And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (4 page)

The big man breathed hard in and out through his nose, nostrils flaring at the briny stink of the sea and the tang of his own sweat. Hauling the salty air into his lungs made him angrier. He balled his hand into a fist, fingernails digging into the fleshy part of his palm. He imagined feeling the same sensation at the end of his left arm where his other hand used to be not so long ago.

Anger boiled over into rage.

“You killed my mother,” he said aloud between his clenched teeth. “If we didn’t help you, she’d be alive.”

Stirk grabbed the edge of the crate he’d kicked and pushed it hard. It rattled back and crashed into another behind it, sending more chunks of wood tumbling to the ground. He held his other hand up in front of his face, glaring at the smooth skin at the end of his wrist.

“Mother’d be alive and I’d have both hands.”

He bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, spat the bitter flavor from his tongue, then titled his head back and roared at the sky. The sound contained no words, only rage and grief. Another gull squawked at him, as though chastising him for the noise, then took off from its perch, winging its way toward the sea. Stirk watched it go.

“I’ll kill him,” he said after the bird like he imagined it cared to hear his plans. “I’ll find the prince and kill him for what they did to my mother.”

Saying it out loud, he realized how difficult fulfilling the promise might be. He didn’t know what happened to the prince, where he’d gone. Had he woken from his prolonged swoon and walked away, headed for home? Did someone find him and return him to the castle? In either case, he’d soon be back behind fortified walls, gone forever from Stirk’s reach, protected from his revenge. But if he’d gone in such manner, he’d have left signs of his passing.

Stirk cast his eyes to the ground, searching through dirt and pieces of packing straw, splatters of bird shit and streaks of grime. He was no tracker, having spent his entire life in the Horseshoe, so the hodgepodge of scattered bits and streaked splotches all looked the same to him—possibly footprints, more likely something else. He located no clues on the ground around his feet.

Because the prince was gone didn’t mean he’d been rescued. The soldiers’d been fired up about finding him when Stirk brought them here and found the lad gone, their interest turning to severing necks instead of finding the heir to the throne. Did they see something he didn’t? He bent at the waist, squinted, but the dirt and rocks and bird shit continued telling him nothing.

Another idea occurred to him as he straightened again: Perhaps a denizen of the docks came upon the prince and hatched the same plan he and Bieta failed at so miserably. If so, they may have the lad hidden nearby.

Stirk surveyed the buildings lining both sides of the street leading to the pier. Not a door stood open and most of the structures, being warehouses and the like, had no windows. They stretched before him and behind; each block to his right and left looked the same. It would take a great amount of time to check them all—time he didn’t have. The men he’d escaped from would find him long before he finished searching.

An ache formed at the bottom of Stirk’s gut, clawed up into his chest, brought nausea into his throat. It soon made its way to his head, causing it to throb and making him see his plan for vengeance dying before it started. The man responsible for his mother’s death couldn’t be found; he’d go on living while Bieta was no more.

Stirk’s knees went watery and he stumbled forward a step, catching the edge of a crate with his hand to steady himself. The rage that had consumed him, tightening his muscles and knotting his jaw, melted way, leaving grief behind to wrap itself around him. It weighed on his shoulders, pushing on him until he crumpled and sank to the ground.

He sat with his back against a crate, face buried in his arms. His body shook with sobs. As long ago as he remembered, he’d never been alone—not for long, at least. Bieta had always taken care for him, guided him, told him what to do. Many times he’d resented the way she treated him, as if she considered him a child trapped in the body of a man, but now he didn’t know how he’d live without her wisdom and guidance. Who’d feed him? Who’d comfort him and give him pleasure?

Who would be his mother?

Eyes closed tight, he pictured Elishbieta’s face smiling at him, her tongue prodding the space between her front teeth as it so often did. The vision of her calmed him, and the sobs faded. He snuffled snot back into his nose and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Mama,” he whispered.

Her expression in his imagination changed. Her smile disappeared and her eyelids widened to a stare filled with fear. From out of nowhere, an axe sliced the air, and then her neck. His mother’s head flew up, tumbling end over end until it hit the ground with a dull thump, bounced once, and settled. Blood gushed out of her neck and her corpse leaned and toppled revealing the one-armed man standing behind her, laughing and brandishing the axe.

