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

by Blake, Bruce

  The bang of door contacting lintel jarred Stirk to action. He grabbed the handle and pushed, but found it resistant—Enin must have put his shoulder against it as he tried to wrestle the bar back into place. If he succeeded, Stirk stood little chance of finding his way in.

  The big man took two steps away and coiled himself. From within, something solid thumped against the door—the bar being lifted back into place.

  He sprang forward, body angled to the left to aim his right shoulder at the wooden barricade. With his teeth clenched, his entire body tensed as he prepared to meet an immovable object. Instead, the door flew open with little resistance. Behind it, Enin had fumbled the bar and dropped it, leaning over to retrieve it at the precise instant Stirk burst through.

  The edge of the door struck the horse doctor on the top of the head, sending him flying backward. Stirk stumbled across the threshold, arms pinwheeling to keep his legs under him, feet skidding on the dirt floor as he slid to a stop. When he saw Enin laid out on the ground in front of him, a smile crept onto his lips.

  He closed the door and sat cross-legged, waiting for the horse doctor to wake.

  It didn’t take long, a fact which relieved Stirk of a good deal of apprehension. Watching over an unconscious person reminded him too much of the time he’d spent babysitting the prince, which in turn brought his dead mother’s face to mind.

  The horse doctor’s pained groan sent it from his thoughts.

  Enin’s eyes opened and darted back and forth around the room, groggy and unfocused. His gaze fell on Stirk but, dazed, he didn’t appear to recognize his sometime lover’s son at first. He shook his head, groaned again, then blinked hard twice before comprehension dawned on his face.

  He sat up suddenly, face contorting with pain, and scrabbled away across the floor, heels digging into the dirt to propel him. Stirk didn’t bother following—nowhere for him to go.

  “Hello, Enin.”

  The horse doctor stopped trying to flee when his back contacted the bench set against the far wall.

  “Stirk,” he said with no note of pleasure in his voice. “What are you…? How did…?”

  “Wondering how I’m still alive, I’m bettin’. Not sure how myself, but I am.”

  Enin moved his gaze from Stirk, glanced around the room as if he expected he might find some other object of more interest. When he didn’t, his eyes met the big man’s again.

  “Is Bieta with you?”

  Stirk pursed his lips, swallowed a hard lump that sprang to his throat. “She’s dead.”

  Enin offered no condolence for the loss of his mother, nor did he break into sobs or swear revenge. Instead, he nodded in the manner of someone unsurprised by the revelation. His reaction brought Stirk to his feet, fist clenched. The horse doctor shrank back against the bench, hands held in front of him.

  “Don’t hurt me. It’s not my fault.”

  “You tell the one-armed man about us?”

  He hesitated for an instant, making Stirk wonder if the shaking of his head that followed was the truth. Rage brought heat to the big man’s cheeks, but he fought to calm himself, realizing he didn’t have the ability to track the sword master on his own. He didn’t know for sure Enin could help, but he had nowhere else to go.

  “Prove you didn’t give us up.”

  Enin stared at him for a bit before shaking his head again. “I didn’t. How can I prove it?”

  “By helping me.”

  Sensing no imminent violence, the horse doctor lowered his arms and rested his elbows on the bench behind him, using them to pull himself up off the dirt floor. He sat his narrow ass on the seat and raised an eyebrow.

  “Help you? In what way?”

  “The sword master’s gotta pay for what he done. Trenan and the other fella, the one who took my mother’s head off with his axe.”

  Enin’s eyes went wide and he came to his feet.

  “No. I can’t do that.”

  “You have to.”

  “You being here will bring me bad luck enough. Going after the master swordsman assuredly means death.”

  Stirk’s lips pulled tight across his teeth and his fingernails settled into the furrows they’d already dug in his palm. He stepped forward and the other man cowered back but found nowhere to go.

  “Bad luck be standing right in front of you, horse doctor, and death is waitin’ its turn if you ain’t gonna help.”

