Curse: The Dark God Book 2 (29 page)

The wurm pulled back, opened its mouth.

At that moment the dreadman with the scar rode up at a full gallop and hurled himself from the saddle, sword flashing. He struck the wurm and sliced deep.

The wurm pulled back in pain and rent the air with an ear-splitting bellow.

The dreadman landed in the tall grass, rolled, and charged back, sword ready. This time when he swung, he almost cleaved the wurm in two. Blood pumped out in a huge arc, bone popped, and then the severed portion toppled heavily to the tall grass.

All about the field a clamor arose as if they’d awakened all of Regret’s foul minions. Wurms of various sizes rose out of a multitude of holes.

One struck a dreadmen, pulling him from his saddle. Another one attacked the scarred dreadman’s horse, biting into its throat. Someone shot an arrow into the wurm’s body. It trumpeted in pain and turned to face the threat.

Talen sprinted after Scruff and River only to find another beast rising in front of him. Then another dreadman rode up behind Talen, grabbed him by the back of his tunic, and lifted him up, laying him across the withers in front of the saddle. They raced past the wurm for the slope ahead.

Behind them the field of tall grass writhed. Dreadmen fought and ducked. A monstrous wurm as big around as a cow slammed its head into the rump of a horse and sent both horse and rider sprawling.

The scarred dreadman and the others that had not been trapped by the wurms galloped for the edge of the field. A horse tried to dart through a gap between two creatures, but the wurm closest to it struck, biting deep into the horse’s leg. Another dreadman on foot turned to defend himself, but a smaller creature struck at him, bit into his arm, and yanked him to the ground.

Talen and the dreadman thundered past the edge of the field and began to climb up the slope above the vale. Below them the black and brown dog broke from the grass and ran up the hill, followed by the scarred leader running with multiplied speed. In the field, the wurms converged on the horses and men they’d caught and injured.

Talen’s heart was pounding. He was
not
going to be captured by these men. And where was River? He looked about and didn’t see her. Lords, was she still back on that field?

He pushed off the horse, stumbled and crashed into the ground, but then he was up and began to sprint away. But the dreadman who had lifted him onto the horse flew from the saddle and bore him to the ground.

Talen drew his knife, but the dreadman knocked it away. Talen swung his elbow back into the man’s jaw, tried to twist free, but the dreadman was too fast. He wrapped around Talen like a snake and held him fast.

Moments later the scarred dreadman caught up. He slid something cool around Talen’s neck. When he snapped the clasp shut, something slipped inside—his grip on his Fire weakened. And then it was like trying to hold a fish with frozen hands, and it was gone.

Talen bucked and fought, but the vigor in his limbs leaked away.

The scarred dreadman bound Talen’s hands, then rolled him over. “Now, Holy One,” he said, “we will take you to your master.”

He reached out to pull Talen up, and Talen got a good look at the honors on the man’s hands. He wasn’t merely a dreadman.

“Filth!” Talen spat.

“Holy One—”

“I’m not your holy anything,” Talen said. “I do not betray my own kind and serve them up on platters.”

“Sooner or later, we are all meat,” the scarred Divine said. “It is the order of creation.”

Another one of the men rode up leading Scruff along by his reins. River was still lashed to the saddle.

Below them the wurms in the field moaned and sighed like the wind. A smaller one broke from the grass and began to slither up the slope.

“We’re not out of this yet,” the Divine said. “Move.”

* * *

About a mile from the wurm field they stopped in a piney wood. Talen had been put up on a horse with one of the dreadmen riders. The scarred Divine, his horse dead on the field, had been running. He now walked over to Scruff and began to cut River free.

“We need to get her some help,” Talen said.

“We do not have time to bear the dead,” said the Divine. “She will not last the hour. Your sister’s soul will be free. You should rejoice in her good fortune.” He removed the lashing from her legs and stirrups and slid her from the horse. Then he laid her upon the thick carpet of pine needles that covered the ground.

River’s skin was pale. Her hair was wet and tangled. She lay unmoving. Just hours before she had been springing about Len’s barn, giving him instructorly wallops. This didn’t seem real. “You keep calling me holy, then do as I say. Help her.”

“My skills do not lie in that path,” he said and began to lower the stirrups to accommodate his greater height.

This wasn’t happening. River couldn’t die. She couldn’t!

“You may bid her farewell,” said the Divine. “Then we must go.”

The dreadman holding Talen helped him slide off the horse, then led him over to her. Talen knelt beside her, stroking her face with his bound hands. “River,” he said, but she did not respond.

