Servant: The Dark God Book 1 (15 page)

15
Purity

ARGOTH DID NOT want one of the guards on the walls of the Shoka fortress, jittery from the attacks at the village of Plum, to mistake Hogan for an enemy and kill him. The guards had their orders, but it was night and the moon was only half full. And Hogan was Koramite. So Argoth waited atop the barbican, watching the roads for his brother-in-law and friend.

He brought a sprig of spearmint to his nose. Serenity, his youngest daughter, had tied it to a string and made yet another necklace for him. He could never say no to wearing her gifts. In his pockets he carried at least a dozen tokens of affection—a small black stone with a slash of red in it, a finely woven lock of hair, desiccated bits of flowers, the pit of a plum. He inhaled the fine, strong scent of the mint.

Behind him rose the first of two rings of defense. More than seventy years ago, the early colonists had wisely located the fortress here on a wide outcropping of rock that capped one of the three hills of Whitecliff. One side of the hill sloped to the town. The backside of the hill, consisting of cliffs and exceedingly narrow slopes, dropped straight to the sea.

The first structure had been a simple timber tower and palisade, but that had been torn down decades ago. In its place they’d built a fortress made of two roughly rectangular walls, one inside the other. The outer wall stood twenty feet high. The inner wall, placed almost thirty yards back from the outer wall, stood double that height.

Tonight, at the base of the outer wall, guards with dogs patrolled the dry moat, expecting a sleth attack. Their silhouettes stood out against the whitewashed walls of the fortress. The Shoka had learned the whitewashing trick from an old Mungo slave who had won his freedom: whitewash the bottom half of the walls to make it easier for defenders to see below at night, but leave the top unwashed, allowing the defenders to use the cover of darkness.

They used the idea on the ramparts as well, painting the walkways white to allow the men to navigate without torches. As long as the moon shone, there would be no torches on the wall. Not a lamp. Not a whisper of light that might ruin a guard’s night vision except in the one tower where men were eating.

The distant sound of laughter carried down from the tower. Then a guard somewhere up on the outer wall called out, having spotted movement in the town.

Argoth looked out toward the town. In the distance he could see the dark, squat towers of the town wall. Closer in and off to the left stood the temple of the Glory of Mokad on its hill. It was too dark to see, but within the round, domed structure stood the altar of sacrifice where the Divines drew Fire. Directly behind the altar stood the raised seat of the Glory. And behind the seat stood the statues of the seven creators in a semi-circle looking down upon the altar.

During the festival of gifts, seven fifteen-foot statues would be made of wood and erected around the temple. They would then be paraded in a long procession to the fortress and then to the sea. Seven statues to represent the seven Creators.

Each would be festooned with the creations for which He or She was responsible. The first and greatest was smeared over with rocks and clay. The second was in the form of a tree, decorated with garlands of seaweed, flowers and sheaves of grain; the third had the horns and hides of animals and eyes made of butterfly wings; the fourth wore the skins of sharks and whales; the fifth bore great wings upon its back and was clad in feathers; the sixth was in the form of a man with a face of gold. These were the six, dangerous as they may be, who brought life. The seventh, made to symbolize Regret, was misshapen and black. Upon its head sat a crown of thorns, and about its chest was woven a breastplate made from the bones of a thousand animals.

There were men and women who bound themselves to Regret and worshipped him openly. And maybe the creature that killed the harvest master in the village of Plum was one such. But in all his long years, Argoth had only found a handful who gave themselves to darkness in that way. Mostly, Argoth found Regret worked in more subtle ways, coming to you smiling and with an open hand so that you served him and never once thought you were doing anything but standing in the light.

That’s how it had been with him before he found the Order. In his own way, he had been a servant of Regret, even though he didn’t know it at the time. But that was behind him. He was now, bless the Six, part of the Order. And the Order would get to the bottom of what was happening here with Purity and this monster.

Down at the base of the temple hill a light moved along a dark street. It passed behind a number of dark homes. Then it reappeared on the fortress road. Whoever held the torch rode a horse and was accompanied by other men.

