

  Argoth had used good timbers and brick to build this room. All had been sealed over with a thick layer of white, lime render. This kept the room bright. Furthermore, Argoth made sure to lay drainage tiles into the soil all around this part of the house so that all the runoff was taken down the hill and away from this dry room.

  There was not much in this close room: a stack of wood next to a small, smoke-blackened hearth; a long, but narrow table; a chair; and two cases for his books and the implements of the lore.

  “Son, tell me what River told you.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Nettle said, looking at the plates of inscribed tin that lay on one of the shelves.

  “That depends on what you’ve been told.”

  Nettle turned back to his father and related everything River had said about the Order, about Talen’s days pouring forth, and what happened afterwards with the creature.

  When he finished, Argoth did not immediately respond. River had taken upon her a right that was his. He had looked forward to testing Nettle and bringing him into the Order. He had planned it for so many years. She had taken that anticipated joy from him, but he couldn’t be angry with her.

  “I am a root in the Order of Hismayas,” said Argoth. “And we are not soul-eaters.” Although that’s exactly what he once had been. Bless the Six, but the memory of his years before the Order still pained him. “You will never apply that term to us again.”

  Nettle didn’t speak for a moment. When he did his expression and voice were full of desperate relief. “So we do not prey on others. We haven’t stolen Fire?” He was almost pleading to hear that his father wasn’t a monster.

  But what struck Argoth was that Nettle used “we.” He’d expected his son to fight against this idea. The Order had to be so careful. They had to teach their children the propaganda of the Divines just as any common parent might teach their children so that no one would suspect them. And Argoth had done his job well. But here his son, his loyal boy, had already decided to follow him, come what may.

  Argoth would not betray that trust with prevarications. “I was once a nightmare,” he said. “But then I was brought into the light.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Nettle.

  “You won’t,” said Argoth. “Just know that I found the right
path. And that I do not steal and haven’t since before you were born. And know too that you have a choice. Not all are brought into the Order. Your mother, for example, does not know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your mother is trustworthy and fit in every aspect except her inability to keep anything from her sisters. But that will change. I was going to introduce you to everything later, but now that you know the secret, you must make a decision. I’m going to need some help.”

  “Father,” said Nettle. “I would never betray you.”

  “Hear me first,” said Argoth. “If you join, you will be bound by oaths of loyalty. Oaths that cannot be broken.” And when Nettle took them, they would go and administer the poison to the family. Better poison than a long and tortured death in the hands of the Mokaddian Seekers.

  Argoth thought of the position he’d put his family in. He hoped they would forgive him. “There is so much to say, but we have no time. We believe the creature was sent by this Skir Master and Lumen to destroy us.”

  “Lumen? He isn’t dead?”

  “We do not think so.”

  Shock shone on Nettle’s face. “But why wouldn’t they muster a massive hunt?”

  “A hunt is like beating the bushes in a great ring. If you have enough people to ensure none of the game escapes, then you can close the ring and slaughter the game within the ring at will. But what if most of the game is outside the ring you’ve formed? What if there are well-concealed bolt holes?”

  “Are we going to attempt to escape?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Argoth. “We were going to attack them. Enthrall the Divine.”

  Astonishment shone on Nettle’s face.

  “Bold, eh? Then we would have hunted down those who could threaten us one by one. But I misjudged. I don’t have the Fire I need. I have no weapon to take to battle, which means there will be no fight.”

  “Fire?” Nettle asked. “That’s all you need?”

  He smiled at his son’s statement. Fire was not so easy to obtain. “Yes, that’s all,” Argoth said. “A man, any man, can learn to speed, slow, give, and receive the days of his Fire. I am old, Nettle. Far older than you can imagine. I have secretly given my last days out to the dreadmen of this land. My Fire gutters low. And I cannot accomplish the task at hand as a normal man.”

  “Then teach me how to release my Fire to you,” said Nettle.

  “That won’t work. To learn that very elementary skill can take a very long time. Weeks. Sometimes months.”

  “But Talen sat at the table with River doing just that, opening and closing his doors, Fire pouring off him.”

  “Talen is not what he seems,” said Argoth. “Besides, even if I could teach you in a matter of hours, it would be too late. It takes too long to transfer the quantity I need.”

  Nettle pointed at a pine rod lying in the case. “That’s a filtering rod, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Argoth. “Something from before.” He’d kept all the old implements around to remind him of those former days, to remind him what he was so that he could never forget how the Order had changed him.

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “It has been a very long time.”

  “Then take the Fire from me.”

  “Son,” Argoth said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Do I have enough Fire to supply your need?”

  “Yes, but that’s not—”

  “Then use it, Da. The Divines do this, don’t they?”

  He was so brash. He had gotten his clan wrists this year, but he was still a boy. “Nettle, I swore never to take Fire again. Only to receive it from those who freely give. If I take your Fire, you will be changed. When you forcibly take Fire, you cannot avoid also taking portions of the person’s soul. You take their memories. You take the force that controls the very nature of their bodies.”

