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

by Blake, Bruce

  The healer stopped, quarter-turned toward Stirk. His position suggested he wanted to hear what the man had to say, perhaps even that he already knew.

  “Can you help me find the sword master and the other bastard?”

  “Of course, but it will cost.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you willing to pay?”

  Stirk hesitated. His fingers found first the smooth skin at the side of his head, then the end of his stump. He rubbed the pink flesh, pondered the healer’s query. How badly did he want to find them and take revenge for his mother’s death?

  More than anything.

  He thought of her gentle touch, the way she plunged her tongue in and out through the space between her teeth when she was nervous, or when she was thinking, or any time she wasn’t speaking or using her mouth for other things. The woman who gave him life, who kept him alive and cared for him for the turning of every season since. She’d been strict occasionally, harsh even, but she never gave cause to doubt her love for him. His gaze flickered between the healer, the stalks of corn, and his shortened arm.

  Do I have something to give the healer as payment?

  He took a quick inventory of himself and decided he did.

  “I’m willin’.”

  “Then follow me and we will find the men you seek.”

  The healer strode into the cornfield. Stirk hesitated a moment before following, a sliver of worry creeping into his mind, sending a shiver along his body.

  How did it come to this?

  He shook his head, dispelling the thought and the doubt, and started after the healer. The setting sun cast long shadows amongst the corn, but he ignored them, staring at the healer’s back as he led the way. The tall stalks blurred and ran together, smearing into something unrecognizable.

  “Fuckers killed my ma,” Stirk said as he kept from looking at what went on around him for fear of losing his nerve. “They’ve gotta die.”

  XVI Kuneprius—A Small God?

  The Small Gods in the sky twinkled and flashed as they stared down at Kuneprius. Despite his utter exhaustion, sleep eluded him, kept away by the very things unbelievers called stars.

  He knew better. Stars didn’t judge him for his thoughts and actions the way those Small Gods of old did. To his left shone Ine’vesi, the evenstar, God amongst those who watched from above.

  Kuneprius turned his head away, saw the small gray man lying motionless on the ground five arm’s lengths from him. Beyond, the hulking silhouette of the golem stood watch at the edge of the forest, gazing along the dirt track lest someone happen upon their hiding spot. Kuneprius shuddered to think what might happen to anyone unlucky enough to be on the road tonight.

  Too many people have died already.

  The faces of the children by the creek and of the innkeeper refused to take leave of his thoughts—another reason sleep refused to come to him. Guilt burned in his chest that the lives of these innocents had been ripped away from them because of him, his failure to protect them.

  He shifted on the uncomfortable ground—a third cause for his sleeplessness, as if he needed more—and grumbled to himself about the clay man’s refusal to allow him a night at an inn. Truthfully, he hadn’t exactly refused. Kuneprius could have taken a room on his own and left the golem hidden in the forest with Thorn, but he wasn’t comfortable leaving them alone. He doubted he’d be able to stop the giant should he want to hurt their prisoner, but he was certain he couldn’t if he was elsewhere.

  All of this added up to his final discomfort. Not only had several sunrises passed with no access to a bowl of fresh, clean water for him to wash away the sins of his past, the tightness of the woman’s blood drying on his cheeks never to be cleansed, but neither had he released his seed in tribute. Though that may have been why he so keenly felt the judging gaze of the Small Gods upon him, concern for the pressure building in his man parts disturbed him more. Not since he became able to produce seed had he gone so long without offering tribute to the gods or, failing to make an offering, satisfied the need later in the day when he was alone with his thoughts of the girl.

  His staff stirred and he repositioned himself, rolling onto his side in a way he hoped would discourage it from growing further. This wasn’t the time to relieve the pressure; he’d have to find a place come morning, if the clay man allowed him the opportunity.

  Ves will understand. He’ll make time.