  He raised his fist and took another short step toward Enin, who raised his arms defensively again. The expression on the man’s long and narrow face lengthened, his features drawing down like tallow running from a lit taper. Stirk thought if he took one more pace toward the man, he might break into tears and sobs. He lifted his foot, threatening to take that step. Enin closed his eyes and bent his head away.

  “All…all right. I’ll help you.”

  Stirk kept his fist raised, but advanced no farther, waiting for the horse doctor to say more. After the space of a dozen heartbeats, his mother’s gaunt lover cracked one eyelid open. When he saw his aggressor hadn’t moved any closer, he opened his other eye and faced the big man, arms relaxing but not dropping.

  “I can’t do anything for you, but I can take you to someone who can.”

  Stirk lowered his arm and the horse doctor did the same. “Who?”

  “I’ll take you to the healer.”

  “The healer?” Stirk roared, making Enin flinch. He waved his stump at him. “You’d take me to the bastard who stole my hand?”

  The horse doctor sank to the bench, perhaps realizing his mistake. Stirk felt his face reddening with anger, his muscles coiling and knotting, and doubted he’d be able to hold himself back.

  “But wait,” Enin raised his arm, pointed. “Look at where your hand was. Is that the work of someone who is naught but a healer?”

  Stirk allowed his gaze to follow the horse doctor’s gesture. The smooth skin at the end of his forearm shone dimly in the room’s wan light—the scar tissue of a healed wound—but Enin was right; the man who healed his wrist was also responsible for removing his hand. His jaw loosened, but he said nothing.

  “The healer took your hand,” Enin said, breathless with relief. “He can do more than heal, but the cost of his aid is great, as you already know.”

  Silence fell in the room, its weight lifted by the nickering of a horse awaiting Enin’s attention in the stall beside his workroom. Stirk’s mind struggled to work through the horse doctor’s offer, but doing so would have taken a while at the best of times. In his life, Bieta did the thinking for both of them while her son did the heavy lifting. They’d been a team from the beginning, just the two of them. He didn’t even know who his father was; he suspected a few men as possibilities but with his mother gone, he’d never find out.

  His forehead wrinkled and his handless arm fell back to his side. He vaguely noticed the horse doctor’s nervousness making him shift his skinny ass on the flat, hard bench but paid the movement little attention. Enin wasn’t going anywhere.

  The light in the room dimmed as the sun dipped closer to the horizon in the time it took Stirk to decide his course of action. When he did, he blinked rapidly three times to wet his eyes again after staring for so long and trained his gaze on the horse doctor. The big man nodded once.

  “Take me to the healer,” he said, voice quiet but determined. “His cost’ll be met, but it won’t be me who’ll be payin’ it.”

  VI Trenan—The Search Begins

  The streets of the city spread out like strands of a spider’s web. Cross streets, laneways, broad avenues, back alleys. With foot traffic, wagons, and horses, tracking someone through city streets proved much more difficult than doing so in the wild. No bent branches to spy, no footprints in loose dirt, no grass pressed flat to denote passage. Their only choice was to inquire of those they encountered whether they’d seen a young woman in a red robe accompanied by another in a Goddess’ green smock. Unfortunately for them, the majority of the city’s residents mistrusted men
in armor and were loath to aid them.

  The buildings and atmosphere of the streets changed as they passed from Sunset to Riverside, the conditions shifting from squalor to near-squalor. Thus was the city’s Evenside, a stark difference from Midtown, which saw Trenan’s birth and rearing, and Morningside, predominantly populated by tradesmen and merchants.

  Could Danya be headed toward the other side of the city?

  He doubted it. She’d told him the prophecy spoke of Small Gods, but how had she interpreted those words? He raised his eyes skyward, knowing he’d find no pinpricks of light in the late afternoon sky. Those Small Gods wouldn’t show their faces until the sun touched the horizon, hiding itself from the world for the night. And how would she reach them if she intended to seek those Small Gods?

  The Brotherhood.

