Talen turned, then ran to the stream. The river stones were large and cut his feet, but he splashed through the water and up the other side to where River and Chot stood.
They ran into the burned trees where the ash and dirt stuck to his wet feet. When they were some distance away, they ascended a knoll and Talen glanced back. Harnock was still standing in the grass, waiting, still holding his long knife out to his side.
Why was he standing there frozen like that?
Beyond him the first of the Orange Slayer woodikin appeared in the woods. They spotted Harnock and hooted.
Now! Talen thought. But Harnock remained stock still.
If Harnock had wanted to kill himself, he should have done so right after they left him. Why did he risk allowing the link to grow in strength?
The terrible answer to that question rose in Talen like a horror. Harnock wouldn’t have waited. He wouldn’t have risked it. The only reason why he would have been frozen like that was because it was already too late, because the master, even though he didn’t have total control, still had enough to keep Harnock from putting himself beyond his reach.
Talen looked over at River. She was watching Harnock, her face as hard as stone.
“Merciful Lords,” Talen said, “what have we just done? Why didn’t we keep our promise?”
A small shadow passed across the ground. Talen looked up. Two hooded crows cawed and soared over the scorched trees.
13
Argoth’s Choice
FROM ATOP THE battlement Argoth watched a scout gallop toward Shim’s temporary camp at Cold Fort. But Argoth didn’t need to hear the scout’s report to know the news he was going to bring. He could see the destruction for himself, could smell the burning on the wind.
Cold Fort stood on the crown of a tall hill far to the west of Whitecliff and had a commanding view of the all the country around it. The fort had been built to watch one of the main passes into the Wilds. But no threat had come from the woodikin through that pass in decades. The threat now was to the east, marching through Shoka lands. Five massive pillars of smoke marked its path. The village of Lister, the town of Marks, the villages of Hawks and Reason and Shady’s Point—all of them, and the homes on the road that ran through them, were burning, the smoke and smell of their destruction spreading out over the land. Other pillars of fire rose down by the coast.
Argoth walked down from the wall, filled a clay pitcher with water from a barrel, and met the haggard scout as he rode through the wooden gate. He handed the pitcher up to the man. “What’s your news?”
The scout took the pitcher. “Mokad’s Skir Master lives. I saw him with my own eyes. He conjured up a wind full of flame.”
And with those words, the small bit of hope that Argoth possessed died. He nodded. “Shim’s inside. He’ll want to hear the full report.”
The scout lifted the pitcher and drank long and deep. “Thank you, Zu,” he said and handed the pitcher back.
“Go,” said Argoth. “I’ll take care of your horse.”
The scout handed him the reins and dismounted. Then Argoth led the horse to the stables. The earlier reports had confirmed that Mokad was not taking prisoners, that their orders were to exterminate every last man, woman, child, and beast in the Shoka lands, to butcher them as sleth. Shim had sent word through all the Shoka clans to be prepared to flee, but Mokad had cut off the escape of these villages and had landed ships down south in Koramtown. To the west were the Wilds and the woodikin. To the east was the sea and Mokad’s ships. To the north was Fir-Noy lands. Where were they going to go?
It was going to be a massive slaughter. And all those souls, according to Sugar’s report, would be harvested, taken to the Mokaddian death ships.
The war was lost. He and Shim had gambled, and lost.
There were three choices at this point. He could turn his back on his friends and flee with his family, try to escape through the south lands. But Serah would balk, as well she should. Or he and Shim and their army could surrender to Mokad and beg for mercy. Mokad would slay every last man and their immediate family, but they might spare the rest of the Shoka. Or Argoth could beg for mercy from Nilliam. The people would be spared. Argoth, if Loyal was telling the truth, would be given a position of power. A position that would allow him to save some from the harvest, to do something that would not otherwise be done, for it was clear from Sugar’s report that there were no ancestors waiting to save the newly dead.
He handed the scout’s horse off to the grooms and turned to find his daughter Joy running toward him, grief and fear written all over her face. She darted heedlessly through a fist of dreadmen practicing with their swords and almost took a blow.
“Da!” she called. “It’s Nettle!”
From her expression something was terribly wrong. He rushed to her, and together they ran back to his quarters. When he flung the door wide, he found Serah at the bed.
Argoth tried to keep his voice calm. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Serah did not turn. She rubbed Nettle’s arm vigorously. “I can’t get him to respond.”
Argoth strode over to the bed and looked down upon his son.
Nettle stared glassy-eyed up at the ceiling. Drool ran in a thin line out of the corner of his mouth.
“Is he breathing?”
“Barely,” she said. “His heart is as unsteady as a drunken sailor.”
A fly landed on Nettle’s cheek, hopped to his nose, then flew away.
“Did you give him more of the tea?”
“He’s full of it. It’s not working.”
Argoth built his Fire. “We need to fetch Matiga,” he said.
“I already sent for her.”
Argoth nodded. He would give what he had. He would bestow Fire and hope it was enough. He called to Grace, his oldest daughter. “Take your sisters,” he said. “Pray to the ancestors. Pray that Nettle may be strong.”
