And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (16 page)

The healer remained before him, clutching his arms.

Stirk nodded. “I feel better,” he said and shifted to pull away from the healer’s grasp. The robed man’s hold grew firmer, tighter. “Let me go.”

He became acutely aware of the man’s cool flesh on his perspiration-dampened arms, the sweat on his forehead. The healer’s grasp tightened further until the two bones in Stirk’s forearm rubbed together sending fresh pain along the length of it and into his chest.

“You’re hurtin’ me. Let go!”

He gazed at the healer’s fingers pressing into his skin. Both arms hurt, but the one short a hand was subject to a firmer grip than the other. Stirk pressed his lips together and tried to pull away, but the healer proved too strong for him. Panicking, he had no choice but to watch as the robed man increased his hold further.

He tightened his hold until his fingers sank into Stirk’s flesh then through his arm like a warm knife passing through a chunk of lard.

He opened his mouth to scream before realizing he lacked any pain to scream about. A scent like burning meat wafted to his nostrils, but no smoke rose from the growing wound, no blackness singed its edges. The scream stopped before it began, but Stirk’s lips remained open.

The healer’s fingers passed through flesh, muscle, and bone. In shock at what he saw, Stirk didn’t even bother attempting escape as his handless arm detached at the elbow.

When it was free, the healer stood and fell back a step. Unmoving, Stirk gaped at his limb the healer held in his hands.

“My…my arm,” he sputtered.

“I told you my help carried a cost, did I not?”

The healer opened the front of his robe, revealing a flash of pale skin as he secreted the arm inside its folds and replaced the flap. The presence of Stirk’s detached limb didn’t change the shape or hang of the garment; had he not seen the man place it there, he’d never have guessed its presence.

After a short time, Stirk dragged his gaze away from the robed man and gawked at his shortened arm. It ended with the same stretched-looking flesh, smooth and pink, but with the end far closer to his shoulder than it had been a few moments before. He shifted his eyes to the other limb, the one he still had, and saw the red mark left on his forearm where the healer had held onto him. It looked as if hot steel had touched it. He flexed his fingers, feeling no discomfort as he did.

At least he let me keep my hand.

With the realization, he pushed himself up and climbed to his feet. The pain in his gut, the unease in his bowels, the deep ache in his muscles—all were gone as though caused by the arm and exorcised when the healer removed it.

“Will that be all?”

Stirk raised his eyes to the robed man standing before him and nodded. He thought he should say something. Not thank him; he’d rarely thanked anyone in his life, and this seemed a less appropriate time than any other, what with his arm gone. But the man had come when needed, given him relief from an illness that may have been the death of him. Without a hand at the end of it, what good was a forearm, anyway?

The healer strode toward the cornfield, the hem of his robe brushing the ground without disturbing it. The notion he should say something became overpowering, so Stirk gave in and spoke.

“Wait.”

The healer stopped, quarter-turned toward Stirk. His position suggested he wanted to hear what the man had to say, perhaps even that he already knew.

“Can you help me find the sword master and the other bastard?”

“Of course, but it will cost.”

“I know.”

“Are you willing to pay?”

Stirk hesitated. His fingers found first the smooth skin at the side of his head, then the end of his stump. He rubbed the pink flesh, pondered the healer’s query. How badly did he want to find them and take revenge for his mother’s death?

More than anything.

He thought of her gentle touch, the way she plunged her tongue in and out through the space between her teeth when she was nervous, or when she was thinking, or any time she wasn’t speaking or using her mouth for other things. The woman who gave him life, who kept him alive and cared for him for the turning of every season since. She’d been strict occasionally, harsh even, but she never gave cause to doubt her love for him. His gaze flickered between the healer, the stalks of corn, and his shortened arm.

Do I have something to give the healer as payment?

He took a quick inventory of himself and decided he did.

“I’m willin’.”

“Then follow me and we will find the men you seek.”

The healer strode into the cornfield. Stirk hesitated a moment before following, a sliver of worry creeping into his mind, sending a shiver along his body.

How did it come to this?

He shook his head, dispelling the thought and the doubt, and started after the healer. The setting sun cast long shadows amongst the corn, but he ignored them, staring at the healer’s back as he led the way. The tall stalks blurred and ran together, smearing into something unrecognizable.

