Servant: The Dark God Book One (Volume 1) by John Brown

this many times before. He made another trill and yip and Conroy dashed around the corner of the barn.
    He waited and heard nothing.
    He shook his head. This would go down well in the stories: the mighty hunter stays back and sends his rooster in to deal with the danger. Talen took a deep breath and marched around the barn so he could get a good look down the wall.
    Conroy stood alone, eyeing the woodpile.
    So, it was a rat. Talen walked down to the spot where Conroy was and kicked the wood. He expected to hear a scrabble of tiny claws. What he heard instead was someone running away from the back of the barn.
    Talen’s heart quickened again and he thought that maybe he should back away. But that isn’t what a man would do. He’d been recognized by the Koramite Council and granted a man’s braid to hang from his belt. The Koramites didn’t proclaim their clan or male-rights by elaborate tattoos like the Mokaddians did. One small tattoo was sufficient. Your clan was in your blood. What more did you need? And your male-rights were things you earned or lost by your actions, Talen’s braid, which was only to be worn at formal occasions, was kept in a box with those for Ke and Da. It was a simple leather braid with three silver beads. Other men with greater capacities extended their belts and added discs. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.
    Action, Talen told himself, defines the man. And this man was not going to run back to the meadow—he was going to investigate. He took a bracing breath, then strode to the back of the barn, giving the corner a wide berth just in case something was there.
    Conroy lingered for a moment, eyeing the wood stack, and then trotted after Talen.
    Talen rounded the corner and found nothing. He let out a breath of relief, and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it and watched someone’s back and one of their legs disappear behind the old house.
    His whole body went on alert. He had not imagined someone was here.
    “Sammesh?” he said.
    Sammesh was the ale-sot’s son. Da had caught him once stealing meat from the smoke shed, but instead of putting some fear into the boy, Da told him if he wanted meat, he’d have to bring something to trade. So from that day on, Sammesh slinked in and out of their place with his trade. Sometimes it was fair; other times, it wasn’t. He’d once taken a rope and left a small bowl of blueberries for it. The blueberries had been delicious, but they were not worth half the value of that rope. Talen had told his da that he was only fostering dishonesty—Sammesh needed to be taught a lesson. But Da, referring to the many bruises Sammesh often seemed to have, said he had received far too many of those kinds of lessons already.
    Talen picked up a short cudgel from the woodpile and walked toward the old house.
    “Sammesh! Come out, or I’ll thrash the stumps with you.”
    There was no answer.
    “An honest trader doesn’t skulk.”
    Something scuffled behind the old house. He paused and listened, but all was quiet.
    Something was there.
    Then he realized the back of a figure he’d seen was too small to be that of an adult. Too small for even Sammesh.
    “Who are you?” said Talen. “Come out.”
    Of course, maybe he didn’t want them to come out. He glanced out at the meadow. Ke and River were too far away to be of any help; and if this were a hatchling . . . who knew what it might do? He wished he had his dogs. Then he realized he hadn’t seen them at all for some time. And that was odd. Where were the dogs?
    Talen called for them.
    Moments later Blue appeared from behind the old house, exactly where the skulker had disappeared. Blue wagged his tail and gave a happy bark.
    Conroy made a low sound and hopped a few paces away. Then, with a great deal of noisy flapping, he flew up to the roof of the smoke shed. Despite