Servant: The Dark God Book 1

by John D. Brown

  How could he have not seen it before? So simple. Despite all the flourishes added by the clans, the heart of the tattoo, the clan marking, was nothing more than elaborate livestock brand. The woman was right: they were indeed cattle, marked by their various masters.

  “What?” Shim asked.

  “All in good time,” Argoth said. “All in good time.” Then he took Shim’s hand. It was a rough hand, strong, full of experience. Argoth looked Shim in the eyes, then poured a small amount of Fire into him. He still had great portions of Nettle’s Fire in him, and Argoth realized his son’s sacrifice might not have all gone to waste after all.

  A moment later Argoth connected with Shim’s soul.

  Shim took in a breath, his eyes widened, but he did not let go.

  Argoth said into Shim’s mind, “In the beginning, all men were gods.”

  * * *

  Argoth told Shim the fragments of the history of humankind as he knew it. He told of the wars between the Divines and the old gods, knowing now it was not a war between men, but one between men and the race of the creature in the cave. He told of Hismayas, one of the last remaining gods, who sent his followers into the wilderness to hide, to preserve the truth until the time would come that they might throw off their masters. Then he told Shim about his tale, of his days of darkness and stepping into the light. He told everything important up to and including the recent events with the Skir Master and the battle in the cave.

  Shim said nothing for a long time. Then he pointed at small chest on the table next to him. “Open that,” he said.

  Argoth did. In it lay folded a cloth. Argoth picked it up by two corners and let it unfurl. It was a device in the shape of a shield that Argoth had never seen before: a field half blue, half white, and upon that field lay a sun, the thread of which was the color of brass. The sun glistened in the lamp light.

  “What is this?”

  “White for purity,” said Shim, “blue for courage and loyalty. The sun for knowledge and power.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s old, my friend. Very old, passed down for generations. This is going to be our standard.”

  “Ours?” asked Argoth.

  “All those,” Shim said, “who fight those that would be our masters.”

  “I’ve watched the faces of the men,” said Argoth. “They are going to have a difficult time accepting this. We cannot simply dump the whole truth upon them.”

  “No,” said Shim. “First we will demonstrate our power. And when we have the confidence of those who matter, we shall tell them by what means we work.”

  “We will not have long. A few days at the most before they begin to question the fine points of our story.”

  “What I need from you is living weaves,” said Shim. “A hundred in three days.”

  “Three days?” It was impossible.

  Shim nodded. “We have some dry weaves. Two dozen maybe. You can fill those.”

  That would leave about seventy-five weaves to create. Nobody in this Grove knew how to make anything but crude weaves in metal. River could weave them of other things, but a hundred was out of the question. Besides, they didn’t have the Fire. Only the current members of the Grove could give Fire. And Argoth would never take it again. “I can deliver another ten.”

  “Twenty,” said Shim. “We must come to them in power.”

  “You can’t train up a dreadman in a few hours.”

  “We don’t need full dreadmen. We just need to show them the power is available. Can you train the men and women you give the weaves to perform some feat?”

  “Yes,” said Argoth. “But even if we’re able to convince the lords of the Shoka, the Fir-Noy will not go along. And if they turn against us, three of the other clans will follow.”

  “In the beginning,” said Shim, “they will resist us, but it will not last. The Prime is with us. Bosser as well. Furthermore, I have reports. The death of the Skir Master has shaken Mokad. The lords of Nilliam are pressing this advantage. Mokad, more than ever, has no resources to spare. The Fir-Noy will receive no help.”

  “They have weaves,” said Argoth.

  “How many? A dozen? And every day we will add to our numbers. In a few weeks we shall have hundreds. And then we shall raise dreadmen who need no weaves. Men like yourself. When the Bone Faces come and these Mokaddian loyalists have to contend with them on their own, they will find their objections are small things.”

  “Yes,” said Arogth, “But we do not fight against the men of Mokad or Cath or even the Bone Face ships. We fight against their masters. We have attacked, maybe killed, one of their kind.”