  The thought of their cult made Trenan suppress a shiver. He’d encountered tales of their doings, but imagined none of them would have reached the princess’ ears. Erral and Ishla did everything possible to protect their children from the outside world, and Trenan never spoke of the Brothers to them. She might have heard of them from another source, but he doubted it. The Small Gods of the Green, however, were a different matter. Those legendary creatures reared their heads in most of the bedtime stories told by every wet nurse in the realm.

  The Green it is, then.

  He stopped at a wide intersection, waiting for a line of wagons to rumble by. Dansil stood beside him.

  “Where shall we go, sword master?”

  Trenan thought he detected sarcasm attached to the last two words the soldier spoke, but he let it slip by. If he didn’t believe the master swordsman lived up to the title because he lacked an arm, he’d one day learn the truth.

  “She will head out of the city,” he replied.

  “Out of the city? Why?’

  “She makes for the Green.”

  Dansil laughed, a braying sound a donkey might have made. Even the wagon trundling past wasn’t loud enough to disguise the grating noise and Trenan considered cuffing the man in the side of the head to stop him; he resisted.

  “What makes ya think a princess’d be headed for the most dangerous place in the land when she ain’t hardly been out of Draekfarren before?”

  When the wagon finished clattering past, Trenan started across the avenue, Dansil keeping pace with him. He didn’t want to answer the question, at least not with the truth. Dansil wouldn’t accept the idea of the scroll and the prophecy. Why should he? Trenan himself doubted its authenticity and—even if it was a true artifact—no proof existed to suggest it referred to Teryk and Danya.

  The first-born child.

  “She searches for her brother.”

  A snort. “The prince was last seen dockside. Why the hell would she go to the Green searching for him?”

  “She doesn’t know where he was.” Truthfully, Danya probably still thought the prince dead.

  “But why the Green?”

  “Never mind. It’s a long story.” Trenan wished they were ahorse; he’d plant his heels into his steed’s side and pull away from the queen’s guard and this inane conversation.

  “We ain’t got nothing but time.”

  “Horses,” the sword master said, changing the subject. “If we are to have any hope of finding her, we need horses.”

  Dansil stopped in his tracks; it tempted Trenan to carry on walking and leave the other man behind, but he thought better of it, halted, and faced his companion.

  “So you want us to go back after all? Could’ve said so before we went this extra way.”

  Trenan shook his head and resumed walking. “We head for the outpost at the edge of the city, on the border of Riverside and Midtown. We can pick up steeds there.”

  “You’re in charge, I guess.” Dansil hurried to catch up.

  You’re in charge, I guess. The words rattled around the inside of Trenan’s head, making him clench his hand into a fist and clamp his teeth together. In the past, he’d wondered what made this man grate on his nerves so; he’d realized the obvious disdain Dansil showed toward him for no clear reason provided the cornerstone for his own dislike.

  They fell into silence as they traversed the streets, headed for the outpost. At first, they employed trial and error, and got turned about more than once, necessitating they stop and ask for begrudging directions. After a time that dragged on and on, the maze of streets became familiar and the tangled avenues untied themselves before Trenan’s eyes. Their feet trod upon streets he’d visited in his youth, running and hiding along them when he was too small to do anything else; later, he strode them as he went to his master’s to learn the arts of swordplay or strategy or horsemanship.

  Back when I had two arms instead of one.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here—didn’t care to for more reasons than he’d admit. Once he’d left, he’d never intended to return. Barracks, battlefields, and practice rings became his home, and he’d thrived in them far more than he ever had in Midtown. It was during those days of hard work and training he’d encountered Erral, when the king was not yet a king, and queens and fateful battles still lay in their future.

  How different would life be if we never met?

  He’d asked himself the question over and over since he sacrificed his arm for his friend, but the answer never changed. Yes, he’d have his arm, and he might have risen through the army’s ranks as he had. He liked to think it happened because of his abilities with sword and strategy, but befriending Erral had facilitated the rise. No matter how many times he asked, or how he felt about the things that may have been different, he wouldn’t give up the night with Ishla for any of it—the only thing that took the deep hurt from the loss of his arm. Despite the heartache and frustration that followed—the wondering, the hidden desire, the secret love—it remained the defining moment of his life, more so than losing his limb.