He smoothed her wet hair back with his bound hands. Why hadn’t he insisted on taking her the other way? They should have gone to the coast.

The Divine finished adjusting Scruff’s stirrups and mounted. “It is time.”

Talen ignored the Divine and bent over to kiss her brow. Then the dreadman he’d been riding with hauled him up by the arm.

“Leave me alone!” Talen growled and snatched his arm back.

But the dreadman did not listen. He grabbed Talen by the arm again and half dragged him back to the horse.

River lay motionless. He’d missed Harnock’s vale. He’d failed, and she was going to die. Despair and anger roiled in him. He hated them. He hated them all.

The dreadman bent over and cupped his hands to give Talen a leg up.

“Deliver me to your dark master,” Talen said, “and one day it will be me coming for you and your children.”

“Holy One,” the scarred dreadman said. “Put your foot into his hand, or we’ll just throw you across.”

These men were blind, but he could see there was no use fighting. Talen did as he was told and was soon sitting astride the horse. The dreadman got up behind him, and then they all rode forward through the trees. The dog padded along by Scruff’s side. The crows cawed above the pines.

As they rode away, Talen turned to get one last glimpse of River. She lay like a pale flower in the shadows of the forest floor. The sight of her stabbed him through the heart. He’d broken when Da died. He was breaking now.

They rode around some high scrub, and River disappeared completely from his view. He thought he might catch one last glimpse, but she was gone, lost in the shadows of the wood.

Talen turned around, grief mixing with his rage. He’d had no mother. She’d died when he was but a boy. So River had taken her place. River had been his mainstay; she’d been everything. She’d laughed with him, chased him, thrown innumerable spoons at his head. She tried to teach him how to talk to girls. She’d always been there for him. An image rose in his mind of the time she’d shown him the trick of how to fillet fish down by the river, the sun glistening off the water. Why that should rise now, he had no idea, but it filled him with a terrible loss. Some awful denizen of the Wilds would find her body. As for her soul, would Da come? Was he even around?

Talen’s grief crested, and in that pain he saw what he had to do. He was not going to allow himself to be delivered to Mokad’s master. When the time came, he’d simply remove himself from their clutches permanently. He would not turn River’s and Da’s sacrifices into things of naught. Until that moment came, there had to be some way to fight these men. If he could get free, if River just hung on, he might be able to deliver her yet. And with that thought his anger rose.

The king’s collar prevented him from multiplying his might. And even if he could, he was outnumbered. There was no way he could take this fist of powerful dreadmen in a physical struggle. No way he could outrun them. Lords, there was no way he could even beat his own sister—

He pulled his thoughts up short. That was not true. His mind raced back to what had happened earlier today in the barn. He’d been able to strike River without touching her. That thought banged around in his mind and came back with renewed force. He’d been able to strike her
without touching her
. No, that wasn’t right. A part of him
had
touched her.

The Devourers wanted him, which meant he obviously must have some ability or power. He’d been bred to be a tool. Whatever had happened in the barn was surely part of that. And if he could figure out what he’d done to River, maybe he could attack these men.

All this time Talen had been resisting his sense of the Fire and souls around him. Maybe it was time to quit fighting that desire and open his eyes instead. Maybe it was time for the tool to rise up against the master.

Talen reached out with his senses and tried to remember what he’d done back in the barn. Tried to do it again. But it was like groping in the dark.

32

Dreadman’s Camp

JUST BEFORE THE last bit of daylight totally failed, the Divine ordered his men to make camp in the lee of a ledge close to the top of a ridge still in the Wilds. Since the time he’d left River until now, Talen had struggled to repeat what he’d done in the barn and failed.

The dreadman Talen rode with helped him off the horse and led him under the cover of the tall ledge. This site was a good one and would provide a shield not only against the wind, but also give them a defensive position against creatures of the Wilds.

The dreadmen tied up their horses to the trunks of some trees thick with yellow autumn leaves and made a fire. The scarred Divine asked him to strip so they could dry his clothes. Talen complied. There was nothing to be gained by sitting around wet and cold.

“What is your name?” Talen asked.

“Nashrud, Holy One.”

Talen had not heard of any Nashrud, but he supposed the identity of a hunter was best kept secret.

The Divine searched Talen’s clothes before hanging them by the fire. He found Talen’s governor and weave of might. He looked over their design and pronounced them fair. Then he put them in his pouch. He took Talen’s knife and laid it to the side. When he was satisfied there was nothing else in the clothing, he set them to dry and rummaged through Scruff’s saddlebags.

