And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (8 page)

They stared at each other, the man’s exhaustion rendering his expression unreadable. Again Thorn attempted to draw together the power he’d grown up with coursing through him, but the little he’d just expended left him empty.

“Where are you taking Thorn?”

The man’s gaze remained on the Small God, but he didn’t answer. His mouth drooped at the corners, but Thorn couldn’t be sure if displeasure at his speaking caused it or effort and tiredness. His expression did not suggest he might respond.

“Who are you?”

This time, the man’s eyes widened, as though he attempted to use them to communicate with Thorn, but the Small God had not developed an ability to read such things in the people outside the Green. Horace Seaman had not been a man of subtlety, so gave Thorn no opportunity to practice this talent he used so well with the creatures behind the veil. A glance from Father Raven, Ivy’s eyebrow crook, the way a dragonfly angled its wings, all spoke to him, but not this man’s expression. He had no choice but to press him further.

“What has Thorn done?”

The man pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Why have you taken Thorn from—ahh!”

The giant man of clay squeezed the Small God’s legs together firmly enough to grind the bones against one another, sending pain flaring from his knees to his hip. Thorn closed his mouth tight to keep from crying out again. He didn’t understand pain, but experiencing it helped him realize the nature of the man’s expression.

He tried to warn Thorn.

No more speaking, no more trying to find out where they planned to take him or why, but deep down, Thorn knew the answer. He supposed he had from the moment he met Horace Seaman, the man who rides upon the waves, just like the ancients foretold. Like most of his kind, he’d never thought them more than stories. How could they possibly be true? Small Gods were all but immortal, and no man had ever crossed over into the Green, only washed up on the shore, dead or dying.

But none ever crossed out of the Green, either. Until Thorn.

He allowed his body to go limp again, sagging against the giant’s back and letting his gaze fall away from the man following behind them. He continued to sense the man’s eyes upon him, but the sensation welling up inside him made him ignore it—another new feeling he hadn’t experienced before, nor ever expected to:

Dread.

***

Three hundred eighty-nine. Three hundred ninety. Three hundred ninety-one.

At first, when the small gray man interrupted while he counted his steps, Kuneprius had been unimpressed with losing his place. After the interruption, and seeing how Ves dealt with it, he’d been happy for the distraction. The counting of strides made by a pace forced upon him didn’t have the same soothing effect of his usual rituals. How he longed for the kiss of cool water on his face to help him center his thoughts, allow him to be where he needed to be.

He looked up from his feet, lips still moving as he counted silently. The gray man continued lying limp against Ves’ back, the color of his flesh lighter than that of the golem. Kuneprius didn’t realize the clay used to mold the giant held a brown tinge until seeing the Small God for comparison.

Is he really a Small God?

When he’d happened upon the creature at the shore, Kuneprius knew him to be the one they searched for, though he’d never have expected such a fabled being to be so easily captured. Where was the magic the old stories told of? Where was the power to control, to shape shift, to dominate? If this truly was a Small God from the stories he’d heard in his youth—the one the prophecy said must die—he must be biding his time.

Kuneprius shuddered at the thought. Could it be the small man-like creature simply awaited the right time and place to kill them both? He gulped a mouthful of saliva; the lump in his throat rose and fell as another question occurred to him.

Can a man made of clay be killed?

If not, it left his life as the only one in real danger.

Even after all he’d seen—remorseless killing, no need for rest, a lack of recognition when they spoke—he continued hoping his friend might be buried somewhere within the dun-colored being. Something had to make the thing act as though it were alive, and that something must be a someone.

It has to be Vesisdenperos.

If so, the clay man was a prison holding the friend he’d raised from a babe. He’d dedicated his entire life to protecting and nurturing the boy meant to become the sculptor, all the while having no clue about his friend’s true fate. If he’d known, he might have chosen a different path for both of them.

The thing about a prison is there is always a way out.

