Curse: The Dark God Book 2

by John D. Brown

  The king’s collar prevented him from multiplying his might. And even if he could, he was outnumbered. There was no way he could take this fist of powerful dreadmen in a physical struggle. No way he could outrun them. Lords, there was no way he could even beat his own sister—

  He pulled his thoughts up short. That was not true. His mind raced back to what had happened earlier today in the barn. He’d been able to strike River without touching her. That thought banged around in his mind and came back with renewed force. He’d been able to strike her without touching her. No, that wasn’t right. A part of him had touched her.

  The Devourers wanted him, which meant he obviously must have some ability or power. He’d been bred to be a tool. Whatever had happened in the barn was surely part of that. And if he could figure out what he’d done to River, maybe he could attack these men.

  All this time Talen had been resisting his sense of the Fire and souls around him. Maybe it was time to quit fighting that desire and open his eyes instead. Maybe it was time for the tool to rise up against the master.

  Talen reached out with his senses and tried to remember what he’d done back in the barn. Tried to do it again. But it was like groping in the dark.

  32

  Dreadman’s Camp

  JUST BEFORE THE last bit of daylight totally failed, the Divine ordered his men to make camp in the lee of a ledge close to the top of a ridge still in the Wilds. Since the time he’d left River until now, Talen had struggled to repeat what he’d done in the barn and failed.

  The dreadman Talen rode with helped him off the horse and led him under the cover of the tall ledge. This site was a good one and would provide a shield not only against the wind, but also give them a defensive position against creatures of the Wilds.

  The dreadmen tied up their horses to the trunks of some trees thick with yellow autumn leaves and made a fire. The scarred Divine asked him to strip so they could dry his clothes. Talen complied. There was nothing to be gained by sitting around wet and cold.

  “What is your name?” Talen asked.

  “Nashrud, Holy One.”

  Talen had not heard of any Nashrud, but he supposed the identity of a hunter was best kept secret.

  The Divine searched Talen’s clothes before hanging them by the fire. He found Talen’s governor and weave of might. He looked over their design and pronounced them fair. Then he put them in his pouch. He took Talen’s knife and laid it to the side. When he was satisfied there was nothing else in the clothing, he set them to dry and rummaged through Scruff’s saddlebags.

  “It’s a fine steed,” he said, “even if it is rather ugly.”

  “Ugly and far too good for the likes of you,” Talen said. The scarred Divine said nothing.

  While the clothing dried, the men ate. Talen did not refuse the dreadman biscuits and water they offered him. Nashrud settled himself across the fire from Talen with his own biscuit. He was a fearsome man clearly weathered by much experience. The scar that ran down one side of his face wasn’t his only one.

  “So you’re a Divine,” Talen said.

  “Holy One, I am not one of the lofty ones that rule,” he said. “The title of ‘Divine’ has not been bestowed upon me.”

  Talen pointed at his honors. “And yet you wear the markings.”

  “I am a hunter. A servant. Nothing more.”

  A hunter of criminals and sleth. Talen motioned at the crows. “A hunter that enthralls beasts.”

  The man shrugged as if that were a small matter. “Tomorrow I will put a thrall of the Mother upon you as well. But we will have to first go back to that wurm field and retrieve the weave from my fallen horse.”

  Talen remembered vividly Uncle Argoth’s description of what the thrall had done to his desires. Talen couldn’t allow that to happen to himself.

  The scarred Divine took a drink from his water skin.

  “You are no better than any sleth,” Talen said.

  “I never claimed to be,” Nashrud replied.

  There were eleven men with Nashrud, all of them dreadmen. Three of them took up the first watch in a wide perimeter. Talen finished his meal as the last light of day faded. Above them the clouds blocked out the stars and moon, leaving them in total blackness except for what was made by the small fire. Out in the woods, the wind picked up and whistled over the ledge and through the trees.

