And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (12 page)

He walked on, thinkin’ on the little gray feller. Did he have any o’ the magic left he’d used to make himself appear the same as Rilum? Enough to save himself? Horace didn’t know, but he thought if they took him farther away from the Green, it’d make Thorn weaker and weaker, maybe even kill him.

He didn’t want that happenin’.

While he were walkin’ and thinkin’, the beach’s grains o’ sand grew to pebbles, then rocks. By the time the sun’d dropped halfway from its peak toward the sea, the rocks’d become the size o’ fists, makin’ the footin’ precarious and slowin’ Horace. He pulled himself from thoughts and regret to take care o’ his footin’ and noticed there weren’t no driftwood scattered along the shore, but somethin’ else instead.

Bones.

He crept up on the closest pile o’ bones as if it might jump up and run if he made too much noise. They didn’t, o’ course, and when Horace stood o’er them, he recognized they’d belonged to a fish ‘bout the length o’ his forearm. Its ribs was translucent and pointy, achin’ to find their way into some unsuspectin’ diner’s throat, and the shape o’ its head were like no fish Horace’d ever seen. Besides its odd noggin, he counted too many fins, though not a speck o’ scales or flesh were left stuck to none o’ them, fins and bones alike.

Horace scratched his stubbled cheek and tilted his head to glare toward the sea.

“What’re you up to?”

His words died in the warm, late-day air, swallowed by the wash of surf rolling onto the shore. He narrowed his eyes, suspectin’ even the sound comin’ from the treacherous ocean might be a lie, then returned his gaze to the bones what used to be a swimmer. His stomach gurgled.

“Too bad the birds already got you,” he said. “You might’ve been tasty.”

Saliva washed across his tongue at the thought what made his belly clench and churn. Fish and all the sea’s bounty scored low amongst Horace Seaman’s favorite foods, despite how much he’d eaten during those seasons with his feet on one deck or another. To him, the flavor o’ the briny deep clung to ev’ry bite—a flavor he didn’t enjoy havin’ on his tongue.

Horace left the bony fish behind, concentratin’ on where he needed to place his boots and tryin’ to forget the complainin’ in his belly.

***

The collections o’ bones got more frequent and the creatures what they’d belonged to grew larger as Horace continued his journey toward sunset.

He passed a big fish what might’ve been one o’ them ones what liked to race alongside the ships. The ol’ sailor’d always liked watchin’ them, usin’ them to distract him from starin’ out o’er the water with nothin’ much to see. He enjoyed the way they swam and the grace and ease with which they leaped outta the water.

Farther along, he found what must’ve been a seal, because it certainly weren’t no fish. Sharp little teeth lined the jaw in its sun-bleached skull but, same as ev’ry other skeleton he passed, not the smallest scrap o’ flesh clung to it.

Horace thought it strange the carrion eaters had done such a good job o’ pickin’ clean the bones when he’d seen not a single livin’ creature since he floated across the veil. No birds, no fish, not so much as a crab.

If there ain’t nothin’ livin’ ‘round, what be eatin’ the dead?

The ol’ sailor added the question to the myriad o’ others floatin’ in his brain search’ for answers and findin’ none. The biggest of them all were how he’d crossed the wall the one way, but couldn’t go back the other. It bubbled to the surface again, stoppin’ him in his tracks.

“I were in the water,” he said aloud, gaze starin’ straight ahead at the sunlight beginnin’ to glint a shade o’ pink upon the water. “I were in the water when I crossed, but my feet was on the ground when I tried to go back.”

Horace spun ‘round, fist-sized rocks grating under his foot. The shore stretched away behind him, bleached bones shining in the late day sun, but his eyes found no green shimmerin’ wall.

“Fuck me dead,” he whispered. “The answer were right there and I left it behind.”

He took one step toward where his journey’d started, but stopped. The shadow stretchin’ out in front o’ him and the pink shine upon the sea made it plain he didn’t have time to get back before night claimed the beach. The footin’ were too treacherous to walk the shore in the dark.

Horace chewed his bottom lip and squinted, doin’ his best to see the emerald veil, but it were invisible to him now; he’d come too far.

“Far enough if I go back and I’m wrong, I’ll be dyin’ o’ hunger.”

