Raveler: The Dark God Book 3

by John D. Brown

  “I have a good feeling about this,” River said.

  “I don’t,” Harnock said. “Do you know what you just promised them?”

  “We are natural allies.”

  Harnock shook his head. “You don’t know woodikin.”

  “I’m amazed at the queen’s command of Mokaddian,” River said. “Where did she learn the language?”

  “Human hunters and youths wander over the borders. When they do, the woodikin capture them. This queen is known for wanting her skinmen alive. She wants to know her enemy, so she makes them tutor her. Sometimes they live. Sometimes they die. Sometimes she trades them off to other tanglewoods.”

  Talen tried to imagine living among the woodikin. “Are there human slaves here now?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Do you think she will actually let us go?” asked River.

  “The Spiderhawks used to be the ruling tribe. But most of their tanglewoods were out along the coast. It was Spiderhawks who fought most against the early colonists. And so when Mokad finally beat them back, the Divines gave weaves of might to the Orange Slayers, their enemies. The Orange Slayers took out their revenge, stole Spiderhawk tanglewoods, slaughtered their warriors. But I’m sure the queen is motivated by more than hate. The Great Mothers of these tribes are shrewd. I’m positive she has some long game.”

  “What about the Orange Slayer dreadmen?” Talen asked. “The woodikin are powerful creatures without any lore. I can’t imagine them with it.”

  “Their ring warriors are horrors, but we don’t have to worry too much about that right now. Every year the Orange Slayers meet with the Divine of Mokad and his priests at a place a few miles inside The Wilds. The woodikin give Mokad valuables and renew their promises to stay clear of the borders. They also bring three woodikin with them for sacrifice.”

  Talen already knew where this was leading. “And Lumen, or whoever the Divine was, would drain the sacrificial woodikin of their Fire and refill the Orange Slayer weaves with it.”

  “Exactly,” said Harnock. “So Lumen was killed. The annual meeting that was to occur many months ago never happened. The weaves weren’t replenished. And now I suspect the Orange Slayers weaves are running dry. They might be completely empty. It’s a huge blow for them. The warriors and promises of healing helped the Orange Slayers maintain their power. Quite a number of the vassal tribes are bound to them because someone important fell sick and the Orange Slayers healed them with the weaves. And now that source of power is gone.”

  River said, “I think alliances would shift very quickly if another tribe had the lore. Think of the possibility of an alliance between the woodikin and the Groves.”

  “The only reason the woodikin stay out of skinmen lands is because they are dependent on us,” Harnock said. “Remove that dependence, raise up a tribe of ring warriors, and you just murdered half of the clans.”

  “Not if Shim rises.”

  Harnock grunted.

  Talen said, “So if the weaves were only given to Orange Slayers, how did this queen get hers?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” Harnock said. “I don’t know. But you can be sure the Spiderhawk queen is thinking right now how she can bring her tribe back to power. Although she still could trade us to win some concession from the Orange Slayers. My bet is the warrior dies, and we end up having our eyes plucked out. But this is enough talk. We need to eat and sleep while we have the chance. Who knows what the next hour might bring?”

  Food sounded mighty good to Talen. He’d been hungry for hours. The woodikin had searched their packs, keeping their weapons, the Book, the other weaves, and wurm egg, but they had returned their food and bedding. They had also supplied them with a large wooden jug of the tree water. Harnock opened the jug and began to drink. River pulled weevil out of a pack.

  As River handed him his portion, their fingers brushed, and he smelled her soul. He sighed and took the grubs from her. His thirst was still raging, but he popped one of the weevil in his mouth and chewed. He was surprised how much better they tasted the second time. Or maybe they tasted the same, but he was just that much more hungry.

  Harnock passed the jug to him, and Talen took a long drink of the sappy water. They continued to pass the water and weevil until the jug of tree water was dry and their supplies of grub were mostly gone. The meal didn’t totally slake his hunger and thirst, but it was enough. He lay back on the wooden floor and looked out the small window. River settled up against the wall. Harnock lay on his side and draped an arm over one pack.

