Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  “Too bad you can’t call that monster for real,” Talen said and unstrung his bow. He put the string in an oiled leather pouch that hung from his quiver and told Legs to hold the bow staff. “Raise your arm, brother sleth.”

  Legs raised one arm.

  Talen took it by the wrist, bent low, grabbed Leg’s ankle with his other hand, and stood up straight, laying Legs across his shoulders.

  “Right,” Talen said. It was like lugging a sack of beets. That’s all this was. He adjusted Legs to more evenly distribute his weight. Then he plodded forward, around the clump of ivy, over a flat of rock, and then onto a game trail no wider than his foot.

  38

  Traps

  THE SKIR MASTER Rubaloth stood on the deck of the ship watching the sun rise, the stiff morning breeze at his back. On the main deck half-a-dozen sailors guided the last pallet of barrels that contained seafire down into the main hold. “Report,” he said to Uram.

  “Argoth and his escort are eating a fine breakfast at the Shark’s Tooth.”

  “Did he give you trouble?”

  “None, Great One. But I did find something odd.”

  “Oh?”

  “His son’s neck, Great One. In the early morning I caught the clansman locking the door of a room. His boy was inside, lying on a bed. The Clansman told me the boy had fallen ill. And the pungent odor of a healing salve did fill the hallway, but underneath it all I thought I smelled the faintest trace of wizardsmeet. It was there one moment and then gone. Still, when my men had everyone outside, I went back in and quietly forced the door. They’d wrapped the boy’s neck with fresh linen and plastered it as if for a sore throat. But when I pulled the bandaging back, the skin on the boy’s neck had all the markings of a hasty and large harvest.”

  Rubaloth nodded. He’d been right. These cursed Clansmen. Another scion from a vanquished line no doubt wielding old magics. Argoth could be the one who had wrested Lumen from the Glory. If so, this could be tricky, but Rubaloth savored the challenge.

  “When we’re a few miles from shore,” he said, “you will quietly search all his belongings.”

  Uram bowed. “I shall, Great One.”

  Yes, he’d have to be careful. But this Captain Argoth would soon find he was not the only one prepared for battle.

  * * *

  Argoth ate at The Shark’s Tooth like a starved man. Eggs, sausage, thick cream on cherry biscuits. He stopped a serving maid as she walked by. “A bit of salted lard,” he said.

  She bowed and hurried away. Lard, suet, butter, or cream—it didn’t matter. What Argoth needed was great quantities of bread and fat, for that was what softened the hunger that would come when he multiplied himself.

  The sun had not yet risen, but the Skir Master wanted an early start. “Is the Captain easy at sea?” asked Uram.

  “I regularly run the dreadman’s course, including the two-mile swim,” said Argoth. “And these are not tropical waters.” He bit into a juicy link of sausage.

  “An admirable habit,” said Uram, who had only recently arrived.

  “Indeed,” said Argoth. “One can do worse than modeling the diet and activity of dreadmen like yourself.”

  “But what about the Captain’s stomach? Fatty foods on a rolling ship has laid low the strongest of men.”

  A man spoke from behind in a dry voice. “There’s no need to worry, Zu. Lord Iron Guts will not lose his breakfast.”

  Shim stood holding a mug of ale, a wide grin cracking his leather face.

  Argoth considered Shim for a moment, but he saw no sign that the man had come to betray him.

  “Some Lords prove their stamina by drinking the hardiest of men under the table. Not Lord Porkslop, he buries them with a mountain of food.”

  “Blighter,” said Argoth with a mouthful of eggs. “I didn’t see you arrive.”

  “Of course not,” said Shim. “Not with a plate of sizzling hogtail sausages calling you like a lover.”

  Argoth grunted, then patted the stool next to him.

  Shim sat with his mug. “Captain,” he said to Uram. “Have you ever seen the like?”

  “He does have a prodigious appetite.”

  “Prodigious? I dare say Argoth’s stomach is by itself a force of nature. It is wise to keep all fingers outside the range of his fork.”

  Argoth reached over and grabbed Shim’s mug. “If you don’t mind?”

