Read Online Curse: The Dark God Book 2 by John D. Brown - Free Book Online Page B

priest for a mile, and when he was sure he was beyond the eyes of any of the villagers, he called his dreadmen to join him.
    Some priests were nothing more than menial servants, cleaning the living quarters, keeping records. But some were taught the lore and wielded the vitalities, helping with the sacrifices, working in the forges of the Kains, hunting sleth. No spy or messenger would make a spectacle of himself as this man had. So Mungo hadn’t sent him. Something else was afoot. But he’d find out. He’d find everything out.
    When he succeeded here, the Sublime’s approbation would shine down upon him. She would bless him. She might even put him above the Glory himself. He could almost feel the bliss rising though his bones as he and his men chased the priest down a road and into an abandoned barn that lay in the woods near the beach.
    The distant sound of the surf mixed with a flock of gulls that wheeled and shrieked high above. This barn and house had probably belonged to a fisherman, but that had been some time ago. The roof of both the barn and the small house that went with it sagged with holes. There were no shutters on the house. No door. Someone had hauled them off long ago. Weeds grew up all around the base of the structures and in the yard.
    And yet Berosus smelled the remnants of wood fire. As if someone was hiding out here.
    Movement in the small farmhouse drew his attention. Berosus motioned for one of his men to deal with whoever was there. He assigned two others to search the perimeter for anyone else, and then he turned to the barn. Its old doors were closed.
    “Friend,” he called. “You escaped on the ship, but there are no prying eyes to hold us back here. Come out, and we’ll talk.”
    Something knocked inside the barn.
    “Come,” said Berosus. “Do not try my patience.”
    Berosus had multiplied himself. He’d been multiplied for some time now. There were levels of dreadmen and Divines. Most breeds of men could not progress past the second or third level. There were a few individuals who could multiply themselves to the fifth. But Berosus went beyond even that. He was as different in his breed from those who were meat as a staghound is from a lapdog mutt. As different as a gummy-eyed barn cat is from a lion. There were things that happened when you could multiply at this level. Things beyond strength. For example, he knew exactly where the priest stood, for he could hear his breathing.
    Berosus signaled his men to stay back. Then he walked up to the barn doors and opened both of them wide. The priest stood exactly where Berosus knew he would be, a two-tined pitchfork in his hands. He lunged forward and stabbed Berosus in the gut with it. Berosus let him. If you did not know the bitter, you could never taste the sweet. Pain blossomed inside him, and he savored the sensation.
    The pain would soon pass. His blood would soon clot. The wounds to his bowels would mend. When multiplied at this level, the healing process became miraculous. Yet another sign of the Creators’ favor and his superior breeding.
    “That won’t do,” said Berosus. “It really won’t.”
    The priest pulled the pitchfork out and lunged again. He was fast, but Berosus caught the fork. He wrenched it out of the man’s hands and cast it aside.
    The priest picked up a fishing knife that lay on a table and slashed. But Berosus grabbed the priest’s knife hand, twisted, and broke the man’s wrist.
    The man winced with pain, wrenched his arm free, and stepped back.
    “Who is your master?” Berosus asked and stepped forward. “Who sent you?”
    With his good hand, the priest picked up an old wooden mallet and hurled it at Berosus’s head. He was a strong man, multiplied. The mallet would have smashed a normal man in the face, for none of the lesser breeds would have been quick enough to avoid it. It would have struck a dreadman of the third. But to Berosus it was as if a child were tossing him a ball. He batted the old