  Kuneprius looked to the hulking sentinel positioned by the roadside and wondered for the thousandth time if any vestige of his friend remained within, physical or otherwise. He imagined Vesisdenperos trapped inside, held in a dingy cell with soft, gray walls and dull light filtering in from above. He’d have lost weight, as the golem never ate, so Kuneprius saw his cheeks as sunken, eyes bulging, his ribs and collarbone standing out beneath his pale skin. Clay would clog the space under his fingernails, like when he returned after a day of practice, but the glimmer of joy would be absent from his expression.

  With a sigh, Kuneprius diverted his gaze from the golem’s’ silhouette. Though it was the will of the Small Gods for Ves to be the sculptor, he felt he’d failed in his duty to protect him and wouldn’t rest until he’d exhausted every possibility to bring his friend back from wherever he was lost.

  The small, gray man breathed steadily beside Kuneprius, drawing his attention. Since the day he’d killed the girl to liberate Vesisdenperos, he’d sworn never to take another life. The children and the barkeep he could do nothing to save as he hadn’t realized the golem meant to kill them, but it was different with this creature who called himself Thorn. But the prophecy foretold his fate and it meant Kuneprius would fail at a second vow.

  “Where are you taking Thorn?”

  The whispered question startled Kuneprius. He hadn’t realized the small man’s eyes were open, watching him. Noticing his attention, he thought the stare might penetrate his soul.

  “I cannot speak with you,” he replied, gaze flickering to the golem’s back. “I’m sorry.”

  “He will not hear. Thorn has little power here, but can keep our voices from his ears.”

  Kuneprius hesitated, torn between his duty to the order and duty to himself. He wanted to talk to this creature, learn about him and his life, but the Brothers would frown upon such a thing should they find out. He shouldn’t consider the small gray man a living thing, but a tool to bring about the return of the true Small Gods.

  “Please.”

  The tone in Thorn’s voice tugged at Kuneprius’ chest. How could he regard this creature who obviously experienced such emotion as a thing? He’d be doing a disservice not only to Thorn by doing so, but to himself, as well.

  “Ahem.” Kuneprius cleared his throat and eyed the golem for a reaction. The hulk didn’t move. He coughed again, louder this time. Still nothing.

  His gaze fell back to the prisoner. In the moonlight, his gray skin appeared white and, for a second, Kuneprius might have imagined him a child rather than a being from behind the veil, the key to the Small Gods’ return.

  “We are meant to bring you to Teva Stavoklis.”

  Thorn’s expression changed. His nose crinkled as though he didn’t understand. Kuneprius didn’t wait for the small man to ask.

  “It is the temple. The seat of power of those who worship the Small Gods.”

  Thorn’s face brightened. “Thorn is a Small God. Horace Seaman said so. Will Thorn see Horace Seaman at this Teva Stavoklis?”

  “No, you misunderstand.” Kuneprius kept his voice low and glanced often at the golem’s back despite Thorn’s claim. “We worship those Small Gods.”

  He raised a finger toward the night sky and Thorn’s gaze followed his gesture. He didn’t look up himself, didn’t expect he’d find those who watch from above smiling on him for having this conversation. Thorn stared up at the dark sky filled with twinkling light for a short time before returning his gaze to Kuneprius.

  “The Banished Ones?” he asked, disbelief in his tone. “Who wo
uld worship those stricken from our world?”

  “Who else is worthy of worship?” Kuneprius asked, struggling to control his voice. “The Goddess who imposes her will without consent? You impostor Small Gods who hide behind the veil? All are weak compared to they who watch from above.”

  The words spilled form his lips as they’d been preached to him since before he could remember, probably from the time of his rescue from one of the Goddess’ caravans the way he’d rescued Vesisdenperos. He’d spoken the words before, and meant them, but he did so with less conviction this time.

  “So much in this world is worthy of worship, so many choices.” Thorn reached his arm out and swept his hand across in front of himself. “Thorn worships all of this. The ground, the trees, the sky, the air we breathe. It gives us life. Thorn even worships you. Without you being you, Thorn would not be Thorn.”

  Kuneprius opened his mouth to spew forth more of the gospel of the Small Gods, but the words refused to come out. Thorn’s words held an innocence, a joy that stayed his tongue. In the light of the small man’s beliefs, the thought of worshipping gods bent on vengeance and destruction suddenly seemed petty and wrong. To avoid speaking sacrilege when those who watch from above might hear, Kuneprius changed the subject.

