Servant of a Dark God (10 page)

He and Nettle piled the wagon high with another dozen forkfuls of bracken then took it to the last haystacking site. Prince Conroy, their red rooster, clambered up on top, surveying the world as the wagon moved along.

They put a thick layer of the long fronds at the base of this last site for the hay they’d use this winter to feed their horse, cattle, and small flock of sheep. A thick bracken base kept a dry layer between the hay and ground. They’d also cut enough for lining bundles of foodstuff, for the rats did not like chewing through it because it made their mouths sore.

When they’d finished the last stacking site, Nettle said, “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” said Talen. “You stinking Mokaddian garlic-eater.”

“Koramite goat-lover,” Nettle shot back.

Talen smiled. This name-calling had been their joke for some time now. And with the possibility of Talen being adopted into Argoth’s clan as a member by privilege but not blood, it took on a new meaning. Of course, Talen had already been recognized by the Koramite Council and granted a man’s braid to hang from his belt.

The Koramites didn’t proclaim their clan or male-rights by elaborate tattoos. One small tattoo was sufficient. Your clan was in your blood. What more did you need? And your male-rights were things you earned or lost by your actions. Talen’s braid, which was only to be worn at formal occasions, was kept in a box with those for Ke and Da. It was a simple leather braid with three silver beads. Other men with greater capacities extended their belts and added disks. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless of the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.

In the meadow, River and Ke turned the rows of cut grass with their hay forks so it could finish drying. A flock of blackbirds followed behind, picking through the grass for a meal.

“I’ll start on that acre your da wants cleared for the oats next spring,” said Nettle. “You get something to eat.”

“I thought you were supposed to be riding with your da today anyway, not here eating up all our food.”

“No, the captain wouldn’t let me come on patrol.” Nettle referred to his father this way when he was dissatisfied with him. “He made some excuse again.”

Uncle Argoth was responsible for watching a stretch of coastline. “He’s just trying to protect you,” said Talen.

“I don’t want protection. Half of the men resent me because they’ve been ordered, behind my back, to keep me safe. So instead of being a full member of the patrol, I’m a burden. To the other half I’m nothing but a joke. They might as well bring along an infant in arms.”

“You don’t know what they’re thinking.”

“I can read a man’s eyes,” said Nettle. “I’ve heard their whispers and seen their patronizing smiles.” He shook his head in disgust.

Talen didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. Of course, why court death when you didn’t have to? He was happy he didn’t have patrol duties and was about to say this when Nettle looked at him honestly.

“I envy you,” said Nettle.

“Me?” asked Talen. Nettle had everything. Looks, wealth, the right blood. He might not be a giant like Da or Ke, but he was larger than Talen. And he had a father who was a captain in the Shoka clan.

“Not you exactly,” Nettle said and grinned. “But your da trusts you. You have your braid. He treats you like a man. You almost have your life taken and he simply dusts you off and sends you out to the fields to work.”

“If it’s damage you want,” said Talen, “let me find a stick. I’d be happy to give you a good thrashing. Especially since you failed to come to my aid this morning.”

“See,” said Nettle, “my passivity is becoming habitual. I’m sick to death of being coddled. I want to do something real.”

No he didn’t, Talen thought. There is no joy in being on the receiving end of the stick. “The acre that needs to be cleared is real,” said Talen. “And don’t worry about stumps. We’ll just plow around them. When they’re good and rotted they’ll come out just fine.”

“Whatever,” said Nettle, obviously frustrated with Talen’s response.

Talen picked up the hoggin. He might as well fill it back up with water. But when he turned to walk back to the house, he got a chill. There were stories of one Sleth lord who had lain in wait for his victims in their cellars. Talen and the others had been working out in the fields since before noon. That was plenty of time for hatchlings to move about and hide in a cellar.

“What are you doing?” asked Nettle. “I thought you were going to get some food.”

“Nothing,” said Talen. But, of course, he was doing something—he was acting like a coward again. “Just thinking about what we’re going to have for a snack.” Then he strode toward the house as quickly as his injuries would let him, hoggin slung under his arm.

