Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  * * *

  Talen followed the Creek Widow to the bottom of a narrow valley between two steep and stony hills. Sunrise was still a ways off, but the sky had begun to lighten at the eastern edge, and he could see the valley well enough. The woods broke on a clearing that began by the brook and ran halfway up one of the hills.

  “Here it is,” she said.

  “Here?” asked Talen. Such a clearing couldn’t provide much protection. He thought she’d said it was a cave. But he could see none. “What do we do, hide under the bushes?”

  “Yes, Talen,” she said. “That’s what the great minds of our Order came up with. Hide under the bushes.” She shook her head and led him through the waist-high brush to the steep and stony base of the hill.

  Talen thought that maybe they’d dug some cellar in the valley floor, but then the Creek Widow turned a corner around a tall seam of stone running dozens of yards up the hill and disappeared.

  “Goh,” he said. He arrived at the place where she vanished and found a jagged cleft in the seam of stone. Before him stood the mouth to a cave, a wan light glowing inside.

  “Bring the Tailor in here,” said the Creek Widow from inside.

  The mouth was barely wide enough for the horse, but it was not tall enough to allow a mounted man to pass through. Sugar untied Legs and helped him down. Then the three of them entered.

  This first chamber stretched perhaps two-dozen feet wide. He looked up into the inky black but could not see the ceiling. A light came from a chamber down a short corridor.

  “Can you see this entrance in full daylight?” he asked.

  “Not unless you’re right upon it,” she said. She pointed at a large stone behind him. “And that’s only when the stone is removed. Replace the stone and this cave doesn’t exist.”

  Something popped. It sounded like green wood in a fire. “Hello?” he said, hoping to hear Ke’s voice, but there was no reply.

  “You’ll find this a comfortable place,” said the Creek Widow. “There’s no vermin that gets in here. No rats. And there’s a spot where the water drips clear and cold.”

  Around the corner from the mouth lay some horse stalls and a crib of hay. The Creek Widow held an armful of hay and put it at the head of one stall. “Bring him over here. I’ll rub him down. You three go see who’s here. And get a place to rest while you can.”

  The hay looked like a perfectly fine place to Talen.

  “Where do you keep the food stores?” asked Sugar.

  “I’ll worry about that,” said the Creek Widow. “Now go.”

  Talen was more than happy to oblige. He walked to the lit chamber, but found no one, just a fire burning low in a hearth. Sugar and Legs joined him. He wondered where the smoke from this fire went. There must be a hole somewhere up above. But if no vermin could get in, that mean they had to have a cap for it. If not, this refuge wasn’t bottled up as tight as the Creek Widow would like to think. Three rabbits stretched out on forks above the fire. The meat wasn’t burned, but it was getting close. To the side he saw Ke’s pack.

  “It’s Ke,” Talen called out for the Creek Widow. Then he squatted by the rabbits. “Looks like we’ve got us a snack.”

  Knowing that Ke was here sent a surge of relief though him. He did not know until then how helpless he had felt. He put down his bow and removed the quiver of arrows he’d strapped to his waist. Then he squatted close to the fire, and skewered one of the carcasses with his knife, and removed it from the cooking fork. He peeled off a tender piece of loin and stuck it in his mouth. “Not too dry yet.” He turned to Sugar and held the roasted carcass to her.

  Legs sniffed. “That had better not be rat cooking.”

  The Creek Widow cursed. At least, that’s what he thought it sounded like. The Tailor had probably pooped on her feet. He smiled to himself thinking of that. Old Lady Brown Toe. He’d give her a ribbing about that.

  “Oh, it’s rat,” said Talen. “Nice and plump. You get the tail.”

  “Don’t believe him,” said Sugar and twisted off a piece of meat for her brother.

  Talen fed the fire and ate a hind leg in one bite. The meat had only served to sharpen his appetite. “The Widow’s taking her time,” he said.

  “Maybe she went to the jacks,” said Legs.

