Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 (14 page)

Harnock made another cut, and a great spray of Fire rose up from the woodikin’s body; it was followed by the shining of its soul. A moment later, as if carried on the wind, the scent of both Fire and soul reached Talen. He wanted them both, but he kept his roamlings on a tight rein and watched as Harnock picked up the woodikin’s body and hid it under a fat spruce.

The Fire dissipated on the wind. The soul lingered by its flesh and tried to attack Harnock to no avail. By the time Talen reached the site with his body of flesh, Harnock was covering up the blood-splattered autumn leaves.

“Where are the rest?” Harnock asked.

Talen looked. “They’re still back by the stream, approaching our sentry.”

“Now’s the time to see how well your father trained you,” Harnock said. “We can’t let them give any signal. They’ll have heard us running, and will be alert. So you keep your footsteps quiet. You let me know when we start to get close. Are you ready?”

Talen nodded and they set off down the animal trail back toward the other scouts. With his roamling, he kept an eye upon the woodikin and the surrounding area. He saw birds, squirrels, a cluster of deer. In the distance he heard the awful chuffing he’d heard before his roamling had been eaten. His pulse quickened, and he frantically looked about, but he didn’t see the orange skir.

Nevertheless, he kept an eye out. As they ran along, he also sent a roamling back over the hill to make sure another Orange Slayer scouting party hadn’t stumbled upon River and the others. He found her and Chot’s escort still oblivious of the small army of woodikin approaching.

Talen and Harnock quietly padded along an animal path until they were about a hundred yards away from the other woodikin scouts, and then Talen hissed softly, and they stopped.

Talen drew a map in the dirt of the Orange Slayer positions.

“We’re going to have one chance to keep this quiet,” Harnock said. “Be quick and sure. And stay downwind.” Harnock pointed at the mark representing the Orange Slayer scout the closest to them. “You’re going to shoot that one. I’ll take the others. If any escape me, it’s your job to take them down.”

Talen nodded. He nocked an arrow, and they continued forward. When they were about fifty yards from the scouting party, Harnock moved away from Talen to circle around through the trees. Talen watched him with his roamling, then turned his attention to his task. He saw where the woodikin were headed, saw a break in the trees that would give him an excellent line of sight and quietly moved into position.

The power these roamlings gave him was immense—to see afar off in many directions, to know your enemy’s movements. If he was careful, he could sneak past any picket. Avoid any enemy. With him, an army could surround and ambush with confidence. They could strike when and where the enemy least suspected it.

Talen stepped on a branch that popped loudly. He froze. Two of the woodikin looked in his direction. He cursed himself. Fat lot of good all his eyes did if he didn’t watch his feet. He waited, and the woodikin eventually looked away.

Behind the woodikin, Harnock crept close, low, like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey.

Talen moved forward, carefully watching his step this time, found a spot next to a tree, knelt into position, and readied himself for the shot. It was a perfect line.

Up the slope, the Spiderhawk sentry scratched his leg. Below, the closest Orange Slayer did not expose himself in the break Talen thought he would. Instead, he took position next to a tree
not
in Talen’s line of fire, and slowly raised his bow to shoot the sentry.

Why couldn’t the rotted Orange Slayers follow the plan? Talen stepped to the side to find a shot that avoided the many twigs and branches between him and his target.

The woodikin nocked an arrow, most likely laced with some poison, and raised his bow.

Talen raised his own bow, drew, sighted the woodikin, and released. He immediately nocked another arrow, sighted, and released. The first arrow glanced off of the branch of a tree with a clack, shot off at another angle, and sank deep into the trunk of a tree with a loud thwup.

The woodikin turned toward the sound, exposing his full upper body. The second arrow took him in the chest, but Talen knew that it sometimes took many arrows to kill a large animal, so he drew another arrow, aimed, released. But the woodikin fell backward to the forest floor, and the arrow sped past him.

Talen nocked another arrow, tried to find a target, and noticed the woodikin’s Fire curling up and away from his wound. He tore his eyes away from the Fire and saw the other three woodikin scouts draw their knives. Then one of the woodikin spotted him and barked a warning. At that moment Harnock sprang.

One of the woodikin snarled and turned to meet him, but Harnock slashed him in the neck as he’d done to the other. He followed that same motion through and struck the next woodikin a massive blow to his chin, sending him flying. The last woodikin charged, but Harnock side-stepped him, grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face into a tree. The tree shook with the skull-breaking blow, and the woodikin crumpled.