  Dansil thumped Trenan on the shoulder—purposely harder than necessary, it seemed—the impact pulling the master swordsman from his thoughts. The queen’s guard had raised his arm and pointed along the avenue ahead of them.

  “Is that what you’re talking about?”

  Trenan refocused and stared down the thoroughfare, hand held to his forehead to shield the sun from his eyes. A few blocks away, horses tethered outside a building whinnied and shuffled, and sun glinted on occasional slivers of exposed steel. As a child, he’d spent days on end at the outpost, admiring weapons and armor and carefully staying out of the way of the soldiers, the man his mother had told him was his father amongst them, though he knew not which. Back then, the building would have been but a shape in the distance when viewed from the city’s edge. Now, buildings and streets had overtaken the farmland that once separated the outpost, many spilled beyond so the outpost no longer served as demarcation of the Horseshoe’s leeward boundary.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Trenan lowered his arm back to his side. “The last I heard, Captain Silvius still commanded the outpost. I’m sure he’ll see his way to loaning us horses and equipment.”

  “An old war buddy of yours?”

  The swordmaster didn’t like the manner in which his companion asked the question; the tone dripped ridicule rather than interest. Had Dansil ever drawn his sword in battle? Judging by the age of him and the station he held, Trenan doubted it.

  “You might say that,” he replied, choosing once again to ignore the younger man’s inexplicable derision. “We’ve known each other a long while.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence and reached the outpost a few minutes later. Several men were gathered by the tethered horses, their voices loud as they engaged in their discussions, laughter occasionally overpowering the conversations. One noticed Trenan and Dansil approaching and stopped speaking mid-sentence. He smacked one of his companions in the shoulder with the back of his hand, drawing the other’s attention. A murmur spread through them and the playful arguments and boasts ended; the soldiers snapped to attention. Trenan
smiled to himself; he wore nothing to denote his rank or status, but his missing arm made him the most recognizable officer in the king’s army.

  “As you were,” he said upon their approach. None of them relaxed. “Does Captain Silvius still command this outpost?”

  “Aye, he does, swordmaster,” the man who’d first seen them replied.

  “Get him for us,” Dansil growled.

  The soldier’s eyes narrowed as if to ask who this was who’d spoken. Trenan clenched his teeth again, biting back a reprimand. How did Ishla put up with him as part of her guard? He couldn’t imagine her enjoying his company. The thought forced him to suppress a disgusted shiver.

  “We seek audience with him,” Trenan interjected, glancing sideways at Dansil. “If he has the time.”

  “I’m sure he’ll have time for you, sir.” The soldier nodded once, then hurried inside. Awkward silence fell as they waited, so Trenan took it upon himself to break it.

  “How is business at the outpost these days?”

  “Quiet,” replied a man with a hawk nose and less hair than a newborn. “Not much happenin’ but petty crimes—thievin’, gamblin’, whorin’ and such.”

  Dansil chortled. “Gamblin’ and whorin’ ain’t really crimes though, are they?”

  Before Trenan could decide if he needed to school the soldier regarding the king’s stance on those activities outside the crown’s whorehouses and gambling establishments, the outpost door swung open and Captain Silvius strode across the threshold. As soon as he spied the master swordsman, a smile crossed his weathered face and he threw his arms wide.

  “Trenan, you old war dog. How long has it been?”

  “Too many seasons,” he replied, accepting the commander’s embrace; it included a solid bumping of chests and a slap on the back before quickly releasing him. “You look good. Time has treated you well.”

  A lie. Silvius appeared to have swallowed a whole pig since Trenan last saw him, and he’d aged beyond the seasons which had passed. The master swordsman wondered if stress caused the changes, or if the deep furrows in his face and spidery veins in his eyes might be the product of too much of the hooch the soldiers concocted in a still out behind the outpost.