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

by Blake, Bruce

  It was as if his words cleared the dirt and snot off his face, revealing him to Dansil for the first time.

  “Stirk?”

  A grimace that may have been the man’s version of a smile crept across his lips. “Now you know. And you knows what you did. I’m here to kill the man responsible for lopping off my ma’s head.”

  “Bieta,” Dansil whispered, his mind working hard to figure a way out of the situation with his life still his own.

  “Bieta,” Stirk agreed. “You took her life, and now I’m gonna take yours.”

  “Whoa, hold on. You said you wanted the man responsible for killing her, didn’t you? Sorry, Stirk, but that ain’t me.”

  A scowl creased Stirk’s brow and the muscles in his arm tightened as though he might lunge forward with the knife. Dansil held his breath.

  “I was standing right beside you,” the disfigured man seethed. “I watched the axe on your back take her head from her shoulders.”

  A barely contained sob choked the last few of the man’s words, giving Dansil hope he might take advantage of his emotion.

  “You’re right, Stirk. I’m the one who swung the axe, but I didn’t want to.” Dansil dabbed his own words with a touch of remorse—enough for him to notice, but not too much to be disbelieved. “I am but a soldier obeying my superior.”

  “You lie.”

  “No. You saw him, too. Did you not see him nod, giving me the signal to take your mother’s life? If I’d disobeyed, my blood would have spilled, too.”

  “Why would I care if you lost your life? That’s why I’m here.”

  “Because if I had, you’d be dead, too.”

  Stirk raised an eyebrow and Dansil saw he was getting close to saving himself, or buying himself time, at least.

  “I let you go.”

  The expression on Stirk’s dirty face shifted to disbelief. For a moment, Dansil expected the disfigured man might burst out laughing.

  “The one-armed fella got distracted and I ran away. How is that you letting me go?”

  “You think I couldn’t have caught you? Thrown a dagger into your back? Killing a man in battle is one thing, but I have no desire to kill unarmed, innocent citizens.”

  “Innocent?”

  Dansil nodded. “We had no proof you brought harm to the prince.”

  “We didn’t.” Stirk shook his head hard enough the knife at Dansil’s throat moved, too, the tip grating against his flesh. The queen’s guard winced and his attacker realized why and edged the dagger away. Dansil breathed a relieved sigh and finally swallowed.

  “I know you didn’t. That’s why I didn’t want to kill your ma. Trenan made me.”

  “The one-armed man.”

  “Yes. He’s the king’s confidant and of high rank in the king’s army. I have no choice but to obey his commands, and he commanded me to take Bieta’s head.”

  Stirk’s eyes flickered side to side in his dirt-masked face and Dansil saw the thought process they expressed. He concentrated on keeping a satisfied grin from his lips.

  “You swung the axe, but he ordered you to do it.”

  Dansil was unsure if it was a question or a statement, but he nodded anyway.

  “Then the one-armed man is who I should kill.” Stirk glanced over his shoulder, then back at Dansil. He took a step backward. “He’s over there? Where you came from?”

  “He is.”

  “Then I’ll kill him now.” Another step away gave Dansil enough distance between them for him to pluck the axe from his back and cut the man in two before he could react. He didn’t.

  “Now is not the time.”

  “Now is the best time.”

  Dansil shook his head. “Trenan is the most dangerous swordsman in the kingdom. If he has any inkling his life is threatened, you will lose yours.”

  Stirk stared hard at Dansil. “Why would he think he’s in danger?”

  “He’s camped by the side of a road. Any good soldier treats that like a dangerous situation.”

  “Then I will wait until morning.”

  Dansil stepped toward Stirk, aware doing so put himself back in harm’s way. The disfigured man tensed.

  “Let me help you.”

  “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I have my reasons.” He took another step, putting his throat a flick of the wrist away from the tip of the knife. “I’ve wanted to see Trenan dead for a long time, but there has been naught I could do. You can, with my help.”

  Stirk’s gaze bore into Dansil. His brow twitched, his lips pressed together until the color drained from them. In that instant, the queen’s guard saw what his mother had meant to him: she’d led him, made the decisions. All he needed was someone to fill that space.

