And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (31 page)

“Help us, please,” Kuneprius wheezed. His head felt light, the exhaustion he’d previously experienced returning full-force as Thorn’s aid disappeared. His legs trembled and failed him; he went to his knees, arm still supporting the Small God. “Please, there’s a—”

“Kuneprius?” The man stepped away from the shadow of the building and into the moonlight. “Is that you, brother?”

How can this man know me?

Kuneprius’ eyes narrowed to slits as the robed man approached. He thought to raise his hand, prepare to defend himself, but his body failed him. Thorn slipped out of his grip, the Small God sliding to the ground. Not having to bear the weight gave Kuneprius the impression he might float away, but the opposite happened and he sagged to the dirt beside Thorn.

Kuneprius stared toward the Small God. Thorn’s eyes were open, but milky. He couldn’t tell whether the gray man saw him or not, but it didn’t matter. Soon, the golem would be upon them, making their struggle for nothing. Kuneprius licked his lips and wished he’d said goodbye to Vesisdenperos the last day before the monster who would turn out to be both their killers came to life.

A pair of sandaled feet came into view and the hem of a robe. The man standing by Kuneprius’ head knelt, put his hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Kuneprius, you’re home.”

With blood roaring in his ears, Kuneprius thought he’d misheard.

“Home?” he croaked.

“Yes, brother. You’ve reached Murtikara.”

XXX Dansil—Revenge

Thrice the man who’d escaped them appeared to Dansil, and all three times Trenan proved too wary to be caught off-guard. The queen’s guard might not agree he was the best swordsman in the kingdom, nor did he like him, but even with only one arm, Trenan was a more dangerous opponent than most men. He didn’t think a demented half-wit armed with a knife and missing his nose, half an arm, and various other body parts would fare well without surprise on his side.

The night after the sun set for the fourth time, Dansil found himself in the woods awaiting Stirk as they’d arranged. A sour odor disguised the forest’s usual aromas of wood and moss this night—a sign they neared Ikkundanna.

The stink of sickness and death.

Dansil swallowed hard to keep his gorge from rising at the thought. He’d never harbored any desire to visit this place, nor come within any distance of it, yet he’d allowed the one-armed fool to drag him here.

“You’ll be the death of me if I’m not careful,” he growled aloud.

A rustle of leaves at his back startled him and Dansil whirled around, hand reaching for the haft of his axe. The wan moonlight cast the man who’d crept up behind him in silhouette, his shape leaning against the trunk of a tree, torso touching the bark because he had no arm at the shoulder to rest upon. In the dark, Dansil thought Trenan had snuck up behind him. Anger and surprise flashed in him before he realized it was the wrong limb missing for it to be the master swordsman.

“Where’d your arm go?” Dansil nodded toward the limbless shoulder. Last time they’d met, he’d possessed an arm as far as the elbow.

Stirk looked down as though he didn’t know what Dansil spoke of. When he raised his head, his expression reflected no surprise. He offered a one-sided shrug.

“There’s a cost,” he replied, leaving the queen’s guard to wonder what he meant.

Stirk stepped away from the tree and moonlight flashed on the edge of the short, sharp blade he held in his remaining hand. He pointed it toward Dansil half-heartedly, his arm threatening to give way under its own mass and the weight of the knife. Dansil considered rushing him and relieving him of the weapon but decided against it; why disarm the man who wanted to kill his enemy?

“Is tonight the night?” Stirk asked. “Or do you have more reason for delay?”

“Tonight must be the night,” Dansil replied, the miasma of sickness hanging in the forest flaring his nostrils. “Tomorrow, we arrive in Ikkundanna and he will be out of your reach.”

“Then lead me to the bastard who killed my mother.”

Dansil nodded, goose bumps prickling along his flesh. He told himself anticipation of Trenan’s death caused them, not fear of this man who seemed to be decaying and disappearing before his eyes. Why should he be afraid of such a person?

Because it’s wise to be afraid of someone with nothing to lose and nothing to live for.

