Curse: The Dark God Book 2

by John D. Brown

  “And what would I have to talk about with a man of Nilliam?” Argoth asked.

  “An offer.”

  “From whom?”

  “From the Glory herself,” the man said.

  The hackles stood up on Argoth’s neck. He glanced about him, looking for others, but couldn’t see anybody else. Argoth’s Fire flowed through him. He raised his sword.

  “I come alone,” the man said. “Why would I want to threaten a potential ally?”

  “Mokad has no love for Nilliam,” said Argoth.

  “Ah, but you’re not of Mokad, are you? No, you are of the Grove, if I’m not mistaken. And such a Grove that it was able to slay a Skir Master that all the lords of Nilliam could not.”

  “You do not know of what you speak,” said Argoth.

  The wind whistled about the barn eaves.

  “But I do. Let us not prevaricate. I am come to offer you, Argoth, root of the Order of Hismayas, the opportunity to rule in power.”

  The man was guessing. He had to be. How could he know Argoth was a root of the Grove? “Lord Shim rules here.”

  “Lord Shim is a distraction. Mokad seeks the fledgling Glory prepared to rule you. But why should you give him to Mokad, who offers you nothing? Deliver him to us. Deliver your kingdom to us, and you shall be made a ruler over it. You shall become one of those consecrated for greater things.”

  Argoth did not know what powers this man had. But he knew he must be careful. “Do they teach the consecrated of Nilliam who really controls the Glories of the earth? Do they teach you that your masters are slaves to Devourers?

  “It is the order of things. I have accepted it. As should you, because when you rebel against creation, you only follow Regret.”

  “Is that the excrement parading about Nilliam as reason?” asked Argoth. He was waiting for the man to attack, but the man held his arms out.

  “You don’t know what’s coming for you,” the man said.

  “I think we have a good idea,” Argoth said. He didn’t drop his guard, but did lower his sword.

  Somewhere in the village a door or shutter came loose and began to bang in the wind.

  “No, you don’t. But I shall endeavor to explain. When Glories fight Glories on behalf of their Sublime—‘Devourers’ is such a vulgar word—they do so with restraint. Our masters have accords with one another, even if they bend at times. But, you see, you fight for no Glory. You are literally a wolf among the sheep. And so the forces which have been gathered against you are not coming to subdue or conquer, but to exterminate.”

  “That’s obvious. Do you think the Grove is made up of babes?”

  “When a wolf comes to a vale, all members of the vale turn out to hunt it, even if some are enemies. If Mokad will not remove you, then all the other Glorydoms will be bound to do so. If you’re lucky, you may win a battle or two against Mokad. But you will not beat the combined might the Sublimes will bring to bear. I give you a way out. Join with Nilliam. When you do, Mokad will have no claim. You’ll be ours then, and their coalition will unravel. Toth and Urz will both stand with Nilliam. Mokad will be forced to retreat. Our Glory is gentle and fair. You will prosper and grow fat.”

  “You sicken me,” said Argoth.

  “I have walked this land. There are sicknesses Divines can heal. Furthermore, the borders your last master established are gone. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Argoth didn’t know what he was referring to.

  “No,” said the man. “I see you haven’t. There are many creatures that would prey upon us—Fire, soul, and flesh. But our sublime masters keep them out. Their servants work on our behalf to keep us safe.”

  Argoth thought of the creature in the river, of the village and the infestation of frights, of the wurms that had broken through the gap.

  “You have no wisterwives. You have nothing to protect you now. The world outside will soon discover your lack of defense. And then you will beg for us to help.”

  “Listen to me,” said Argoth. “We defeated one of your Sublimes down in her cave. We destroyed her monster. We do not fear you or any other goblin you might conjure.” He stepped closer and raised his sword again, holding the point only a few inches from the man’s chest. But the man seemed not to care.