Stirk’s eyes snapped open and his body spasmed once, a massive shudder shaking him as if a malevolent spirit had passed through him. He shook his head to clear the vision and wrapped his arms around himself to stop the shiver quaking him despite the hot day. The grisly apparition of his mother disappeared from his mind, but the laughing sword master remained, blood dripping from the edge of the axe blade.

The big man’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes narrowed. How had it eluded him before?

The prince was gone; he knew he wouldn’t find the man responsible for setting in motion the events leading to his mother’s execution. But Teryk wasn’t the only one on whom responsibility for her death should fall. There was also the soldier who’d wielded the axe, and the one who gave him the order to take her life.

Stirk pushed himself to his feet, wiped his face on his sleeve. No more time for grief; there’d be no more whimpering and crying. He curled his hand into a fist and set his jaw, ready to undertake the work that lay ahead.

Trenan and Dansil must die.

IV Horace—Floatin’

Blue sky.

It hung o’er ol’ Horace, stretchin’ up and up and up with no more but it for him to see. A gull flew by once, its gray wings flappin’; considerin’ the luck he were havin’, he more’n half expected the damned thing to shit in his eye, but it didn’t.

Cold sea water washed around him, sometimes splashin’ up onto his cheeks or into his mouth. He didn’t swallow any because he couldn’t swallow any more’n he might’ve blinked or stroked his way to the shore. Limbs, mouth, eyelids, all refused to move. Eventually the salty water spilled back outta his mouth and o’er his chin to rejoin the rest o’ the ocean.

After a short while, he paid no attention to the waves carryin’ him away or the sun creepin’ across the endless sky. His mind turned to Thorn and the two men what’d carried him off.

He didn’t know what the big gray feller and the one what’d tried to drown him wanted with the Small God, but he s’pposed it might be easy to guess: he were a Small God from outta the Green, after all. That little man had magic in him and maybe they knew how to get it out.

Should’ve found a way to stop them.

The thought bounced around his head, but ev’rytime the guilt got its teeth into him, he recalled the tip o’ the big gray feller’s finger brushing his chest and endin’ him up floatin’ ‘round like a chunk o’ driftwood. Truly, he coudn’t’ve done nothin’ to stop them.

Sorry, Thorn.

His heart ached, his throat tightened, restrictin’ his breathin’—the only thing he were capable of. He wished to close his eyes and cease starin’ at the sky and the way it encouraged him into considerin’ there might be a way out o’ his predicament. But he were afraid that, if he closed them, he’d see Thorn’s face, or that o’ his son Rilum what Thorn’d turned into when they snuck up on the town o’ Haven. Other’n when it showed up as the Small God’s disguise, Horace hadn’t pictured Rilum’s face in a long, long while.

Instead o’ blinkin’—which he couldn’t do—or thinkin’ o’ his son—which he didn’t want to do—Horace continued starin’ at the vast blue emptiness above him. If nothin’ else, doin’ so kept him from imagin’ what might be swimmin’ past in the green depths below. Wouldn’t be no God o’ the Deep—he were sure he hadn’t bobbed his way so far from the shore—but a lot o’ other creatures in the sea might wanna make a meal outta one gristly ol’ sailor.

The sky o’erhead went misty and blurred, and Horace thought his eyes might’ve been stingin’ if he were able to feel anythin’. Might’ve been from the salty water splashin’ up into them, might’ve been tears what he didn’t even know he’d cried. Either way, nothin’ for him to do to clear the new, murky nature o’ his sight, so he continued starin’ at the smudgy heavens.

A larger wave washed against him, tiltin’ him onto his side. Horace stopped his breathin’ to keep from suckin’ the ocean into his lungs. While doin’ so, he glimpsed a smear o’ another color off to his starboard, but then his floatin’ body righted itself and nothin’ but sky filled his vision again.

The shore!

His heart beat faster, hammerin’ against his ribs. One o’ them might’ve still hurt from when Thorn fell outta nowhere on top o’ him, but his current condition kept him from knowin’.

I ain’t floated so far as I figured.

Realizin’ it stirred remnants o’ hope in his chest, but it didn’t last. Didn’t matter how close he were to the shore if he couldn’t find his way onto the beach. And even if he did, what would he do when he arrived? Lay on the sand until seaweed attached itself to him, the sun bleached him white, and crabs made homes underneath him, just like all the other driftwood? No, the time’d come for the ol’ sailor to recognize his life were near its end. The only question left to answer were how long until his final demise.