  The sound of the tanglewood about them came in through the windows. In the distance, there was music and squeals of delight, hoots, and drums. He looked out and saw, through the tanglewood limbs above, the first stars appearing in the evening sky.

  He turned on his side and soon fell into that relaxation that comes before full sleep. While he still wanted River to weave him a governor, he felt much more in control of his Fire. Weeks ago, it had responded clumsily. Now, except for the effects of the king’s collar earlier, he could multiply and diminish now almost as easily as he could raise and lower his arm. He lowered his Fire so it was only slightly elevated, which would help him recover during sleep.

  As he relaxed, he smelled the soul and Fire in River and Harnock. Running with the woodikin, he’d been frightened and stressed, and hadn’t paid those senses much attention. But now, with the three of them packed into the small hut, the scent filled the place.

  Talen scooted as far away from both of them as he could and tried to think of other things. He thought of the wonders he’d seen today among the woodikin. The wurms, the orange skir, and the attack on his roamling. He wished Nettle were whole so he could tell him all.

  An insect flew in, buzzed around the small hut twice, then flew back out. And Talen’s mind drifted to River and Harnock and the tempting smell of their souls.

  Da had always said that when you ran from your fears, you only gave them power. So he wasn’t going to run. He had to face them. But not here. There was a whole tanglewood to explore. He breathed out and released his roamlings from his wrists and entered the yellow world.

  The room looked different, felt different. He could feel the life in the wood, smell its soul and Fire. He tested the floor and walls, probed them, and found the wood wasn’t solid. However, no matter how he pushed, the Fire in the wood seemed to elude him. He explored the hut a moment more, then floated over River and looked down upon her. He looked down upon Harnock with another roamling, which shone with a faint luminescence.

  Talen moved his roamlings closer to Harnock. He felt the life beneath the fur and skin. There was a pattern to it all. An urge to touch it swelled in him. Maybe if he was careful—he brushed against Harnock, and his desire for Harnock’s soul rose. He told himself he should pull back, but he followed Harnock’s pattern instead. It was said all living things were weaves, and he could now see it was true.

  Harnock stirred.

  Talen paused. He realized the weaves down by Harnock’s wrists were different, and so he moved down Harnock’s arms and probed there, wrapping himself around Harnock’s wrist. He could almost taste Harnock’s Fire. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Knew he should back away. But maybe he could get insight into the thralls. The first step in controlling weaves was to see the pattern. If he could see the pattern, maybe he could change it. Maybe he—

  “Hogan’s son,” Harnock growled.

  Talen pulled back.

  Harnock cracked an eye. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” said Talen.

  “What’s going on?” asked River.

  “Something is here,” said Harnock. “I felt it at the doors of my soul, scrabbling to get in.”

  Talen’s mouth went dry. What was he doing? Harnock was going to kill him for sure.

  “Frights?” River asked.

  “I don’t
know,” Harnock said and pushed himself up on one elbow. He pinned Talen with a suspicious gaze. “What’s out there, Hogan’s son? What’s in the yellow world?”

  Talen lay petrified. “Give me a moment,” he said, then pretended to send his roamlings out. “The room’s empty,” he reported. But, of course, that was a lie. He was there. “Whatever was here must have fled.”

  “It had better have fled,” Harnock said and lay back down.

  Talen closed his eyes in relief. He had to get out, get away from the two of them. He needed to focus his mind on something else. So he sent his two roamlings out through the window and past a woodikin guarding the door to the hut.

  The trees of the tanglewood were lovely in the yellow world. They glistened unlike any other tree he’d seen so far. Talen sent one roamling to the canopy of the trees to look at the stars that shone in the lavender-tinged sky and search for orange skir. He found no orange skir, but he did see a group of pale blue creatures far above the tanglewood, flying across the yellow sky.

  Back by the hut, his other roamling moved in close to examine the woodikin guard and sniff his soul.

