Raveler: The Dark God Book 3 Page 35

  The creature charged toward him in its horrible three-legged gait. He tried to dart away from it again, but it was too fast and grabbed him by the leg in its massive hand.

  The Mother exulted. He could feel her pleasure. She knew she’d caught him. But then Talen found an exceedingly long seam.

  Stop! The Mother shouted in his mind.

  Talen’s will sagged. If he’d been directly linked to her, he supposed that command would have sunk him to his knees, but the link was weak.

  We’re coming, Talen said. Humankind is coming. Then he took the seam and ripped it wide.

  The presence of the Mother vanished. The monster’s momentum carried it and Talen forward, but its grip lessened, and Talen was able to twist free.

  Soul and Fire shot forth in a huge billow from its body. Talen wanted to eat the souls. The craving nearly overwhelmed him, but he restrained himself and drank the Fire instead.

  The monster’s barnacled body fell to the ground. For one brief second, Talen expected it to rise again. But it did not. It lay there, nothing more than wood and stone and whatever else the Mother had used in its construction.

  Talen searched along the monster’s bones with his roamlings to make sure this thing was dead. When he was satisfied, he pulled his roamlings out and watched the shining souls from the creature scatter to the trees. They did not look all human. Some appeared to be just tatters and bits. He hoped they found peace.

  A weary anger settled upon him. The soul that the Mother had caged inside that twist of earth might have been the best of men, like his father. It might have been the best of women.

  Across the field, Argoth came limping to them, holding his bandaged jaw, his face wrenched up in pain. “By the Six, you’re alive!” He looked at Harnock and River. “How did you kill it?”

  Harnock pointed at Talen. “Ask him. He’s your monster slayer.”

  Uncle Argoth turned to him. “But you never even touched it.”

  “I touched it in the world of souls.”

  Uncle Argoth shook his head in wonder. “You will tell me all later.” Then he noted Chot and the other woodikin. “I see you’ve brought friends. But we do not have time to speak. There are more monsters than the one.”

  A faint moaning rose from the river. “What is that sound?” Harnock asked.

  “The wraith wind,” Argoth said. “Come, we must flee.”

  32

  Wraiths

  SUGAR LAY ON her back on the river stones. A number of souls crowded about her. Beyond them were the cliffs and the yellow and lavender sky.

  Charge knelt by her side. “Sugar, are you injured?”

  “I’ve got to get back to my body,” she said and tried to rise.

  One of the skenning-clad souls knelt down next to Charge. It was a woman, but not Mother.

  “She needs to get back to her flesh,” Charge said.

  “Where’s your body, sweetness?” the woman asked.

  Sugar felt out for it. Opened the eyes of her flesh. “I’m by a copse of trees,” she said. “I can see the fort. Where the wall is smashed by the stone pillar.” Another stab of pain washed through her body and soul. She gasped and felt the line between her soul and body thinning.

  The woman reached out and turned Sugar’s face so she was looking at her. “Who gave you this skenning?” the woman asked.

  The woman wore a skenning with a different weave than Sugar’s. Furthermore, there were colored discs woven into the strands that hung from the sides of her cap. They made Sugar think of the straps that armsmen wore. Surely this was a soul with authority. “Have you seen my mother?” Sugar asked. “Are Purity and Sparrow here with you?”

  The woman’s face shone with a soft light. “I know of no Purity or Sparrow,” she said.

  “They died not three months past.”

  “Our patrols have not found them.”

  “Patrols? You’re here, aren’t you? In the caves in these cliffs. That’s where the dead have taken refuge. That’s why you came to our aid.”

  “Where did you get this weave?” the woman asked again.

  “A friend. One of those that came to join Argoth and Shim.”

  The woman considered her as if trying to make a decision.

  Charge said, “She’s dying. Shouldn’t we get her back?”

  The woman said, “We have exposed our secret, so there is no reason to keep her here now. This one may go back. Let’s get her up!”