“It’s a fine steed,” he said, “even if it is rather ugly.”

“Ugly and far too good for the likes of you,” Talen said. The scarred Divine said nothing.

While the clothing dried, the men ate. Talen did not refuse the dreadman biscuits and water they offered him. Nashrud settled himself across the fire from Talen with his own biscuit. He was a fearsome man clearly weathered by much experience. The scar that ran down one side of his face wasn’t his only one.

“So you’re a Divine,” Talen said.

“Holy One, I am not one of the lofty ones that rule,” he said. “The title of ‘Divine’ has not been bestowed upon me.”

Talen pointed at his honors. “And yet you wear the markings.”

“I am a hunter. A servant. Nothing more.”

A hunter of criminals and sleth. Talen motioned at the crows. “A hunter that enthralls beasts.”

The man shrugged as if that were a small matter. “Tomorrow I will put a thrall of the Mother upon you as well. But we will have to first go back to that wurm field and retrieve the weave from my fallen horse.”

Talen remembered vividly Uncle Argoth’s description of what the thrall had done to his desires. Talen couldn’t allow that to happen to himself.

The scarred Divine took a drink from his water skin.

“You are no better than any sleth,” Talen said.

“I never claimed to be,” Nashrud replied.

There were eleven men with Nashrud, all of them dreadmen. Three of them took up the first watch in a wide perimeter. Talen finished his meal as the last light of day faded. Above them the clouds blocked out the stars and moon, leaving them in total blackness except for what was made by the small fire. Out in the woods, the wind picked up and whistled over the ledge and through the trees.

Nashrud checked the lashings about Talen’s ankles and wrists, then lay down. Talen did not sleep. He lay there struggling to figure out what he’d done before, searching his new senses. He could smell the Fire of the men around him. If he concentrated, he could just catch a whiff of the life in the horses. He tried and tried again to split himself. The camp fire died down to glowing embers. The night wore on. The dreadmen changed watch, and those that had stood guard settled into their sleep.

Talen began to despair. He turned his mind to his other option. There was a forty- or fifty-foot cliff they’d passed coming here. If they took the same trail back tomorrow, he might cast himself off it. He began to plan how to push himself off the horse quickly enough to put himself beyond the dreadman’s reach. He retraced the trail in his mind and identified the best spot. It would be close, but he figured he could reach the cliff.

His eyes drooped. He relaxed. A moment later part of him slipped, and suddenly the camp and ledge were visible in the muted yellow light of his dream. Except he knew now that this wasn’t a dream. He looked about, saw the horses, the dreadmen sleeping in their bedrolls about the embers of the campfire, the dog lying next to Nashrud. He saw himself staring up into the black night.

How he could be in two places at the same time was frightening to contemplate. But he pushed the fear down. He could see, and his captors could not. Talen brought his other self down to look at the ropes about his hands. There was no way he was going to wriggle out of those lashings. He’d already tried. He’d also tried gnawing on them, but the sun would be up before he’d chewed hiw way out. So he carefully sat up and moved to the embers of the fire. The dreadmen about him slept on, a couple of them snoring lightly.

He picked up a twig and used it to pull a big ember away from the others. None of the men stirred, so he crouched low and pressed a part of the rope that bound his hands to the ember and carefully blew on it. The ember glowed; the hemp rope blackened. The heat burned against the skin of his hand. He carefully blew again and pressed the cord against the ember. He blew again, and the cord began to smolder. He kept blowing and pressing, gritting his teeth against the pain, then bringing the sides of his hands up to lick them. A thin trail of smoke rose up from the rope. He continued, his hand scorching, until the cord was burned most of the way through. Then he snatched his hand away to lick the burned part, trying to cool it.

He picked at the mostly burned rope with his teeth, and in moments it broke. Using his teeth he loosened the rest of the lashings and soon his hands were free. He reached forward to undo the knots at his feet.

The dreadman that had been sleeping next to him rolled over. “What are you doing?”

Talen struck him with the part of himself that was outside his body. He didn’t know exactly what he did; it was more a reflex.

The man flinched back. Talen grabbed the knife from the dreadman’s sheath.

The dreadman lunged forward, but Talen struck him again with his other self. Then he sawed through the lashings with the sharp knife and kicked his feet free.

Nashrud sat up. His dog rose to its feet and barked. Talen struck at Nashrud with his other self, then scrambled back, out of the dim glow of the fire’s embers. He stumbled over a bush, then brought his other self back to see where he was going.

