Raveler: The Dark God Book 3

by John D. Brown

They entered the far side of the clearing and ran into the trees, and then a white-fletched arrow whispered past and sank into the back of one of the woodikin. He stumbled, regained his gait, then took another arrow.

  They ran deeper into the woods, then Chot shouted something in woodikin, and his warriors ran for the huge trunk of a burned out tree that lay ahead. The warriors sprang over it, then turned to face their attackers. Talen and River did the same.

  The mounted dreadmen were riding through the trees in two groups. One group peeled off to the left. The others came forward a bit, then reined in their horses. Talen counted thirteen of what must be some of Mokad’s best dreadmen. Then there was Nashrud who was part Divine. These fourteen were pitted against Talen, River, and a handful of worn-out woodikin. And where was Harnock?

  Chot hissed at his warriors who fanned out along the trunk of the fallen tree. Talen strung his bow. About him the woodikin stuck arrows in the ground or laid them on the trunk for quick retrieval. Behind them the wasp lord opened the door of the wasp basket and began to murmur to his servants inside.

  The dreadmen in front of Talen had all dismounted. Then Nashrud himself rode through the trees on Scruff, his black and brown dog loping by him on one side, Harnock on the other.

  “Rot them all,” River said. “We need to take him now. We owe him that at the very least.”

  “Chot,” Talen said.

  Chot nodded. “Harnock will slaughter all of us.”

  “We must be quick,” River said. “Do not signal our intent.”

  “It is agreed,” Chot said, then spoke to his warriors who silently nocked arrows.

  Talen and River nocked arrows as well.

  Nashrud turned his mount behind a tree and dismounted, but Harnock stood out in the open, waiting.

  “Now!” River whispered.

  Chot grunted. The warriors, in one fluid movement, raised their bows, drew their arrows. River and Talen drew theirs. They released their shafts in a stutter of humming, snapping strings. The arrows shot across the distance.

  But Harnock saw them and immediately jumped to the side, leaving the arrows to speed past and sink into a tree behind him with a loud thwock. The woodikin nocked, drew, and released another volley. Harnock ran, the arrows missing. Both Talen and River held their second shot and led him. He disappeared behind a tree. Talen released. River released a moment later.

  Harnock emerged from the other side of the tree, and Talen’s shaft would have struck and sank deep into his side, but Harnock batted it away. River’s arrow followed, but he plucked it out of the air, snapped it, and tossed the pieces to the ground.

  Nashrud raised his voice. “My hat goes off to Lumen. I don’t think I’ve seen a better warrior blend. In fact, I know of very few warrior blends that survive more than a couple of months. But it’s not in the nature of a blend to be free. It needs control and guidance. Even the great ones need this, which is why our grand chase is now at an end. Come out, Holy One, and we will spare the others.”

  “You lie,” said Talen.

  “No, Holy One. They will live.”

  “As thralls,” Talen said. “Which is no life worth its Days.”

  “You’re wrong,” Nashrud said. “It is worse to be meat.”

  “The word of a Divine means nothing to me,” Talen said.

  “You’re coming into your powers,” said Nashrud. “You need help or you will become a threat to everyone around you.”

  “You will never take him,” River said.

  “We will,” said Nashrud. “One way or the other. Just as we will have Shim and all those making their silly defense. Mokad’s mighty army is already on your shores. By tomorrow or the next day, Shim’s soldiers will be food for the frights and crows.”

  “Shim will be ready for you,” said Talen.

  “No,” said Nashrud. “He will not. There’s a Guardian with him, right in the heart of his army. There has been for some time now. All of their careful preparations will fail. They will fall as so many have before. In fact, I suspect the battle will be over in mere minutes. Your friends will be slaughtered and thrown to the dogs. And so you have no path besides the one you were ordained to. And it is such a very bright road.”

  Talen turned to River. “We’re going to kill Nashrud. That’s how we’ll free Harnock.”

  “How?” River asked.