Prince Conroy jumped off the wagon and accompanied him back.

Conroy was fierce beyond all reckoning. To rodents, that was. Or cats. Or weasels. Lately he’d been giving the squirrels what for. But it was his violence with rats that had won him his name. The real Conroy was a prince of story who had scoured his city of a nasty infestation of rats. Talen’s Prince Conroy loved nothing more than to drop like a stone upon a rodent, skewer it with his talons, and then peck it to a bloody pulp.

There were other roosters that would fly into an attack when they felt threatened or one of their hens screamed. And most chickens would snatch up a mouse and run off with the prize to eat it. But Conroy, it seemed, went looking for rats. He was, in his rat hunting, better than a dog. Of course, he wouldn’t be much against Sleth.

Conroy darted ahead of Talen to chase a white and black butterfly, following it into the tall weeds.

The barn, old house, and smoke shed stretched away from Talen like a crooked arm on his left while the pigpen, garden, and privy stretched out on his right.

When he came to the barn, he heard a scuffle by the wood stack alongside the far wall.

His heart jumped. He realized he had no weapon but the hoggin.

It could have been a rat, he told himself.

“Conroy,” he called. He made the trill and yip that always brought the rooster. When Conroy came running, Talen looked down at the bird. “It’s time to earn your keep,” he said and pointed to the side of the barn to where the wood was stacked. They’d gone rat hunting like this many times before. He made another trill and yip and Conroy dashed around the corner of the barn.

He waited and heard nothing.

This would go down well in the stories, he thought. The mighty hunter stays back and sends his rooster in to deal with the danger. Talen took a deep breath and marched around the barn so he could get a good look down the wall.

Conroy stood alone, eyeing the woodpile.

So, it
was
a rat. Talen walked down to the spot where he figured the sound had come from and kicked the wood. He waited for a scrabble of tiny claws. What he heard instead was someone running away from the back of the barn.

Talen’s heart quickened. He took the last three steps to the back of the barn, giving the corner a wide berth just in case something was there.

Conroy lingered for a moment, eyeing the wood stack, and then trotted after Talen.

Talen saw nothing behind the barn, but then out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. He turned toward it and saw someone’s back and one of their legs disappear behind the old house.

Lords, he was not imagining it.

“Sammesh?” he said.

Sammesh was the ale sot’s son. Da had caught him once stealing meat from the smoke shed. But instead of putting some fear into the boy, Da told him if he wanted meat, he’d have to bring something to trade. So from that day on, Sammesh slinked in and out of their place with his trade. Sometimes it was fair; other times, it wasn’t. He’d once taken a rope and left a small bowl of blueberries for it. The blueberries had been delicious but they were not worth half the value of that rope. Talen had told his da that he was only fostering dishonesty—Sammesh needed to be taught a lesson. But Da said Sammesh had received far too many of those kinds of lessons already. Talen wondered if that’s where all the boy’s bruises came from. Or was it simply because he was a thief?

Talen picked up a short cudgel from the woodpile and walked toward the old house.

“Sammesh! Come out, or I’ll thrash the stumps with you.”

There was no answer.

“An honest trader doesn’t skulk.”

Then he heard another sound behind the old house. He paused and listened, but all was quiet.

Something was there.

He had seen the back of a figure too small to be that of an adult. Too small for even Sammesh.

“Who are you?” said Talen. “Come out.”

Of course, maybe he didn’t want them to come out. Ke and River were too far away to be of any help; and if this were a hatchling . . . who knew what it might do? He wished he had his dogs. Then he realized he hadn’t seen them at all out in the fields. And that was odd. Where were the dogs?

Talen called for them.

Moments later Blue appeared from behind the old house, exactly where the skulker had disappeared. Blue wagged his tail and gave a happy bark.

Conroy made a low sound and hopped a few paces away. Then, with a great deal of noisy flapping, he flew up to the roof of the smoke shed. Despite Talen’s attempts to make them reconcile, the bird and the dog did not get along.