His eyes narrowed, gaze upon the being who may or may not be a Small God. If he was, and the stories were genuine, he might hold the key to breaking Ves out of his prison. Perhaps he might have a way to get his friend back.

A hesitant smile crept across Kuneprius’ lips, and he lowered his chin to keep it from being noticed should the small gray man look up or the golem glance back. Upon seeing his feet again, he realized he’d lost count of his steps. It didn’t bring him the same relief as counting while he held his breath, but it was better than nothing.

His smile disappeared as he got back to the task of tallying his steps and hoping Ves would soon let him rest.

One. Two. Three. Four…

VIII Stirk—The Horseshoe

Stirk glanced up at the dark sky and saw nothing. Black clouds hid the moon and the Small Gods, leaving the world below without light to guide travelers such as himself.

The horse doctor, walking a few paces ahead, took a right down a narrow street, followed by a left onto a wider boulevard. They traversed streets and passed buildings unfamiliar to Stirk. It seemed to him they’d walked long enough to pass through Sunset and into either Waterside or Fishtown, but his nose detected neither of the distinct odors of those parts of the city. With no familiar landmarks, no telltale scents, and no moon or pinpricks of light in the sky—which, truthfully, helped him recognize direction no better than the sun aided him in telling time—the big man was lost and at Enin’s mercy.

“How much farther?” he grumbled, the first non-threatening words he’d said to the horse doctor since they left.

“We’ll get there when we get there,” Enin replied over his shoulder.

Stirk frowned.
What does that mean?

They passed a man with no legs leaning against a building, his form nothing but a shape in the dark night, a shadow that might not have been real. A dog growled somewhere, a cat screeched. Stirk hurried his pace to catch up to the horse doctor.

“Enin—?”

“Soon. Do you smell it?”

Stirk opened his mouth to say he smelled nothing aside from the stink of manure that followed the gaunt man everywhere, but he shut it instead and took a deep whiff of the night air. His nose detected horse shit first, but other odors mingled with it: fish and, faint beneath it, the sharp tang of the creosote they used on the docks. With those scents, he thought he’d finally placed where they were: in the far corner of Sunset bordering both Waterside and Fishtown.

No wonder I don’t recognize nothing.

He’d never been so far from home at night. Both Fishtown and Waterside were places he visited frequently, but he usually snuck in then beat a hasty retreat with items he’d stolen to keep him and his Ma eating because she’d had no visitors willing to pay that week. Even in the daylight, he’d likely not have recognized much. Still, having a sense of their location eased his nerves, if only a little.

They went left twice more, then right. The faint scent of fish grew to a stinking assault on Stirk’s nostrils, salty sea water joining it and the odor of the docks. Periodically, he detected another aroma buried beneath the others, a sickly sweet odor surfacing occasionally as though carried upon a breeze. He didn’t recognize it, but neither did he think he wanted to.

At an intersection where three streets came together, Enin stopped. Stirk halted beside him and followed the horse doctor’s gaze as the tall man looked first along one street, then the next, and the next. A flash of worry burst inside Stirk.

He doesn’t know where to go.

In an instant, he imagined the one-armed soldier and his companion getting away from him. He imagined them on horseback, riding for the setting sun, a cloud of dust kicked up by the hooves of their destriers, and himself with no way to follow. The image brought anger with it, and he spun toward the horse doctor, readying to unleash it upon him.

Down the street to Stirk’s right, a movement caught his attention, interrupting him. He faced it, listening to the scrape of something hard dragging on the cracked cobblestone street followed by the squelch of something wet.

“Who’s there?” he called, redirecting his ire.

The words had barely left his mouth when the horse doctor’s hand touched his arm.

“Quiet,” he said, desperate force punctuating the whispered word.

Stirk held his breath and waited. He wiped his sweaty palm on the front of his thigh, the half-moon shaped wounds caused by his fingernails stinging. Enough time passed Stirk needed to release the air from his burning lungs and draw more. Enin spoke right after, as though he’d been waiting for his breath.

“This way.”