  “You think the glorydoms will join forces against us?”

  “Look at how Seekers work. They hunt soul-eaters across the glorydoms of the earth, and none bar their way. Why? Because they hunt a mutual threat.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Shim said. “But perhaps they are not so different from us. Who is to say that some of these creatures might not find it in their interest to stand aside, to delay, in order to weaken an enemy? From what you told me of the creature in the cave, they are not unified.”

  “We should prepare for the worst,” said Argoth.

  “If they come at us with all their might, can we withstand them?”

  Argoth had witnessed the power of the Skir Master first hand. He’d felt the might of the being in the cave. She’d raised living things from stone. She’d smitten him so powerfully with the illusion of her beauty that it echoed in his heart still. “The old gods once fought them, kept them at bay for years. But it’s clear we have lost much. And we’ve let the lore we do know lull us into a false sense of security.”

  “Then we shall find a way to open the seal on this book of yours and learn the things we forgot. We shall raise an army of dreadmen. And we will find someone who can bear the weight of the Victor’s crown. We cannot hesitate, my friend. Mankind’s hour is in our grasp.”

  Argoth looked at Shim and wondered. The man had a weave his family had passed down; he had an ancient device—what was his history? Not all humans could wield the powers of life with equal effect. Not all could quicken themselves to the same degree. Bloodlines mattered. Was he simply a man with a powerful family heirloom? Or was Shim part of a line that stretched back to the old ones?

  Argoth felt as if he’d had this conversation once before. Indeed, had not both Nettle and Ummon, his son of long ago, been asking him to fight? To step fully out of the shadows? Perhaps Hismayas had never intended his Order to hide itself so deeply.

  He realized it was time, whether he wanted it or not. The wheels were in motion. The Order was going to stand forth in the sun.

  Argoth said, “We can raise an army from Koramite and Shoka, from Vargon and Burund.” He thought of the Groves scattered through the many glorydoms. He thought of the dark days before he joined the Order. Of the men and women who yet walked those forbidden paths. “And we shall send out a call. There are many in every nation who will answer. If Mokad gives us enough time, you will have your army.”

  49

  Purity’s Choice

  THE VERY NEXT morning in Shim’s hold Argoth told Serah everything. She did not weep. Instead, she fell silent, and her face turned hard as stone. Later in the day Matiga, without invitation, showed up with pot of spicy sausage and barley and her famous currant rolls. The girls ate it all with relish, but neither he nor Serah touched their food. They both knew he had stolen her son, and that she had every right to hate him.

  When the cleaning was done, Matiga sent everyone but Argoth and Serah outside. Then she turned to them both.

  “I assume he’s told you all?”

  “Yes,” said Serah.

  “At least he got that right,” said Matiga. “And I assume you know what will happen if you tell your sisters before Lord Shim brings this before the Council.”

  “I do.”

  “We will bind you with an oath,” she said. “And you will keep it.”


  “I need no binding,” said Serah. “But I will take it anyway.”

  “Good,” said Matiga. “He was stupid not to bring you in. Women provide ballast. And that’s something this one desperately needs.”

  “Indeed he does,” said Serah.

  Matiga didn’t seem to see it, but Serah was a pot of simmering fury.

  Argoth tried to take her hand, but she moved it away.

  The Creek Widow said to Argoth, “You realize the importance of what we learned in the cave? Every Glory in every land is ruled by such a creature. Every Glory is cultivating a field and delivering its harvest. We are a race of cattle.”

  “Are we sure?” Serah asked.

  “I saw the woman that held the Skir Master’s chain when he enthralled me. I saw the woman here. The glamour was the same. I can feel it even now—the rotted roots of the thrall I wore still work in me.”

  “That will pass,” said Matiga.

  So said the books, but he still felt a compulsion and prying. A door somewhere was still open. A door to another being like the one they’d faced in the cave.

  “We don’t have the knowledge to fix this open door in me,” he said. “We don’t know their powers. I’m a risk.”

