Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 Page 15

  * * *

  A few miles later, Talen said, “They’re still gaining on us.”

  Talen and the others were running as fast as they were able. Talen and River were panting. Harnock’s short fur was slick with sweat. But the three lead Orange Slayer woodikin had almost closed the distance between themselves and Chot’s band.

  Talen glanced back again.

  “Ring warriors,” Chot said and bared his teeth.

  “I thought their weaves were dry,” Talen said.

  “Obviously not,” Harnock said.

  The three ring warriors were running only a few hundred yards behind. They were wearing wooden slat armor and bright feathers in a band around their heads. Their faces had been dyed blue. A few hundred yards behind them ran another fifty or so woodikin warriors. Beyond that, Talen didn’t dare look because a good number of orange skir were tracking the woodikin army. Obviously, like crows, they knew troops sooner or later provided food.

  Talen and the others were running in a valley with steep slopes and cliffs on either side. Talen had been looking, but couldn’t see any easy way over them. Ahead, the cliffs narrowed, creating a gap maybe only fifty feet wide. A streambed ran through the gap on one side. Talen’s group splashed across the stream and entered the narrows. The cliffs on either side rose at least a hundred feet above them. But the narrow gap wasn’t very long, and they soon exited it and found hilly terrain on the other side.

  The wasp lord said something in woodikin, and Chot barked orders at his troops. His twenty woodikin began to fan out in a half circle.

  Chot pointed at some rocks and brush up the slope on Talen’s left. “You three will go there. You will shoot with your bows. Go!”

  Talen, River, and Harnock sped up the hill. They found a good area with some flat ground and positioned themselves about five feet apart. Harnock, for the first time since they’d left his home, strung his bow. Talen and River checked the fletchings of their own arrows, making sure they were all tight, then shoved a dozen point-first into the ground; it would be quicker to retrieve them that way than pulling them from the quiver.

  The wasp lord climbed to a spot about three-quarters of the way around the half-circle, opened the little door to his basket, and began calling his wasps out. He motioned to them, as if urging them on, and the wasps rose above him.

  Talen had just finished checking all of his arrows when he heard the ring warriors coming, charging across the stream, their panting and footfalls echoing off the cliff walls. He nocked an arrow.

  Moments later the three woodikin with blue-dyed faces rushed out of the gap. They were moving incredibly fast.

  Talen singled one of the ring warriors out, drew his string, tried to lead the creature, and let his arrow fly. He retrieved another arrow, nocked it, and drew. All about him bows hummed. Twenty arrows poured down at the warriors, but the warriors changed directions or increased their speed, and all the shots missed.

  The Orange Slayers bounded up the hill so quickly Talen didn’t think he was going to be able to get off another shot. Small black bodies dove down at the Orange Slayers’ faces, delaying one long enough for River to sink a shaft into him.

  Talen took aim again, released, missed. He’d never been in a true battle before, and he realized it was making him rush. He tried to calm his breathing and retrieved another arrow.

  A ring warrior bounded up the hill and with a piercing cry fell upon one of the Spiderhawks and skewered him with an iron Mokaddian blade. He turned, leapt to the top of a boulder and sprang at least twenty feet at another one of Chot’s woodikin, bore him to the ground and bit a huge piece out of the side of his neck.

  “Goh,” Talen said. A few moments more, and that ring warrior would have all of Chot’s warriors lying in their own blood. A surge of fear coursed through him.

  Chot yelled and charged the creature.

  The Orange Slayer River had hit chased one of Chot’s woodikin up the slope, caught him, jumped upon his back, and slit his throat. One of the other Spiderhawks shot an arrow into his back.

  The third ring warrior spotted Talen and let out a bloodcurdling cry.

  Talen drew and shot, but the arrow went wide. He tried to calm himself, but his fingers were fumbling. Talen cursed himself, shouted in frustration.

  The ring warrior rushed up the hill past another Spiderhawk, leapt up into the branch of a tree, and then out again, a huge flying leap that brought him more than halfway to Talen’s position.