  Talen sent his roamlings out into the yellow world, up above the burned out trees to see better. A number of orange skir were flying high a mile or so back. He said, “We can take away the dreadmen’s power. I’ll ravel their weaves. You and the others attack. And suddenly thirteen dreadmen turn to nine, then five, then one, and then it’s us and the wasps against one Divine and a handful of normal, unmultiplied men. We can kill him. We can free our friend.”

  “You’re sure you can ravel their weaves?” asked River.

  “No,” said Talen. “But what other choice do we have?”

  “None.”

  “We’ve got act quickly,” Talen said. “Before that army of woodikin or any orange skir show up.”

  River turned to Chot, “Did you hear?”

  Chot bared his teeth. “The scrawny skinman is not what he seems.”

  “Come now, Holy One,” Nashrud called out. “This is your last chance.”

  Talen ignored him and looked about with his roamlings. Three dreadmen had skirted around and were trying to sneak up on their flank. He turned to Chot. “Three skinmen are coming that way. Send half of your warriors. Keep the rest here to shoot at the ones in front.”

  Chot passed the word down. Four woodikin crouched and headed toward the dreadmen.

  “I’ll give the signal,” Talen said. He closed the eyes of his flesh to make it easier to concentrate, then quickly sent one roamling aloft to watch the skies and sent the rest to deal with the three dreadmen trying to flank them. He swam up to the dreadmen and quickly found their weaves. They were tight and beautiful. The soul and Fire burned within. He found the mouth of the first weave and bit in.

  The dreadman cried out in shock.

  Talen bit deeper into the weave, ripped, and suddenly a spray of Fire and soul shot past him.

  He turned to the weaves of the other two dreadmen with his roamlings.

  “Now!” Talen said and bit and tore.

  The four woodikin charged, racing through the trees. Two paused to release arrows. Two others ran forward. The dreadmen, alarmed at the attack on their weaves, weren’t ready. The woodikin arrows sank into one of the men. Another dreadman took a defensive stance with his sword, but two woodikin evaded his swing with violent speed and bore him to the ground. The other woodikin flew at the final dreadman. They were brutal and quick, and a moment later the woodikin hooted in victory.

  “Three are down,” Talen said. “Ten more to go.” And then Nashrud would be on his own. Talen’s roamlings rose and raced through the trees to the other dreadmen.

  “Chot,” he said. “All of you must attack the ones in front.” Talen turned to River. “Go for Nashrud.”

  And then his roamlings were in among the dreadmen. He wrapped himself around three of their weaves, bit, tore. The dreadmen yelled in dismay.

  That’s right. You didn’t expect me. Surprise. He entered another weave, tore.

  But as he did, pain shot through one of the roamlings. Talen flinched back, wildly looking around for an orange skir. But there were no orange skir. There was only Nashrud. He slashed at Talen with a black blade, but Talen dodged and pulled his wounded roamling back.

  “He’s got a spirit blade!” Talen hissed. “Go now! Distract him.”

  How Nashrud could see in the yellow world, Talen did not know. But Nashrud came after him again.

  Talen sped his roamling behind a tree.

  Nashrud followed.

  Chot rose, hooted, and then he and his warriors spran
g over the log and charged the dreadmen. River followed. The wasp lord moved forward as well.

  With his two free roamlings, Talen fell upon the weaves of another pair of dreadmen, biting and tearing. Fire and soul sprayed about him. He swallowed a portion of it. It was almost impossible not to. It was like trying not to drink water while swimming.

  And then seven weaves were raveled or damaged. Five more to go.

  Nashrud turned to attack Talen’s other roamlings, but then the woodikin were coming, and he and his men turned to face them.

  Talen tore into another pair of weaves, but then his back prickled. Someone was behind him. He spun around.

  Harnock stood there, a feral look in his eyes.

  “We tried to kill you,” Talen said.

  “You didn’t try hard enough, Hogan’s son.”

  Talen drew his knife, lunged.

  Harnock easily caught his wrist. He crushed the spot just up from the wrist with his large thumb and forefinger. Pain shot up Talen’s arm, and he dropped the knife.

  “It is at an end, Holy One,” Harnock said and pulled a king’s collar from the pouch at his waist.