  A number of hands grabbed Sugar and raised her.

  “I will watch for Purity and Sparrow,” the woman said. “Now go before it is too late.”

  “To the front of the fort,” Charge shouted. “And watch for those orange whoresons.”

  The men carried Sugar up from the river, through the trees that lined the bank, and onto the battlefield. They moved at a breakneck pace, far faster than they ever could have in the flesh. As they ran, the pain throbbed and reverberated in her soul, and her link to her body continued to thin.

  She was dying, separating. She imagined her body living on for a few days or weeks—nothing but a husk.

  The men rushed past the wall of the fort. There was some shouting as they tried to find the trees, but the next thing she knew, Charge was laying her next to her body.

  Urban and a number of his men were there, guarding her with weapons drawn.

  “The skenning,” the woman said, and Sugar realized she’d come with Charge and the others.

  A number of hands pulled the skenning from Sugar.

  The thinnest of links remained between Sugar’s soul and flesh. Sugar mustered her last bit of strength. Her body seemed almost foreign to her, something separate.

  Charge said, “Fare you well, Sugar, Purity’s daughter.”

  Then the woman gently helped Sugar forward.

  Sugar merged with her flesh, felt the comfort of it close around her, felt the joining and wholeness. It was like sinking into a warm bath, except some of the pain remained. She didn’t have enough strength to say thank you. She simply pulled the final bit of herself in. The last thing she saw of the world of souls was Charge saluting her, his fist over his heart.

  It was said the dead longed for their bodies. At first, she’d imagined it was because of the protection flesh provided. But now she realized it was much more.

  She opened her eyes to the world of the flesh. Above her the arching sky was brilliant blue.

  “Legs,” she said.

  “Gods,” Urban said. “You’re alive!”

  “Where’s Legs?” she repeated.

  “Soddam went after him.”

  “But Mokad’s armies.”

  “Mokad’s a little distracted with the Bone Faces right now. He’ll get through. Now, we’ve got to get to the back of the fort. There’s a blackness. Can you stand?”

  Sugar struggled to rise, pain still throbbing through her, but Urban gathered her up in his arms.

  “Come on,” he said and carried her away from the trees and the blackness and the clangor of battle by the river. When they approached the fort, he set her down, and she found she could stand. Urban took off his helmet and identified himself and the others to the men on the walls. The soldiers called back and waved him on, and Urban and the others made their way through the dead and wounded, through the fires, down into the ditch, and then up the pile of rubble created by the fallen hoodoo. When they crested the top of the pile, Sugar looked back across the battlefield.

  The dark mists had advanced up from the river, leaving only the tops of the trees visible. They had advanced out onto the field and swallowed the wagons at the back of Mokad’s lines and the pennants there. Swallowed the bottom portions of the stone giants. Swallowed the hill where the Skir Master had stood. Swallowed the wagon and cage where Legs had been.

  “No,” she said, despair welling up in her. />
  Then Soddam came running out of the dark mist, a number of gray things clinging to him. In his arms he carried Legs.

  * * *

  Argoth stood upon the wall watching the dark fog move up the river and encroach on the fort.

  Three dogmen and a pack of maulers rushed through the gates. Shim’s men yelled a warning and the thousand or so men that still had to work their way up to the slot canyon turned with their weapons.

  The dogmen stopped. Moments later a fist of Nilliam appeared as well.

  “We surrender ourselves to you!” the fistman of the Nilliamites shouted.

  A number of archers nocked arrows and drew their bows partway.

  “You weren’t prepared to give us any quarter!” a terrorman shouted. “And you will receive none in return.”

  “Hold!” Shim commanded. He was wounded in the arm and bandaged about the head, but he was standing upright. “Remove your arms and armor.”

  The dogman hesitated.

  “Remove them!” Shim commanded. “You are now mine. I may ransom you. I may sell you. But you will do as I say, or I will kill you.”