  No, Talen thought. Stop. This was the whole ale house thing Harnock had been talking about. He wasn’t going to tempt himself. Of course, how was he not going to tempt himself? There were a hundred things alive around him. The trees, animals on the forest floor, the moths. But he turned his roamling away from the guard nevertheless. If things went wrong, they’d need an escape route, a quick way to the forest floor. He could scout that now. That was a good task to keep his mind clear.

  Talen moved out into the tanglewood with his roamlings, exploring the trees. There were branches with many huts that had been grown along them. There were roads. Pens for animals and birds. He found in addition to a variety of birds, the woodikin kept squirrels, snakes, frogs, and various insects as well. He searched for a path down. While many roads crisscrossed up in the trees, very few led to the forest floor. He supposed that was one way to keep the trees more secure from attack. In fact, many of the tree trunks had wooden platforms built just under the first set of branches with woodikin guard on them.

  Talen followed the paths about his hut, backtracked, and finally found a way down. He dropped his roamlings to the forest floor. There were some small gossamer butterfly creatures clinging to one tree. He suspected they were soul, for things housed in flesh had an aura about them. He watched them for a time, then moved out between the trees. There were a scattering of plants, but the growth down here was thin. He soon found a footpath and snaked along it.

  He passed a cluster of rats gnawing on the bones and carrion skin of a small deer long dead. He passed through a half-woven spider web. Then he saw a weem, one of the long, many-footed creatures, that lays its eggs in its victims.

  Talen moved in close, smelled its Fire and soul. The weem seemed to be sniffing something itself, following some trail. This one wasn’t as big as some of those in the stories, maybe only a span in size, but maybe it would lead him to others. Talen snaked along with it, examining it ever closer, smelling the Fire and soul within it. He attached his roamling to it, felt its weave like fabric in his hand. It was finely textured, but not all smooth. He found a small snag, a rent. Saw the pattern.

  Talen pulled on the rent. The weem froze. Talen pulled again, making it wider. The weem flinched, tried to shake him. Talen pulled again.

  From the tear, Fire sprayed into the night, and before he could think, he breathed it in. The taste thrilled him; it was like drinking water flavored by apple slices and strawberries after a long thirst.

  Talen knew he should pull back, but he tore at the rent again. The weem thrashed, but it couldn’t throw him. Talen tore the rent wider, and a spray of Fire gushed forth along with a flicker of something shining. Talen’s roamling, like a fish, gulped in the Fire and that shining with it.

  The weem spasmed and shuddered, then lay still on the forest floor.

  Talen sniffed at it, but the soul and Fire he’d smelled before was gone. The weem was dead.

  Talen paused, shocked.

  He’d just stolen Fire. His mind reeled. And that shining—had he eaten its soul? That’s the last thing he needed, to start growing insect eyes and chitin skin.

  Holy creators, he thought.

  But his hunger surged; he wanted to feed again. It had been so . . . delicious.

  Back in the hut, another small roamling exited his wrist. Then another. They hovered over River.

  No! Talen thought. No! He fought the two new roamlings, pulled them back into his wrists, then pulled the others back as well. He dragged all his parts back in and slammed his doors shut.

  He opened his eyes to the darkness of the hut and held up his arms. What were these things? His mind cast back to the battle with the Devourer and the monster stuffing his parts back in. Had it stuffed a part of itself back in with him?

  The Devourer had said the Glory would oversee the harvest of souls. He hadn’t known exactly what that meant. But he knew he desired it.

  He’d been bred to be a butcher. The truth of that sounded through him—he’d been bred to be a butcher, and to go at it with an appetite.

  Sleep fled him, and he lay in the dark hut, listening to the breathing of Harnock and River, holding his roamlings tight in his flesh. His blend was awakening. Surely tonight he’d crossed some line. How long would it be before he lost control?