“Fuckers killed my ma,” Stirk said as he kept from looking at what went on around him for fear of losing his nerve. “They’ve gotta die.”

XVI Kuneprius—A Small God?

The Small Gods in the sky twinkled and flashed as they stared down at Kuneprius. Despite his utter exhaustion, sleep eluded him, kept away by the very things unbelievers called stars.

He knew better. Stars didn’t judge him for his thoughts and actions the way those Small Gods of old did. To his left shone Ine’vesi, the evenstar, God amongst those who watched from above.

Kuneprius turned his head away, saw the small gray man lying motionless on the ground five arm’s lengths from him. Beyond, the hulking silhouette of the golem stood watch at the edge of the forest, gazing along the dirt track lest someone happen upon their hiding spot. Kuneprius shuddered to think what might happen to anyone unlucky enough to be on the road tonight.

Too many people have died already.

The faces of the children by the creek and of the innkeeper refused to take leave of his thoughts—another reason sleep refused to come to him. Guilt burned in his chest that the lives of these innocents had been ripped away from them because of him, his failure to protect them.

He shifted on the uncomfortable ground—a third cause for his sleeplessness, as if he needed more—and grumbled to himself about the clay man’s refusal to allow him a night at an inn. Truthfully, he hadn’t exactly refused. Kuneprius could have taken a room on his own and left the golem hidden in the forest with Thorn, but he wasn’t comfortable leaving them alone. He doubted he’d be able to stop the giant should he want to hurt their prisoner, but he was certain he couldn’t if he was elsewhere.

All of this added up to his final discomfort. Not only had several sunrises passed with no access to a bowl of fresh, clean water for him to wash away the sins of his past, the tightness of the woman’s blood drying on his cheeks never to be cleansed, but neither had he released his seed in tribute. Though that may have been why he so keenly felt the judging gaze of the Small Gods upon him, concern for the pressure building in his man parts disturbed him more. Not since he became able to produce seed had he gone so long without offering tribute to the gods or, failing to make an offering, satisfied the need later in the day when he was alone with his thoughts of the girl.

His staff stirred and he repositioned himself, rolling onto his side in a way he hoped would discourage it from growing further. This wasn’t the time to relieve the pressure; he’d have to find a place come morning, if the clay man allowed him the opportunity.

Ves will understand. He’ll make time.

Kuneprius looked to the hulking sentinel positioned by the roadside and wondered for the thousandth time if any vestige of his friend remained within, physical or otherwise. He imagined Vesisdenperos trapped inside, held in a dingy cell with soft, gray walls and dull light filtering in from above. He’d have lost weight, as the golem never ate, so Kuneprius saw his cheeks as sunken, eyes bulging, his ribs and collarbone standing out beneath his pale skin. Clay would clog the space under his fingernails, like when he returned after a day of practice, but the glimmer of joy would be absent from his expression.

With a sigh, Kuneprius diverted his gaze from the golem’s’ silhouette. Though it was the will of the Small Gods for Ves to be the sculptor, he felt he’d failed in his duty to protect him and wouldn’t rest until he’d exhausted every possibility to bring his friend back from wherever he was lost.

The small, gray man breathed steadily beside Kuneprius, drawing his attention. Since the day he’d killed the girl to liberate Vesisdenperos, he’d sworn never to take another life. The children and the barkeep he could do nothing to save as he hadn’t realized the golem meant to kill them, but it was different with this creature who called himself Thorn. But the prophecy foretold his fate and it meant Kuneprius would fail at a second vow.

“Where are you taking Thorn?”

The whispered question startled Kuneprius. He hadn’t realized the small man’s eyes were open, watching him. Noticing his attention, he thought the stare might penetrate his soul.

“I cannot speak with you,” he replied, gaze flickering to the golem’s back. “I’m sorry.”

“He will not hear. Thorn has little power here, but can keep our voices from his ears.”

Kuneprius hesitated, torn between his duty to the order and duty to himself. He wanted to talk to this creature, learn about him and his life, but the Brothers would frown upon such a thing should they find out. He shouldn’t consider the small gray man a living thing, but a tool to bring about the return of the true Small Gods.