All of the woodikin began to bleed Fire. The soul of the first struggled out of its flesh. A few moments later the smell of the Fire and soul filled Talen.

“Gah,” Talen said, and then the woodikin that Talen had first shot staggered up, Fire rising from its wounds.

Talen shot again and sank an arrow into the creature’s side.

It bared its teeth and howled an alarm. The sound echoed about the hill.
So much for stealth
, Talen thought.

Then Harnock was there with his long knife. The blade flashed in the sun, and then the woodikin’s head toppled from its body.

A gout of Fire billowed up into the sky, and Talen’s heart fluttered with desire. Just before the Fire began to wash over him, he remembered his roamlings, and sent them high into the sky, far above the maddening, tantalizing smells.

On the ground, Harnock knelt down by the creature, sliced open its belly, then reached up and in and ripped out the woodikin’s heart. The wet organ glistened in his hand.

Talen stopped, and almost lost the fish he’d eaten.

Harnock looked up, blood staining his arm. “Help me hide the bodies.”

A little distance away, one orange skir searched along the tops of the trees. Talen realized it must be able to scent Fire and soul just as he could. Probably better. He watched it with one of his roamlings and moved to help Harnock.

12

The Bull’s Ring

TALEN AND HARNOCK finished hiding the last body with the souls of the dead woodikin looking on. Above them, the orange skir caught their scent and came to investigate. It darted above the trees, then made a fluting sound. The souls of the dead woodikin looked up. A few moments later, the creature began a horrid clacking, the same sound Talen had heard just before his roamling had been torn from him. Talen sped his parts back to his body and quickly pulled them in and shut his door. The sights and sounds and multiple views of the yellow world vanished, and Talen’s world resolved to the refreshing simplicity of the blue world.

Harnock found some weed with giant leaves that reminded Talen of rhubarb and began to wrap the bloody woodikin hearts in them.

The sight sickened Talen. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Harnock ignored the question. “Tell me what happened to the Fire and soul of those woodikin.”

“The last I saw, one of those orange sharks was coming in to sniff.”

Harnock wrapped another huge leaf around his bundle. “And did it chase another predator away?”

“No, it was the only thing about.”

“That’s not true,” Harnock said. “You can’t fool yourself in this game, Hogan’s son. That’s the sure way to failure.”

How was he fooling himself? Then Talen realized what Harnock was driving at. “I did not imbibe,” he said.

“Not even a sniff?”

“You can’t avoid smelling it,” Talen said.

“What about tasting?”

“I wanted to, but I did not.”

“Maybe you are Hogan’s son after all,” said Harnock. “Maybe I can put off killing you until tomorrow.”

Talen pointed at the hearts. “And what about you?”

Harnock just smiled.

They hurried back to River and the others. When they arrived, Harnock explained what had happened, then he unfolded the leaves he’d wrapped the wet sticky hearts in and held one out to Chot.

Chot took it and held it up for the others to see, then gave it to one of his troops, who carried it over to the wasp lord. The wasp lord took a bite, the bloody juices dripping onto his fingers and nodded his approval. He took some of the meat he’d masticated and gave it to his wasps. Chot tossed the other hearts around to his troops. They all hooted, each taking his portion. When they were done, Chot held the bloody remains of one heart out to Talen.

Talen waved it off.

“Do not offend them,” Harnock growled.

“I can’t,” Talen said.

Chot shook his head and held the flesh out to Harnock who took the heart and bit in with relish.

“Stupid skinman,” Chot said. “You will be haunted. The heart gives power over the dead.”

Talen nodded, but didn’t think now was the right time to tell Chot the truth.

River waved off the piece of heart offered to her. She turned to Talen with a concerned question on her face.

“I’m okay,” he said. Although he was a bit uneasy with Harnock’s frightful power. Woodikin were stronger and faster than men. But Harnock had handled them as if they were children. He motioned at Harnock with his chin. “He’s not just a loreman, River. Not some mad sleth.”

“No,” said River. “He’s a creature twisted for killing.”

“He’s murder itself. He was terrifying.”

“Aren’t you glad he’s on our side?”

“I’m something,” he said, thinking about the relish with which Harnock had eaten the woodikin’s heart. He was going to say more, but Chot ordered them to move out, and they were soon running, the woodikin leading them down a narrow valley between two hills with steep slopes and outcroppings of rock.

When they were down the path a ways, Talen carefully sent his roamlings out to make sure they had made a clean escape. They hadn’t. There were some woodikin higher up on the slope that he hadn’t seen the first time. One up in a tree spotted them and blew a horn. Moments later another horn answered in the direction of the woodikin army.

