Shim stood next to Argoth, his bright eyes shining in his leather face. “It crumbles like common dirt,” he said. “As if it were nothing more than a child’s mud doll.”
The men crowded in. One near-sighted lord leaned over close.
One of the lords cursed. “Who can fight dirt?”
None spoke. All knew the answer to that question. But Argoth wondered: Matiga, who kept the weaves of the Grove here, kept an ancient crown which gave its wearer incredible might. The powers it bestowed were not just those of the flesh as were the powers given to dreadmen. It was power from the very earth itself. Victors were what the wearers of such crowns had been called. And, though the records were sparse, it appeared these Victors had put armies to flight. They had toppled fortress walls. Surely, such a one could overcome this beast.
Of course, much had been lost. They knew how to quicken the crown. But could they wield it like those of old? Abilities ran in bloodlines. Some men could multiply themselves. Others who couldn’t might be able to do other things. Hogan and Ke could control some of the crown’s power, but they had been waiting to see what Talen might do. He had not yet been awakened, and so whatever gifts he might have still lay dormant. But he was full of peculiarities. Full of possibilities. It seems all were given some gift, and so there was always much anticipation seeing what gift a new member of the Grove would bring.
The Crab caught Argoth’s gaze. He was not looking at the hand like the other men. He was looking directly at Argoth as if he had something to do with this; as if Argoth was involved with the magic.
The Mithrosh warlord spoke up. “And what of its bones? Are those dirt as well?”
Argoth started to answer, but a clamor arose outside the chamber. The men crowding around the table turned and the doors opened. In walked three dreadmen, the only three with any power left in their weaves. Between them they escorted Hogan as if he were a criminal. About his neck was a King’s Collar.
Argoth’s heart dropped like a stone. Did they know about the Order? He caught Hogan’s gaze, but he could read nothing there.
Shim turned to the dreadmen. “What is the meaning of this?” He did not raise his dry voice, but every face turned to look at him.
The Crab, the red-faced Fir-Noy Territory Lord, raised his hand in a placating gesture. “It is what prudence demands. If he’s innocent, we’ll find that out. If he’s not, it will have prevented us from having to hunt him down. Because, once alerted, I am sure we would not have gotten a second chance.”
Argoth looked at the Council, wondering who was in on this. The Council was made up of a primary and secondary body. The Primary, those who spoke for each clan consisted of the Territory Lord and Warlord for each Clan. It also included three lords of the Koramites. Their faces revealed nothing. Argoth looked at Shim.
Had Shim revealed his secret? Had he been trying to trap him before at the fort?
Shim did not look like a man playing cat and mouse. Argoth knew his lined face. The expression he wore now was the same he wore when preparing for battle.
“You cannot simply collar a man without cause,” Shim said to The Crab. “Unless, of course, this is some ploy to goad us into doing the same to some troublesome relative of your own.”
Some in the room smiled at his joke, but The Crab did not.
“We do have cause,” said The Crab.
Shim folded his arms and waited.
If The Crab and his allies knew Arogth’s secrets and had devised a trap, this would be a good time to spring it. Argoth glanced at the dreadmen to see if they were positioning themselves to overcome him, but they remained by Hogan. Nevertheless, Argoth began to build his Fire.
“The Koramite was there when the creature broke into the tower,” said The Crab. “You yourself say that you were only there for a short time. What are the odds that this beast would show up exactly at that moment?”
“Nonsense,” said Shim. “I ordered Captain Argoth to be there. And the Koramite himself fought the beast. Look at him. The bruising on his neck and face belies your charges.”
“Almost,” said The Crab. “But when Captain Argoth was cast aside and only the Koramite stood in its way, it suddenly fled. Isn’t that odd?”
“That is not what happened,” said Argoth.
The Crab turned on him. “Your devotion to the man’s deceased wife might be clouding your vision.”
Argoth had born all the backbiting when his sister had first decided to marry Hogan. He had told everyone that Hogan had indeed enchanted her—with his wit, his handsome strength, and his good-hearted laugh. He thought that had all been put to rest, but he saw that there would always be people like The Crab who thought it their duty to keep such doubts and rumors alive.