Then he unlaced the collar of his boy’s tunic and laid his hands upon his chest.
* * *
An hour later Argoth, Matiga, and Serah stood back from Nettle. The boy’s heart had stopped twice. It was beating now weakly.
Matiga picked up a cup of a special tea she’d brewed and tried to spoon some down Nettle’s throat. None of them spoke. They all knew Nettle needed more than tea.
Argoth would not have feared Nettle’s death, but the boy would be exposed in the next world. He would enter with his soul torn.
They could burn the filtering rods in which his soul was caught and hope the parts of his soul reunited. But there was no guarantee. He would go into that world wounded, unable to defend himself. Unable to find the ancestors, if they were even there. Letting Nettle die now would send him, not to the ancestors, but into oblivion. It would be tantamount to delivering him to the Devourers.
He castigated himself for taking Nettle’s sacrifice. How could he have been so reckless with his own flesh and blood?
Matiga set her tea aside. “We’ll give him some time,” she said.
Time only brought Nettle’s destruction closer. They had no time. None of them did.
Argoth bent and kissed Nettle on the forehead. The sparrow Loyal had given Argoth rested against Nettle’s chest. Argoth reached out and touched it. Then he walked out of his quarters to the storeroom where they kept different signal flags and found a red pennant on one of the standards. It was made of sturdy canvas, dyed a rich red. The color of blood.
He carefully untied it from its pole. The sad irony that he would betray them with this rose in his mind. A standard was used on the battlefield so the men of that terror would know where they were to be and what they were to do, whether advancing, retreating, or performing some other maneuver. In the heat and dust and melee, you could look up and take your bearings from your standard. While the standard flew, you knew you were standing with your comra
des in arms. Standing where you should be.
Argoth told himself he wasn’t betraying anyone. He was saving them. Which meant using the pennant wasn’t ironic at all.
He folded the cloth, stuffed it under one arm, and exited the room.
Three dreadmen passing by saluted him as he closed the storeroom door. He returned their salute and headed for the stables. He looked about at the men bravely manning their posts, cleaning their weapons. One fist was by the well, carefully preparing fireshot. But against a Skir Master, such things would be worthless.
He did not like the choice that had been placed before him. He supposed this was the bitter harvest of the wicked actions he’d sown in his past. But there was no use in looking back and wishing things were different. A man faced the current situation and took the course that looked the best from the information he had. A man made hard decisions and didn’t look back.
He entered the stables. “Saddle up Midnight,” he said to one of the grooms.
“Yes, Zu,” the man said and inclined his head.
Midnight had been his best horse for many years. The two of them had seen many battles together. This time he would take him into another kind of fight.
A couple of minutes later, the groom brought Midnight out. “Thank you,” Argoth said.
“The Six bless you,” the groom said.
“Let’s hope they bless us all,” Argoth said and mounted.
He turned Midnight and headed for the gate. Two soldiers stood there, an old veteran and his son. The son was a new man, just about Nettle’s age, a boy who had only recently received the tattoos marking him as a boy no longer. His face was full of confidence.
The father and son hailed Argoth. He returned a salute and trotted out the gate and down the road strewn with fallen autumn leaves.
He knew he would lose Serah over this. She would not follow him. She would not countenance Nettle being saved while so many died about him. Argoth would have to force her compliance. She would speak out, and then he’d have to force her silence. And the more he forced, the more she’d withdraw and resent him. And it wouldn’t end there: she’d poison the children against him. In the end, there would be nothing between them but hate.
He could accept that. If her hate was the price he had to pay to save her soul, then he would do it. If he lost Nettle and the girls forever so that they might live in brightness, then he would count his sacrifice a blessing.
Loyal of Nilliam was right. His duty was to preserve his own seed and then as many others as he could. He didn’t see any other way.
The clopping of Midnight’s hooves echoed about the hill. It was a lonely sound. Lonely as the naked trees about him clutching at the sky. The image of that father and son at the gate filled his mind. Nettle would have been as healthy as that soldier if Argoth had not chosen a forbidden path. His mind cast back to that night when he and Nettle descended into his secret chamber. He could still see Nettle so clearly, ardently choosing to give his Fire so Argoth could fight. And then the boy reaching up in pain as the filtering rods tore away his soul.
The memory stabbed his heart. His eyes watered and stung. He’d been such a fool. How he wished he’d had good counsel in that moment of crisis.
He rode around a bend in the road.
Good counsel.
How did he know that Loyal of Nilliam wasn’t lying? Deceit was the essence of the Devourers.
Certainty fled him. What was he doing? How could Argoth choose to become the very thing he was fighting against? The very thing Nettle had sacrificed his soul to overcome.
How could he not?
He thought about Serah back at the fort watching over their son. Serah, good even-keeled Serah.
Serah.
How different would things be now, if he’d counseled with her about Nettle? Why should he not honor her request and share his secrets? When had she ever proved herself anything but wise?
