Servant of a Dark God by John Brown Page A

I’ve worked it out. All we need is a counterweight and a rope.”
    “Have you forgotten Da’s last words?” asked River. “This is how innocent people get killed.”
    “ Somebody was there,” said Talen.
    “Then we keep our wits about us,” said River, “and our eyes open.”
    “And our knives at the ready,” said Nettle. He looked up at Talen, the turning of his mind showing in his eyes. “This isn’t one of your pig-brained jokes, is it?”
    “No pigs,” said Talen. “And I don’t intend on getting close enough to use a knife. I’m perfectly happy to use my bow.”

    At the far end of the dog warren underneath the sod house Sugar lay still as stone, her back pressed into the dirt wall. She hugged Legs to her chest. Above her head a monstrous yellow spider scuttled along the underside of the floorboards.
    “I think he’s gone,” said Legs. “I can only hear the breeze.”
    She was hungry and thirsty. Her hair was full of dirt and filth. She had taken great comfort in the dogs, but now realized how childish that was.
    “We’re not safe,” she said. “This place is not safe.”

BATTLE

    I
    t was almost midday and Argoth kept himself hidden behind a screen made by an immense rock and a thick clump of blackberry briar. With him on this side of the steep ravine were fifteen of the best fighters the Shoka had. The same number had concealed themselves on the other side of the ravine. All lay in wait, their bows ready.
    The mouth of the ravine opened up onto a wide meadow, deep with brown and dark green grasses. A stream ran through the meadow and out of sight behind a thick grove of river birch on the far end.
    Argoth looked at the group with him, gauging them. There were a few young men here of Nettle’s age. He wondered, should he have brought the boy? Nettle was eager. He was of age. And when he’d demanded to know why he couldn’t come, Argoth had no answer. Nettle was skilled, but he just wasn’t ready.
    A fly landed on Argoth’s lips and he shooed it away. Where was Varro? It was past time. He and his ridiculous, bleach-streaked beard should have ridden into view long ago, leading their quarry into the trap.
    Argoth was just about ready to break position and organize a search when Varro burst from behind the grove of river birch, riding his spotted steed at a full gallop.
    Moments later a dozen riders rounded the same corner, their horses stretched out, racing to catch him. Most of them wore helmets and shaped-leather cuirasses festooned with various furs. One man rode with a mail tunic, another was bare-chested. All had their faces painted white and black. All of them Bone Face rot.
    Varro splashed across the stream, and then he cut through the deep meadow grass, making straight for the steep ravine where Argoth and the rest of the men waited.
    Argoth gave the hand signal to get ready, and his men nocked their arrows. Each man clutched four others in the hand that held their bow.
    Their goal was to kill most of these dung heaps but keep one or two for the Shoka warlord to question. A band of Bone Faces had been sallying forth from this quarter, and it was time to be rid of them and find out if they were on their own or scouts for a far larger raiding party.
    This was going to be like shooting rabbits in a hutch.
    Varro closed half the distance to the ravine, then his horse stumbled and rolled, throwing Varro wide into the tall brown and green meadow grass.
    The horse screamed and struggled to its feet, but it couldn’t stand straight. One of its forelegs was broken. Argoth winced; it must have stepped into the hole of a fox or ground squirrel.
    The horse limped, but Varro was up, running, cutting his way through the tall grass.
    His pursuers gained on him, but not by much. Varro was a dreadman, one of those upon whom the Divines had bestowed a weave of might. He ran with the speed of that weave, flying through the meadow with enormous, quick strides. He was fast to begin with, and his weave