“Stop!” Nashrud commanded. He rose and ran a few steps into the dark, but it was clear Nashrud could not see in the pitch blackness. “Frost,” he said. “Get him.” And the dog raced out into the darkness after Talen.

Talen took a number of strides, then struck out with his other self, biting at the weave of the dog’s body. The dog ignored it and raced forward. Talen picked up a big stone and flung it. It glanced off the dog’s head. The animal yelped in pain and veered to the side. Then it shook itself and continued forward.

Talen struck at it again with his other self, but this time instead of pulling back, he felt for the dog’s weave, examined it. He could smell the dog’s Fire and soul, and then he found what he thought was a gap, a weakness. He pressed in and the dog yelped and bit at its side as if some tick was there. Talen pressed again, and the dog whirled, trying to dislodge him.

Behind the dog, Nashrud felt his way forward holding up a burning branch to see with. “You’re a danger to yourself, Holy One.”

Talen backed out of the light.

“There!” a man shouted.

Talen turned and ran.

“Holy One!” Nashrud yelled.

Talen raced down the hill, but running using the vision of his other self proved tricky, like trying to use your left hand to do only what the right has been trained to do, and he slammed his shoulder into a tree, knocking himself to the ground. He shot to his feet and continued forward, clutching at the pain in his arm.

Back at the camp, dreadmen were shouting, pulling out torches. Talen continued to run, but taking more care this time. He ran down the slope, then back along the trail the way they’d come. When he was a good distance away, he stopped to send his one part back. Nashrud and his men were far behind, a few of the men holding torches, the rest ready with their weapons, but they were following the dog, which would sniff its way right to him. Talen struck at Frost the dog until he scurried back with a series of yelps. Then Talen chased him all the way back to the campground.

Then he raced back to his body that was standing in the dark along the trail. River was still out there. He couldn’t multiply because of his collar, but if he was lucky, he’d find her before the other things that lived in these cursed woods did. But he knew he didn’t have much time.

* * *

Talen followed the trail, working on getting the hang of seeing with his other self. Every now and again, he’d send his self back. Every time, that rotted dog was following the trail again. He chased the dog back another two times. The third time he chased it off a small ledge into a ravine. Then he focused on getting to River. He couldn’t tell how long it was taking, but he knew it had been too long. He knew that with every minute his chances of saving River grew less and less. He had started to get the hang of moving with his odd vision, even if it still felt wrong, so he increased his speed and raced along the carpet of pine needles.

He ran up and down the rolls of the hills, the wind gusting through the trees, and entered the piney wood they’d left River in. He raced along the path and finally turned the corner where he’d last seen her, and then thought maybe he’d made another mistake. He ran a bit farther, then stopped. This was the place, but where was she?

His fear rose, and he scanned the ground with his other self for signs of what happened. In the yellow light, he saw the scuffs and hoof prints from when Nashrud and his men had been here earlier.

Maybe she’d awakened. But then he came upon markings that looked liked she’d been dragged from the path.

His heart fell.
No
, please
no
.

He sent his other self forward to follow the tracks and saw her legs a few dozen yards away. Something hairy hunkered over her body. Something else lay dead next to the side. Talen’s panic rose.

He still had the knife he’d stolen from the dreadman. He was unmultiplied, but sometimes a bluff was all you needed. He pulled his other self back so he could see where he walked, and then he raised his knife and ran forward, yelling with all the battle anger he could muster. He crashed through the brush and spied the beast ahead.

The creature turned. Talen yelled again and charged. If he was going to die, it was going to be right here. He sent his other self forward and struck at the thing.

The creature did not flinch. It snarled and with blinding speed rose from River’s body and met Talen’s charge. It batted away Talen’s upraised arm, sending the knife flying into the trees. Then the hairy thing took him by the throat.

The creature was as tall as a man and stood upright. Its breath stank of rotten meat. It bent its head in close and sniffed about Talen’s chest and face. “Mokaddian filth,” it snarled.

Talen blinked. The creature had spoken Mokaddian with a Koramite accent. This wasn’t a woodikin. It was far too big for that.

“Harnock?” Talen asked.

It squeezed Talen’s throat with iron fingers. One jerk, and it would snap Talen’s neck like a twig.

“I’m Hogan’s son,” Talen croaked. “I’m part of the Grove.”

“Lies,” Harnock said. “You reek of the Divines. But your masters won’t have me.” The creature increased the pressure of its grip.

Talen began to feel dizzy. “No,” he said. But the woods about him began to slide. Then his vision grew dim, and he fell into a tumbling blackness.