  “It can be a difficult thing for us to contemplate man’s position in the world. But perhaps the choice will be clearer if I bring it closer to home. Join us and you will not only spare many in this land, but you will be able to repair the damage you did to your own son.”

  Nettle? How did he know about that?

  “I don’t ask you to make a decision now,” said the man. “Just think on it. In the end you will see it’s wisdom’s path.”

  The man took a step back.

  Argoth did not follow.

  The man took another step back. A moment later a huge gust of wind banged into the buildings behind Argoth. The wind howled down between the barn and the house and slammed into Argoth, knocking him a step forward. Wet leaves and debris pelted him, forcing him to squint.

  And then he felt the wind go through him. Felt a chill along his bones. A chill he’d felt once before out on the Skir Master’s ship. Argoth gasped for breath.

  And then the wind moved off. Argoth tensed for an attack, but the lord of Nilliam was gone.

  19

  Nettle

  ALL THE WAY BACK to the fortress the wind blew. The ragged clouds rushed across the night sky, obscuring the moon and then letting it shine again. And Argoth pondered what had just happened next to the tavern owner’s barn.

  All that rubbish about the order of the creation! The Creators had endowed men with brains and the will to use them. Men were not grass to be sown and harvested as others saw fit. That lord, with all his smiles and confidence, was a coward who had traded his freedom for a snug spot in a sheep’s fold.

  The perils he talked about—they were nothing more than the burden of freedom. And if the Devourers could contend with these dangers, then so could humans.

  Argoth crossed over the bridge spanning the creek in front of the fortress, his horse’s hooves sounding on the timbers. How did Nilliam know who he was? How did they know about Talen?

  Mokad would have known about Argoth’s role in the Grove because Argoth had been, if only briefly, a thrall to one of its Divines. As a thrall, Mokad had been able to force him to reveal many secrets. But the Skir Master that had held his bond had been destroyed, and the bond of the thrall had gone with it. Moreover, that bond had been destroyed before they’d fought the Devourer in the caves, so how could anyone but those who had been in the cave know about Talen’s part in that final battle?

  Perhaps this was evidence that the thrall had not been completely broken when the Skir Master died. When Argoth’s thrall had been quickened, a door opened in his mind that connected him to the Skir Master. Then another door had opened connecting the Skir Master to the Glory of Mokad. And then yet a third door had opened connecting the Glory to a Sublime—no, he wouldn’t use that word—to a Devourer whose beauty still smote his heart.

  Perhaps the link to the Skir Master had died, and the bulk of the power of the thrall had died with him. But was it possible the link with the Glory and Devourer still remained?

  He had felt a ghost of that connection in the hours and days after he’d been freed. It had faded. He hadn’t felt any of it these last weeks. Surely, their connection to him was now gone. Still he wondered: was he a source of information for the enemy? Were they spying upon Shim’s fledgling army through him?

  He cursed. The things the Grove did not know!

  Then another idea occurred to him. If Nilliam had made contact with him, had they attempted to make contact with any of the other leaders? In fact, any of the candidates would be good targets. If he were in Nilliam’s shoes, he wouldn’t target just one person.

  Argoth rode th
rough the field and now approached the gate in the outer wall. He called up to the men there who opened for him.

  It made sense that if the Devourers had their own society, they would communicate with each other. And why not? They probably also had their hierarchies and territories and disputes, their alliances and antagonists. In fact, wasn’t this ploy by Nilliam evidence of such an antagonism between two masters?

  Argoth thought it was. Which meant there was a whole world of power and politics that none but the Divines even knew existed. He corrected himself—none but the Divines and now the Order of Hismayas. No wonder the glorydoms were coming to exterminate them.

  And with that thought of extermination, Argoth understood something of the history of Hismayas that he hadn’t before. Hismayas had once been a Divine. But he’d rebelled and taught the people of his vale the secrets of the lore. And for that crime all the Divines who could be called from all the surrounding glorydoms, both friend and foe, came to the vale of Hismayas. They and their armies camped about it. And when all had gathered, they entered his vale and slaughtered all his people. Hismayas they took and tortured upon a stone for a full year. Then they sacrificed his soul.