The queen’s guard retraced his steps toward the camp where he’d left Trenan and their steeds, more slowly than he’d traveled to meet Stirk. Each footstep he lifted from the ground carefully, placed it gingerly so as to avoid noise that might warn the master swordsman of their coming. Stirk followed along behind, making no more noise than a wraith navigating the fog. He was so quiet, Dansil felt compelled to glance over his shoulder to ensure the man still followed and hadn’t lost his nerve.

A sliver of moonlight shone across Stirk’s face and the queen’s guard noticed he wasn’t merely missing his nose; his teeth showed through a hole in one cheek and pink skin shone in the hollow his right eye used to occupy. Dansil glimpsed patches of flesh on his head where hair had been before, but now those spots gleamed red and sore and through two of them he spied the gleam of white bone. He cringed and returned his gaze to the path ahead.

What’s happened to this man?

Despite what should have been hindrances, Stirk moved through the brush, making less noise than Dansil himself. He forgot the man’s handicaps when, through the trees, he noticed a flicker of light—Trenan had lit a fire.

“We’re close,” he whispered. Stirk hissed at him to stay quiet.

Dansil slowed his pace, being even more careful of his footing. Trenan wouldn’t expect an attack, but he was always on alert, as was any soldier of reasonable skill and experience. The queen’s guard inched his hand toward the haft of his axe, at odds over whether he hoped to be involved in the killing or not.

As they approached the clearing Trenan had chosen for them to spend the night, one of the horses nickered and scuffed the ground with a hoof. The sounds drew Trenan’s attention and he stood from where he crouched beside the fire, surveyed the area near their mounts. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the woods until his eyes fell on Dansil’s approach. The queen’s guard gritted his teeth and awaited the master swordsman’s reaction to Stirk accompanying him. Instead of pulling his weapon or questioning the other man’s presence, Trenan released his grip on the sword hilt, raised his hand in a grudging gesture of welcome.

“Any luck finding game?”

At first, Trenan’s question confused Dansil, but then he remembered the lie he’d told to get away and meet Stirk.

How can he not see him?

He resisted the urge to peek back for himself. Stirk must have hidden himself, he realized, but the way the man appeared as if from out of nowhere and disappeared the same way tended to unnerve him.

“No. No game,” Dansil said, distracted. “We’ll be eating rations tonight.”

Trenan’s scowling response brewed a familiar ire in the queen’s guard’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for Stirk to end the bastard; he’d find it much more satisfying to do it himself.

Dansil stepped across the verge from forest to clearing, doing his best to disguise the movement of his hand toward releasing his axe from its harness. Trenan didn’t notice, but before he lifted it free, a pressure on his back made his world explode into pain.

***

Without clear reason, Dansil’s eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open in an exaggerated caricature of surprise, but it didn’t last long. His features twisted and distorted into an expression Trenan recognized as one of extreme pain.

The queen’s guard’s knees buckled and he slumped to the ground, leaving his attacker standing in plain sight. Trenan’s hand leapt to his sword with practiced ease even as his mind whirled. Who was this man? How did he find them? Why kill Dansil?

Before he had the chance to sort through the questions, the man jumped forward, leading with a small knife shining with Dansil’s blood. He moved quickly for someone his size and the master swordsman narrowly avoided being pricked. Godsbane hissed from its scabbard and he countered in one fluid motion, but the sharp blade cut nothing but air. The lack of contact Trenan expected threw him off balance and he stumbled, catching himself before he lost his footing. When he spun to face his attacker, he found the clearing empty.

“What the hell?”

He spared a glance for Dansil lying prone on the ground, groaning and trying without success to put pressure on his wound and stem the bleeding. The assassin had placed his knife in the perfect place to be out of reach of its victim and cause the greatest damage and bleeding.

A sound startled Trenan and, out of habit, he jumped back.

The man’s knife slid through the night again, nicking the side of the master swordsman’s chest, but the armor he’d not yet removed protected him. He took a step away to survey the man, still trying to piece together what was happening.

It was easy to understand why he experienced such difficulty in recognizing his aggressor; the man’s face was a mess. A gap where his nose should have been, holes in his cheeks showing crooked teeth beneath, a shimmering pink cavity where an eye had once resided. He possessed but one arm, the other being gone right to the shoulder, the same as Trenan’s but the opposite side. The swordmaster imagined the fellow’s face without the bits missing and recognition finally dawned.