  He continued, “This is why many who go to the temple to make an offering claim to feel as if they’ve lost something. But it is not an effect of being touched by holiness as is claimed. It is the effect of having your Fire ripped from you. The Divines are no better than soul-eaters—both are thieves. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? Do you know why some die on the altars? When the Divines take a great quantity of Fire, they will simply drain a man until he dies. Because if they were to stop short, we’d all see the effects of having so very much of their soul leached away into the rod. You might become a drooling invalid or a wild man to be roped and chained. You might lose all memory of us. No one can predict the full effects of taking the quantity of Fire I need. And once the soul is caught in the filter, it cannot be returned. At least, none know that lore.”

  “But we can predict the effects if I don’t, can’t we?”

  Argoth said nothing. Such courage and trust—Nettle did not know what he was saying. Argoth had seen that ardent desire so many times in the eyes of youth going off to their first battle. None of them knew the sacrifice that lay ahead.

  “Da,” he said. He held up his wrists with their tattoos. “Do you, even you, mock me?”

  “No.”

  “But you do. Every time you allow others to stand in my place on the patrols. Every time you assign your men to shelter me.”

  “I don’t want to risk you unnecessarily.”

  “Life is risk,” said Nettle. “I am now a man of our Clan, a man of my father’s house. And I want to protect my sisters. My mother. I want to protect my friends. Would you prevent me? Would you tell me I am not worthy?”

  “Son, you’re worthy.” He was more than worthy. He was precious. He was a prize that Argoth did not want to part with.

  “Then pick me up, Father. Let me be your weapon. Let me be your sword.”

  Argoth looked at Nettle, the desire burning in his eyes.

  “And if this takes part of my soul,” Nettle continued, “we will count it no less an honor than if I had lost an arm or a leg in battle.”

  Such a son! But Argoth shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “If you did, would you be able to save Mother? Would you be able to save Serenity and Grace? Little Joy?”

  If he took the Fire, he could spring the Skir Master’s trap. The odds were long, but there was the smallest of chances. “There’s no guarantee.”

  “There are never any guarantees, Da.”

  This would put his family at such great risk. But they were already at risk. They were already targets. He could kill them all tonight. Or he could fight and try to save them. If he failed, their deaths would not be easy. But if he succeeded—if he succeeded, he would save not only his family but the lives of many others. The Divines stole so much. They made so many people suffer. And he’d been wrong: Serah did have a chance to escape. Someone would surely follow her, but it wouldn’t be a dreadman.

  He looked down at Nettle. He didn’t have to draw all his Fire. He didn’t have to kill him. He knew of no lore that could return the soul once it had been taken. They’d hoped such things would be contained in the Book of Hismayas, but he could not make this decision based on a wild hope of opening that tome. If Nettle sacrificed himself, there would be no restoration.

  Argoth found tears in his eyes. Nettle reminded him so much of Ummon, his son of so long ago. His son who had ridden out and never come back. His son who he had risked unnecessarily. Argoth wished this crisis had come upon them six months later. By then he would have brought Nettle into the Order, and Nettle would have been able to give him his Fire. But Argoth knew that was a lie. He wouldn’t have brought Nettle into the Order. He’d pushed the testing off for more than two years now. He would have waited another year. They would have been in the same position they were now.

  “Pick me up, father. Let me stand at your side. Let me be a man and fight for what is ours.”

  Yes, Argoth thought. Let us fight. Let us not falter in the moment of crisis. The Divines were no better than soul-eaters. And was he not a Root
of the Order of Hismayas? An Order established by the Creators themselves to bring humankind back into the light, to restore that which was lost.

  He looked at his son with new eyes. Nettle was a man. It was time to let Nettle stand at his side as what he was, to treat him as Argoth would any other man.

  “I will pick you up,” said Argoth. “You will stand at my side. And together we shall smite the enemy.”

  He reached out and took his boy in his arms and hugged him tightly, hugged him for what would be the very last time because if he did survive, if he came back from this battle, the Nettle he knew very well might be gone.

  * * *

  Argoth left Nettle in the secret room and went to the kitchen and put a pot of water over the fire to boil. He listened to the sounds of his family sleeping upstairs and a memory of Nettle as a little boy pushed its way into his mind. Years ago, he and Serah stood to the side of the kitchen window spying on Nettle playing with Grace and Joy. Each child had a number of Nettle’s new, brightly-painted wooden animals. The animals mustered a defense against raiders in the flower pots. When the waves of Bone Faces had all been tromped, gnashed, and thrown in the privy, Nettle’s pig said, “Want to roll in the mud?”

  “A triumph celebration,” said Grace’s horse. Soon all the bright animals and the children were covered with mud. The children had played until dark fell, and Argoth and Serah had been content just to watch.

  Tonight that little boy had shown his mettle. And Argoth, for all intents and purposes, was going to have to kill him.

  Kill his own son.

  But maybe not forever. His heart swelled within him, and then the water began to steam.

  He swung the pot off the fire. He poured steaming water into a teapot, brought a pitcher for himself, fetched a cheesecloth teabag, and returned to the hidden cellar to make a wizardsmeet tea.

  A fire burned in the hearth of the underground room. Nettle stood at the case examining a rough necklace.

  “That is your great, great, great grandfather’s weave,” said Argoth. “A thrall that we will use upon the Skir Master.”