  Now Argoth knew why the Divines had reacted the way they had to Hismayas. He and his people threatened the whole community of Devourers. If people really knew and believed the truth, mankind would rise up in rebellion. These accords the lord of Nilliam spoke of probably defined how they would face a common threat.

  Luckily, Hismayas had sent a seed into the wilderness to preserve the secrets long before the Divines and their armies were mustered. A seed that had, over the ages, grown into the Groves. The problem was that this was a very old war they were waging. So old that the Groves had forgotten who the real enemy was.

  As Argoth rode up to the inner gate fortress, he thought of the Book and Crown of Hismayas that Harnock kept in his fastness beyond the borders of the New Lands. None had been able to open that book and live. Many had tried. All had failed to be found worthy. But now, more than ever, they needed the power that would come with the secrets kept there. If they were going to face the glorydoms of the earth, they would not be able to stand with an army of a few hundred dreadmen. Maybe River was right. As soon as the current crisis was over, he would send her to Harnock once more.

  Argoth thought about these things as he dismounted and gave his horse to the stable hand. He thought about them as he walked back to his quarters where his wife and children slept. He lit a lamp and went to the room where Nettle, his son, usually lay.

  Argoth found the bed empty. He held the lamp higher and saw Nettle huddled in a corner asleep, lying with his bare legs on the cold floor. A blanket lay on the floor next to him. Argoth set the lamp on a table and went to his son. He felt Nettle’s legs and hands; they were ice cold.

  Nettle had a slight beard. Not the scratchy whiskers of a man, but of youth. Nevertheless, he was a man. He’d received his man’s tattoo and had almost immediately made a man’s choice, choosing to sacrifice his Fire so Argoth could fight the Skir Master. He’d chosen knowing that Argoth would have to take that Fire, and by so doing would also take part of his soul.He’d chosen, knowing he’d never be the same again.

  Except as every day passed and Argoth saw more and more clearly what he’d done to his son, that reasoning became more and more brittle. Even if Nettle were technically a man, youth was impetuous and rash. Youth didn’t understand the consequences even when they were explained to them. Had Nettle really chosen when his mind was still full of a boy’s idea of valor?

  Argoth worked his hands under Nettle’s knees and carried him back to his bed. Then he lay down next to him and pulled the blanket up to warm the boy with his own body heat. Nettle stirred but did not waken. He was almost as tall as Argoth. In stature he was a man, but it was only in stature. When Argoth had taken the Fire, it had taken parts of Nettle’s mind. He was not an imbecile, but he certainly wasn’t full-witted either. This had also affected his coordination, for where he’d once been able to run like a horse, Nettle now moved with a gangly lope.

  My son, Argoth thought, smoothing back Nettle’s hair. My bright boy. The regret at what he’d done to Nettle clenched his heart.

  He found no use in trying to suppress the fact that Nilliam’s offer tempted him. Trying to ignore such things only seemed to make them worse. You had to deal with such thoughts head on, acknowledge them and pin them down. He’d kept the filtering rods through which he’d drawn Nettle’s Fire, rods used specifically to catch soul. He’d kept them hoping beyond hope that lore existed which would allow him to restore the parts of his son he’d torn away.

  He wanted to believe that the lord of Nilliam was speaking the truth. But he also knew a cunning adversary would use just such a hope to turn someone traitor. It was probably a well-spun, half-truth that would only disappoint.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  He wouldn’t make matters worse by sullying Nettle’s gift with perfidy.

  But what if it was true? Perhaps such lore was in the Book of Hismayas.

  To have his son back! To ride with him as they once had, galloping down the road to Stag Home in a pell-mell race, the dust rising from the hooves of their horses. Or listen to him tease his sisters. Or labor in the fields and talk about the men and whether the blight would take their new variety of grape.

