Servant: The Dark God Book 1 (44 page)

43
Hag’s Teeth

TALEN PULLED OUT his knife, knowing the fat lot of good it would do him against that monster, and stood to protect the others.

But the monster didn’t rush in; a group of dreadmen did instead. They came in with torches and swords. Two spotted him and the others and charged forward. The rest raced silently into the passageway. Before Talen could drop his knife, the two dreadmen were upon them. The one held his sword tip inches from Talen’s chest.

Such speed—it took Talen’s breath away. These dreadmen were tattooed with the markings of the Lions of Mokad, the Skir Master’s personal guard. The one holding his sword in front of Talen looked like he would kill at the slightest provocation. A tattoo flared away from one his eyes. The other eye was puffed, the skin horribly burned.

“On your bellies,” whispered the dreadman.

Talen offered no resistance. He dropped to his knees, then prostrated himself, turning his head so that one cheek was flat against the earth. Sugar did the same. Legs slid off the side of the horse and dropped to the ground right next to the horse’s legs.

Talen looked up at the dreadman. The torch in the dreadman’s hand spit. One small burning droplet of pitch struck Talen’s neck, but he dared not brush it away. The Tailor was not comfortable with the fire or the men. He protested and backed up, almost stepping on Legs, and banged into the stall.

Two more men walked into the chamber, a smaller one followed by a larger. The smaller man had short white hair and bushy eyebrows. He stood proudly erect. His clothes were made of sumptuous cloth. The eyes drew Talen’s attention; they were black and shiny as polish jet.

Talen had seen only two Divines in his life. This one filled him with dread. Talen couldn’t see the face of the larger man, but it was clear he was the Skir Master’s servant.

“Master,” the large one said. “Do you see? I’ll make up for my sins.”

Talen looked on in disbelief. He recognized that voice. “Uncle?” he asked.

Uncle Argoth turned and glanced at Talen, and then a Fir-Noy entered the cave. It was The Crab, the territory lord. Talen should have known the Fir-Noy would be behind this.

The Crab looked around at the chamber. “Well, well. Even I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

The dreadmen who had moved deeper into the refuge returned to the first chamber. Talen counted six of them besides the two watching him, Sugar, and Legs.

“There’s nobody here,” their leader reported.

“No one?” demanded the Skir Master. He turned to Uncle Argoth. “Clansman? Is there another place you haven’t told me about?”

Uncle Argoth groveled before the Skir Master. “No, no. The stone was pushed aside. Either they’ve come and gone or they’ve gone and will return.”

What had happened to Uncle Argoth? He was so obsequious he didn’t even seem the same man.

“There was a hearth in the first chamber,” the lead dreadman said. “The coals were still warm.”

“Then they’re here,” said Uncle Argoth.

The Skir Master turned and looked at Talen. “Who are these three?”

The dreadman kicked Talen in the side so hard it took his breath away. “Answer!”

“I am the son of Hogan the Koramite,” Talen croaked. “The horse of blood hill. These are the children of Sparrow, smith of the village of Plum.”

The Skir Master made a small noise to himself and walked over to look down upon Talen.

“He speaks the truth,” said Uncle Argoth.

The Skir Master considered Talen as if he were judging a poorly fired pot. “Was your father here?”

“No,” said Talen. “Not that I know of.”

“Do not seek to deceive me,” said the Skir Master. “I already know that he, like this girl’s witch mother, was snatched from those set to guard him. Tell me where the others are.”

The Skir Master’s pants were scorched. His feet bare. And there stood Uncle Argoth next to him. Was he a traitor or was this some ruse and the real Argoth would suddenly rise up and slay these men? “I do not know, Great One.”

“Cut out his eye,” said The Crab.

The dreadman with the burned eye looked to the Skir Master.

“Please,” said Talen. “We came and the cave was empty. Our guide disappeared while we were in the other chamber. I think the monster took her as well.”

“It’s as I told you, Great One,” Uncle Argoth said. “The creature is not ours. Something else is afoot.”

“Maybe not yours,” said the Skir Master. “But you’re only one man. How do you know the two Koramites, whom you trust so much, are not part of another murder of sleth?”