  Nashrud checked the lashings about Talen’s ankles and wrists, then lay down. Talen did not sleep. He lay there struggling to figure out what he’d done before, searching his new senses. He could smell the Fire of the men around him. If he concentrated, he could just catch a whiff of the life in the horses. He tried and tried again to split himself. The camp fire died down to glowing embers. The night wore on. The dreadmen changed watch, and those that had stood guard settled into their sleep.

  Talen began to despair. He turned his mind to his other option. There was a forty- or fifty-foot cliff they’d passed coming here. If they took the same trail back tomorrow, he might cast himself off it. He began to plan how to push himself off the horse quickly enough to put himself beyond the dreadman’s reach. He retraced the trail in his mind and identified the best spot. It would be close, but he figured he could reach the cliff.

  His eyes drooped. He relaxed. A moment later part of him slipped, and suddenly the camp and ledge were visible in the muted yellow light of his dream. Except he knew now that this wasn’t a dream. He looked about, saw the horses, the dreadmen sleeping in their bedrolls about the embers of the campfire, the dog lying next to Nashrud. He saw himself staring up into the black night.

  How he could be in two places at the same time was frightening to contemplate. But he pushed the fear down. He could see, and his captors could not. Talen brought his other self down to look at the ropes about his hands. There was no way he was going to wriggle out of those lashings. He’d already tried. He’d also tried gnawing on them, but the sun would be up before he’d chewed hiw way out. So he carefully sat up and moved to the embers of the fire. The dreadmen about him slept on, a couple of them snoring lightly.

  He picked up a twig and used it to pull a big ember away from the others. None of the men stirred, so he crouched low and pressed a part of the rope that bound his hands to the ember and carefully blew on it. The ember glowed; the hemp rope blackened. The heat burned against the skin of his hand. He carefully blew again and pressed the cord against the ember. He blew again, and the cord began to smolder. He kept blowing and pressing, gritting his teeth against the pain, then bringing the sides of his hands up to lick them. A thin trail of smoke rose up from the rope. He continued, his hand scorching, until the cord was burned most of the way through. Then he snatched his hand away to lick the burned part, trying to cool it.

  He picked at the mostly burned rope with his teeth, and in moments it broke. Using his teeth he loosened the rest of the lashings and soon his hands were free. He reached forward to undo the knots at his feet.

  The dreadman that had been sleeping next to him rolled over. “What are you doing?”

  Talen struck him with the part of himself that was outside his body. He didn’t know exactly what he did; it was more a reflex.

  The man flinched back. Talen grabbed the knife from the dreadman’s sheath.

  The dreadman lunged forward, but Talen struck him again with his other self. Then he sawed through the lashings with the sharp knife and kicked his feet free.

  Nashrud sat up. His dog rose to its feet and barked. Talen struck at Nashrud with his other self, then scrambled back, out of the dim glow of the fire’s embers. He stumbled over a bush, then brought his other self back to see where he was going.

  “Stop!” Nashrud commanded. He rose and ran a few steps into the dark, but it was clear Nashrud could not see in the pitch blackness. “Frost,” he said. “Get him.” And the dog raced out into the darkness after Talen.

 
Talen took a number of strides, then struck out with his other self, biting at the weave of the dog’s body. The dog ignored it and raced forward. Talen picked up a big stone and flung it. It glanced off the dog’s head. The animal yelped in pain and veered to the side. Then it shook itself and continued forward.

  Talen struck at it again with his other self, but this time instead of pulling back, he felt for the dog’s weave, examined it. He could smell the dog’s Fire and soul, and then he found what he thought was a gap, a weakness. He pressed in and the dog yelped and bit at its side as if some tick was there. Talen pressed again, and the dog whirled, trying to dislodge him.

  Behind the dog, Nashrud felt his way forward holding up a burning branch to see with. “You’re a danger to yourself, Holy One.”

  Talen backed out of the light.

  “There!” a man shouted.

  Talen turned and ran.

  “Holy One!” Nashrud yelled.