  “We don’t have the knowledge,” Matiga agreed. “But we will. We have the gifts of Hismayas: we have the Book and the Crown.”

  “The book has always resisted us.”

  “But I think I understand a few things I did not before. I think we should try to open the book again.”

  “And if we fail?” asked Serah.

  “What worthwhile thing is ever achieved without risk? We have the seafire,” said Matiga. “We have our lore. We might know less than we’d like, but we know enough. If we cannot unlock the secrets of The Book, then we shall prepare with the knowledge we do have. At the very least our eyes have been opened.”

  Serah looked at Argoth, her furious indignation at what he’d done to Nettle still simmering in her eyes.

  He tried again to take her hand, but she moved it away. Argoth thought of Nettle’s face, of the trust and pain that had shone in his eyes as Argoth drew forth his Fire. “Nettle was a man,” he said. “He made a man’s choice.”

  “I’m not angry with Nettle,” she said, the pain and frustration flashing in her eyes.

  Argoth waited.

  “You said you’d tell me a story about a woman who married a monster. You revealed the monster. Now you need to wait for me to tell you how that story ends.”

  Argoth nodded. He would wait. He’d wait, if he had to, until the Creators raveled the earth.

  The Creek Widow looked to Serah and then Argoth. “Nettle is separated, not lost. We only need to learn how to bring his parts together again.”

  There was a knock on the door, and then River barged in. “Purity,” she said. “She’s failing.”

  * * *

  Sugar knelt next to Mother on the bed and stroked her arm. Her face was bloodless—the collar about her neck seemed to be feeding on her. “You’re going to be okay, Mother.”

  Legs sat on the other side. “River’s bringing the Creek Widow and Argoth.”

  “You need to listen to me,” Mother said. “Back at the house there’s a stone on the right side of the hearth. You can remove it.”

  “I know it,” Legs said.

  She looked at Sugar. “If you remove it, you’ll find a stone box. Inside are things that must not fall into the Fir-Noy’s hands. They are your heritage.”

  “They burned the house,” Sugar said.

  Mother struggled to speak. She was exhausted. “Promise me you’ll retrieve them.”

  “I promise,” Sugar said.

  “Learn the lore,” Mother said. “Keep your hearts right.” Then she slumped back, spent, as if saying those few words had used up all her energy. She took a breath. “I’m proud of both of you.”

  Oh, where was River?

  As if on cue, the door to the chamber flew open, and River, the Creek Widow, and Zu Argoth hurried in.

  The Creek Widow sized Mother up and down and began to roll up her sleeves. “You don’t look good, my girl,” she said. “Is it that collar?”

  “I think so,” said Mother.

  “We’re cutting it off you.”

  “Matiga, that may kill her.”

  “It’s killing her now.”

  “No,” Mother said.

  The Creek Widow turned to River. “Get me a pair of hoof nippers.”

  “No!” Mother said more loudly.

  The Creek Widow looked down at her. “We’re taking it off, Purity.”

  Mother shook her head and mustered her strength. “I saw things in the cave,” she said. “The woman took me abroad one night. Showed me the world of souls. Things are not right.”

  “What does that have to do with this collar?” Zu Argoth asked.

  “The ancestors,” Mother said and trailed off, too exhausted to finish her thought. “Sparrow is in danger. He doesn’t know the ways. If I don’t go, I risk . . .”

  “What do you risk, my dear?” the Creek Widow asked.

  “The children,” she said and squeezed Legs’s and Sugar’s hands.

  Arogth, the Creek Widow, and River looked at each other confused.

  “I think she’s out of her mind,” Argoth said.

  “No,” Mother said forcefully. “Everything has become clear. I must go.”

  What was Mother talking about? “They can heal you,” Sugar said. “Just let them cut that thing off your neck.”

  Mother smiled wanly and turned to Sugar. “You take care of Legs,” she said and winced. “I will find your father, and we shall prepare a place for you, so that where we are, you may be also.”