A half minute more and Hogan rode into the torchlight at the base of the gate road. On a mount next to Hogan sat one of the barbican watchmen. The man called out his name and rank, then said, “We have delivered Hogan, bowmaster of the Koramites.”

“He’s mine,” Argoth called down. “Dismount, Bowmaster. Then proceed.”

Argoth descended the stairs from the top of the barbican. As he rounded the last set of stairs, the voices of the guards below carried up the stairwell.

“What’s the warlord doing letting that thing among us? Who can tell which of them is part of the sleth nest?”

“Good lord, man, it’s Captain Argoth’s brother-in-law.”

“I don’t care; this isn’t right—”

Argoth scuffed his boot on a stone step and the conversation fell silent. A moment later he rounded the last steps and walked into the main passageway and then out to the front of the barbican to stand with the five guards standing posted there. A moment later, Hogan dismounted, then walked the ramp alone. When he reached the top, his escort turned to the stables, Hogan’s mule in tow.

Argoth could have ignored the guards’ earlier comments, but he chose not to. “Do you know what I love about that Koramite?”

“Zu?” said the most senior of the guards.

“Not his might, nor the many Bone Face kills to his name. But his loyalty.”

“Yes, Captain,” said the guard.

“Mark him,” said Argoth. “I would rather have that one loyal Koramite at my side than a whole company of backbiters.”

“Yes, Captain,” said the guard. “Of course.”

Hogan walked the rest of the way to the barbican gate. The guards stood attentively as he joined Argoth, then the two of them walked through the gate, under the murder holes, and out the other side to the wooden drawbridge that led from the barbican, over the dry moat, and to the first gate of the fortress. The fortress gate stood open before them like the dark maw of a giant beast, the raised portcullis looking like a sharp row of teeth.

A set of guards with mastiffs stood just inside that mouth out of sight, waiting and watching for any enemy that slipped past the outer defenses.

On the drawbridge, away from the guards, Hogan ran his fingers through his beard braids and said, “I will hate to lose this tree.”

The Order patterned itself after an aspen tree. Aspens sent runners under the ground that would shoot up saplings, which in turn would grow and send out runners of their own. A grove of aspens could cover acres and acres, and yet, they were not separate trees. They were all connected to each other at the root. And so it was with the Order. Each area where the Order was established had a Root, a trio of leadership, that governed the tree and branches that might grow in that area. Hogan was the chief Root here, Argoth the second. Matiga, whom many called the Creek Widow, was the third.

Of course, the guards wouldn’t call the grove an “order.” To them, all combinations of people such as Argoth and Hogan were nests, tangles, or murders. For some combinations those were appropriate terms. But not for those of the Order. Nevertheless, the guards would be horrified to know that a Root of the Grove of Hismayas was about to walk right past them.

A single tree might be lost, but unless those that hunted the Order—the Divine Seekers and their dreadmen—pulled up the whole grove, the Roots would grow another tree somewhere else, and another and another, until the Order filled the earth. Of course, some trees had to be culled to protect the others. Purity was a tree in the Grove, and he and Hogan had to decide if she was to live or die, for the Grove could not be risked.

“Did you contact Matiga?” Argoth asked.

“I did,” said Hogan. “She is prepared.” In each conflict, the Order took great precautions to make sure the full trio of leaders could never be found together at the same time. If two fell, the third would have a better chance to bear the rest of the grove off to safety and start again somewhere else. Or to mount a counterattack.

“I told her to ready the Victor’s Crown,” said Arogth. The crown of a Victor was a special weave. An ancient device used by the old gods to bestow great might upon its wearer.

“Do you think it will come to that?” asked Hogan.

“The reports coming out of Plum,” said Argoth, “if they’re true, this is rare magic. Terrible. Who has wielded the power to animate such a beast? The older texts describe it, but when was the last time?”

“Never.”

“And it rises in a place where a Divine has recently vanished. The New Lands are vast. I wonder if we’ve awakened something here.”

Hogan sighed. “Do you think Purity is involved?”