  “I do.”

  But Argoth slipped it away, quaffed three gulps, then set it back down in front of Shim. “Nothing like a bit of ale with your eggs, eh?”

  Shim looked into his mug. “Or a bit of eggs in the ale.”

  It was like it had been; this was the man he loved, and Argoth laughed. In front of Uram, they discussed the defenses of the land, who would take Argoth’s place. But when they stepped out of The Shark’s Tooth onto High Street and began to walk down the cobblestone street to the wharves, Shim turned serious.

  “I received a love letter,” he said.

  “Oh?” asked Argoth.

  “Yes, they always want some proclamation, some proof. I daresay I don’t know whether to write a stinging rebuke or show the sender some of my family history.”

  Shim reached into his coat. He retrieved an object, and then grasped Argoth’s hand and placed it in it. “My great, great grandfather made that.”

  Argoth glanced down at it and closed his hand again. It was a weave, an ancient dead thing that looked like it should hang from a necklace, but a weave nevertheless.

  Shim put his arm around Argoth like a friend. “Have I proven my love?”

  Shim was not a dreadman. That meant this weave was his or one loaned from another. In either case, it meant he had placed himself in grave danger because possessing such a thing was a crime punishable by death. Unless, of course, he was part of this Skir Master’s plot.

  Argoth looked into his friend’s face, but found no deception. It was a risk to trust him, for Shim hadn’t been proven properly. But then this wasn’t a proper situation either. Besides, Shim had revealed his character through years of friendship.

  Argoth sucked his teeth to get the last morsels out. As they walked a cart with a load of fish passed them going up the hill. Argoth turned to see the dreadmen following them and passed the weave back.

  “You don’t need it?”

  “No,” said Argoth. “But you will. What else did grandfather pass down?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  “Then you and I are going to have a long talk when I get back.”

  “You’re making me nervous,” said Shim. “The streets are choking with The Crab’s men. I don’t think we have that kind of time.”

  “Such little faith,” said Argoth. “You worry about the tactics. I’ll worry about the strategy.”

  Shim rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Oh?”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but now’s not a time to protect your friends by keeping them in the dark.”

  “Yes, it is. Especially if I don’t return.”

  “Well, then let’s hope our blueberry Divine is as ineffectual as he seems.”

  “Ineffectual?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  Argoth shrugged.

  Shim pointed at the Skir Master’s chaser. “Look.”

  The chaser stood out from the other merchant ships and galleys like a doe amid a herd of goats. The Ardent was a special ship; she stretched twice as long as she was wide, fine-lined, and able to set an amazing amount of sail. Half-a-dozen sailors scrambled up the rigging of the two masts. And then Argoth saw what Shim was referring to. “Why isn’t she rigged with square sails?” A Skir Master’s ship didn’t need fore-and-aft rigging to sail close to the wind. You didn’t tack in a Skir ship. You ran on an acre of square canvas, rigged with wide studding sails on booms to both sides of each of the main sails. You ran like a dolphin in the wake of the creature’s wind.

  “The old skir died on the voyage over.”<
br />
  “Died?”

  “That’s what’s been noising about. Took them two weeks longer than planned to get here.”

  “Died,” said Argoth. That was good news indeed.

  “And he couldn’t catch another,” said Shim. “Mokad has grown weak.”

  They reached the bottom of the street and proceeded along the docks. Two porters rolled a fat barrel onto a loading pallet next to a merchant ship. Another tried to steady a nervous mule that powered the boom to move that pallet. In front of the next ship, an officer inspected a handcart loaded with wicker cages full of russet chickens. A whistle sounded, and a group of boys, young sailors who had been standing in a cluster on the wharf, strode to the gangplank. One of them lingered, letting a girl with dark hair tie a bright blue scarf about his neck. A gull, standing on a post next to them, squawked, then launched itself just over the tops of the crowds and wheeled past the Ardent.

  Argoth pushed through the crowd until he stood before the gangplank, the water slapping at the wood posts and the ship’s hull. The hull gleamed. It was said that the Skir Master had his slaves careen the ship at least four times a year to keep the hull clean and fast.

