Servant of a Dark God (54 page)

The dreadman flashed down in the corner of his eye and splashed into the water.

At the crest of the next swell, he looked back. The dreadman was swimming after him, gaining on him.

Argoth swam with all his might. Two, four, eight strokes.

He looked back. The dreadman was only a few yards behind.

Another stroke and he touched the boat. Argoth reached up with his good hand, grasped the top wale, and swung his leg up.

Then it was over the wale and onto one of the thwarts.

He looked frantically about for a weapon. There was nothing but the length of rope that had attached the boat to the davit.

The dreadman’s hand grasped the wale behind him.

Argoth lunged for the rope where it lay under one of the thwarts.

The dreadman pulled himself up.

Argoth spun around, lunged at the man, and slipped a makeshift noose over his neck. He looped the rope about his body and heaved back.

The rope tightened about the dreadman’s neck and pulled him into the boat.

But Argoth knew that wouldn’t be enough. He turned, and before the dreadman could gain leverage to pull Argoth to him, Argoth took one bounding step and jumped off the side of the boat opposite the dreadman and into the water.

He attempted to swim under the boat, but he came to the end of the rope.

It wasn’t going to work. The dreadman would pull him back in. But no tug came, and Argoth burst to the surface. He tread water, fearing what would come, but nothing moved on the boat.

The dreadman could be waiting in the boat, waiting for him to swing over.

Men cried over the waves. They would see this boat and those that knew how to swim would soon reach it.

Argoth steeled himself, then he reached up and pulled himself in.

The dreadman lay across the thwarts, his neck broken, the water from his clothing dripping into the bilge.

A good soldier, thought Argoth. A good soldier gone to waste.

He unlooped the rope, pushed the body aside, then began to tie the tiller. He would not have enough time to erect the ship’s small mast and rig the sail. If he tied the tiller, he might, with one oar, row in a straight line away from the burning
Ardent
and her men.

With the tiller tied, he looked back at the ship. The sails had caught fire—yards and yards of fire billowing in the evening sky.

Then an enormous explosion cracked like thunder, shuddering the ship, throwing men, wood, and great gouts of fire up into the rigging and out to sea. One of the thrown men, his entire body aflame, snagged in the rigging and writhed there.

Moments later a rain of fire began to fall to the sea, great infernos and small drops, all of it streaking through the sky to burn atop the darkening sea.

Another explosion tore the air. The force of the blast, even from this distance, almost knocked Argoth into the thwarts. It rent the ship, and she began to list.

Argoth retrieved an oar, fitted it, and sat on the thwart. He was about to turn the boat to row directly away from the
Ardent
when a fierce wind kicked up about him. Sea spray stung his eyes.

The skir wind.

He crouched low in the boat, the wind whipping about him. Moments later a violent gust kicked the boat, knocking him into the wale. And then, as quickly as it had come, it departed with one final line, a spray that receded away toward the
Ardent
.

Argoth’s fingers throbbed with pain. They were black, and where the outer charred skin had sloughed off, a bright pink. They didn’t hurt as much as he would have suspected, but that only meant the fire had burned all of his nerves. He might never feel in those fingers again.

The splint about his broken arm hung loosely. He tightened it up as best he could with his burned hand. Then he set one oar in a lock, sat upon a thwart, and began to row, the red and green eye of the paddle dipping in and out of the water.

He hadn’t gone very far when he heard the Master’s command in his mind.
Come to me.

“Nettle,” he said. “Serah. Serenity. Grace. Joy.” He began to repeat the names of his family members again like some murmured prayer, and the Skir Master’s compulsion eased.

The Skir Master shouted in the back of his mind.

But Argoth rowed on, the names covering that voice like a blanket.

The ship burned brightly. Any ship within miles would be able to see it. His only hope was that they were nowhere near the other ships the Master had brought. His only hope was that the Master would die before they came.

When he did, Argoth would feel it. For the thrall only had power when the Master was alive. When he died, so would the bond. Of course, he had read that the bond worked through a man like roots in the soil. So although the bond might die, the roots would remain, and it would take some time before all traces of the thrall were gone.