The Skir Master motioned at Talen, and one of the dreadman guarding him wrenched Talen up by his hair and held him in a lock with his arms and legs so Talen couldn’t move.

“I swear,” said Talen. “I’m telling the truth.”

The dreadman with the burned eye drew his knife and drew close, the tang of his body odor filling Talen’s nostrils. “Hold still,” he said, “or you’ll lose more than an eye.”

“I can show you the footprint!” cried Talen. “The monster was here.”

The dreadman changed his grip on knife and readied it to plunge into Talen’s eye.

“Stop,” said the Skir Master.

Talen stared up at the thin point of the blade.

“Tell me everything you know.”

Where would he start? With his mother? With the fact that he was some soul-eater’s artifact? Or should he simply blurt out that his family were all soul-eaters? And then there was Uncle Argoth—was he playing some ruse or had he been subverted? Tell the truth or fabricate a story, either might conflict with what Uncle Argoth had already told the Divine. He decided it would be best to interpret “everything” to mean only what he knew about the monster.

“He’s going to lie,” said the dreadman.

“Then give him a bit of motivation,” said the Skir Master.

“No,” said Talen.

But the dreadman brought the knife down. His face with its burned eye was terrible to behold. Talen tried to squirm away, but the man’s grip was like stone. Talen closed his eyes at the last moment and felt the burn as the blade sliced open the skin on his cheek below his eye.

“I saw it first at our farm,” said Talen.

But the dreadman kept cutting. Blood ran down the side of Talen’s face and dripped in his ear.

“Please. I only learned about the Grove just two days ago. I’ll tell you everything.” He was ashamed at how easily he broke, but that disappointment was quickly put aside when the dreadman stopped cutting.

Talen’s mind raced. The monster was out there. Maybe if they worried about it, he and the others could slip away. So he started there and began to rattle off everything he knew about the creature.

The dreadman lifted the knife away from Talen’s face.

Talen continued with every detail he’d seen and all those he’d heard from Da about the battle in the tower. He ended by saying, “Its footprints are here. I can only suspect it’s taken my brother and the Creek Widow, who led us here. I’ll show you.”

The Skir Master regarded him, then nodded, and the dreadman let him up. Talen immediately put his hand to the cut on his face. He pressed his fingers to the cut to hold it closed and stop the bleeding, then walked to the clearest set of prints.

“Here,” he said and pointed at a footprint. “And here.”

The Skir Master squatted down and examined the prints. After some time, he said, “If it’s lore masters this creature wants, then a lore master is what it will get. I think I know what’s been let loose upon your lands.” He stood and turned to The Crab. “We’re going to need at least five sturdy ropes, no shorter than forty feet. Go.”

“Yes, Great One,” The Crab said, then exited the chamber.

The Skir Master turned to the lead dreadman. “This creature cannot be beat by force of arms alone. It was bred by lore, and lore alone can defeat it. If it’s rescuing the soul-eaters, then it will come for the Clansman. If it’s merely collecting them, eliminating them, then it will still come because I will raise a bait it can’t resist. We need nooses and snares. You must hold the thing, if only for a moment. I want five of you here. Set the other four to watch. You will distract it. And I shall take it with the ravelers.”

“What about Shegom?”

“The Skir will conceal herself elsewhere. I must catch the creature off guard. Shegom will only make it wary.”

The lead dreadman bowed and led his men out of the cave.

Talen looked over at Sugar whose face was full of fear and dread. Legs still lay where he’d first dropped.

The Skir Master turned to Uncle Argoth. “You didn’t tell me about your nephew.”

“He knows nothing,” said Argoth. “His father only recently tried to waken him. He is of no consequence.”

“Remember, Clansman, one day more, and I will have all of your secrets. Tell Leaf to bring me the sack.”

“Yes, Great One. Thank you,” said Uncle Argoth.

Moments later Uncle Argoth returned with the large dreadman that had cut Talen’s face. The man carefully placed a worn, leather sack at the Skir Master’s feet. “Where do you want The Crab’s men?” he asked.