  “If you have the power to keep our voices from Ve…from the clay man’s ears, why do you not use this power to escape?”

  “Does Thorn need to escape? From what?”

  Again Kuneprius parted his lips, and again the words refused to come. Was it possible the small man didn’t realize why they’d taken him? Didn’t understand the danger he was in? The expression on Thorn’s face shifted, the obvious joy he’d felt talking about what he worshipped disappearing, replaced by concern.

  “What is your name?”

  Kuneprius knew he shouldn’t answer. A man’s name contained magic and enchantment, or so High Priest Kristeus preached and taught. What things might a being who may have the power of a Small God be able to do with such knowledge?

  “Kuneprius,” he replied, cringing at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t meant to speak his name, but there it was for their prisoner to claim and use as he saw fit. His muscles tensed as he awaited the consequences for having broken such a simple rule.

  “Kuneprius,” the gray man repeated, rolling it along his tongue. “Kuneprius. A good name. A powerful name. Did you choose it for yourself?”

  Kuneprius shook his head. “It was chosen for me, before I could walk or speak.”

  Thorn’s eyes widened. “There was a time you could not walk or speak?”

  The man stared but didn’t answer. Thorn’s interest passed.

  “My name is Thorn, has always been Thorn. Thorn chose it from the time of creation and it will always belong to Thorn.” He slid closer, the out-of-place pants he wore scraping the ground. “Now Kuneprius and Thorn are friends, like Thorn and Horace Seaman before. Kuneprius can now trust Thorn, can tell Thorn truths.”

  Kuneprius stared at the gray man lying on the ground only four arm’s lengths away, and Thorn looked back. A moment passed and neither of them spoke; during that time, Kuneprius noticed a lack of need burning in his chest for the first time in days. His body didn’t yearn for water to lave his sins, his balls didn’t ache to spread his seed. Was this the sort of enchantment Thorn had chosen to cast upon him? He took stock of the rest of himself and found nothing else out of sorts.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “Thorn has done nothing but offer his friendship.”

  The corner of Kuneprius’ mouth quivered and tilted up despite his not meaning it to. After so many seasons spent amongst the Brothers, he’d only ever considered one person a friend.

  He raised his eyes, looked beyond the gray man at the golem standing guard beside the dirt track they’d followed to get here. The clay abomination didn’t move, the dark night making it impossible to distinguish him from a statue set at the road’s edge. Nothing about him indicated a man within. Kuneprius’ chest cinched tight around his heart. He sighed through his nose and returned his gaze to Thorn.

  “You are a Small God, aren’t you? From the Green.”

  “That is what Horace Seaman told Thorn. Horace Seaman doesn’t lie.”

  For an instant, Kuneprius considered asking who Horace Seaman was, but he thought better of it. Common sense suggested it to be the man the golem killed when they took the Small God, but why remind Thorn of that now? Still, he wondered how a man and a Small God came to be traveling together outside the veil.

  Because the prophecy said it should be so.

  “You aren’t aware of what is to happen to a Small God who strays from the Green?”

  Thorn stared at him, one eye cocked in the manner of raising his brow if he had such things. Kuneprius took it to mean he wasn’t aware and was about to explain how dire his situation was when Thorn burst out laughing. He put both hands on his belly and rolled back and forth on the ground. Kuneprius looked up at the golem, worried the outburst might penetrate whatever glamour Thorn had cast, but the clay man didn’t move.

  The laughter went on longer than Kuneprius expected, causing a coil of discomfort in his gut. Each moment it continued made it more likely the creature who was once his friend Ves would be alerted to their conversation. Then what?

  “Shh. Be quiet.”

  With obvious effort, Thorn calmed himself. The laughter faded to chuckles and then subsided. The gray man wiped mirthful tears away on his forearm and propped himself up on an elbow to study his companion. Kuneprius shot him a scornful look, but it appeared to make no impression on him.

  “Kuneprius speaks of the prophecy?”