  “You can trust me,” Dansil said, inching forward until the knife touched his throat. “I let you live and I want him dead.”

  A tense moment passed, the near-silent forest pressing in around them like a crowd awaiting the disfigured man’s reply. When it stretched on too long, Dansil worried he might have played his hand wrong, but then Stirk lowered the knife.

  “All right. I’ll use your help, but if you want to live once the one-armed man is dead, you still need to convince me you’re his puppet.”

  Dansil bit down on his back teeth and swallowed hard at Stirk’s choice of words, but he kept himself from reacting. Instead, he nodded his agreement.

  Stirk spun around and stalked toward where Dansil had left Trenan, making too much noise as he did.

  How did he ever sneak up on me?

  The queen’s guard hurried after him, grabbing his shoulder to stop him. Stirk whirled, dagger raised, and Dansil faltered back a step.

  “Now is not the time,” he said. “If you want to kill the kingdom’s best swordsman, it will have to be when he least expects it.”

  “When?”

  “When we reach a town. A night at an inn will relax his defenses.”

  Stirk nodded. “So be it. We’ll meet each night at this time. Make sure you’re away from him so we can find each other.”

  “But how—?”

  The second half of the question remained in Dansil’s mouth, unspoken when the disfigured man disappeared into thin air.

  XXVI Kuneprius—Decision

  Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine…twenty nine…twenty nine.

  Kuneprius cursed under his breath; this had never happened to him. Since the night he rescued Vesisdenperos from the women of the Goddess, he’d counted—the time he held air captive in his lungs, his steps, his heartbeats, and anything else he could think to count. He did it to calm himself, keep himself grounded, and he suspected he’d reached numbers far higher than most folk imagined existed. He’d never missed one, so why couldn’t he remember what came after twenty nine?

  He shook his head, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, removed them quickly. Touching his face reminded him how sins had piled up and piled up, dirtying his cheeks for more days than his foggy mind remembered. How long since he’d tried to wash them away?

  Not since the inn. And I didn’t wash then, only got wet.

  He shuddered at the thought and his step faltered as dead faces sprang to mind. The slaughter at the inn had negated any benefit he received from the water in the bowl and instilled the need to scrub more. A shiver ran up his back; he’d seen enough blood spilled because of him.

  Kuneprius drew his tongue across his dry lips and immediately regretted having done so. To him, the coppery flavor of blood resided on his face. The blood of the girl, of the first barkeep, of the two children, and of those who lost their lives because of his carelessness at the inn.

  And soon they will taste of the blood of a Small God.

  His stomach tied itself in a knot and he thought that, if it had contained food, he’d likely have retched. But too much time had passed since the meal at the inn to worry about such things.

  He raised his eyes and stared at the back of the golem walking ahead of him, Thorn thrown over
his shoulder like a sack of vegetables being hauled off to market. In the days since the slaughter, he’d often wished his glare was daggers to rid the world of the abomination his friend helped create.

  He was merely the sculptor, taken advantage of for his talent with clay. He formed this thing but did nothing to make it a monster.

  No doubt remained in Kuneprius’ mind that the boy he’d raised to a man was gone, his life sacrificed in the name of an ancient prophecy intended to bring an end to everything. One more death to wash from his flesh, for it was he who brought Vesisdenperos to Kristeus. Had he not, the golem wouldn’t exist, all those people would yet live, and the world wouldn’t hang on the precipice with the life of an innocent creature from the Green.

  Kuneprius inhaled a sigh through his nose; he understood what needed to be done. But how?

  He cast his gaze around for the first time in forever and saw farmers’ fields on both sides of them, the waving sea of yellow wheat blazing in the midday sun. Not far ahead, the trees began again, their shadows falling across the dirt track upon which they traveled.

  Kuneprius blinked. Once, twice…a few more times after that, but he didn’t bother counting. The fact they followed a road between fields growing food meant something, but he couldn’t figure out what. His sleep- and nourishment-deprived brain spun around its meaning, but refused to find the answer. Instead, he wobbled, struggled to stay on his feet.