  She was stealthy—painted a dull gray and carrying no striped sails, which made it harder to see her on the water. The only bright colors were the blue, yellow, and red eyes painted on the prow and each of the oar paddles.

  Such eyes, it was believed by sailors, helped a ship avoid shoals and sandbars. But they were also a sign of the Glory of Mokad. I can see you, those eyes said; I am with you, via my servants, even upon the waters and in far lands. To some this gave comfort. To others it was a warning.

  A large crowd clustered about Argoth. Bosser, the Prime, and others stood among them. Bosser smoothed his long moustache, watching the last of the fire lances swing aboard. “This is madness,” he said in his strong Vargon accent.

  “Indeed,” said Argoth. “I wish the Skir Master had come to stay. But I do what I am bid.”

  “They are cutting us off,” said the Prime.

  “But you have the new weaves,” said Shim.

  “Gah,” said Bosser. “It’s like giving a starving man one withered fig.”

  They talked of business then: what manner of defense they could prepare along the rivers, and how long it would take to cast more fire lances. Then the ship’s captain had the mate call all aboard.

  Argoth bid the men about him farewell and walked up the plank. The ship’s mate directed him to his quarters, which lay in the stern under the aftercastle, but he did not inspect them. Instead he turned to those on the docks. A number of the men he commanded had joined the crowd. One fellow suggested that now perhaps was the time to strike a deal for one of Argoth’s daughters. Argoth shouted out that Serah would drive a much harder bargain than he. The crowd laughed, but Argoth worried, wondering if she’d left yet.

  Then it all came to an end. The first mate called for the gangplank to be removed and the moorings untied. Then the oarsmen on the starboard side shoved the ship away from the dock. A twelve-man rowboat pulled them away from the dock. Then the captain called for the oars. The deck held benches for 30 oars, 15 to a side, each with two men on them. A drummer, seated in the stern, played a short rhythm and the oarsmen in unison dipped their oars. The drummer played a different rhythm and the oarsmen set themselves. Another tap to the light drum, and the men pulled. The taps continued and the oarsmen pulled in time to them, the eyes dipping in and out of the water.

  When they cleared the docks and turned the ship, the captain ordered the oars back and a number of the sails unfurled. The men climbed the rigging and dropped the canvas. It snapped in the wind, filled, and then the Ardent leaned and leapt forward under his feet.

  Argoth turned and looked back. The fortress standing upon the hill with the morning sun gleaming off its towers and walls, the temple on the second hill, the rows of buildings and the fine streets, the white cliffs behind—it was all beautiful. A glistening, rich land. He loved it like no other he’d ever lived in. And somewhere in those green hills and vales were his wife and children. All the Lions had entered the ship with him, which meant Serah could slip away unseen.

  A midshipman appeared at Argoth’s side and relayed that the Divine requested his presence up on the deck of the aftercastle.

  Argoth nodded, took one last glance, then joined the Divine and captain on the upper deck.

  The Skir Master wore dark blue trousers, a dark shirt, and a gray, close-fitting coat. About his wrist he wore a leather band that glinted with metal. Argoth assumed those metal bits were weaves. Some were probably escrum. The Skir Master did not appear feeble. Perhaps he lost his Skir simply because those creatures too were susceptible to age and death.

  The Skir Master looked directly at Argoth. “Don’t waste your time. Your future lies in front of you, not behind.”

  “Master?” said Argoth.

  “I’m not all blind, nor deaf. I know what my visit has meant to the Lords of this land.”

  Argoth said nothing.

  “But in the end there must be priorities.”

  “Yes, Great One,” said Argoth. Then he stood there in an uncomfortable silence watching the sailors move about their tasks below. The ship sailed out of the harbor and into the wide sea. After a time, Argoth spoke. “Great One, I need to check on the seafire below. It needs to breathe. Otherwise, the vapor can build up and crack the barrels.”

  That was a lie, but none on this ship would know it. Those who had worked with the seafire might wonder, but before they could question him, they’d be dead. He sighed at that thought. They were good men. Good men caught in events beyond their control. Good men who did not deserve to die.