His view o’ the sky went even more blurry and this time Horace knew no waves was washin’ into his eyes. The blurriness came from regret.

Salty tears sat on top o’ his unblinkin’ eyes. His ears heard the swish o’ water rinsin’ in and outta them; his nose sniffed the briny scent o’ the deep what he’d come to hate durin’ near thirty-five turns o’ the seasons knockin’ boot heels on one deck or another. When Dunal’d knocked him o’er the side o’ the Devil o’ the Deep, he’d conceded his life’d end in the ocean, but he came out alive somehow. Wouldn’t happen twice.

Weren’t that much luck left in his world. If there were, Thorn’d still be with him.

His vision cleared a little as the sun dried his tears, stickin’ the leftov’r salt to his eyeballs. Another gull passed by, then a second. A minute later, a third flew o’er, but the bird did somethin’ funny.

It stopped midair as though it’d flown into an obstruction, but there weren’t nothin’ for it to fly into.

Had he been able to raise a brow or crinkle up his forehead, Horace would’ve done so, but even that sort o’ movement were beyond him. He owned no ability but to breathe and to stare where the gull’d flown into before turnin’ ‘round and takin’ off the other direction. His hazy vision showed him nothin’ but sky.

Nothin’ to see.

He bobbed and bobbed, gaze fixed on the spot. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t’ve entertained the notion o’ somethin’ invisible in the air, but that were before two towns named Haven and Demise seemed like they must’ve grown legs and moved ‘round just to confuse him. And before a small gray man fell outta the sky and turned ev’rythin’ he believed and knew inside out.

Ten breaths entered and left his lungs. A wave tilted him and he lost track o’ the place the bird’d hit. His air caught in his throat as he stared, ev’ry handspan o’ air above him lookin’ same as the others. A feelin’ like his heart sinkin’ into his stomach came o’er him, crushin’ the sliver o’ hope seein’ the shore’d brought as it did. The moment the last o’ it disappeared and the ol’ sailor’d settled himself back into the idea o’ dyin’ in the ocean, another strange thing happened.

The sky shimmered emerald.

It lasted for the space o’ a heartbeat or two, but no more. The shimmerin’ made Horace stop his breathin’ and, after it vanished, he doubted he’d seen it at all. Must’ve been a trick played on his tired eyes, a result o’ the sun and water and salt. He started his breath again and blinked to clear the mist from his eyes.

Blinked.

Horace’s heart skittered like an excited child, but he refused to trust what his peepers’d seen, so he blinked again. His eyes hurt as the lids dragged across their surface gratin’ salt o’er them. He blinked again and again and, when the hurtin’ didn’t stop, he raised a hand to his face and rubbed at them with a knuckle.

The unexpected action stopped him, the knuckle pressed against his eye. Horace flapped his other arm in the water, the movement propelling him forward. He tilted his head starboard, sucked seawater into his mouth and coughed it out in a splatter o’ salty spit. When he’d cleared the offendin’ brine from his throat, he opened his eyes and spied the beach, noted it were farther away now’n it’d been before.

Horace took his knuckle outta his eye and, with a great effort from his now-aching body, rolled himself onto his front and began swimmin’ for the shore.

As a sailor, Horace’d always been a competent swimmer—he took care makin’ sure he were strong enough to tread water a long time or swim a considerable distance, because you never knew when a slow-witted swabby might knock you o’erboard or a livin’ statue might set you driftin’ out to sea. Felt good to be swimmin’, but it were also the most difficult strokin’ he’d done in his life.

His arms and legs ached as though he’d spent all the time he’d been floatin’ in the ocean workin’ hard rather’n bobbin’ ‘bout in the manner o’ a dead thing. His eyes refused to see the way they should—the result o’ bein’ stuck open so long. His lungs seemed like they’d shrunk, his mouth were dry as sand, his head threatened to burst open.

But his weary arms and burnin’ legs carried him steadily, if slowly, toward the shore.

Ev’ry few strokes, he pulled his face outta the water and looked at where he were goin’, saw the land gettin’ closer, and his near-their-end limbs found a little more energy to carry on. If he made his goal o’ the sandy beach, it didn’t just mean his life’d go on once more when he thought it’d surely end, but he also might have a chance to find the little gray feller. Maybe he could rescue him.