“My vision is crystal clear,” said Arogth. “I was there. You were not. We were outside when it broke into the tower.”
The Crab turned back to the Council. “It had no eyes. The Koramite might have been acting as its guide.”
Argoth had seen something that looked like eyes on the monster, but they might have just been deep pits, all askew and in such an unnatural position. “You assume it needed to see,” said Argoth. “But, if you remember, we found it in the dark. It navigated well enough to elude the cohorts of the fortress. If it could do that, I do not think it needed a guide.”
“We only want to be sure,” said The Crab. “Nobody can speak with any authority about this creature. But even if we could, you are right, the timing of the creature’s appearance is certainly not enough to accuse a man. But there’s more, a pattern, if you will. The Koramite refused a legal search.”
“Legal?” asked Shim. He looked to a Bailiff with the ice-cold eyes. “Did those armsmen apply to you for a token?”
“No,” said the Bailiff. “Nevertheless, I myself conducted a search.”
“And?”
“We found nothing but two youngsters sporting behind a closed door.”
“They were alerted by the first attempt at a search,” said The Crab. “They had a night to remove anything that might compromise them.”
“Oh, come,” said Shim. “Your zeal has exceeded all bounds.”
“And here is the third part of the pattern,” said The Crab. “We just received word that the Koramite’s own son has been seen in the city performing feats only dreadman can.” He turned to the whole Primary then. “And this witnessed by at least five Mokaddians. What’s more telling is that Captain Argoth’s son was with him.”
A murmur arose in the chamber.
What had happened in the city? Argoth hadn’t even known Talen and Nettle were here.
Shim waved his hand, calling for quiet. “Anyone can make up a story. Where is the corroboration?”
“One or two stories,” said The Crab. “I agree, we could discount them. But too many swirl about this man. He was a friend to Sparrow the smith.”
Argoth looked at Hogan, still wearing the token of the Council, obviously a ploy to get him to come in. The Crab and his allies here had maneuvered Shim.
“On that basis then you yourself should wear this collar,” said Shim. “Didn’t you visit Sparrow’s smithy many times? And did you not visit the tower on the night it was struck? A pattern, is it not?”
Argoth could see that Shim’s comments had struck true with some of the Council members.
“We will proceed with the correct protocol,” said Shim. “Let those who accuse Hogan’s son come forth and swear to take upon them the punishments prescribed by law should they be found to bear false witness. If they swear, then we shall proceed. And we shall do it fairly with me or one of the Shoka overseeing the questioning.”
“But we have already applied to a Divine to oversee the questioning,” said The Crab.
Argoth felt he’d been punched in the stomach. This was going from bad to worse.
A murmur arose. A lord of the Vargon spoke. “Mokad has finally sent us aid?”
“No,” said The Crab. “Not just aid. The Glory of Mokad has sent u
s Rubaloth, Lord of the Winds.”
Many of those present stood straighter and looked at each other. Surprise shone on their faces, and then it turned to hope.
There were only a few dozen Divines in the whole realm of Mokad. Unless, of course, the Glory had raised others since Lumen disappeared. Rubaloth, the Skir Master, was the most ancient of them all. He was powerful. Some said as powerful as the Glory himself.
“When did he arrive? We heard no report,” said Shim.
The Crab smiled. “His ship came in the harbor just after the Council convened.”
“By Glory,” a bailiff from one of the outlying vales said, “Why did you keep this good news? Word must be sent. He must come here and see this creature.”
“Word has already been sent,” said The Crab.
Smiles broke out on many faces. On the outside Argoth mimicked those who welcomed the Skir Master, but on the inside he cursed. There was nothing he could do should the Divine agree to seek Hogan. Of course, members of the Grove practiced avoiding a seeking, one of them playing the role of the Seeker, the other the subject. But none of those in this Grove were masters. So their practice sessions, in reality, were like preparing for war by fighting boys.