  “Probably,” said Talen. “But I ought to go see if she needs help. Along the way I’m going to see what else they have here to eat.” He could barely muster enough strength to fight his fatigue, but he stood. At one end of this chamber stood a table and some shelves. He grabbed an oil lamp from the shelf and lit it. Then he walked out into the corridor.

  “Aunt?” he said.

  The flame guttered in a breeze that he hadn’t noticed before. The Creek Widow did not reply, so he headed farther into the cave. The corridor sloped upwards, the flickering lamp casting odd shadows on the wall. Maybe two dozen yards farther he came to what had to be the third chamber. He held the lamp high and saw barrels of food. But it was all grains and dry stuffs, nothing quick. There were other things in this room—rope, arrows, cord.

  He decided that if he couldn’t eat, at least he could get a drink. The dripping rock he’d heard must be further up the corridor, so he walked toward it and found the dripping rock and a small cistern with a cup. He satisfied his thirst and saw that the corridor took a sharp turn upwards at this point and someone had carved steps into it. The Creek Widow had told him there was an escape route out the back. This must be it.

  Despite his weariness, his curiosity took him up the stair. It wasn’t too long and he found the exit. Another large stone sealed it, but it too had been moved aside. He left the lamp burning below and climbed through the exit and out into a cluster of rocks to stand on the side of the hill some distance above and to the right of where he estimated the mouth of this refuge to be. He wondered why the exit was open. Maybe the air in the cave had been stale. It certainly created a nice breeze through the corridor.

  Except he was sure there had been no breeze before. “Ke,” he called out into the night. There was no response, but the sound of night insects.

  Talen turned around, picked up his lamp, and went back down the stair. He took another drink at the dripping rock and noticed this time that the water from the rock ran into a fissure which ran a dozen feet along the side of the path. Then he realized he’d left the Widow to put everything away. River would be boxing his ears right now for leaving the work to others, so instead of exploring further, he turned back.

  He passed Sugar and Legs by the fire. When he reached the front chamber, he found the Tailor standing in his stall, saddle still on his back. That was odd. She hadn’t even begun to unsaddle him. Maybe she had gone to the jacks, wherever they were. Talen walked over to take care of the Tailor, but when he got close he kicked something in the dirt. He bent over and picked it up. It was the Widow’s codex of lore.

  Then he saw other things scattered about.

  “Aunt?” he called.

  Nothing.

  He walked over to the mouth of the cave and stood listening. He scanned the clearing, stepped farther out and looked up the hill. Nothing but the insects, the stars, and the moon shining down from the west.

  The Tailor might have simply knocked over one of the bags. Or perhaps Ke had returned with something urgent. It was possible, but not likely. She wouldn’t just run off. And she certainly wouldn’t drop her codex into the dirt.

  “Aunt?” he called out.

  When she did not reply, he took his lamp, held it low, and searched the ground.

  He found Ke’s knife, which was another odd thing. He studied the footprints in the dust and found five. Then he saw a sixth that was totally unlike the others. Talen bent low and measured it with the span between his thumb and pinky finger. It was misshapen and large. Larger than any human’s could possibly be.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He rose to his feet and looked around. That creature wasn’t here, but it had been. It had taken the Widow. A worse
idea shivered him. It might be feeding on her at this very moment somewhere outside.

  He raced back to the first chamber. Sugar and Legs had both lain down. Legs was fast asleep.

  “Get up,” he hissed.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sugar.

  “The monster,” he said, “It’s here. It’s taken the Widow and Ke.”

  And he did not want to be bottled up in this cave waiting for it to return. Those bushes outside seemed like a really good idea now. Sugar’s eyes widened in alarm and she turned and shook Legs awake. Then she climbed to her feet and took him by the hand.

  “What are we doing?” Legs asked blearily.

  “Leaving,” Talen whispered.

  Then they hurried out. Talen ran and untied the Tailor. He didn’t know where he would go or what they could do. They just had to get out. Maybe they could go to the far hill and watch this entrance and hope that this was nothing more than his fatigue and imagination running away with him.