  Talen was finally able to get his fingers to pick up another arrow. He fumbled it onto the bowstring with his thumb ring. Then he looked up and saw he was too late—the woodikin warrior was almost upon him. Fear washed over him. He dropped his bow and grabbed for his knife.

  Talen’s Fire raged. Rot it all, he was a loreman! He wasn’t going to quail! He drew his knife and readied himself.

  Then Harnock roared and rushed up the slope. The Orange Slayer warrior tried to spring over him to get at Talen, but Harnock jumped, snatched his leg, and hauled him down, slamming him to the rocky ground.

  The warrior yanked himself free and lunged up at Harnock with terrific speed, knocking Harnock back.

  Harnock snarled, threw the woodikin, then pounced after him. The two of them fell down the slope together in a jerking tumble of dust and scattering rocks.

  The warrior was the first up, holding a knife.

  Harnock swung at him, but the warrior dodged and raked Harnock’s face with its claws, drawing blood. Harnock pulled back, and the warrior slashed at Harnock’s belly with his knife.

  Harnock roared and struck the warrior in the face with an open-handed blow, tearing half his jaw away. The warrior staggered back, his jaw hanging from his face, fell to a knee. He tried to stand. Then Harnock snarled and kicked the warrior in the chest so hard it sent him flying back a dozen feet. The warrior hit the ground and did not rise again.

  On the other side of the half circle, one ring warrior stumbled to the ground, his face covered with wasps, his body shot with arrows. Two Spiderhawks fell upon him with knives.

  Chot fought with the last ring warrior. Talen expected Chot to join the other Spiderhawks lying on the ground around the ring warrior, but Chot was quick and powerful and parried the ring warrior’s blows. The two of them locked into a snarling grapple. Then one of the other Spiderhawks flung a hatchet that buried itself in the ring warrior’s back.

  The ring warrior arched in pain and reached for the hatchet. But Chot stabbed the ring warrior just under the arm, driving the blade deep into his chest. The ring warrior cried out. Chot pulled his blade out. Then another Spiderhawk charged and skewered the warrior with his short spear.

  Talen looked around the hillside. Half of Chot’s woodikin lay wounded or dead. He probably would have been with them had Harnock not saved him. Talen also wondered how Chot had survived his encounter.

  A few of the woodikin moved to take the weaves from the dead ring warriors, but shouts rang out by the stream, and two hammer’s worth of Orange Slayer woodikin burst through the gap. But they did not have the speed of the ring warriors and had barely cleared the gap when the wasps began to dive into their midst to sting. The surviving Spiderhawks took aim and released their arrows. Next to Talen, River’s bow sang.

  Talen’s heart was thumping, his mouth dry. Part of him wanted to flee, but he yelled to shout the cowardly part of himself down, drew an arrow, found a target, and released. He shouted, drew another arrow, found another target, released. This time he did not miss. His arrows flew into the woodikin below. He shot another arrow. River and the other woodikin were doing the same, and Talen realized they might just dispatch this group and then be able to run before the full army of woodikin caught up to them.

  Then a small swarm of bats flew through the gap. There were maybe twenty-five or thirty of them. One of the Spiderhawks shouted a warning, but the bats didn’t f
ly at Talen or the woodikin. They darted and swooped, attacking the wasps.

  The wasp lord shouted.

  “Take care of those bats!” Harnock ordered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You raveled the weem,” Harnock said. “Ravel them!”

  Talen froze for a moment—he’d never raveled a bat. He didn’t even know if he could catch one. But maybe he could do it. What other choice was there but to try?

  He sent his roamlings out, found three individual bats, and wrapped himself around them, searching for an opening. But the weaves of the bats were far more complex than those of the weem. They were much tighter, and he couldn’t find anything to tear.

  “Quickly!” Harnock yelled.