  It shocked Kuneprius that Thorn knew of the scroll hidden in the room without doors where High Priest Kristeus communicated with the Small Gods of the sky. No one but he had ever touched the ancient parchment and the Brothers only knew what they did because Kristeus chose to tell them.

  “How did you—?”

  “No one believes it. Nothing but a story to scare the newly created into remaining behind the veil.”

  “So all of your…kind are aware of the prophecy?”

  “Of course. Thorn has read the words supposedly written by the Goddess’ own hand.”

  Kuneprius shook his head. “Impossible. The scroll resides in a chamber at Murtikara. No hands but those of the High Priest have ever touched it since its writing by the death of Ine’vesi, the evenstar.”

  He raised his eyes skyward as he spoke the Small God’s name, searching through overhead boughs to find the bright glow amongst the other, dimmer ones. He’d have said the requisite prayer as well, but another laugh from the gray man interrupted him.

  “The parchment gets passed to whoever needs a scare thrown into them. It has been with us since the creation of the Green. Few believe the words contain any truth, no matter where it came from. How can a mother be barren? Or a man survive the God of the Deep, if such a thing exists?”

  Thorn’s last few words trailed off and something shifted on his face, but Kuneprius’ confusion at the gray man’s words blurred its meaning from him.

  “The prophecy doesn’t mention the God of the Deep, only a man from across the sea. Others were sent for him as we were sent for you.”

  Thorn seemed not to have heard him, his eyes unfocused and staring as though he saw right through Kuneprius. It made him uncomfortable and he shifted under the Small God’s gaze, the worry he might cast an enchantment on him returning. Thorn blinked hard, appearing to clear the miasma blurring his vision, and raised his eyes to Kuneprius’. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, Kuneprius had to strain to hear his words.

  “Horace Seaman survived meeting the God of the Deep. If the prophecy speaks of him, then the rest must be truth.”

  Thorn sat up, his head gently moving side to side, eyes widening. Kuneprius knew what the small man’s expression meant, but he found no words to speak. He fought the urge to reach out and touch the Small God’s arm, to comfort him an
d attempt to take away his fear. But how could he do so when he caused the fear?

  “Kuneprius,” Thorn whispered. “You mean to take Thorn to his death.”

  The man’s lips parted, though he didn’t know what might emerge from his mouth given the chance. A denial? Words of comfort? The truth?

  A movement behind Thorn startled Kuneprius from his thoughts and he didn’t get to find out what he might have said.

  The golem loomed a pace behind the Small God, forcing everything from his head but for his own fear.

  XVII Man From Across the Sea—Kooj

  He sat on the dirt floor, elbows resting on knees pulled up to his chest, head hung, eyes closed.

  His mind whirled, struggling to recall anything prior to waking in the barn with sunlight squeezing between its warped and ill-fitting boards. No matter how hard he tried, he saw only water. It enveloped him, splashed over his head, found its way into his mouth and nose. It choked his throat and threatened to fill his lungs.

  Water. The sea and nothing more.

  He opened his eyes, lifted his chin off his chest and found the sun shining between the boards again. Another sunrise, the second since the man called Jud-dah locked him in the barn with the cow and the dog. At first, he’d worried the dog might make a meal of him if his master stayed away too long, but Kooj had proven himself an excellent ratter—an unusual skill for a canine of his size and ferocity.

  Kooj lay on the dirt floor by the door, teeth tearing into the guts of a rat with a body the length of a man’s forearm. Droplets of blood glistened on the dog’s muzzle and a string of meat hung from the corner of his mouth. The sight disgusted the man but also flooded saliva across his tongue and set his stomach grumbling. He wanted to divert his eyes rather than watch the dog eviscerate the oversized vermin, but hunger pinned his gaze to the spectacle.

  The dog tore another strip with a sickening rending of flesh and the man pried his eyes away, shifting them to the pitcher on the floor beside him. He picked it up, raised it to his mouth and tilted it so the last drop slithered along the side toward the lip. It reached the edge and dangled on the cusp, taunting him for an instant before plummeting onto his outstretched tongue.