  “No,” Talen said. He pulled his roamlings away from the dreadmen and sped them toward Harnock.

  Harnock grabbed both his hands in one of his and shoved Talen up against the trunk of the tree to hold him in place.

  Talen’s panic rose.

  Harnock hesitated, seemed to struggle with himself, but then the moment passed, and he brought the collar up. Talen’s roamlings rushed back through the trees, then they were over the log, and he used them to fall upon the collar. The collar’s weave was different. He searched along the intricate pattern with the three roamlings, frantically looking for a mouth, a weakness, anything.

  Harnock whipped the collar around Talen’s neck.

  Suddenly Talen found a snag. It was small, tight, but not too small for the roamling. He forced his way in. Bit. Wrenched.

  Harnock brought together the two ends.

  The collar weave tore. Fire shot forth.

  Harnock snapped the collar clasp shut.

  Talen felt a stab, a presence inside, felt the collar taking control as it had before. Then he turned on the presence, the living soul inside the collar that quickened it, and attacked. The soul tried to flee, but Talen caught it and bit. Pleasure washed through him. It was delicious, like cold, sweet well water on a parched mouth and tongue. Like succulent meat, roasted and dripping with juices on new bread.

  His second roamling joined the first. And then the third. The pleasure of devouring washed through him again. He would have consumed it all, but the presence tore away. A great spray of Fire and soul shot forth, and the collar stilled, turned to mere metal. But Talen wasn’t thinking of that. He was reveling in the taste of soul. Regret’s rotted eyes, but it was wonderful!

  Talen flared his Fire. Vigor shot into his limbs, and he wrenched free of Harnock’s grasp, but Harnock caught him by the arm and spun him around.

  “There’s more than one way to do this, Holy One,” Harnock growled. He batted Talen’s head, knocking him dizzy, then picked him up and threw him over his shoulder.

  Talen suddenly realized how exposed he’d been. Nashrud and the dreadmen were retreating, swatting at wasps; the others, including the wasp lord, were pursuing. But the dreadmen weren’t running at full speed. Nor were they attacking with all their might. He’d seen dreadmen fight. They were holding back.

  They’d wanted him alone. Wanted him to expose himself so Harnock could catch him. They’d known if they’d come with overwhelming force, he would have simply killed himself. And so they came feigning weakness. It had all been a ruse.

  Talen tried to struggle free, but Harnock’s arms were like bands of iron. “Harnock!” he shouted and beat on his back.

  But Harnock only ran at an angle away from the fighting. With his roamlings, Talen could see clearly that the dreadmen were leading Chot and the others away from him, back toward the advancing army.

  He could see the plan—Harnock would carry him away, and when he was out of the reach of the others, Nashrud would pull his dreadmen out of the fight completely. The Orange Slayers would come in with their greater numbers, and the little troop would be decimated.

  “It’s a trap!” Talen shouted. “A trap!” His shout echoed among the dead trees.

  “It is too late, Holy One,” said Harnock. “Too late for both of us.”

  No! It couldn’t be.

  Talen searched Harnock for a weave, for a collar, a thrall. But he had none. How was he linked?

  He thought furiously. There had to be a way. Thralls, like any weave, were alive. They grew into you, Harnock had said.

  Talen’s mind fixated on that that—thralls grew into the victim.

  Yes! Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The thrall grew into the person. That meant the weave was in the flesh. The weave was right there on Harnock’s arms! Harnock himself had said that the tattoos were the points of access.

  A thrall in a metal collar or a thrall living in the flesh, shouldn’t it be the same? If he could ravel the one, surely he could ravel the other.

  Talen brought his roamlings to Harnock’s wrists, to the patterns there. He could feel the weave of Harnock’s flesh, but there was another pattern that ran through the flesh—a separate living thing.

  Talen examined the pattern. Tendrils and roots grew from the weave into Harnock. They sank deep into the flesh, but Talen knew they went deeper: they went into his bone, into his very soul. As he examined the pattern, he saw it was different, but not so very different from the thralls on the bats. Not so very different from the thralls Argoth had shown them at Rogum’s Defense. In a moment, he found the way in, but he paused. He’d probably only have one chance to attack, for Harnock knew how to mount a defense and close his doors.