  Then Talen found a ring in the back of one bat’s neck. He looked closer and realized he knew what these rings were. Argoth had made him and River study thralls. This wasn’t the exact pattern of those the Grove had back at Rogum’s Defense, but they were uncannily similar. And much simpler than the weave of the bat or the weem.

  He felt along the pattern of the ring. A moment later he found a slight opening and tore. He ripped harder, and a little wisp of Fire shot out of the ring. It filled his senses, but he let it go and focused on ripping the weave even more. Suddenly the bat panicked and flew up and away from the fight below.

  He’d raveled it. Raveled the thrall!

  Talen turned to the other bats. They too had rings. His four roamlings each shot out to another target, bit into their thralls and tore them open. The bats raced away. He fell on four more of the creatures, found their rings, and freed them.

  All about Talen hung the sweet smell of Fire and soul. And he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t devoured some of it. Lords, he thought, then ripped into more of the thralls.

  Chot was shouting something.

  “There are more troops coming,” River said. “We need to move!”

  There were three bats left. Talen fell upon their thralls and released them. When the Fire sprayed out of the last one, he couldn’t help himself and sucked it up.

  Above him, the first orange skir flew over the gap. It made a terrible sound and rushed down to take one of the woodikin souls still struggling out of its flesh. Talen pulled his roamlings back.

  Harnock shoved Talen. “Move, you fool.”

  Talen picked up his pack and began to run, following River, Chot, and the other retreating woodikin.

  On Talen’s right, a group of woodikin high up on the slope hooted and began shooting arrows down at them. They must have traveled around the gap above the cliffs. They were still some distance away, but a glancing cut with a poisoned arrowhead would do as much damage as a square hit.

  Talen and the others raced for the shelter of some trees ahead. Harnock took a slightly different angle toward some huge boulders that lay at the base of the slope, as if he was going to take cover there, then race up the slope to meet the woodikin, but when he reached the boulders, a man in dark clothing shot out from behind one of the boulders and charged Harnock.

  Harnock heard him, turned and snarled.

  It was one of Nashrud’s dreadmen.

  The dreadman flew at Harnock, but Harnock batted his head to the side. Harnock turned to go for the kill, but another dreadman sprang out and lunged. Something long and silver, like a thin chain, flashed in his hand.

  Harnock spun around and knocked the dreadman to the ground, growling, but then his growl was cut short.

  Harnock pulled at something on his arm, something silver. “No!” he roared.

  The second dreadman rose and drew his sword, but Harnock ripped the sword from the man’s grasp and grabbed him by the head. He ran to the boulder with the dreadman and slammed the man’s head into the large rock. Harnock continued to slam it into the rock until it was broken in many places, and then he fell to his knees and clutched at the thing around his arm.

  Talen and River rushed over to him.

  “Sweet gods!” Harnock said in desperation, ripping at the thin chain that had wound itself around his forearm. “I can feel him in my mind!”

  The chain moved, constricted, and Talen knew what it was. He sent his roamlings out and fell upon the weave.

  Harnock struggled to speak. “You don’t have time. The master has the ring.”

  This thrall was different yet again from those in Rogum’s Defense and in the bats. But it was similar enough. He felt along its smooth exterior until he came to the mouth. Then he ripped.

  A presence was there. It attacked him.

  Talen reeled back, then charged in again. He bit into the weave, pulled, and a gush of Fire sprayed out. He gulped and bit it again.

  All about him, the murderous orange skir clacked and fluted. Talen bit once more, then drew his roamlings back. He kneeled next to Harnock and grabbed the weave. Talen was multiplied, and the weakened weave bent easily in his hands. In moments he wrenched it off Harnock’s forearm and sat back.

  Pain shot across Harnock’s face. “Run. You need to run!”

  “We’re not leaving without you,” River said. “Come on!” She grabbed his arm and helped him up.”

  Harnock staggered to his feet.

  An arrow thumped into the ground by River’s foot. The woodikin on the slope above had found an angle that gave them a clear shot.