  The dogmen were notorious for taking slaves in battle. They looked at each other, rumbled something in their tongue at each other, then threw down their weapons and began to shuck their armor.

  “Well Nilliam?” Shim demanded.

  The men looked behind them at the creeping mists, and then the leader said, “We give you our oath.” Then they too threw down their arms and began to remove their armor.

  Behind them, a fat wisp of the dark fog flowed over the ditch outside part of the wall. A few dozen graynesses appeared. They flowed over the crenellations and through the arrow loops into the tower there. A couple dropped down the wall to the courtyard.

  Harnock curled his face in menace.

  The men began to push each other in an effort to get away.

  “Keep your order!” Eresh shouted. “Slow and steady.”

  Argoth motioned to a handful of men who held burning braids of godsweed to stand guard.

  “Stop shoving!” Eresh roared and struck a man with the flat of an axe. “Panic, and the hammermen have orders to cut you down. Slow and steady!”

  “Slow and steady!” another man called.

  The wide queue of men moved into the chamber at the back, up the stairs, and to the slot canyon and the scaffold the Burundians had made.

  Eresh called for the Shimsmen on the walls to leave. They hurried away from the mists that were now curling over the parapets in a number of places. The dogmen and men of Nilliam finished removing their armor and fled from the broken gate where the mists were now creeping in. The half dozen maulers came with them. Two barked at Shimsmen, but the dogmen silenced them.

  Wraiths flowed over the top of the wall closest to the archways.

  A murmur rose through the men still trying to get into the cliff.

  “Steady!” Eresh called. “Steady!”

  “Tell them to remove their weaves,” Argoth said, trying not to move his mouth much.

  Harnock shouted out the order. “Remove your weaves. The wraiths use them to enter!”

  A number of candidates in the crowd removed their weaves as did two of the dogmen.

  “Give me those!” Shim demanded, and the dogmen handed them over.

  The graynesses descended to the courtyard.

  Those with the burning godsweed moved between the men and the wraiths and waved their smoking braids.

  The wraiths that encountered the smoke pulled back. But there wasn’t nearly enough smoke, and others found their way around.

  “Close your doors!” Harnock shouted.

  The men at the back of the crowd trying to get into the gate watched the wraiths grimly. Then one wraith flowed forward, wrapped itself around a man’s leg. Another wrapped itself around another soldier’s neck.

  “Captain Argoth!” the man cried.

  “Steady!” Eresh roared.

  The men moving into the cliff began shouting at the men in front to pick up the pace.

  Another wraith flowed into the crowd. Then another.

  The smokemen tried to wave them back, but there were too many.

  Argoth was at the very back of the crowd, smoking godsweed in hand.

  A man covered with wraiths fell to his knees, shouting in alarm. Then another. Five more fell. More wraiths flowed down the inner walls toward the fleeing defenders.

  Argoth rushed to one man to smoke him. Shim rushed to another. The wraith on the man struck at Shim, but Shim waved his smoking godsweed and kept it back, then he dragged the man toward the entrance of the cliffs.

  Some of the other smokemen began to rush forward to help those being attacked, but a finger of mist blew into the crowd, and the smokemen turned to fight it.

  Something black and winged flashed deeper in the darkness and was gone.

  The mists were now flowing over the walls in many places, but the sun still shone at the back of the cliffs. And the wraiths didn’t seem to like it. One or two might dart out of the mists, but none seemed willing to linger long in the full sun.

  The mist in the courtyard thickened. The men caught in it, thrashed and cried out as dozens of the wraiths attacked them. But the cries soon stopped. Then one of the defenders that had fallen to his hands and knees shook himself and rose unsteadily to his feet. He lumbered forward a few steps as if drunk. His face was drawn and pained. He gained his balance, stumbled again, then loped out of the mists and into the light.