  Talen raced down the hill, but running using the vision of his other self proved tricky, like trying to use your left hand to do only what the right has been trained to do, and he slammed his shoulder into a tree, knocking himself to the ground. He shot to his feet and continued forward, clutching at the pain in his arm.

  Back at the camp, dreadmen were shouting, pulling out torches. Talen continued to run, but taking more care this time. He ran down the slope, then back along the trail the way they’d come. When he was a good distance away, he stopped to send his one part back. Nashrud and his men were far behind, a few of the men holding torches, the rest ready with their weapons, but they were following the dog, which would sniff its way right to him. Talen struck at Frost the dog until he scurried back with a series of yelps. Then Talen chased him all the way back to the campground.

  Then he raced back to his body that was standing in the dark along the trail. River was still out there. He couldn’t multiply because of his collar, but if he was lucky, he’d find her before the other things that lived in these cursed woods did. But he knew he didn’t have much time.

  * * *

  Talen followed the trail, working on getting the hang of seeing with his other self. Every now and again, he’d send his self back. Every time, that rotted dog was following the trail again. He chased the dog back another two times. The third time he chased it off a small ledge into a ravine. Then he focused on getting to River. He couldn’t tell how long it was taking, but he knew it had been too long. He knew that with every minute his chances of saving River grew less and less. He had started to get the hang of moving with his odd vision, even if it still felt wrong, so he increased his speed and raced along the carpet of pine needles.

  He ran up and down the rolls of the hills, the wind gusting through the trees, and entered the piney wood they’d left River in. He raced along the path and finally turned the corner where he’d last seen her, and then thought maybe he’d made another mistake. He ran a bit farther, then stopped. This was the place, but where was she?

  His fear rose, and he scanned the ground with his other self for signs of what happened. In the yellow light, he saw the scuffs and hoof prints from when Nashrud and his men had been here earlier.

  Maybe she’d awakened. But then he came upon markings that looked liked she’d been dragged from the path.

  His heart fell. No, please no.

  He sent his other self forward to follow the tracks and saw her legs a few dozen yards away. Something hairy hunkered over her body. Something else lay dead next to the side. Talen’s panic rose.

  He still had the knife he’d stolen from the dreadman. He was unmultiplied, but sometimes a bluff was all you needed. He pulled his other self back so he could see where he walked, and then he raised his knife and ran forward, yelling with all the battle anger he could muster. He crashed through the brush and spied the beast ahead.

  The creature turned. Talen yelled again and charged. If he was going to die, it was going to be right here. He sent his other self forward and struck at the thing.

  The creature did not flinch. It snarled and with blinding speed rose from River’s body and met Talen’s charge. It batted away Talen’s upraised arm, sending the knife flying into the trees. Then the hairy thing took him by the throat.

  The creature was as tall as a man and stood upright. Its breath stank of rotten meat. It bent its head in close and sniffed about Talen’s chest and face. “Mokaddian filth,” it snarled.

  Talen blinked. The creature had spoken Mokaddian with a Koramite accent. This wasn’t a woodikin. It was far too big for that.

  “Harnock?” Talen asked.

  It squeezed Talen’s throat with iron fingers. One jerk, and it would snap Talen’s neck like a twig.

  “I’m Hogan’s son,” Talen croaked. “I’m part of the Grove.”

  “Lies,” Harnock said. “You reek of the Divines. But your masters won’t have me.” The creature increased the pressure of its grip.

  Talen began to feel dizzy. “No,” he said. But the woods about him began to slide. Then his vision grew dim, and he fell into a tumbling blackness.

  33

  Nightingale

  IT WAS DARK, and Argoth was in his chamber sitting on a bench against the wall, holding Nettle who’d been shaking. Serah lay sleeping on the bed with the girls.

  Argoth and Shim had received Urban’s report earlier, and Blue Towers was indeed preparing itself. The town merchants were stocking up. The dock masters were clearing all the boats and ships from their moorings to make room for others. Up in the fortress, the Fir-Noy commanders were making room in their barracks and in the fields around the fortress for what appeared to be a large host of men. An enormous quantity of grain and other food was being brought in on wagons. All the mills along the river were grinding at full capacity. And probably the most telling of all, Fir-Noy soldiers had been positioned up and down the river and on the docks.