  Talen brought all four roamlings to bear, mustered his courage and struck, pushing his way into Harnock’s flesh, ripping at the thing growing there.

  Harnock gasped, took another stride, and stumbled. “Filth!” he said and flung Talen from him.

  Talen slammed into the ground, the impact knocking the breath out if him, but he continued to follow the thralls, and even though they were intertwined with the flesh, he found the line of the weave he was looking for, bit, and raveled.

  Harnock roared, charged over to Talen, and grabbed him by the throat.

  Talen ripped farther. His roamlings were in a frenzy, biting, raveling, and, Creator’s help him, eating Fire. He felt a presence, went after it, but it retreated deep into the flesh, and Talen could not follow. So he turned back to the bits that remained.

  Harnock’s hold slackened, and Talen twisted out of his grip.

  Then Harnock fell to all fours in pain. “Hogan’s son,” he growled.

  Talen bit, tore, raveled, until he found himself surrounded by nothing but tatters of the thrall. There was more—he could feel it—but he couldn’t reach it. It had grown too deeply, and he could not distinguish it from Harnock’s own self.

  “Hogan’s son,” Harnock growled again.

  “Are you free?” Talen asked.

  “Get your filthy self out of me!” Harnock roared. “Get out!” And he shoved Talen’s roamlings back, expelled them from his body and soul, and slammed his doors shut. Murder burned in Harnock’s eyes.

  Talen backed away.

  Harnock rose to his feet, his face full of fury.

  Talen looked about for his knife. The quickest way to kill himself would be to reach across his neck and slash deeply into the artery there. There would be no stopping that bleeding.

  Harnock was breathing hard. “The master,” he said. The fury in his eyes lessened and was replaced by a mad joy. “Hogan’s son, you yeasty boil. You stinking glorious runt!”

  Talen remembered his knife was back by
the fallen tree trunk. He spotted a sharp, half-burned stick. It would have to do.

  “That whoreson is gone. Gone!”

  “Harnock?” Talen asked.

  Harnock brought his arms up and looked at his wrists. “We are free!”

  Shouts rose from the trees. Harnock turned. Nashrud and the dreadmen were fleeing, running full out.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Harnock said. “Not today. Today is the day Regret finds you.” And then he sprang forth in a flash and growl and raced through the burned trees to cut off Nashrud’s retreat. Harnock was pure power—the sinews and speed of a lion, the wits of a man, and all of it multiplied beyond reason.

  Talen ran back to the trunk to get his weapons, then turned to follow, but Harnock was the wind itself.

  Nashrud mounted Scruff and put his heels into him. Scruff surged forward, but Harnock had the angle on him. He flew through the blasted trees and sprang at him from the side, carrying him off the saddle.

  The two men crashed to the ground and rolled in a cloud of dust. Scruff neighed and trotted a number of steps away.

  A knife flashed in Nashrud’s hand. Then he lunged and plunged the blade into Harnock’s lower back.

  Harnock bellowed, snatched Nashrud by the head, and with a mighty yank, lifted him off his feet. He whipped him up and over his head in an arc, and slammed him down violently on the ground. Then he twisted Nashrud’s head with a sharp jerk into an impossible position, and the Divine’s body went limp.

  Harnock roared, and took Nashrud to the ground. The branches of a fallen tree obscured what Harnock did, but a moment later, when Harnock hurled the Divine’s severed head to the side, it was clear what had happened. Then Harnock rose, bloody knife in hand, to face the remaining dreadmen.

  The severed head was gruesome, but it was said that decapitation was the only way to ensure some Divines stayed dead. Talen realized he’d stopped running to watch the spectacle. He began to run again, knowing that despite Harnock’s power, he’d been stabbed, and he’d need help.

  With his roamlings, Talen looked for the orange skir. Half a dozen flew above the tanglewood clearing. Below them, the soul of Nashrud rose, bright and shining, from his body. He looked up, saw the skir, and fled into the trees.