  Something scuffled outside the mouth of the cave.

  Talen and Sugar froze.

  They were trapped.

  43

  Hag’s Teeth

  TALEN PULLED OUT his knife, knowing the fat lot of good it would do him against that monster, and stood to protect the others.

  But the monster didn’t rush in; a group of dreadmen did instead. They came in with torches and swords. Two spotted him and the others and charged forward. The rest raced silently into the passageway. Before Talen could drop his knife, the two dreadmen were upon them. The one held his sword tip inches from Talen’s chest.

  Such speed—it took Talen’s breath away. These dreadmen were tattooed with the markings of the Lions of Mokad, the Skir Master’s personal guard. The one holding his sword in front of Talen looked like he would kill at the slightest provocation. A tattoo flared away from one his eyes. The other eye was puffed, the skin horribly burned.

  “On your bellies,” whispered the dreadman.

  Talen offered no resistance. He dropped to his knees, then prostrated himself, turning his head so that one cheek was flat against the earth. Sugar did the same. Legs slid off the side of the horse and dropped to the ground right next to the horse’s legs.

  Talen looked up at the dreadman. The torch in the dreadman’s hand spit. One small burning droplet of pitch struck Talen’s neck, but he dared not brush it away. The Tailor was not comfortable with the fire or the men. He protested and backed up, almost stepping on Legs, and banged into the stall.

  Two more men walked into the chamber, a smaller one followed by a larger. The smaller man had short white hair and bushy eyebrows. He stood proudly erect. His clothes were made of sumptuous cloth. The eyes drew Talen’s attention; they were black and shiny as polish jet.

  Talen had seen only two Divines in his life. This one filled him with dread. Talen couldn’t see the face of the larger man, but it was clear he was the Skir Master’s servant.

  “Master,” the large one said. “Do you see? I’ll make up for my sins.”

  Talen looked on in disbelief. He recognized that voice. “Uncle?” he asked.

  Uncle Argoth turned and glanced at Talen, and then a Fir-Noy entered the cave. It was The Crab, the territory lord. Talen should have known the Fir-Noy would be behind this.

  The Crab looked around at the chamber. “Well, well. Even I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

  The dreadmen who had moved deeper into the refuge returned to the first chamber. Talen counted six of them besides the two watching him, Sugar, and Legs.

  “There’s nobody here,” their leader reported.

  “No one?” demanded the Skir Master. He turned to Uncle Argoth. “Clansman? Is there another place you haven’t told me about?”

  Uncle Argoth groveled before the Skir Master. “No, no. The stone was pushed aside. Either they’ve come and gone or they’ve gone and will return.”

  What had happened to Uncle Argoth? He was so obsequious he didn’t even seem the same man.

  “There was a hearth in the first chamber,” the lead dreadman said. “The coals were still warm.”

  “Then they’re here,” said Uncle Argoth.

  The Skir Master turned and looked at Talen. “Who are these three?”

  The dreadman kicked Talen in the side so hard it took his breath away. “Answer!”

  “I am the son of Hogan the Koramite,” Talen croaked. “The horse of blood hill. These are the children of Sparrow, smith of the village of Plum.”

  The Skir Master made a small noise to himself and walked over to look down upon Talen.

  “He speaks the truth,” said Uncle Argoth.

  The Skir Master considered Talen as if he were judging a poorly fired pot. “Was your father here?”

  “No,” said Talen. “Not that I know of.”

  “Do not seek to deceive me,” said the Skir Master. “I already know that he, like this girl’s witch mother, was snatched from those set to guard him. Tell me where the others are.”

  The Skir Master’s pants were scorched. His feet bare. And there stood Uncle Argoth next to him. Was he a traitor or was this some ruse and the real Argoth would suddenly rise up and slay these men? “I do not know, Great One.”

  “Cut out his eye,” said The Crab.

  The dreadman with the burned eye looked to the Skir Master.

  “Please,” said Talen. “We came and the cave was empty. Our guide disappeared while we were in the other chamber. I think the monster took her as well.”