“Please.”

The tone in Thorn’s voice tugged at Kuneprius’ chest. How could he regard this creature who obviously experienced such emotion as a thing? He’d be doing a disservice not only to Thorn by doing so, but to himself, as well.

“Ahem.” Kuneprius cleared his throat and eyed the golem for a reaction. The hulk didn’t move. He coughed again, louder this time. Still nothing.

His gaze fell back to the prisoner. In the moonlight, his gray skin appeared white and, for a second, Kuneprius might have imagined him a child rather than a being from behind the veil, the key to the Small Gods’ return.

“We are meant to bring you to Teva Stavoklis.”

Thorn’s expression changed. His nose crinkled as though he didn’t understand. Kuneprius didn’t wait for the small man to ask.

“It is the temple. The seat of power of those who worship the Small Gods.”

Thorn’s face brightened. “Thorn is a Small God. Horace Seaman said so. Will Thorn see Horace Seaman at this Teva Stavoklis?”

“No, you misunderstand.” Kuneprius kept his voice low and glanced often at the golem’s back despite Thorn’s claim. “We worship those Small Gods.”

He raised a finger toward the night sky and Thorn’s gaze followed his gesture. He didn’t look up himself, didn’t expect he’d find those who watch from above smiling on him for having this conversation. Thorn stared up at the dark sky filled with twinkling light for a short time before returning his gaze to Kuneprius.

“The Banished Ones?” he asked, disbelief in his tone. “Who would worship those stricken from our world?”

“Who else is worthy of worship?” Kuneprius asked, struggling to control his voice. “The Goddess who imposes her will without consent? You impostor Small Gods who hide behind the veil? All are weak compared to they who watch from above.”

The words spilled form his lips as they’d been preached to him since before he could remember, probably from the time of his rescue from one of the Goddess’ caravans the way he’d rescued Vesisdenperos. He’d spoken the words before, and meant them, but he did so with less conviction this time.

“So much in this world is worthy of worship, so many choices.” Thorn reached his arm out and swept his hand across in front of himself. “Thorn worships all of this. The ground, the trees, the sky, the air we breathe. It gives us life. Thorn even worships you. Without you being you, Thorn would not be Thorn.”

Kuneprius opened his mouth to spew forth more of the gospel of the Small Gods, but the words refused to come out. Thorn’s words held an innocence, a joy that stayed his tongue. In the light of the small man’s beliefs, the thought of worshipping gods bent on vengeance and destruction suddenly seemed petty and wrong. To avoid speaking sacrilege when those who watch from above might hear, Kuneprius changed the subject.

“If you have the power to keep our voices from Ve…from the clay man’s ears, why do you not use this power to escape?”

“Does Thorn need to escape? From what?”

Again Kuneprius parted his lips, and again the words refused to come. Was it possible the small man didn’t realize why they’d taken him? Didn’t understand the danger he was in? The expression on Thorn’s face shifted, the obvious joy he’d felt talking about what he worshipped disappearing, replaced by concern.

“What is your name?”

Kuneprius knew he shouldn’t answer. A man’s name contained magic and enchantment, or so High Priest Kristeus preached and taught. What things might a being who may have the power of a Small God be able to do with such knowledge?

“Kuneprius,” he replied, cringing at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t meant to speak his name, but there it was for their prisoner to claim and use as he saw fit. His muscles tensed as he awaited the consequences for having broken such a simple rule.

“Kuneprius,” the gray man repeated, rolling it along his tongue. “Kuneprius. A good name. A powerful name. Did you choose it for yourself?”

Kuneprius shook his head. “It was chosen for me, before I could walk or speak.”

Thorn’s eyes widened. “There was a time you could not walk or speak?”

The man stared but didn’t answer. Thorn’s interest passed.

“My name is Thorn, has always been Thorn. Thorn chose it from the time of creation and it will always belong to Thorn.” He slid closer, the out-of-place pants he wore scraping the ground. “Now Kuneprius and Thorn are friends, like Thorn and Horace Seaman before. Kuneprius can now trust Thorn, can tell Thorn truths.”