  A cheer rose up for him, but as the man’s gait steadied, he shouted out a blood-curdling cry, drew his sword, and charged at one of the smokemen. The smokeman had barely enough time to drop his godsweed and draw his sword to parry the blow.

  The possessed man’s face was twisted with hate. He swung again, knocked the defender back. Swung again and knocked the defender to the ground. He raised his weapon high for a killing blow, but Shim hurled an axe that hit the man in the face.

  Five more of those that had succumbed rose to their feet.

  “Lord!” one of them cried out, fear and pleading on his face. He fell to one knee, struggling. Then hate replaced his grief, and he snarled.

  “Archers!” Shim shouted.

  A number of men raised their bows.

  Then the possessed shouted their battle cries and ran at the Shimsmen still waiting to enter the cliff.

  The bows hummed. The arrows streaked forth and sank through the mail and padded coats, but the men kept coming. The archers continued to shoot. And the possessed men quickly turned to pin cushions, the shafts sinking deep. Ten paces out, the last of them shuddered and fell to the dust. A few moments later, the wraiths that had held them captive emerged from their bodies.

  “Sweet ancestors,” Shim said in dismay. “How can we fight this?”

  “We can’t,” said Harnock. “Not here. Not today.”

  Then the last of the men moved into the chamber. They were followed by the dogmen, maulers, and Nilliamites. Argoth, Eresh, and a number of Urban’s men held the rear, smoking godsweed in hand.

  Somewhere up above in the passageway, Eresh shouted for men to keep a steady pace.

  The sun still shone brightly on the ground just in front of the entrance to the cliff. Beyond it the mists that towered into the sky turned all to darkness.

  Argoth and the others retreated up the stone stairway and then headed for the door that opened onto the slot canyon. A wraith flowed through one of the windows carved into the cliff face behind Argoth.

  He lit another braid of godsweed and blew on it until it caught fire.

  And then he was backing up through the door into the slot canyon. Through the narrow crack on the face of the cliff he could see the fog moving this way.

  The last of the army worked its way up the canyon and over the scaffold.
When Argoth stood atop the boulders, he heard voices in the chambers of the cliff. He couldn’t tell if they were men possessed or Bone Face warriors, but he didn’t want them following. He ordered the men with him to cut the lashings and pull up as much of the scaffold and ladder as they could. The rest they sent crashing to the ground.

  Then Argoth turned, and with his one good hand and some help, climbed down the other side and followed Shim’s army into the mountains. Far above the tall walls of the slot canyon, the sky shone blue and bright.

  33

  The Harvest

  BEROSUS WOKE TO smoke and fire and mist. He’d lost much blood and passed out, but a wave of pain had brought him back to his senses. He lay in the ditch outside the fort; it was filled with scorched dead men. The pain wracked him, and something was wrong with one eye, but the grace of the Mother was with him. It would take more than a sword to dispatch him.

  He climbed out of the ditch, found a spear to use as support, and stood. The sun shone down in patches through ragged sheets of some unnatural mist that mixed with the seafire smoke. The fort was quiet; there were no Shimsmen on the walls, but out on the field men shouted.

  He’d let his anger get the better of him. He wouldn’t do so a second time. He limped up out of the ditch and gazed at the scene before him. Great numbers of his men lay on the ground. Others stood in disarray.

  A long gray thing floated toward him out of a thin arm of the mist. It wrapped itself about his arm, searching.

  So this was what Argoth had encountered at Fishing. A ragged piece of ravening soul looking for flesh to inhabit. This was a rough and brutal lore, a forced blend that could not last. But it was effective enough.

  The grayness attempted to enter his flesh. He let it in, and when it tried to take control, he killed it.

  He exited the fort, walking past the charred men and fires. He crossed through the thinning mists and found the ground littered with soldiers moaning or catatonic in fear. Even though some of them would eventually withstand the intrusion, most of them would probably die.

  But others were fending off the wraiths with burning brands of godsweed.