He peeked o’er his shoulder toward sunset, then along the beach at the distant gatherin’ night.

“Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t.” He lifted his hand and banged his flattened palm against the side o’ his head. “If you keep thinkin’ like Dunal, you might as well lay down and die.”

Once upon a time, Horace Seaman might’ve done exactly that if he found himself lost in the Green. He’d’ve made dirt in his drawers and fallen to the ground curled up in a ball to await death’s tap on the shoulder. But the Horace Seaman who’d’ve done those things hadn’t been spat out by the God o’ the Deep, or killed a swabbie to save his own neck, or had a Small God fall on his head. Things’ll change a man and, though it might’ve taken more to change the ol’ sailor than it’d’ve taken for others, change came nonetheless.

Horace gritted his teeth and faced away from the dark lurkin’ behind sunrise’s horizon, determined to get farther along the shore before night made him stop. An energy he hadn’t had since Thorn’d left him surged through his limbs, urging him on. He thought it might be hope, or courage, but whatever name he put to it, it gave him the strength to keep goin’.

Ten paces later, the ol’ sailor encountered the first o’ a score o’ skeletons what’d once been men. Maybe the idea o’ foldin’ himself into a ball didn’t seem so bad, after all.

XII Stirk—Enin

Stirk crept along the alley, keeping close to the wall to hide in the shadows. At this time of night, there was little danger he’d meet anyone, at least no one sober enough to be a threat or to remember seeing him.

Since even the drunks kept to the wider avenues and avoided the cramped lanes, Stirk decided to approach Enin’s shop from the rear. Doing so would be less chancy than striding up to the front door, but he was unsure how he’d recognize the horse doctor’s when he reached it. Truthfully, the horse doctor might not be here, but here’s where he found himself when he woke, so he had to trust the healer’d be true to his word to show him the path.

The encounter remained fuzzy in his head. He remembered the creature agreeing to help and returning his hand—it resided in a pocket sewn inside the jerkin he wore, its weight bouncing reassuringly against his chest as he walked. Where the jerkin came from or how he’d gotten from the edge of Fishtown to the horse doctor’s in Middleton, he had no recollection and didn’t care to guess. At least he was in one piece—two, really. He snickered to himself.

The alley stank of piss and refuse, same as the one off which he and Bieta had lived. It took a conscious effort to keep his thoughts from the tiny storeroom and the memories it contained. Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand, thinking about wrapping his fingers around Enin’s throat and watching the light of life in his eyes dim and go out.

Another distinct odor added itself to the alley’s stench, and Stirk’s lips twisted into a lopsided smile when he detected it: horse manure. A horse wouldn’t have fit down the cluttered alley, so the scent meant he neared the horse doctor’s shop.

“Yer gonna get what’s comin’ to ya. You’ll pay for what happened to my ma.”

The words rumbled in his throat, half growl, half whisper. For the first time since he’d seen the axe fall across his mother’s neck, Stirk felt a purpose, a reason to live while his mother was dead.

A few more paces farther along the lane, the big man stopped outside a door with two handles allowing the top and bottom portions to open separately. Though he’d never been in the back room of the horse doctor’s shop, he recognized the style from the times Bieta sent him to pilfer the stables. They used the same type of doors for horses’ stalls.

A grin crept across Stirk’s face, but it was short-lived. What should he do next? How should he exact his revenge?

He leaned against the wall outside Enin’s shop, back pressed against it as he considered the possibilities. He had no weapon, no rope, no implements of death. Tiredness flooded him and he sank to the ground.

How do I kill him?

The question rattled around his mind, but the exhaustion leeching through his body kept it from finding purchase. In first his fear, then his focus on seeking vengeance, he’d failed to notice the ache in his muscles, the swirling edge of confusion in his brain.

His chin sagged, bounced on his chest; Stirk jerked his head back, blinking rapidly to fend off the threat of sleep. A movement in the pocket of his jerkin caught his attention, clearing his thoughts. He reached inside, where his fingers brushed against fingers. They moved and Stirk nearly yanked away in surprise, but then remembered. He clutched the severed hand and pulled it out of his pocket.

He held it on his outstretched palm, the fingers flexing, then releasing, flexing and releasing. After observing it for a few moments, he realized its pulsations matched the beat of his heart.

“I’m so glad to have you back,” he whispered.