Argoth shrugged. “Purity had skills the rest of us did not comprehend. I wish Matiga were here. How can we make a decision to cull this tree without her?”

Matiga was strong-willed. Sometimes to the point of being obstinate. She was currently three months into a grudge against Hogan. She had found an excellent woman to join the Grove. One she hoped to marry to Hogan. The woman was the widow of a Koramite boat builder. Matiga had prepared the woman and asked Hogan and Argoth to test her for admittance to the Grove. Of course, the woman knew nothing of this. She could not. The Grove’s survival depended on strict secrecy.

Hogan and Argoth had agreed to consider the woman and had tested her in many ways for almost a year. In the end, Argoth and Matiga had been satisfied, but Hogan found her wanting. They’d argued, but Hogan would not budge. The trio had to act in perfect unison on such matters. And so the woman was rejected. Matiga had been furious. In this case, Argoth thought she had grounds. Matiga might be strong-willed, but she was also perceptive in her odd way. The woman would have been an asset.

Purity was an asset as well. And it was a terrible decision before them. Purity had been a friend for so long. But the Grove couldn’t risk putting all three roots together in this situation. And even if they could, he doubted he would have been able to convince the lords of the Shoka to let him bring in yet another person to see the prisoner.

“If this tree can be saved,” said Hogan. “We will do it. But if it cannot, are you prepared?”

Argoth touched his pocket that contained the required poison. “I am prepared,” he said, his heart groaning with the weight of those words.

They said nothing more. Argoth led Hogan past the guards and mastiffs, and into the first bailey. They turned left and walked to the second gate and another set of guards.

The whole design of the castle was to create a series of killing fields, areas where attackers would be forced to expose themselves to fire from many directions. The path from the first to the second gate was just such a killing field, forcing a troop sideways to travel to the second gate. The moat, the fortress road, and the spaces before the gates and barbican were killing fields as well.

Argoth and Hogan passed the guards and walked into the dark tunnel. A rat spooked and scurried before them. They followed the rat out to the inner courtyard which lay in darkness. An armsman on a horse trotting to the gate nearly collided into Hogan. At the last moment, the rider jerked his horse to the side and headed into the tunnel, the horse’s hooves clopping on the cobblestones.

Across the deep courtyard, the sea tower rose into the sky, moonlight gleaming dully off its ramparts. From the top of that tower a watchman could see miles out to sea. On a clear day he could see the out islands.

In most fortresses, prisoners held for ransom were kept in the tops of towers. If they wanted to escape, it meant they would have to make their way through all the defenses below. More importantly, it was more comfortable living at ground level, and so the lower rooms were usually taken by those with authority. But sleth were a different matter. They could descend heights and break timber floors that other men could not. Experience had shown that they needed to be held behind tons of rock. The cleansing room, the only place in all of the New Lands capable of holding sleth, was built in the cellar of the sea tower.

Argoth led Hogan across the courtyard to the tower. They passed a group of soldiers drawing water from the well. A number of yards farther they arrived at a low wall a dozen paces from the door of the tower. Half-a-dozen guards stood along the wall with two more mastiffs in their midst.

“Hold,” one of them said.

“Captain Argoth, here on at Warlord Shim’s request. We’ve come to question the woman.”

“Aye,” said the man, then he walked back to the tower door and knocked. The door of the tower was set deeply between two wings much like a fortress gate was, but in a smaller dimension. There were dark arrow loops in those wings that would allow archers, if there were any there now, to cover the door with crossfire.

Moments later, a small block of wood set behind bars opened at eye level revealing lamplight within. Part of a face filled the opening.

“Your visitors have arrived,” the man said.

The face disappeared and the block closed. A moment later the crossbar inside scraped, then the door opened. A giant of a man with a bushy beard held the door with one hand and a lamp with the other. His name was Droz. Many straps hung from his armsman’s apron—for not only was he experienced, but he was also a dreadman of immense ferocity. Argoth had seen him chop men in two. Both his right and left forearms were covered with warrior tattoos.

“Ah, Captain,” Droz said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He motioned for Argoth and Hogan to enter.