Argoth wondered how many thralls the Master had. Dozens? A hundred? Surely, the inlay by the pulpit was some thrall. And how many of his slaves were skir? Certainly Shegom was one of them.

He looked up and found that the sky was clear. The first evening stars shone in the heavens. He took a moment to get his bearings by them and considered trying to rig the sail.

A wind buffeted him, then another.

At first he thought it a normal gust, but it did not abate.

The sound of sea spray hasted toward the boat. Argoth turned and saw the skir wind racing to him.

Shegom.

He had heard of Skir Masters summoning whirlwinds to the field of battle, of men being picked up and carried away.

Argoth released the oar and immediately wriggled underneath the thwarts, wedging himself as best he could.

The wind knocked the boat, lifting it to one side and pushing it sideways. Then the pitch of the wind rose, screeching over the wales.

The oar jerked violently in its lock, then it broke free with a wrench and flew away into the air.

The pitch of the wind screaming over the wales rose until it howled.

The boat tipped precariously on its side and scudded over a wave. The dread-man tumbled out and disappeared beneath the water.

Sea spray kicked up, driving into Argoth’s face like needles. He shut his eyes against it and turned his face into the side of the boat.

The boat lurched, twisted, was tossed about like a leaf. And then it was airborne. He felt as if he were going to slide out and braced himself. But it wasn’t enough, he
was
slipping.

Moments later, through the water and spray he smelled the foul smoke of the seafire and felt the heat. Then the boat slapped down into the water. It bobbed then rocked.

Argoth opened his eyes. The sky was full of smoke.

When nothing happened, he wriggled halfway out from under the thwarts and looked around. All about him pieces of flotsam burned, smoke piling into the sky.

Someone shouted.

A hand grasped the wale.

Argoth kicked at the man’s head as he came over. He bent over to untie another oar so that he might use it as a weapon. But the boat rocked again.

Argoth turned, oar in hand.

Leaf stood before him, water running from his clothes into the boat. The skin about his eye was blackened and cracked from the burn. Raw pink and red flesh shone where much of his eye tattoo had been.

Argoth drew back to strike, but Leaf simply snatched the oar out of his hand and kicked him into the prow. Argoth’s head smacked against the side of the boat.

He tried to get up, but couldn’t seem to get his balance.

Another dreadman entered the boat.

Then Leaf reached over the side and pulled the Master up. Clutched to his breast was the weave that had been inlaid into the deck of the ship by the bowl.

Shegom’s thrall.

The Master wore no boots. The legs of his pants were scorched. The flesh underneath blistered.

A normal sailor tried to climb into the boat.

“What are you doing?” said the Master and kicked the man in the face.

Then he stepped over the thwarts to where Argoth lay and looked down upon him.

“You should have drowned yourself, Clansman. You should have tied a stone to your neck and jumped into the sea. For now you will taste the fury of the Glory of Mokad.”

“Dreadmen!” he shouted over the waves. “To me!”

MUSTER

T

alen lugged Legs until his collarbone felt like it was going to break. He rested. Picked him up again. Rested. He carried him across the two creeks, hid him in a canoe they’d found on the side of the river, and lugged him through the woods downstream and on the other side.

He’d scuttled their trail as best he knew how from any dogs that might be following. But that didn’t keep them from having to skirt around two more groups of men on the watch, nor did it help them avoid the farms and wooden shacks that stood in their path. In the end, they’d used a whole day to do what should have taken, at most, two hours.

At last, they crested a hill that led down to the Widow’s valley. They were both bloody-footed, but they’d made it.

Talen didn’t dare climb a tree to get a look below. The branches would shake too much as he ascended. But he knew a spot on the hill that opened to a good view. He and Legs sat there for some time watching. He saw nothing but vultures circling in the updrafts, the horse the Creek Widow called the Tailor eating away at the grass in the apple orchard, and the Creek Widow digging herself a new cesspit for the privy.