He spun on his heel and headed down a street away from the noise they’d heard. Stirk hesitated an instant before following and found himself glad they’d chosen not to go the other way. Despite his anger, he decided he didn’t want to find out what made those sounds.

They went one more block before taking a right into a narrow alley, wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast if they didn’t mind brushing shoulders. Stirk did, so he stayed a pace behind his manure-perfumed guide.

After thirty paces, the alley widened to a courtyard which led to a single-storey building with a low, flat roof, no windows, and nothing to set it apart from any other buildings they’d passed on their journey.

“This it?”

“It is.”

Stirk stepped past Enin and squinted at the structure, attempting to find some distinctive feature about it to indicate what and who lay within, but he found nothing. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected from a place housing one—perhaps more than one—like the healer who’d taken his hand, but this wasn’t it. He’d realized it wouldn’t be a palace, especially in this part of the city, but shouldn’t they find a hint at what dwelled inside?

“Are you sure this is it?” He faced his guide. “If you’ve led me…”

The remaining words poised on his tongue teetered for an instant then tumbled down his throat on a gulp of saliva.

The alley lay empty behind him.

“Enin?”

He took a step back toward the alley, stopped.

Where did he go?

He stared along the narrow passage, searching in the night that was dark enough to hide a man’s features, but not enough to make him disappear. They’d passed no doors in the alley the horse doctor might have slipped into, nor had he heard telltale footsteps as he made a retreat.

He disappeared.

Stirk’s eyes widened. A chill found its way along his spine.

I’m alone.

The muscles in his arms and legs tightened into knots, holding him in place as his gaze darted side to side, up and down. The dark hid all but shapes from him, the buildings transformed to black blocks against the night sky. He shivered. A rustle of cloth behind him halted him mid-breath.

Did Enin get behind me?

The horse doctor couldn’t possibly have gotten by him; the man was too tall and gangly, lacking of grace. Knowing this didn’t quell Stirk’s nerves. Instead, his limbs tightened further until his shoulders ached. His back teeth grated together hard enough he thought he tasted the dust it created.

He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, readying himself to spin around and see who’d crept up behind him. The stink of fish wafting over from Fishtown was near overpowering, but the scent buried beneath it convinced Stirk that following Enin here had been the wrong decision.

Under the pungent aroma of creatures pulled from the sea lurked dirt and rot and death.

With a sudden change of heart, Stirk took off down the alley in the direction the horse doctor must have gone. The thump of his boots pounding the cracked cobbles echoed off stone walls, preventing any other noise from reaching his ears except the hammering of his heart forcing fearful blood through his veins.

At the mouth of the alley, he paused and glanced first one direction, then the other.

Which way?

Something soft slid against stone behind him. He resisted the urge to look back and went in the direction of his arm which still had a hand. His feet tangled and he stumbled, arms flailing. He kept his balance at the expense of a muscle in his groin and labored on, choking down a cry of pain.

Stirk’s gait took on an odd cadence as he limped up the block as quickly as the throbbing at the top of his leg allowed. Still unsure which way to go, but knowing he had to get as far from the alley as possible, he rounded the next corner. Sweat ran along his temples, his mouth pulled into a grimace. He hobbled thirty awkward paces down the narrow lane before it widened into a courtyard.

Panic swam through Stirk’s head as he gazed at the one-storey building ahead of him, its low, flat roof and lack of windows all too familiar. Gulping a mouthful of frightened saliva, Stirk looked from the structure to the alley behind him, expecting to find the healer fast on his heels.

The alley was empty.

No feet traversed it making the sounds that had sent him fleeing the courtyard that appeared the same as the one in which he now found himself. He dug the knuckle of one hand and the edge of his smooth-skinned stump into his eyes, rubbed hard enough to make light dance in his vision. When he took them away and the sparks faded, both building and alley remained.

How is this possible?

He shook his head. Could it be two identical alleys ended in identical courtyards and buildings? Unlikely, but maybe. He saw no other possibility; at least no others he wanted to consider.