“Stirk.”

The man’s mouth twisted into what may have been either smile or snarl; the growl rumbling at the back of his throat suggested the latter. Before Trenan could say more, he lunged again, swinging the dagger in a wide arc destined to open the master swordsman’s abdomen and spill his innards on the ground had he not parried the blow.

Trenan countered, but again the man disappeared. This time, he saw it clearly—Stirk faded away as though made of mist.

He shook his head and gritted his teeth. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t natural, and Stirk wasn’t doing it on his own. Blade held in front of him, he pivoted on one foot, spinning a tight circle to keep watch for where the man may next appear.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Dansil’s movements had ceased. Was he dead? Could it be too much to hope? He didn’t let his attention linger for fear Stirk would reappear, continuing to survey the clearing, examining the shadows thrown by the fire’s dancing flames. Nothing but trees and brush and darkness. The blaze crackled and crickets chirped; a quiet, quaking breath issued from Dansil, quashing Trenan’s hope the man had expired, but nothing else to see or hear, and it remained so for some time.

The master swordsman stopped moving to concentrate on listening, body tense and ready to defend or attack. A moment later, the scrape of a footstep in dirt behind him made him jump back and spin around, sword cocked.

Stirk waved, but not as a method of attack. He’d lost his balance and pinwheeled his arm to keep from pitching forward onto his face, but was having no luck. The big man hit the ground with a thump hard enough to knock the air from his chest. Trenan stared, discerning what caused the fall when he realized the reason.

Stirk was shy his left leg from the knee down.

Rather than waste time wondering why this might be, Trenan jumped forward to deliver a killing blow. Stirk cried out and raised his arm in defence, his form already fading. The tip of the crown sword dug into the dirt with a crunch that set the master swordsman’s teeth on edge. The noise a blade made cutting flesh and bone always satisfied him, but the sound of good steel being dulled made him queasy.

Every time he disappears, he comes back lacking a body part.

Trenan pulled Godsbane free of the dirt, cleaned the steel on his bedroll and readjusted his grip, waiting for Stirk to reappear. He suppressed a smile threatening to creep across his lips as he wondered what his adversary would be missing this time.

***

Stirk breathed hard, chest heaving as he lay on the ground at the healer’s feet. With great effort, he heaved himself onto his elbow and stared up at the hooded man. Sweat ran along his face, stinging the empty eye socket that matched his dead mother’s, dripping through the holes in his cheeks so he tasted salt on his tongue.

“Again,” Stirk said, voice rasping against his throat.

The healer shook his head. “With what will you pay?”

Stirk tried to chew his bottom lip, but found it gone like his cheeks and eye. Hesitantly, he moved his gaze from the healer and allowed it to travel along his own body. His left arm was but a stump at the shoulder, the remainder of his legs short enough he’d drag his balls on the ground should he stand. An arm, an eye, and whatever might be left inside him—judging by the pain in his gut, the healer had likely already taken a few of those, too.

He returned his attention to the man in the robe. “Heal me so I can take the bastard’s life, then you can have mine.”

“Tch, tch,” the healer clucked from beneath his hood. “Your life is no good to me. It is naught but air and wishes. What can I build with that? What can I repair? Your flesh is all I am interested in. If I give it back to you, then I will not have it. If I give it back to you on the promise it is mine when you kill this man, what happens if you fail and he takes your life? I have less interest in dead flesh than I do in your soul.”

Stirk flexed bits of muscle in his face intending to scowl, but the pieces of cheek remaining and the empty spots where once he had lips didn’t move. An eye or an arm. How could he kill a man when he had no arms? Or if he couldn’t see him? A groan gurgled in his throat.

“Send me back,” Stirk growled. “Put me right on top of him, then I don’t care what happens.”

No point telling the healer what part of him to take; he’d had no say in it before. With an effort, Stirk rolled onto his side, bent his arm, and took the dagger’s butt between his teeth. He didn’t know if he’d lose his arm or his sight, but this way he’d have the blade no matter what.