He was satisfied nobody waited for them there, but nevertheless, he waited until the sun set to descend the hill and enter the Creek Widow’s yard. He wasn’t more than a dozen paces from the front door, when someone spoke from behind. “That will be far enough.”

Talen froze.

“State who you are and what business you have sneaking about my yard at night.”

It was the Creek Widow herself. But where had she come from?

Talen turned. She held a pitchfork out in front of her with a fair amount of menace. Warrior, her ancient dog, stood at her side. He mustered one woof and fell silent.

“I told you before,” said Talen, “one old woman out here on her own—you’ve got to have a dog that will chase more than biscuits.”

“Talen,” she said. “Lights, you’re lucky you haven’t got the tines of my pitchfork in your back.” She turned to Legs. “It’s good to see you, Purity’s son.”

She looked out into the yard, across the pasture. “Now, both of you, get in the house.”

“I hope you’ve got something to eat,” said Talen, “because we’re starving.”

“Food?” She stabbed the pitchfork at him. “I think I promised a beating the last time you were here. Now get.” She eyed the woods behind them. Perhaps the valley wasn’t as peaceful as it had appeared from the top of the hill. Talen turned with Legs and hurried into the house. A Creator’s wreath hung above the widow’s door. The Festival of Gifts was coming, and everyone wanted to thank the Creators and invite their blessings. The wreaths would soon be everywhere—above the gates of each city, on the bows of ships, over the windows of barns.

The Creek Widow came hard on their heels and shut the door behind them. Then she turned on Talen. The fire from the hearth was the only light in the house. Something delicious cooked on the stove and filled the room with the smell of beef and onions.

“What are you two doing?” she said.

“Is River here?”

“River?”

Talen’s heart sank.

“You tell me what’s happened,” she said.

Talen did. He told her about going into Whitecliff, the weave, and the little creature at the window. He told her about packing up to leave, about the monster, River and Sugar going after it, and his encounters with Fabbis and the hunt.

His tale elicited a running commentary of grunts from her. When he finished, she put her hands on her hips. “Men,” she said in disgust. “I told them it was time when Purity was first caught. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Men,” she said again. “Always leaving the woman to clean up.” She looked at Talen and Legs. “And you can be sure I will clean up. We must leave, this house isn’t safe.”

“Where are we going?”

“The refuge, my boy. The refuge.” she sighed. “I knew it was fraying apart when your da sent his letter. I told him. I told your da. I told him, I told him, I told him. But no. That man won’t listen. Now if I were his wife, I would have made him listen. River, bless her heart, I know she tries. But a daughter can’t hold her own like a wife can. Men get stupid when they run on their own, Talen. That’s just how it is. And your father’s gotten stupider than most. Your mother kept the beef out of his brain. But she’s too long gone. Too long without a good woman. And that’s the truth.” She grunted again and looked to the rafters for answers. “May the Six bless him. He’s going to need it.” She directed her attention to Talen. “Fetch the Tailor from the field.”

“Will the others be there?” asked Talen.

“Others?”

“Aren’t there a number of other people in the Order?” asked Talen. “Won’t we need them to attempt a rescue?”

“Son,” said the Creek Widow, “your uncle’s on a ship headed for Mokad, your da’s who knows where in the custody of Lord Shim and the Fir-Noy, we’ve got some creature from the tales taking us down one by one. I don’t know where your brother is. We weren’t many to begin with. You want others?” She spread her arms wide. “I’m afraid you’re looking at them.”

“But—”

“If anybody has survived, we will find them at the refuge. I was waiting for the final word. I cannot wait anymore. We must leave immediately.”

Talen saddled the Tailor and brought him around the front of the house, worrying the whole time that someone was spying on them. The Tailor was named after a man the Creek Widow had loved once. Talen had never gotten the full story and didn’t know if the man died or simply jilted her.

He helped Legs up and then held the horse as the Creek Widow filled the saddlebags with a few necessities and what she said were her three most prized possessions—a fat codex of lore she’d been hiding in a stone box under the floor, two yards of bright yellow silk she had not yet been able to bring herself to wear and probably never would, and an ancient cooking pot her great-grandmother had given her.