Servant of a Dark God by John Brown Page B

that was a desperate if, then maybe they might be able to survive until all but the most patient hunters gave up dreams of a bounty and went back to their normal labors. If she and Legs survived that long, that’s when they would escape.
    “I don’t know,” said Sugar. “Let’s just take this one step at a time. Right now we need to find where they ford this river.”

HATCHLING

    T
    alen still ached from the beating he’d taken at Stag Home. He stood, took off his wide-brimmed straw hat, and wiped his brow. Then he gingerly felt his ribs and looked for Da. Nettle had returned from taking his message to the Creek Widow long ago. But there was still no sign of Da.
    Nettle threw another pitchfork full of dried bracken onto the wagon bed. They still had three windrows of the stuff to haul off the hill. From the time Da left until now, Talen had eyed the woods every chance he got. But after hours of vigilance, and seeing nothing more exciting than three hogs rooting for acorns in the distance, he began to think less of the dangers and more on the promised bounty.
    The reward was a miller’s annual wage. Goh, he could buy a Kish bow for that.
    And why couldn’t a Koramite bring them in?
    Why couldn’t he bring them in?
    Sleth were wily and dangerous. And maybe he’d need help. After all, it was said Sleth had animal strength and could twist your head off as easily as a housewife could twist the head off a chicken.
    Nevertheless, they were, after all, only children. Not full Sleth.
    He and Nettle piled the wagon high with another dozen forkfuls of bracken then took it to the last haystacking site. Prince Conroy, their red rooster, clambered up on top, surveying the world as the wagon moved along.
    They put a thick layer of the long fronds at the base of this last site for the hay they’d use this winter to feed their horse, cattle, and small flock of sheep. A thick bracken base kept a dry layer between the hay and ground. They’d also cut enough for lining bundles of foodstuff, for the rats did not like chewing through it because it made their mouths sore.
    When they’d finished the last stacking site, Nettle said, “I’m hungry.”
    “You’re always hungry,” said Talen. “You stinking Mokaddian garlic-eater.”
    “Koramite goat-lover,” Nettle shot back.
    Talen smiled. This name-calling had been their joke for some time now. And with the possibility of Talen being adopted into Argoth’s clan as a member by privilege but not blood, it took on a new meaning. Of course, Talen had already 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. 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 disks. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless of the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.
    In the meadow, River and Ke turned the rows of cut grass with their hay forks so it could finish drying. A flock of blackbirds followed behind, picking through the grass for a meal.
    “I’ll start on that acre your da wants cleared for the oats next spring,” said Nettle. “You get something to eat.”
    “I thought you were supposed to be riding with your da today anyway, not here eating up all our food.”
    “No, the captain wouldn’t let me come on patrol.” Nettle referred to his father this way when he was dissatisfied with him. “He made some excuse again.”
    Uncle Argoth was responsible for watching a stretch of coastline. “He’s just trying to protect you,” said Talen.
    “I don’t want protection. Half