“Gather your witnesses,” said Shim. “Even Divines are bound by protocol. And when the Divine comes up empty-handed, you, since it seems you are Hogan’s primary accuser, will proclaim his innocence and act as his footstool. The sight of the Fir-Noy lord bowing to a Koramite, perhaps, will be worth it all.”
The Crab’s face revealed the smugness of a man who had just won a battle. He inclined his head, accepting Shim’s burden, but he couldn’t do otherwise. The laws governing the hunting of Sleth were very strict. Heavy consequences were put upon those making accusations to prevent any from bringing casual charges.
Both Argoth’s and Hogan’s life now approached a precipice. If the Divine searched Hogan and uncovered his secrets, they would collar Argoth. The Grove would be exposed. His family would be tortured.
Argoth knew his duty. His duty was to eliminate yet another friend, then run and take the Grove with him.
Hogan looked at him and Argoth knew he was thinking the same thing.
Argoth did not want that burden, even if many lives were at stake. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t be able to kill Hogan here. No, he’d have to contrive his death. More poison or some torture gone awry. Perhaps he’d kill him on the way to the Divine. And then he’d have to face Ke and River and tell them he’d just sacrificed their father for the good of all.
He groaned inside even as he looked at Shim and said, “I will escort Hogan to the tower.” Then he turned to Hogan. “Come, brother.”
Hogan gave him a look, and it was as if Argoth could read his mind. Hogan was a man of duty, but Argoth would not kill him. Not yet. There had to be another way.
Suddenly, the trumpeters outside the building blew a fanfare and a crier announced the arrival of the Divine.
Hogan stiffened.
Argoth tried to move him forward to get out the door before the Divine arrived, but the lords moved to greet the Divine and blocked the way.
Argoth excused himself and skirted around the side. If all else failed, he had surprise on his side—they could fight their way out. But then the doors opened, and he saw that fighting would not be an option.
A crier preceded the Divine’s company. He stood forth and proclaimed Rubaloth, Divine Skir Master, Holy Defender of the Glory of Mokad.
A dozen guards followed the crier into the chamber. Upon their sparkling brass cuirasses was the white lion of Mokad. All of them were dreadmen. Argoth could see it in their walk. He could read it in the tattoos on their forearms and around their lips.
Another dozen dreadmen stood in the hallway. So many—enough to form what the Mokaddians called a terror. Enough to route three cohorts given the right terrain. More than enough to subdue him and Hogan.
The guards took up positions around the square room, facing all the Council members while the Skir Master and his guide walked to the Divine’s throne.
The Crab looked over at Shim and smiled smugly.
The Skir Master was ancient, and, some said, failing, but he did not look feeble in the least. He stood upright and alert in his finely cut clothes. His skin was that of a middle-aged man. His hair was cut short; only his beard and eyebrows that shot out like gray growths of wild grass betrayed his age. He too wore the Mokaddian clan tattoos, but they were from another time—simple, small, and elegant, as were the tattoos of his raising.
The Skir Master surveyed the room. Argoth had seen Skir Masters in Mokad, before he’d made the journey to these lands, but it didn’t help. The Divine’s eyes unnerved him—glass black and glittering with the light from the windows. The path of magic Skir Masters followed did that to them; it blinded them to the world of the flesh.
Except the Skir Master did not walk with the caution of a blind man. At his side stood a massive man. Another dreadman. But he didn’t wear armor as the rest did. This one moved with the languid power of a great cat. He was speed and power waiting to be unleashed. Odd tattoos flared out from his eyes. Argoth guessed this was the Skir Master’s guide, even if he did not hold the Divine’s arm to lead or steady him.
All in the room bowed deeply. Argoth did as well, knowing this Skir Master was just a man, one fiercely hoarding secrets that should belong to everyone, which made him nothing more than a thief and a liar.