  9

  Blue Towers

  SUGAR CLUNG in the darkness to the precarious slope that fell away from the outer wall of Blue Towers and ran to the edge of a cliff. At the bottom of the cliff flowed The Lion River. The wind was blowing, and there was nothing but starlight to see by. Unless, of course, you could see in the yellow world.

  Behind her, Argoth and a fist of dreadmen clung to the face of the slope. There were eleven of them in all: strong men, hardened by many battles. Oaks was there, as were two other dreadmen that had been raised long before Shim had started his rebellion. Urban and his men were not there. Even though Sugar hadn’t said one word about him, Argoth knew they’d deserted, and it infuriated him.

  The wind whipped about the men clinging to the steep slope. Sugar peered out of her body and waited for Argoth, who was below her, to feel his way to where she stood. The whole fist of men had tied themselves together so that if one fell, he would be supported by his brethren. They could not afford to lose members here, much less make the noise a fall would create.

  At the top of the slope above the fist, a dogman and his pack paused. Sugar would not have known he was coming, but his dogs had barked. Argoth said the dogmen could see in darkness, not as well as other animals, but better than the men of the Western Glorydoms. She was sure the dogs would have better sight, and so she froze where she was. The dreadmen behind her clung to the rocks, all of them clad in the darkest of grays and black. They were lucky the dogs stood upwind, otherwise she suspected they would have smelled her and the fist of men.

  Sugar wasn’t at an angle to see the dogman, but she could hear his beasts panting and sniffing above the wind. One barked and growled deeply. The dogman said something in his language and came to the edge of the slope above.

  She peered at him with the eyes of her soul. From this angle, he looked taller than seven feet. Huge, broad shouldered. His dark hair was long and shone in the yellow world. He carried a poleax. The wind carried his musk. It was strong and peculiar.

  Despite the fact that she was multiplied, her left leg began to burn with the strain of holding her. She wanted to shift position, but didn’t dare. The dogman took in a big breath through his nose, sniffing the wind. He paused to look down, but obviously did not see them in the darkness, for he turned and began to walk upriver with his hounds.

  Even after she lost sight of him, Sugar waited just to be sure. Then she scanned the parapet for Walkers. When she saw all was clear, she continued to traverse the slope
. The fist took what seemed like an hour, working their way across the rocky face, until they came to a spot just west of the south tower. Then they began to climb straight up.

  Luckily, they did not have to worry about dogmen in this location for the slope joined with the fortress wall, and there was no place for a patrol to walk. They continued to climb in the darkness, slowly, carefully. Later a thin moon would come out and give them a bit more to see by, but now it was black as pitch, and the men behind her could do nothing but feel their way along.

  She undershot the stone the woman who had escaped Lord Hash had told them about by a number of yards. But Sugar eventually found it in the yellow twilight and rolled the stone away to reveal an opening that looked like a large burrow. She crawled through the narrow entrance and found that the cavity opened up farther in, allowing her to easily rise up on her hands and knees and then stand with a crouch. A few yards later, she came to a wooden door set in the rock ceiling under the thick fortress wall.

  The abused servant woman claimed a secret spiral staircase led up from the door to the lord’s chambers on the second floor of the tower. If the fortress ever fell, each tower could be sealed off and defended independently. It appeared Lord Hash had planned a retreat for himself should that fail as well. But the woman had discovered the secret passage when Lord Hash had used it to hide the dead body of a man he’d killed.

  There was another secret passage, she said, leading from the lord’s chamber to the apartments that had been built inside the walls at that corner of the castle. Tonight, the grandest of those apartments on the second floor was their destination. Lords often took the upper levels of a tower for their living quarters. But Lord Hash saw no reason to limit himself to the small space of the tower. So he had built himself a grand apartment that connected to the tower by a hallway. It was the finest accommodation in the fortress. And, therefore, it would have been an insult had Lord Hash remained there while a Divine was visiting. Shim’s spies had confirmed that Mokad’s Skir Master had taken it. There were other lesser Divines in the army, but this is the one that controlled the urgom, the skir that they used in battle.