For an instant, he considered lifting the hand toward his face, pressing the palm against his cheek the way Bieta used to caress him when he hurt himself or felt upset. He didn’t, though; someone might be watching.

Stirk drew a deep breath through parted lips and let it sigh out again. The hand continued following his heartbeat as he wrapped his thumb around it. The fingers folded closer at the touch, reacting to the stroke of the pad of his thumb on the palm.

With another sigh, Stirk raised his stump, touched the severed end against it. Warmth flowed up his arm.

“Wish you was attached,” he murmured, eyelids growing heavy. He concentrated and managed to curl the fingers into a fist, even thinking he sensed the pressure of his nails as they dug in.

His chin drooped again, but this time when it touched his chest, sleep kept it there.

***

Stirk woke with a snort, eyes opening for an instant, then closing tight again when he was surprised by the sun shining in them. Disoriented, he raised his arm to ward it off, his mind reeling as he attempted to discern why he didn’t awaken in the converted storeroom at the back of the tanner’s.

Because Bieta is dead.

The remembrance started a knot in his throat, but a pain in his side interrupted both memory and emotion. Stirk dropped his arm and looked up to find the horse doctor glaring at him, a pitch fork in his hand and his boot having freshly kicked the big man in the hip.

“What are you doing here?” Enin demanded. He didn’t need to sound angry, his expression made it plain, though his eyes held more than a touch of fear, as well.

Stirk tried to speak, but his dry throat gave up nothing more than a croak. He coughed and gave it another go. “Came looking for you.”

His gaze moved away from Enin to the end of his own arm where he hoped to find his hand had reattached itself while he slept. It hadn’t. The tight skin gleamed in the sunlight and anger seeped back into Stirk’s head, forcing sleep out as it took over. He raised his eyes to the horse doctor again.

Enin stared and Stirk realized the gaunt man hadn’t expected to see him again. When he left him at the healer’s, he’d assumed the robed fiend would finish what he’d started when he took Stirk’s hand.

He didn’t. Too bad for you.

His brow furrowed and he pushed himself against the wall, using it to leverage himself to his feet. Despite having the pitch fork to keep him at bay, Enin backed away a step.

“You’ve got to go,” the horse doctor said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Stirk echoed. “You figure I shouldn’t be here ‘cause you thought I’d be dead, like my ma. You though I’d be gone, like my hand.”

He raised his arm, waggled the stump at Enin, who fell back another pace, stepping into the doorway to his shop. Stirk’s heart jumped as he remembered holding the hand against his empty wrist before he’d dozed off.

Where’d it go?

He couldn’t recall returning to its hiding place in his jerkin, but fog still clouded his head. Eyes fixed on the horse doctor, he reached for the pocket, found it spot empty. It must have fallen while he slept but, with a pitchfork aimed at his belly, he didn’t dare take the time to search for it.

Its loss meant one more reason to make Enin pay.

Stirk glowered, bared his teeth, and took one step toward the horse doctor hoping to catch him off guard, to scare him. He didn’t know the man well but he didn’t think he had it in him to kill someone with his own hands—only to set in motion the events leading to their death, like he’d done with Bieta. If he’d misjudged, he’d end up with four holes in his gut and his life leaking out on the ground in a back alley.

He’d estimated correctly; Enin backed through the doorway, sending a half-hearted poke Stirk’s direction, meant to frighten, not to injure.

“You’ll pay for what happened to my ma.”

Not sure how I’ll get past your poker.

Enin shook his head and retreated into the makeshift paddock. The horse Stirk had heard in it the night before was gone and fresh hay lay on the floor. Its scent tickled his nose, gave him the urge to sneeze. He switched to breathing through his mouth hoping to avoid doing so.

“Not my fault.” Enin’s voice quaked.

That’s right, horse doctor. Beg for your life.

“You told the one-armed man about us.”

“No. I tried to keep them from you.”

“Failed pretty badly, didn’t ya?”

He backed away and Stirk followed him inside where it was cooler and dimmer. With the sun behind him, he’d be no more than a silhouette in the doorway to Enin’s eyes—the perfect opportunity to find his way past the tines of the pitchfork. He feigned a step to the right, then jerked back to the left, but Enin kept the barn tool pointed at him, preventing him from getting closer.