  “Be quick,” said the Skir Master. “For I shall go fishing very soon. And I will want you here to observe.”

  Fishing for Skir. Argoth had never seen it done before. “Yes, Great One,” said Argoth. Then he left the Skir Master. On his way he surveyed the ship’s boats. There were three of them. The two larger ones had been turned over and stacked, the medium-sized one inside the larger, forward of the oars. Ropes bound them tightly to the deck. But the third, an eighteen footer, hung by davits off the stern. If there was to be any escape, it would be in that boat.

  Argoth descended the stair to the main deck and entered the doorway to the aft cabins. A narrow stair twisted down. Argoth descended this to the lower deck. He asked the cook where he might find a hatchet. Then, hatchet in hand, he walked past the goats, the water room, and barrels of hard bread.

  This ruse was necessary. If he opened one of the foul smelling things in the middle of the night, it would wake the whole crew, and he could not afford that. His plan required he avoid fighting as much as possible. So if he made regular visits through the day and into the night, closing one barrel and opening another, the crew would pay neither him nor the odor any mind.

  He found the seafire stowed a little aft of center, a perfect spot for setting a fire. The twelve large barrels stood two high next to the fire lances. Thick ropes tied them all fast to the struts of the deck. Argoth glanced toward the bow of the ship. Ahead, under the forecastle is where the crew slept. They would probably shut the door to their quarters against this stink. And that would only make it easier for him should it come to this.

  Argoth pried the bungs out of three of the barrels, releasing the strong, unhealthy vapors into the hold. He held his breath and wedged both the bungs and hatchet tightly between two crates. Then, with the first part of his plan executed, he returned to the Skir Master and fresh air.

  They sailed until the New Lands disappeared behind the horizon, and then the ship’s captain called for the crew to strike the sails.

  The Ardent’s aftercastle swept back out over the water farther than on any ship Argoth had ever seen. But it did so not to accommodate another mast. No, the Skir Master used that deck to work his magic.

  Argoth climbed the stair to that deck. Above him a team of four sailors stood in a row on
a balance rope belaying the last of sails to its yard. Others tied down the coils of rope: something he’d never seen done before. Soon the ship no longer leapt to the wind, but sat in the water, rolling gently with the waves.

  In the middle of the aftercastle stood a railing like something you might put around a pulpit. A pace or so aft rose what looked like a huge bowl turned on its side; the mouth of the bowl faced the sea off the stern of the ship. The bowl stood taller than a man and was woven of stiff, bronze wire that looked like a large, dark lattice with gaps in the weave that were big enough to allow a man to slip an arm through. It glinted in the sunlight, and as Argoth approached he saw silver lines threading through the whole of it.

  “Come,” said the Skir Master standing next to the bowl. He pointed to a spot along the railing. “There is the best spot for viewing the catch.”

  Argoth took a spot at the railing next to the Captain. The massive Leaf stood close to the bowl to assist the Skir Master. The tattoos flaring out from the man’s eyes made him look wild. Two of the crew stood by the other stair, holding a young boy between them.

  “Captain,” said the Skir Master. “The bait.”

  “Affix him,” the Captain said to the two crewmen. They brought the boy to the bowl. He looked at Argoth and smiled, his eyes full of pleasure and lassitude.

  The boy was drugged.

  He stood in the trap, and when they bound him with hemp cords, he laughed in a high, little boy voice. Argoth thought of Nettle lying on the table in his workroom, his eyes brimming with tears, and the sight of that boy pained him.

  The Skir Master stood before the boy, poking and prodding him, inspecting him like livestock. Then he checked the bonds.

  Argoth spoke aside to the Captain. “I thought the practice was to use a goat or ram.”

  The Skir Master overheard and answered. “Some fish fancy flies, others worms, others a bit of stinking gore. It all depends on what you’re trying to catch and what the beasts are biting.”

  “Yes, Great One,” said Argoth.

  The ship rolled with a large wave, and Argoth held to the rail.