But Argoth’s heart quailed nevertheless. If the reports were true, this Skir Master had once summoned a being that had laid waste to an entire city. He was more than 200 years old. He’d had a century more than Argoth to learn and grow in the lore. Argoth glanced up at those glittering black eyes and wondered how he could ever think to challenge such a man.
He waited for the Skir Master to tell them they could stand upright again, but the Divine did not give the command. Instead, he slowly swept the room with his black, snake eyes. Then that black, empty gaze settled on Argoth.
Argoth lowered his gaze. He held that pose, but the silence stretched too long. When he glanced back up, the Skir Master held his glance and then looked away. Or had he been looking at Hogan? And why was he looking at them anyway? What could he see with those eyes?
The Skir Master turned and addressed the Council. “Lords of the Nine Clans, the Glory of Mokad bid me come to announce your burden, for you have sat in your ease, withholding resources from your brethren in the heartland. You’ve been hoarding water, while those about you scorch in the sun and faint. You have stood by and watched as the wolves devoured your neighbor’s flocks. You have joined the enemies of the realm. You have but this one chance to repent and turn back to your heart. Refuse and by my hand on the morrow the Glory of Mokad, the Morning Sun, the Guardian of the Righteous shall rise up and utterly destroy you, starting at the head. And these lands will be given to those who do not turn their backs on the slaughter of their brethren.”
The room stood in stunned silence.
What evil had they committed? It was Mokad that had neglected them, refusing to send a replacement Divine.
“Great One, how have we sinned?” The question came from the Prime Councilor, the one who presided over the Council’s deliberations in a Divine’s absence. “Teach us, we beg, the error of our ways.”
“We received reports last year of a weapon that put your enemies to flight. Yet you did not send it to your brethren who were dying every day by the hands of Nilliam. Twice we sent command to aid us. Twice we were denied.”
This was about the seafire? Argoth had unlocked the secret to a fire that burned on water. He’d seen it used before in battles with the Rajan of the East. They cast it in pots like many other armies cast pots of living snakes or scorpions. In the end the pots of fire were not enough to hold back his army, but they had caused havoc, and Argoth had captured one who knew the lore of its making.
Before the captor died, Argoth learned part of it was firewater distilled from the subs
tance that came out of black springs. But he didn’t know what else had been mixed with it to make it into a semi-liquid. He’d experimented with various mixtures until he mixed it with pitch from pines and terebinth trees and sulfur. He did not recreate their fire pots—he went beyond them, for his substance burned and would not be extinguished except by vinegar, urine, or earth.
And yet even that wasn’t what had turned the Clan’s galleys into fire ships. Fire pots of various kinds were used by all armies. No, Argoth had dreamed one night of a brass tube that hissed and spat fire on the ships of the Bone Faces.
In the morning Argoth had finished the design, then asked Shim’s smiths to forge four brass tubes the length of a man. On one end of each tube was a nozzle fashioned to look like the head of an animal or person with its mouth open wide. Argoth’s favorite was of the beautiful woman looking like she was about to kiss her lover. The other end of the tube was connected to a flexible leather hose, which led to a barrel of seafire. Midway from the tube to the barrel was a pump. A five-man team operating the tube, pump, and barrel could spray a thick stream of the fiery liquid almost sixty yards. More if the wind was at their backs. One tube was placed on each of four ships.
The violent sound and large quantities of brown and yellow smoke was enough to shock any man. But when the Bone Faces saw that it burned on water, clung like tar, and could not be extinguished, they surely must have prayed to their bloody gods for deliverance.
Being able to force the fire out in a stream turned fire into a weapon that, instead of merely harrying an enemy, could turn the course of a battle.
His men had sent five of the raider’s ships to the depths that way, spearing those that survived the flames in the water like so many carp. Then they’d burned the Bone Face secret island port.
His fire, Argoth’s Fire, had saved the Nine Clans last year.
The Prime inclined his head in respect. “Great One, we did not deny your request, but sent, asking the Glory to provide a ship of dreadmen so that we might convey the fire lances. We dared not send them forth only to be lost into the hands of the enemy.”
Servant: The Dark God Book 1 Page 26