  Sugar had only just recovered her. Mother couldn’t go now. “Mother,” said Sugar. “Please.”

  Mother spoke slowly, carefully, just as she did when she wanted Sugar to listen closely. “I will go hence”—she took a resting breath—“so that you may follow. Trust me, my love. Trust me.”

  Tears rolled down Legs’s face. “I trust you, Mother.”

  Sugar found tears in her own eyes. She trusted Mother as well, but surely there had to be another way. How could all those future dreams, all those days as mother and daughter, be ripped from her again?

  The Creek Widow knelt down beside Mother and took her hand. She felt her forehead. “Purity,” she said.

  Mother looked at her clear-eyed. Some silent communication passed between them, and then the Creek Widow nodded. “Be safe,” she said.

  The words fell like boulders, crushing Sugar’s joys. Sugar closed her eyes. “I love you, Mother.”

  “I love you,” Mother said and stroked her hair again. “I love you both. I will be waiting with your father in brightness.”

  Sugar and Legs both pressed into her. Clutched her.

  Mother took a handful of labored breaths. And then her grip fell slack. Her chest stopped heaving.

  “Mother,” Legs said.

  Sugar looked up and around the room, not knowing for sure where Mother’s soul would be. “Tell Da I love him,” she said. “Tell him I will act, and not just be acted upon.”

  Again the emotion well up inside her, and she buried her face in her mother’s neck. And as the fountains of her tears rose, so did a resolute determination: come what may, Sugar, the daughter of Sparrow and Purity, would follow their footsteps; she would learn her mother’s lore. She would fight the enemy and become Purity’s daughter in very deed.

  50

  Raveler

  IN THE DAYS following the battle in the caves, Uncle Argoth and Lord Shim began raising dreadmen. The Creek Widow and River began teaching Talen and the others the first things about using Fire and soul and the history of the earth, but Talen found he couldn’t focus. The monster had saved them all. He needed to honor its last wishes.

  Talen shared his thoughts with River and the Creek Widow, and they joined him on a trip back to the refuge. They stood on the hill above the vale and
looked down at the valley where the Divine had battled. The damage was clear to see: great erratic swathes and loops of dead grass and trees. Off to one side of the meadow a boar staggered and sounded out its pain.

  Talen suspected he knew why. By the time he descended the hill, the boar was on its side kicking weakly. There was a wound on its side: that was probably the spot where the raveler had wriggled in. The boar might have been sleeping or eating. It could have been doing any number of things when the weave had found it. But Talen was sure it was the cause of the boar’s throes.

  They waited until the boar ceased its struggling; not much later the raveler worked its way out from underneath the animal and snaked into the grass.

  Wearing the white, gold-studded gauntlets, Talen quickly plucked it up. The raveler immediately stilled, and he placed it in the Skir Master’s case.

  The monster had talked of stomachs. Uncle Argoth and the Creek Widow had taken the remains of the original monster and opened it up to discover its lore. They’d also search their books for any record of the sons of Lamash. But they did not unlock its mysteries. In fact, the mysteries seemed only to multiply.

  However, Talen was able to identify what the monster had been talking about, for inside the creature’s chest had been a row of similar organs, black as coal, woven of willow withies, and merged into the flesh of stone. One, Uncle Argoth said, contained soul.

  The monster had spoken of the stomachs the woman had already taken. And where would she put them but somewhere close to her? And so Talen went back into the cave with the others.

  They searched the chamber of battle. They searched the passageways leading in and out. They found many rooms, but they never saw a nest.

  They were about to descend the broad path that led to the belly of the mountain, when Sugar asked if they’d been looking in the wrong place. Perhaps, she suggested, they should look up.

  It took less than an hour to find the woman’s roost. In one room with a sulfur pool there were a scattering of her dead eel creatures lying on the floor. When the group held their torches aloft, they saw an opening to a small chamber above. It contained silk clothing that Lumen, the former Divine of the clans, wore, an ancient, cankered sword, and a handful of abominable weaves, including two of the monster’s stomachs.