Servant of a Dark God by John Brown Page B

doubled, almost tripled, the liveliness with which he ran.
    But then he slowed.
    What was he doing? This wasn’t a time for tricks. All he needed to do was run into the ravine.
    He slowed even further until he ran with the speed of a normal man.
    Varro glanced back over his shoulder, and when he turned back around, Argoth could see from Varro’s expression that something was terribly wrong.
    He wasn’t going to make the ravine. He wasn’t going to make it out of the meadow.
    Argoth rose. “Mount up,” he called. “Mount up!” It was possible the Bone Faces had a dreadman among them. But he wouldn’t be one of those in heavy armor. Dreadmen only wore such when they were sure to be fighting their own kind. In most battles it was speed they desired. Brutal, blinding speed.
    Argoth put away his doubts about sending Nettle to help Hogan with his harvest. This type of battle would have thrown the boy into a situation he was not prepared for. Exactly the type of situation into which he’d put his son, of a different wife and in a different land, so many years ago.
    In one step he mounted his stallion. Then he gave him his heels and was flying down the narrow trail, hugging his steed’s thick neck, dodging branches all the way to the bottom of the ravine.
    By the time Argoth galloped out of the ravine, holding his bow and guiding his horse with his knees, the Bone Faces had surrounded Varro and beat him to the ground. He lay on his face with two men holding him down, but Argoth could not tell if he was still alive.
    The bare-chested man knelt at Varro’s feet, binding them with a rope. The man’s face, from his forehead to the crack of his mouth, had been painted black; from his lower lip down was white.
    Argoth let out his battle cry and guessed if they had a dreadman, it would be the bare-chested one. None of them wore insignia, but that one had the hard-cut look of one who used a weave.
    The Bone Faces turned.
    Argoth stood a little higher in his stirrups and released his first arrow. He immediately took the second from the clutch he held in his bow hand.
    The first arrow would have skewered a normal man. But Bare Chest dodged to the side, and the arrow flew past into the lower leg of the rider behind him, pinning the rider’s leg to his horse.
    The horse reared and screamed.
    A volley of arrows from the thirty behind him buzzed past. Two of the raiders fell to the ground and writhed. More horses screamed and bolted.
    Argoth raised his fist and made the sign for a split attack. There were two ways to deal with dreadmen. Either you smashed their support, or you ignored the support and hoped you got to the dreadman before he could build his Fire. Argoth chose the second. He signaled ten of his men to attack the regular Bone Faces. And he hoped with all his might they were indeed all regulars. Then he broke off with his remaining twenty men.
    The two who had been holding Varro grabbed the reins of their horses and tried to mount. One took an arrow in the back and fell. The other made his saddle.
    The end of the rope which they’d used to bind Varro was tied to the pommel of that saddle. The rider put his heels to his horse and shot away. Varro yanked about and began to drag behind. But, thank the Creators, the man only dragged Varro a few yards before he cut him loose to gain speed.
    Argoth focused on the dreadman. He had not attempted to mount his horse. That, and the fact that none had been able to catch Varro before, meant that his horse had not been multiplied.
    Bare Chest ran through the grass with a wild speed toward the wood. They couldn’t let that happen. With the cover of bush and branches, he’d effectively reduce the odds from one to twenty to one to two or three. And that would be suicide for Argoth’s men.
    Argoth raced his steed, gave him full rein, but he wasn’t catching up to the man. He and his men sent forth another volley of arrows, but within two strides the dreadman stopped, turned, and the