“I want them hidden as much as possible. And where it’s not, they need to appear to be no threat.” Then the Skir Master opened the mouth of the sack and withdrew three items. The first was a thin silver case etched in a marvelous design. It was about a span long and half as wide. The remaining items were two gauntlets worked in silver and gold. They were not steel-plated gloves used for protection in battle. These were made of whitened leather. The sleeve of the glove extended past the wrist partway up the forearm. An unfamiliar looping design was painted there in red and blue. The hand of the glove was studded with gold. Sewn into the palm was a gold disc the size of a small coin. But Talen knew that wasn’t a coin. It had to be a weave of some type.

The Skir Master put the gauntlets on and tied the sleeves tight to his forearms. Then he opened the case. Inside, secured by silken threads on a bed of blue velvet lay three gleaming spikes. Their lengths too had been etched with an unfamiliar design. The Skir Master held the open case for Uncle Argoth to see.

“Are they wild?” asked Uncle Argoth.

“Indeed,” said the Skir Master.

There were weaves that only a lore master could use. There were others, wild ones, like those worn by dreadmen, that operated of their own accord.

“Are they Hag’s Teeth?” said Uncle Argoth.

“Not the proper name,” said the Skir Master, “but yes. Does the Order know how to fashion these?”

Argoth looked at the spikes as if he were a boy looking at an unclaimed walnut pie. “No, Great One.”

“It will unravel the seams of soul and body and fire of any living thing. It takes months to complete the very first step, requires the Fire from scores of lives. One of these is worth any number of fiefs. There are only three Glories with the knowledge of how to make them.”

“We would not be able to stand against such,” said Argoth.

“Of course not. That is why you run and hide.”

“We are fools,” said Uncle Argoth.

“Yes, but capable enough to attract the attention of someone with power. And since you’ve been targeted, I think it’s best we use you as part of the bait.”

* * *

Talen sat with Uncle Argoth, Sugar, and Legs a dozen paces away from the mouth of the cave in the clearing. Four pieces of bait sitting by a fire to make it look like they were doing nothing more than preparing a breakfast. A number of hours had passed since the Skir Master had found them. The sun had risen. Because of the steep slopes of this valley, the sunshine had not yet reached every corner of the valley floor, but morning had begun. A meadowlark sang in the scrub a few dozen yards away. The stream that cut through this vale burbled. Beyond the meadow a huge flock of black birds squabbled in a single tree. And yet, as late as it was, there had been no sign of the monster.

The Crab stood watch a few paces away; the Skir Master waited by the mouth of the cave. The Crab had brought fifty men with him who loitered in groups in various positions around the cave. To the casual observer, it might look like they stood in random places. But the Skir Master had ordered them so that one approach to the cave lay wide open. He expected the monster to come that way. And when it reached them, five dreadmen, positioned by the Skir Master, would spring.

Talen had overhead some of the Fir-Noy talking. Twenty dreadmen had been in the Skir Master’s guard. The big one that was his Eye, made it twenty-one. But twelve of those had been lost at sea in a fire. And Uncle Argoth had come back, sniveling and cringing. He hadn’t been able to hear what had happened. He doubted even the Fir-Noy knew.

The breeze shifted and blew the smoke toward Talen. He picked up the rock he was sitting on and moved out of its way, closer to Uncle Argoth. So much for the Creek Widow’s theory of him being bred to greatness. A lot of good it would do them all now.

And so much for the Creek Widow. He wondered what had happened to her.

He wondered about Da. The Skir Master had said the monster had taken him. Talen had tried to talk to Uncle Argoth, but the man totally ignored him. He ignored everyone and sat to the side, rocking on his haunches and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

“What do you think will become of us if the Skir Master kills it?” Talen asked.

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” said Legs. “Usually the bait is the first thing to go.”

“True enough,” Talen said.

They were silent for a time. Talen wondered where Nettle was at this moment. He hoped he was safe, but at the same time wished that he was here. Then Sugar spoke up. “Once he faces off with that creature, I say we slip away. Because if he kills the thing, then that means its lair will be unguarded, which means we can walk straight in and retrieve whoever is still alive. And if he loses his battle, then I certainly don’t want to be here.”

Talen didn’t think it would work since the Fir-Noy had horses, but thinking about escape was better than thinking of being devoured by a monster or questioned by a Divine whose ship had burned underneath him. “The only clear path is up that hill,” Talen said. The outer dreadmen and Fir-Noy had positioned themselves everywhere else.