Chot barked something in woodikin, and his troops moved faster.

Talen leapt over a rock in the path. “Where are we going?” he asked Harnock.

“I think we’re headed for another Spiderhawk tanglewood.”

“How far away?” asked River.

“If it’s the place I’m thinking, we’ve got a few hours yet in this race.”

Talen looked back with his roamlings and saw the woodikin army turn. “I think we’d better move faster.”

* * *

A few miles later, Talen said, “They’re still gaining on us.”

Talen and the others were running as fast as they were able. Talen and River were panting. Harnock’s short fur was slick with sweat. But the three lead Orange Slayer woodikin had almost closed the distance between themselves and Chot’s band.

Talen glanced back again.

“Ring warriors,” Chot said and bared his teeth.

“I thought their weaves were dry,” Talen said.

“Obviously not,” Harnock said.

The three ring warriors were running only a few hundred yards behind. They were wearing wooden slat armor and bright feathers in a band around their heads. Their faces had been dyed blue. A few hundred yards behind them ran another fifty or so woodikin warriors. Beyond that, Talen didn’t dare look because a good number of orange skir were tracking the woodikin army. Obviously, like crows, they knew troops sooner or later provided food.

Talen and the others were running in a valley with steep slopes and cliffs on either side. Talen had been looking, but couldn’t see any easy way over them. Ahead, the cliffs narrowed, creating a gap maybe only fifty feet wide. A streambed ran through the gap on one side. Talen’s group splashed across the stream and entered the narrows. The cliffs on either side rose at least a hundred feet above them. But the narrow gap wasn’t very long, and they soon exited it and found hilly terrain on the other side.

The wasp lord said something in woodikin, and Chot barked orders at his troops. His twenty woodikin began to fan out in a half circle.

Chot pointed at some rocks and brush up the slope on Talen’s left. “You three will go there. You will shoot with your bows. Go!”

Talen, River, and Harnock sped up the hill. They found a good area with some flat ground and positioned themselves about five feet apart. Harnock, for the first time since they’d left his home, strung his bow. Talen and River checked the fletchings of their own arrows, making sure they were all tight, then shoved a dozen point-first into the ground; it would be quicker to retrieve them that way than pulling them from the quiver.

The wasp lord climbed to a spot about three-quarters of the way around the half-circle, opened the little door to his basket, and began calling his wasps out. He motioned to them, as if urging them on, and the wasps rose above him.

Talen had just finished checking all of his arrows when he heard the ring warriors coming, charging across the stream, their panting and footfalls echoing off the cliff walls. He nocked an arrow.

Moments later the three woodikin with blue-dyed faces rushed out of the gap. They were moving incredibly fast.

Talen singled one of the ring warriors out, drew his string, tried to lead the creature, and let his arrow fly. He retrieved another arrow, nocked it, and drew. All about him bows hummed. Twenty arrows poured down at the warriors, but the warriors changed directions or increased their speed, and all the shots missed.

The Orange Slayers bounded up the hill so quickly Talen didn’t think he was going to be able to get off another shot. Small black bodies dove down at the Orange Slayers’ faces, delaying one long enough for River to sink a shaft into him.

Talen took aim again, released, missed. He’d never been in a true battle before, and he realized it was making him rush. He tried to calm his breathing and retrieved another arrow.

A ring warrior bounded up the hill and with a piercing cry fell upon one of the Spiderhawks and skewered him with an iron Mokaddian blade. He turned, leapt to the top of a boulder and sprang at least twenty feet at another one of Chot’s woodikin, bore him to the ground and bit a huge piece out of the side of his neck.

“Goh,” Talen said. A few moments more, and that ring warrior would have all of Chot’s warriors lying in their own blood. A surge of fear coursed through him.

Chot yelled and charged the creature.

The Orange Slayer River had hit chased one of Chot’s woodikin up the slope, caught him, jumped upon his back, and slit his throat. One of the other Spiderhawks shot an arrow into his back.

The third ring warrior spotted Talen and let out a bloodcurdling cry.

Talen drew and shot, but the arrow went wide. He tried to calm himself, but his fingers were fumbling. Talen cursed himself, shouted in frustration.

The ring warrior rushed up the hill past another Spiderhawk, leapt up into the branch of a tree, and then out again, a huge flying leap that brought him more than halfway to Talen’s position.

Talen was finally able to get his fingers to pick up another arrow. He fumbled it onto the bowstring with his thumb ring. Then he looked up and saw he was too late—the woodikin warrior was almost upon him. Fear washed over him. He dropped his bow and grabbed for his knife.