The dog’s warren lay underneath the old house on the far side. Blue must have been there the whole time.

But he should have barked.

Talen took a few steps, again giving the corner a wide berth, and peered along the side of the old house.

He saw nothing but Queen wriggling her way out of the hole they’d dug underneath the house.

Talen raced back to see between the old house and the barn. Perhaps whoever it was had run around. But he saw nothing.

If it was Sammesh, he’d clobber him. This was no time to be running about stealing meat.

Talen yelled and ran about the old house itself; halfway around he reversed directions to trick whomever it was.

Blue thought it was some game and followed him the whole way with playful woofs.

Nobody was there. Yet Talen had seen someone. He wasn’t imagining it.

He looked down at Blue. What good was a dog that didn’t bark? “You’re a fine fellow,” said Talen.

Blue licked Talen’s hand then wiggled his way between Talen’s legs.

Talen groaned and shook his head. Overfed and underworked, that’s what that dog was. Talen pushed Blue away and gave him the eye. Then he walked over to the side of the old house where he’d seen the figure disappear. The line of the woods was a good thirty yards from here. It would have to have been an exceedingly lively creature to cover that distance between the time Talen had heard that last noise and seen Blue. And it would have had to run very quietly.

That ruled out Sammesh.

Goh. He gripped the cudgel tighter.

He thought of the sod roof. The edges were low enough for someone to climb. They could be up there getting ready to spring. Talen spun around and scampered back.

There was nothing on the roof. He circled the whole house again, scanning the ground for footprints.

Nothing.

He took a step back and out of the corner of his eye saw something in the grass: one of their painted wooden spoons lying at an odd angle. He bent over and picked it up. It had not been out here long because soft bits of barley porridge still clung to it. Whoever or whatever it was had been in the house and dropped it here.

Talen scanned the yard about him.

The Sleth hatchlings were here, in the woods, watching. Talen was sure of it.

He studied the woods and backed away.

For some reason the dogs hadn’t barked, hadn’t even smelled the intruder when it was only a few paces away.

It was said that Sleth had some power over beasts. He cast a wary glance at Blue and Queen. Could they have been subverted?

He studied the dogs, but could see nothing that might reveal the truth of it.

Talen retreated back to the well.

He could run or bluff, but running was not proving a good choice today.

Talen kept an eye about and drew the first bucket of water. He cleared his throat.

“One of these days, you beast-loving tanner’s pot, we are going to catch you and let you join your mother in the cage.”

He waited for a response.

“You’ve come to the wrong farm, you yeasty boil.”

Talen poured the water into the hoggin then dropped the bucket back down into the well.

He scanned the tree line again. If the thing charged at him out of the woods, it would catch him before he got to the pigpen.

But then, if the hatchling were going to attack him, it could have done it earlier.

His heart raced, but you had to fight fear; had to fake courage sometimes until it came of its own accord. Children, Da had said. Only children.

“Sleth child,” Talen called out, “as you can plainly see, I do not fear you. Nor do we fear your abominable depredations.” He realized his talk
had
taken the edge off his fear. So he continued, “You want something to eat? Eh? Come out and I’ll feed you. How about a moldy crust of bread eaten and shat out by our pig for supper?”

No response, only the leaves of the trees swaying in the small breeze.

The villagers this morning, they’d come after him, not out of fear, but dreaming of a fat bounty. Dreaming of this very opportunity.

Had the bailiff not said that a Koramite should bring the hatchlings in?

Something shifted inside him. His fear deserted him, and he suddenly wasn’t thinking about what the hatchlings might do to him. He was thinking of what
he
could do with them. What they could do for him.

If he were adopted into the Shoka, he would still be Koramite, still owe duties to his ancestors. Being a Shoka by priviledge did not change your blood. But Talen didn’t know if the adoption would really change his prospects. He’d still be a half-breed in most people’s eyes. However, if he could catch these hatchlings, it might not only mitigate some of the ill will against his people, but it might also prove the quality of Da’s line, prove the quality of Talen’s breeding.