by Blake, Bruce
“You’re a lying bastard, you are, Trenan. But the likes of you doesn’t come visit the likes of me just to make me feel pretty. What can I do for you?”
“My companion and I—”
“Dansil,” the soldier interrupted.
“Dansil and I—”
“I’m a queen’s guard.”
Trenan blew a firm breath out through his nostrils and Silvius surveyed his companion. The master swordsman could only imagine the size of the shit-eating grin plastered across the man’s face.
“Dansil the queen’s guard and I are in need of horses and equipment for a long ride. Rations, too, if you have any to spare.”
“The swordmaster and a queen’s guard heading off together into the countryside, is it? Never thought I’d see such a thing. Maybe today’s the day I should be headed to the king’s gambling hall to test my luck.”
A forced chuckle spilled from Trenan’s lips. “Isn’t every day the day for you to be headed to the gambling hall, Silvius?”
“Just so.”
The portly soldier headed past the outpost’s main entrance, leading them toward the stables. Trenan took up after him but didn’t look back for Dansil to follow; more than a good chunk of him hoped he’d stay behind.
“Renner,” the commander called over his shoulder. “Gather a tent and bedrolls for these men. Jinton, load saddle bags with all the rations they’ll hold, but don’t use the good wine. We don’t need the swordmaster and his friend wandering the wilds of the kingdom getting drunk and disorderly.”
“Dansil,” Trenan’s companion corrected.
For a moment, the master swordsman considered pointing out they were not friends, but he let the opportunity pass.
They crossed the dusty yard to a squat building with a thatched roof, its double doors thrown wide. Though the interior was dim, Trenan made out the familiar outline of stalls, men moving back and forth; the whickering of horses floated across the open air to his ears. The sight of it flooded him with memories of long days spent swamping out the stalls when he first found his way into the king’s militia. To this day, the sickly-sweet aromas of manure and hay cast his thoughts back to this place.
The smell struck him full force as they crossed the threshold into the stables’ shadowed interior. Silvius headed down the line of stalls without pausing until he reached the far end.
“You can take these two,” he said as he gestured for a stable hand to retrieve saddles and equipment for the horses. “They’re not the best of the crop, but they’re a damn sight better than walking. Or riding a jackass.”
Though I’ll be riding with a jackass.
“I’ll take that one,” Dansil said, indicating the more hardy of the two steeds.
Silvius glanced from the queen’s guard to Trenan and lifted an eyebrow. “I figured that one for your superior officer.”
Dansil snorted at the commander’s words and Trenan watched his friend’s face harden. He redirected his attention toward the queen’s guard and readied to take a step toward him and call him to task for his insubordination. The master swordsman stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“That one looks better suited for carrying a fellow Dansil’s size,” Trenan said. The words tasted of bile, but no point in reprimanding the queen’s guard now, not when they’d be forced to spend time in each other’s company.
Silvius glanced back to his old friend, a surprised expression creasing his forehead. The swordmaster shook his head minutely, letting the commander know not to worry. The portly soldier stared at him for a moment before nodding once.
“Fine, then. They’ll be saddled and ready in no time. For now, come with me to the mess and we’ll get a meal into you before you go.”
Silvius pushed past Dansil without looking into the man’s face; Trenan followed, but saw the wide grin curving across the queen’s guard’s lips, the deviousness flickering in his eyes.
He wondered if they’d both survive long enough to find the princess.
VII Thorn—Carried Away
The odor of gray clay filled Thorn’s nostrils as his cheek pressed against the cold substance and his arms dangled down the giant’s back. Normally, such an aroma brought him joy, indicative as it was of the great cliffs beside the sea being in near proximity. Thorn enjoyed sitting on the edge of those cliffs, staring out across the wide ocean and wondering what it would be like to ride upon one of the ships he sometimes saw. But the scent meant something different this time: the clay man carried him away from the cliffs, away from his home and his friend, Horace Seaman.