If this course was sound, she would see it. She might not like it, but if it was right, Serah would drink this bitter cup with him. Furthermore, she would be able to help him convince Shim and Matiga.
Argoth reined Midnight in. He looked out at the plumes of smoke and back at Cold Fort, then turned Midnight around.
* * *
He found Serah still at Nettle’s side, wiping his mouth, singing a soft lullaby that Nettle probably could not hear.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, referring to Nettle.
“That’s up to you.”
She looked at him, confused.
“I have some things you need to know,” he said. Then he sat down beside her and told her everything about his meetings with Loyal of Nilliam, about Sugar’s views into the world of soul, and the report about the Skir Master. She listened the whole time, her finger stroking Nettle’s hair back behind his ear.
When he finished, she said, “I’m not a warlord.”
“This is not a decision of tactics,” he said.
“You don’t think we can outlast Mokad through the winter?”
“The odds are vanishingly small. And even if we, through some impossible fortune, do win, that does nothing for Nettle. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to lose him.”
She smiled tenderly. “You don’t have to.”
Argoth was confused.
“You outlined two options: lose Nettle or join with a great wickedness. But there is a third. The root of our problem is that Nettle will be exposed in the world of the souls. But we will not lose him if he’s safe there. What he needs is a companion. A guardian.”
“Sugar has not seen any ancestors watching over us.”
“I’m not suggesting we rely on them. When the time comes, husband, Nettle will have someone with him. I will go before him. I will be with him on the other side.”
It took a moment for Argoth to realize what she was saying. She would take her own life, releasing her soul to wait for their son. “You can’t do that,” he said.
“I am his mother,” she said as if that explained everything. “Although I do not relish the idea of you raising my daughters.”
“But what do you know of the world of the souls?”
“I took some time to speak with Sugar about the yellow world when she first began to walk. She directed me to the cook in Urban’s camp. The man called Withers. I know about blackspine. There’s a sulfur spring nearby. Withers had other suggestions. I probably know as much about the world of the dead as you.”
She didn’t, but she’d had the clarity to see the one way out of this morass. She’d seen it because she possessed something far more important than the lore. She possessed clarity of heart. His blatant lack of it shamed him. He had never once considered offering himself up. The thought hadn’t even existed in his mind. He had only thought of the sacrifices others would make on his behalf.
It was Nettle who had made the sacrifice before. Now it was Serah. Good, wise Serah.
Argoth said, “Let me go and make the journey with our son. I will do it, now that you have shown me the way.”
“Are you forgetting our daughters?” she asked. “And all the people that depend on you?”
“Never,” he said.
“I want you to win this war,” she said. “I want you to raise the girls to be strong. I believe in yours and Shim’s dream. But I cannot command your men. I cannot face this enemy. You can. You almost killed the Skir Master. You might get another chance. So fight with all the hopes of mankind in your heart. If Nettle fails, I will go with him. And if Shim’s dream dies, then you will need to save our daughters from the harvest. You will need to send them into the world of souls far away from the clutches of Mokad, something I don’t think I could bear to do.”
Tears rose to Argoth’s eyes. He imagined Serenity, Joy, and Grace looking up at him with trus
t as he held the knife. He imagined their little hands and smooth hair.
“Promise me you will not be hasty,” he said. “You will not do this until you know the time is at hand.”
“Do you think I relish the thought?”
“I don’t want fear or despair to steal you from me.”
“Your secrets almost stole everything,” she said.
He looked down. “They have been a poison.”
She lifted his chin. “I didn’t say they did steal. I said they almost stole.”
He looked up into her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, her face shining with grief and love. “Thank you for coming back to me.”
He picked up her chapped hand. The fingernails were clean, but short and chipped. It was the hand of one who worked tirelessly. He brought it to his cheek and kissed it. He had so many memories of him and her in the youth of their marriage, and later with the children, working their land, laughing. And all the times she sat up with him in the candlelight, cleaning the leather of his saddle and bridle for a coming battle. And after making love, he would listen to the sounds of her breathing at his side, listen to the children stirring in their beds, thinking about his preparations for war and wondering how long he would have to smell her hair or touch her brow.
He wondered if it had been an ancestor whispering to him out there on the path, sending a message through some lore, through some bond of blood, turning him from his course, or was it simply his own fool sense finally coming around. He realized it didn’t matter. He thanked the Six he had listened. He would fight. He would find a way. For her, for Nettle, for the girls.
“It took you long enough,” she said. “I almost gave up on you.”
“Some of us are slow learners,” he said.
A knock sounded at the door. Grace went to the door and opened it. Flax stood there. “I think I have some news that you’re going to want to hear. There just might be a way to save some of Shim’s dream.”
Hope sprang into Serah’s face. Argoth was dubious, but he got up and followed Flax outside. When he’d shut the door behind him, Flax said, “I didn’t dare present this to Shim. Eresh, right or wrong, hates me and will fight anything I suggest. So I’d thought I’d come to you first. If you think it has merit, you can take it to the Root.”
Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 Page 16