Book 1 - The Silver spike by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online

was so great they could not remain
still while the old terror passed. He ignored them. The backbone of
resistance had been broken.
    He ignored everything but the fires. Fire he avoided.
    Bowstrings yelped. Arrows zipped into the wicker man as if into
an archery butt. Chunks of willow and bits of stone flew. The
wicker man reeled. But for the woodland warriors he would have
toppled. Breathy rage tore through the head’s tortured
lips.
    Then words came, soft and bitter, chilling the hearts of those
near enough to hear. More arrows ripped the fabric of the night,
battered the wicker man, clipped one of his ears, felled one of the
savages supporting him. He finished speaking.
    Screams tore the shadows fifty yards away. They were terrible
screams. They brought moisture to the eyes of the soldiers who
followed the wicker man.
    Those soldiers stepped over the knotted, twitching, whining
forms of men wearing uniforms exactly like their own, brothers in
arms whose courage had been sufficient to buoy their loyalty. Some
shuddered and averted their eyes. Some took mercy and ended the
torment with quick spear thrusts. Some recognized old comrades
among the fallen and quietly swore to even accounts when sweet
opportunity presented itself.
    The wicker man proved as unstoppable as a natural disaster. He
passed through Oar, trailing death and destruction and accumulating
followers, and came to the city’s South Gate, where Loo and
his sidekick vanished in a flurry of heels. The wicker man extended
a hand, whispered secret words. The gate blasted to flinders and
toothpicks. The wicker man stamped through and halted, staring down
the darkened road.
    The trail had grown confused. That of the prey was overlaid by
other scents equally familiar, tantalizing, and hated. “As
well,” he whispered. “As well. Take them all and have
done.” He sniffed. “Him! And that accursed White Rose.
And the one who thwarted me in Opal. And the wizard who set us
free.” Ruined lips quivered in momentary fear. Yes. Even he
knew the meaning of fear. “Her!”
    The beast called Toadkiller Dog believed that she had lost her
powers. He wanted to believe that himself. That would be a justice
beautiful beyond compare. He needed to believe it. But he dared
not, not entirely, till he saw for himself. Toadkiller Dog operated
from motives not his own. And she was as crafty and treacherous a
being as ever any human had been.
    Moreover, he had tried to disarm her himself, once, and his
failure had reduced him to this.
    Toadkiller Dog bulled through the gateway, shouldering soldiers
aside. Gore dripped off him. For hours he had ravened through the
city, feeding an ancient thirst for blood. He moved on four limbs
now, though one was as artificial as the wicker man’s body.
He, too, peered down the road.
    The forest warriors collapsed, falling asleep where they were.
The wicker man was driven. He showed no inclination to baby his
followers.
    A tottering shaman, on his last legs, tried to speak to the
wicker man, tried to make him understand that unalloyed flesh could
not keep the pace he had set.
    The head turned slightly. The expression that shown through the
ruin was one of contempt. “Keep up or die,” it
whispered. It beckoned men to come lift it onto the back of the
beast. It rode out, insane with a hunger for revenge.
     
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XV
    The folks we was chasing never did much to cover up which way
they was headed. I don’t guess they thought they had any
reason. Anyway, Raven knew where the guy he was chasing was headed.
Some place called Khatovar, all the way down on the southern edge
of the world.
    I knew the guy, Croaker. Him and his Black Company boys did a
job on me at the Barrowland, though they never did me too bad. I
got out alive. So I had mixed feelings about them. They were a hard
bunch. I didn’t feel like I really wanted to catch them.
    The more we rode along, the more Raven dried out and turned back
into the real Raven. And I don’t mean into