He let himself hang limp over the golem’s shoulder, eyes closed and breath steady as he tried to reclaim the magic he’d spent when the golem laid a finger on Horace Seaman’s chest. Thorn wasn’t sure why he’d known the touch meant death for his companion; perhaps the power told him, but he was unsure—he wasn’t used to how it worked on this side of the veil.
The giant’s stride bounced the Small God on his shoulder, making deep breaths difficult as Thorn wondered if his efforts to save his friend had proven successful. Immediately after, he’d sensed the sailor lived, but as the golem and his companion took him farther from the man and the Green, his sense of Horace’s well-being dissipated.
He hoped it wasn’t because the sailor’s life had faded. He’d saved him from the giant’s touch, but he couldn’t aid him in the water; the sea was a more powerful monster than the beast carrying him could ever hope to be.
Thorn can’t save him from everything.
The thought, though true, caused an unfamiliar discomfort in his chest.
To distract himself from worry for his friend—an emotion he’d never imagined he’d experience—Thorn listened to the sounds around him, using them to guess their surroundings, and maybe where the clay man and his companion intended to take him.
The most prevalent sound was the crunch of the giant’s footsteps in dry grass as his strides devoured the ground yards at a time. Beneath that, the quicker, quieter steps of his companion, and the man’s heavy breathing as he did his best to keep up with the much larger man of clay. His ragged breath made Thorn realize two things he didn’t hear: the giant neither breathed nor possessed a heartbeat. With his ear pressed against the smooth clay back, the Small God wouldn’t have missed it.
What sort of creature neither breathes nor has a beating heart?
The answer to the question was obvious: A creature formed of clay.
Thorn remembered how one of his sisters, Ivy, sometimes fashioned the shape of a man out of dried grass bound together, then made him dance for the tribe’s amusement. But that figure had been small, and only capable of doing Ivy’s bidding as long as she concentrated on the task. When she stopped, the straw man ceased dancing and fell limp to the ground, nothing but a bundle of grass tied with lengths of creepers.
If Ivy made a man as big as the giant, would she have the power to make him dance?
Perhaps. The magic in the Green was immense, concentrated as it was behind the veil, and few channeled it as well as Ivy. But things were different on this side, at least for their kind. He doubted she or any of the others could do it over here, certainly not for such a long time and so seamlessly. Everything about him resembled life.
But what of those who lived here? Was one of them able to perform such a feat?
Horace had never given Thorn reason to suspect he might have the ability to exert such power…or any at all, truthfully. If someone pressed the Small God for the truth, he’d admit his friend had more in common with a child than a man grown—likely why Thorn felt such a connection with him.
His heart ached again, but not just for the sailor; now it ached for Ivy and the others of his kind. Before now, he’d put little thought to them, never doubting he’d find his way back to his home.
The clay man’s grip around his legs dispelled his surety.
But who is animating him?
He peered out from between slitted lids at the man struggling to keep up to th
e giant. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, exhaustion tinted his cheeks pink. His lips moved with the effort of breathing, or he might have been speaking to himself.
This does not look like one capable of wielding such power.
“Can we rest, Ves?” the man asked. He raised his head from watching his footing; Thorn closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”
The golem responded with a grunt and slowed his pace. The exchange confirmed to Thorn that the fellow trailing behind was not responsible for the golem’s movements and actions. If so, and he desired a rest, he’d simply make the creature stop. That meant the clay man was either truly alive or controlled by someone with power beyond Thorn’s imagining.
The prospect sent a shudder through his body and the golem tightened his grip around the Small God’s legs.
With the giant’s pace slowed, his companion’s footsteps came closer. With few other options, Thorn opened his eyes again and directed his attention toward the man. At first he didn’t notice the Small God’s gaze upon him, so Thorn exerted what little influence his body made available. The man’s eyes found his and his lips ceased moving.
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 det
ected 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.