  Those and many other bright memories burned in his mind, beckoning. Argoth allowed himself to revel in those dreams as he lay next to his son, trying to warm his limbs. But he knew he could not stay. When Nettle’s hands no longer felt like ice, he rose and tucked the blankets securely about his son. Then he picked up the lamp that had burned low and quietly moved past his sleeping family and out the door.

  * * *

  Argoth found Shim, not in his chambers, but in the armory. His shirt was off, and he was sweating, practicing with his sword in the light of one single candle flame. Upon his upper right arm was a new weave. Shim was all muscle, hard and knotty and scarred. He danced past Argoth in his bare feet, the sword slicing the air, glinting in the small candlelight.

  “So you survived the forcing,” Argoth said.

  “That woman Matiga is a torturer. I think she actually enjoyed watching me writhe.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Jittery,” Shim said and thrust.

  “But you feel strong.”

  “I feel like I’m riding a horse that’s much too big for me and galloping far too fast.”

  Argoth nodded. “Your body, marvelous thing it is, will grow accustomed to its new powers.”

  Shim leapt, but he leapt too far and had to correct himself at the last moment to avoid crashing into a table he’d moved aside. “You realize how dangerous this clumsiness will be until it passes?”

  Argoth nodded. “And I’m afraid that’s not all that has increased our peril.”

  Shim paused. “What? Mokaddian dreadmen aren’t enough?”

  Argoth told Shim then of his meeting with the lord of Nilliam. He told him of the offer for power and the enemy’s accords. He told him everything except for what had been said about Nettle. He didn’t know why he kept that part back, but he told himself it wasn’t a necessary part of the discussion.

  When he finished, Shim said, “The fact that they are making offers suggests to me they are not strong enough to simply come in here and take what they want. They may even fear us.”

  Argoth nodded. “Two Divines have died on these shores.”

  Shim scratched the beard growing under his jaw. “And all this attention on Talen. He’s a good soldier, but fearsome would not be the first word to come to mind when describing him.”

  “The hatchlings of a Mungonese crocodile are not particularly fearsome. And yet they grow up to be horrors.”

  “True,” said Shim.

  “I still say we proceed as planned. We send Talen to a safe pl
ace. Then we break up and increase our reconnaissance. I fear there are more enemy troops here than we realize.”

  “You need to watch yourself as well, since I’m merely a—what was the exact word the lord of Nilliam used?”

  “A distraction.”

  “Yes, a distraction. You thinking of taking my place?”

  “And have to answer to all the wives of the Clans? Never.”

  Shim grinned. “Very wise.”

  * * *

  A few hours later in the darkness of the early morning, Berosus worked with the newly forced candidates on the training field, trying to help settle them into their new powers, for none of them could sleep. The last of the storm clouds had blown away, and the moon shone down on the training bailey bright and clear.

  Argoth’s methods had proved to be effective. Of the candidates they’d forced so far, they’d only broken a handful. Berosus was impressed; these sleth had come up with a number of surprising innovations.

  Next to him, two of the candidates practiced swordplay with wooden wasters. They looked like children, swinging with all their might. “A light touch,” he said to them. “Your range of speed and power has just been extended. Stop going right up to the top. Ease into it.”

  The candidates modified their strokes, but not enough. He moved to another pair, and then another, always keeping close to the road from the inner fortress to the outer gate. A carriage wheeled past. But there was nothing of interest in it. A few minutes later a wagon loaded with two large barrels rolled by. He almost passed over the wagon, but caught a glimpse of the horse’s shoe in the moonlight. The shoe was not open, but completely round. And with large caulkins to boot. You didn’t put that kind of shoe on a draught horse. That was a shoe used for horse sport. And for firesteeds. He looked at the horse again. It was River’s horse!

  He felt for the small escrum in his pocket that held a bit of the soul of the captain of his dreadmen, allowing him to communicate with him over distances. Follow the wagon, he said to the man’s mind.