  The plan Shim had come up with was risky. In an hour or so, he and the others would move out and try to get in position at Blue Towers. Ke would lead a small force that included Urban’s crew. Argoth would lead another, Shim the third. Tomorrow they’d know if Loyal was speaking the truth. If he was, they’d engage in a bold attack against the Kains that, if successful, would shake Mokad’s army. A bold attack with a high likelihood of failure.

  On a table next to Argoth lay the nightingale weave Loyal of Nilliam had given him. It was a weave similar to other healing weaves he’d seen. He’d quickened it and used it on himself to see if it was a trap, but had not detected anything ill. He believed Loyal had been telling the truth about its operation.

  Argoth’s leg was going to sleep on the bench, so he shifted Nettle in his lap and rocked slightly back and forth and felt Nettle begin to shake again. His tremors had been coming with greater frequency and intensity. This one built much quicker than the last one. He pulled Nettle close, except this time the shaking didn’t pass. It continued and grew.

  “I’m here, son,” Argoth whispered. “I’m here.”

  Nettle twisted and accidentally struck Argoth in the face.

  Argoth grabbed the arm. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

  But the tremors grew, and Nettle scrunched up his face and began to grunt in pain.

  “It’s okay,” Argoth murmured and rocked on.

  But the spasms built, and then Nettle tensed up and contorted as stiff as a board. He stopped breathing. Argoth waited, waited. Nettle gasped for a small bit of air, couldn’t get it. His eyes were wide with fear.

  Argoth hesitated for a moment, then retrieved the nightingale weave. He quickened it, then pressed it into Nettle’s clenched fist.

  Nettle remained frozen for a few moments more, then suddenly drew in a great gasp of air. He continued panting, gaining his breath.

  Serah rolled over in the bed. “What’s wrong?” She whispered in alarm.

  “Nothing,” Argoth
said. Nettle’s breathing slowed back to normal. He relaxed, clutching the nightingale at his chest.

  “There we go,” Argoth said and smoothed his hair back. In the spasms and twitching Nettle had worked loose of his blanket. Argoth gathered it up and wrapped it around his son.

  The tremors had been coming every thousand counts or so. Argoth sat and waited for the next one, not quite believing the weave had worked. But the next one didn’t come. He waited, counting another thousand, and then another, until Nettle fell into a relaxed sleep.

  Argoth continued to hold Nettle, thinking on Loyal’s words. Sometime later a soft knock came for him to prepare for the mission at Blue Towers. Nettle was still sleeping peacefully, the weave secure in his fist.

  Argoth took the weave and strung it around Nettle’s neck. Then he tucked him into his narrow bed. He looked down at his boy. Tomorrow would tell him much about Loyal and Nilliam and the course of this war.

  34

  Beetle

  BEROSUS WATCHED SHIM’S new dreadmen soldiers don their armor in the light of the lamps and moon. They moved as quietly as they could, but it was hard to mask the chinking of armor and whispers of two hundred men. Nor could they keep the horses quiet as they led them out of the stalls and saddled them. In the smithy two men sat at grindstones sharpening up an axe and a long knife.

  He’d asked a number of the soldiers what their destination and mission was, but none of them knew it. Shim and Argoth were obviously keeping that to themselves until the last moment, probably when they were a number of miles from here, when they were sure it couldn’t be given away. It was a very wise policy.

  But that didn’t mean Berosus couldn’t add two and two together: this mission probably involved the landing of his army on the morrow—it was simply too great a coincidence.

  Eresh quietly moved through the men, inspecting their buckles and deportment, giving them a good word. He crossed over to some men hauling a casket out of the cellar where the seafire was kept and spotted Berosus. He faced him and put his hands on his hips. “You can go,” he said.