  “This way!” River said, and the three of them ran to catch up to Chot and the other woodikin. The arrows snicked past them, but a few yards later, they ran into a thin stand of trees that gave them cover and joined up with the wasp lord and Chot’s warriors. The small group raced forward. Behind them in the distance, the woodikin army hooted and barked as they entered the gap.

  “Quickly!” Chot commanded, the Queen’s weave of might flashing gold on his finger. No wonder he had been able to fight that ring warrior.

  They fled the area. Soon the hills gave way to a gentle slope that widened and flattened out into a valley, and they were able to pick up their speed, but Harnock seemed to be struggling. They entered a clearing, and Harnock stumbled to his knees in the dry grass and dirt. He picked himself up and continued to run, but it was clear something was wrong.

  Talen wondered about the dreadmen. They were obviously working with the Orange Slayers, but how had they gotten ahead of Chot’s party? Then it came to him—the crows. They’d seen where Chot and the others were headed and had discovered a shortcut.

  Talen and the others ran a few more minutes and came to a clearing that allowed them to see the valley ahead of them. On this side of the stream the trees were green. On the other side, for miles and miles, the trunks of the trees rose like so many gray and scorched sticks. Here and there some small bit of greenery sprouted from the earth, but most of the ground was barren and dark with ash. A massive forest fire had raged through this valley not many months ago.

  They approached the stream, and Chot’s woodikin began to cross over to the burned land on the other side. Harnock stopped. “We need someone watching our rear. I’ll catch up.”

  “You can’t face the Divine,” River said.

  “I don’t intend to,” said Harnock. At that moment he spasmed and doubled over.

  There was a line of blood along Harnock’s belly. The ring warrior must have gotten him. But the wound wasn’t running, so it must not have been very deep.

  River crouched beside him. “Harnock! Was there poison on that blade?”

  A moment passed. Harnock relaxed and began to breathe again. “It’s not poison,” Harnock said.

  “What is going on?” Talen asked.

  Harnock struggled to speak. “The master feels after the ring. Not much time before the link’s complete.”

  “But I raveled it,” Talen said.

  “He wasn’t growing a new one, Hogan’s son. He was simply picking up the one that was already there.”

  “No,” Talen sa
id.

  River looked devastated. “You’re still your own. We’ll get you back. Matiga will know what to do.”

  “It’s too late,” Harnock said.

  “This can’t be,” she said. “Harnock, we never meant—”

  He waved her off. “Do not take the responsibility for the deeds of wicked men. We don’t have time for long good-byes.” He clenched his teeth in pain.

  “Oh, Harnock,” River said and took his hand.

  “Please,” he said. “I didn’t heal you to lose you to a mob of flea-bitten woodikin. You tell Argoth and the others they are bound. Tell them to murder the whoresons that did this to me.”

  “We can’t leave you,” she said.

  Harnock released her hand and unsheathed his long knife. He looked down at Talen. “Better dead and free than alive and a slave to Mokad. You remember that.”

  Behind them the clamor of the woodikin army rose.

  “Go!” he commanded. “Let me do this in peace.”

  “We will see you in brightness,” River said.

  “Until glory,” he said and planted himself facing the way they had come.

  The sounds of the woodikin pursuing them grew louder.

  “Stupid skinmen,” Chot called after them. “You will come now!”

  River wiped her eye. “You heard him,” she said. “Run!” And she turned and began to lope down toward the stream.

  Talen was in shock. He didn’t want to leave, but what else could they do? The thrall was already grown into Harnock. Obviously, all that had needed to happen was for a master to establish a link to it. And that had been done the first moments the dreadman had whipped the thin chain around his arm.

  Harnock had said the only way to break the thrall was to kill the master. But that was only if the person enthralled wanted to remain alive. Harnock was obviously planning to take the route his friend Amak had taken. He was going to provide his own mercy himself.

  “Watch out for the orange skir on the other side,” Talen said.

  Harnock nodded.

  “We will avenge you,” Talen said.

  “You always talked too much,” Harnock said. He grunted with pain. “Go, Hogan’s son.”