Talen’s Fire raged. Rot it all, he was a loreman! He wasn’t going to quail! He drew his knife and readied himself.

Then Harnock roared and rushed up the slope. The Orange Slayer warrior tried to spring over him to get at Talen, but Harnock jumped, snatched his leg, and hauled him down, slamming him to the rocky ground.

The warrior yanked himself free and lunged up at Harnock with terrific speed, knocking Harnock back.

Harnock snarled, threw the woodikin, then pounced after him. The two of them fell down the slope together in a jerking tumble of dust and scattering rocks.

The warrior was the first up, holding a knife.

Harnock swung at him, but the warrior dodged and raked Harnock’s face with its claws, drawing blood. Harnock pulled back, and the warrior slashed at Harnock’s belly with his knife.

Harnock roared and struck the warrior in the face with an open-handed blow, tearing half his jaw away. The warrior staggered back, his jaw hanging from his face, fell to a knee. He tried to stand. Then Harnock snarled and kicked the warrior in the chest so hard it sent him flying back a dozen feet. The warrior hit the ground and did not rise again.

On the other side of the half circle, one ring warrior stumbled to the ground, his face covered with wasps, his body shot with arrows. Two Spiderhawks fell upon him with knives.

Chot fought with the last ring warrior. Talen expected Chot to join the other Spiderhawks lying on the ground around the ring warrior, but Chot was quick and powerful and parried the ring warrior’s blows. The two of them locked into a snarling grapple. Then one of the other Spiderhawks flung a hatchet that buried itself in the ring warrior’s back.

The ring warrior arched in pain and reached for the hatchet. But Chot stabbed the ring warrior just under the arm, driving the blade deep into his chest. The ring warrior cried out. Chot pulled his blade out. Then another Spiderhawk charged and skewered the warrior with his short spear.

Talen looked around the hillside. Half of Chot’s woodikin lay wounded or dead. He probably would have been with them had Harnock not saved him. Talen also wondered how Chot had survived his encounter.

A few of the woodikin moved to take the weaves from the dead ring warriors, but shouts rang out by the stream, and two hammer’s worth of Orange Slayer woodikin burst through the gap. But they did not have the speed of the ring warriors and had barely cleared the gap when the wasps began to dive into their midst to sting. The surviving Spiderhawks took aim and released their arrows. Next to Talen, River’s bow sang.

Talen’s heart was thumping, his mouth dry. Part of him wanted to flee, but he yelled to shout the cowardly part of himself down, drew an arrow, found a target, and released. He shouted, drew another arrow, found another target, released. This time he did not miss. His arrows flew into the woodikin below. He shot another arrow. River and the other woodikin were doing the same, and Talen realized they might just dispatch this group and then be able to run before the full army of woodikin caught up to them.

Then a small swarm of bats flew through the gap. There were maybe twenty-five or thirty of them. One of the Spiderhawks shouted a warning, but the bats didn’t fly at Talen or the woodikin. They darted and swooped, attacking the wasps.

The wasp lord shouted.

“Take care of those bats!” Harnock ordered.

“What do you mean?”

“You raveled the weem,” Harnock said. “Ravel them!”

Talen froze for a moment—he’d never raveled a bat. He didn’t even know if he could catch one. But maybe he
could
do it. What other choice was there but to try?

He sent his roamlings out, found three individual bats, and wrapped himself around them, searching for an opening. But the weaves of the bats were far more complex than those of the weem. They were much tighter, and he couldn’t find anything to tear.

“Quickly!” Harnock yelled.

Then Talen found a ring in the back of one bat’s neck. He looked closer and realized he knew what these rings were. Argoth had made him and River study thralls. This wasn’t the exact pattern of those the Grove had back at Rogum’s Defense, but they were uncannily similar. And much simpler than the weave of the bat or the weem.

He felt along the pattern of the ring. A moment later he found a slight opening and tore. He ripped harder, and a little wisp of Fire shot out of the ring. It filled his senses, but he let it go and focused on ripping the weave even more. Suddenly the bat panicked and flew up and away from the fight below.

He’d raveled it. Raveled the thrall!

Talen turned to the other bats. They too had rings. His four roamlings each shot out to another target, bit into their thralls and tore them open. The bats raced away. He fell on four more of the creatures, found their rings, and freed them.

All about Talen hung the sweet smell of Fire and soul. And he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t devoured some of it. Lords, he thought, then ripped into more of the thralls.

Chot was shouting something.