  “It’s as I told you, Great One,” Uncle Argoth said. “The creature is not ours. Something else is afoot.”

  “Maybe not yours,” said the Skir Master. “But you’re only one man. How do you know the two Koramites, whom you trust so much, are not part of another murder of sleth?”

  The Skir Master motioned at Talen, and one of the dreadman guarding him wrenched Talen up by his hair and held him in a lock with his arms and legs so Talen couldn’t move.

  “I swear,” said Talen. “I’m telling the truth.”

  The dreadman with the burned eye drew his knife and drew close, the tang of his body odor filling Talen’s nostrils. “Hold still,” he said, “or you’ll lose more than an eye.”

  “I can show you the footprint!” cried Talen. “The monster was here.”

  The dreadman changed his grip on knife and readied it to plunge into Talen’s eye.

  “Stop,” said the Skir Master.

  Talen stared up at the thin point of the blade.

  “Tell me everything you know.”

  Where would he start? With his mother? With the fact that he was some soul-eater’s artifact? Or should he simply blurt out that his family were all soul-eaters? And then there was Uncle Argoth—was he playing some ruse or had he been subverted? Tell the truth or fabricate a story, either might conflict with what Uncle Argoth had already told the Divine. He decided it would be best to interpret “everything” to mean only what he knew about the monster.

  “He’s going to lie,” said the dreadman.

  “Then give him a bit of motivation,” said the Skir Master.

  “No,” said Talen.

  But the dreadman brought the knife down. His face with its burned eye was terrible to behold. Talen tried to squirm away, but the man’s grip was like stone. Talen closed his eyes at the last moment and felt the burn as the blade sliced open the skin on his cheek below his eye.

  “I saw it first at our farm,” said Talen.

  But the dreadman kept cutting. Blood ran down the side of Talen’s face and dripped in his ear.

  “Please. I only learned about the Grove just two days ago. I’ll tell you everything.” He was ashamed at how easily he broke, but that disappointment was quickly put aside when the dreadman stopped cutting.

  Talen’s mind raced. The monster was out there. Maybe if they worried about it, he and the others could slip away. So he started there and began to rattle off everything he knew about the creature.

 
The dreadman lifted the knife away from Talen’s face.

  Talen continued with every detail he’d seen and all those he’d heard from Da about the battle in the tower. He ended by saying, “Its footprints are here. I can only suspect it’s taken my brother and the Creek Widow, who led us here. I’ll show you.”

  The Skir Master regarded him, then nodded, and the dreadman let him up. Talen immediately put his hand to the cut on his face. He pressed his fingers to the cut to hold it closed and stop the bleeding, then walked to the clearest set of prints.

  “Here,” he said and pointed at a footprint. “And here.”

  The Skir Master squatted down and examined the prints. After some time, he said, “If it’s lore masters this creature wants, then a lore master is what it will get. I think I know what’s been let loose upon your lands.” He stood and turned to The Crab. “We’re going to need at least five sturdy ropes, no shorter than forty feet. Go.”

  “Yes, Great One,” The Crab said, then exited the chamber.

  The Skir Master turned to the lead dreadman. “This creature cannot be beat by force of arms alone. It was bred by lore, and lore alone can defeat it. If it’s rescuing the soul-eaters, then it will come for the Clansman. If it’s merely collecting them, eliminating them, then it will still come because I will raise a bait it can’t resist. We need nooses and snares. You must hold the thing, if only for a moment. I want five of you here. Set the other four to watch. You will distract it. And I shall take it with the ravelers.”

  “What about Shegom?”

  “The Skir will conceal herself elsewhere. I must catch the creature off guard. Shegom will only make it wary.”

  The lead dreadman bowed and led his men out of the cave.

  Talen looked over at Sugar whose face was full of fear and dread. Legs still lay where he’d first dropped.

  The Skir Master turned to Uncle Argoth. “You didn’t tell me about your nephew.”

  “He knows nothing,” said Argoth. “His father only recently tried to waken him. He is of no consequence.”