  I need rest or I cannot go on.

  He wondered if the clay man would allow him time for respite or if he’d push on and leave him behind, his strides relentless until he arrived at his destination. Now they had the Small God, the monster had little reason to care about the fate of his mentor.

  He curled his fingers into fists, clenched his jaw and winced at the pain both caused his aching muscles. Despite his discomfort, he pushed his pace faster, determined to catch up.

  Determined to fix what he had helped create.

  Thorn lay limp over the clay man’s shoulder. Kuneprius didn’t remember the last time he’d moved, and couldn’t be sure he still drew breath. The beat of his heart increased in speed. What if he died before Kristeus sacrificed him? Would those who watch from above remain banished? Or might they return when the Small God of the Green expired, even without flourish or ceremony from the Brothers and the priests?

  He didn’t want to find out. Maybe he was ultimately responsible for the blood on his hands, but the accursed prophecy set it all in motion. Enough people had died.

  I have to stop this.

  “Please,” he called out, his scratchy voice—unused for days—catching in his throat. “Please, we must rest.”

  The golem continued his implacable pace without hesitation or any sign he’d heard his companion’s plea. Kuneprius sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewed on it until his own salty blood flowed onto his tongue. He increased his pace further, closing the distance between himself and the clay monstrosity, the effort sending droplets of sweat cascading from his temples. They passed from the sun beside the farmers’ fields into the shade cast by the trees before he caught up.

  “Ves.” Using his friend’s name to reference the brute brought the bitterness of bile to his tongue. “I can’t continue without rest and food.”

  No reaction. Kuneprius moved close enough to reach out and touch the thing’s clay flesh if he wanted. The notion repulsed him, but he raised his hand anyway, fingers shaking. Before they brushed the animated mud, he changed his mind and grasped Thorn’s wrist instead.

  The Small God’s flesh was cool to his fingertips and Kuneprius’ heart leapt into his throat.

  Is it too late?

  If so, what did it mean for him? For the world?

  Thorn’s finger twitched and he raised his chin off the clay monster’s back far enough to tilt his face toward Kuneprius. His eyelids opened to slits revealing rheumy eyes. Before doing anything else, his energy flagged and his head fell back against the creature’s back.

  He’s alive. But for how long?

  It was a question without answer. The unfamiliar countryside offered no clue how far from Murtikara they might be, nor could he guess how long the poor fellow might last in his state.

  I have to take action now.

  “Forget about me. It’s been days since Tho…the Small God ate. You may have forgotten, but living things need nourishment.”

  For an instant, Kuneprius thought the abomination’s pace slowed but, before he could be sure, his own exhausted feet tangled with each other and he pitched forward. He caught the brunt of the fall with his hands, rocks digging painfully into his palms, but his chest struck the dirt track knocking the air from his lungs.

  He lay still, struggling to regain his breath, panic tingling through him that he might not find it. After all he’d been through, to die in the middle of nowhere because he’d taken a fall…

  A sliver of air squeaked into his constricted chest. It might have assuaged his fear if the certainty the clay man had left him to his own devices—taking the Small God away to fulfill the prophecy—hadn’t replaced it.

  Can’t think about it now. Have to catch my breath.

  He pressed his palms against the ground, the tip of his nose brushing the dirt, and concentrated. Another gulp of air made its way to his lungs, then another, and Kuneprius realized he’d survive the fall. But to what end?

  When his breath returned to a resemblance of its norm, Kuneprius rolled onto his side, raised his head to see how far ahead the golem had gotten.

  To his surprise, the thing stood facing him not five paces away. It had set Thorn down beside the track where the Small God lay limp. Dark veins showed through his near-white flesh in some places while sickly brown patches covered others. Kuneprius struggled to his hands and knees and dragged himself toward Thorn, ignoring the pain in his hands as he did. Upon reaching the Small God, he brushed dirt and blood from his palms and touched the small man’s forehead.

  “He needs food,” Kuneprius implored. “He won’t survive without it.”

  The golem stared at them with the same unreadable expression its sculpted face always wore. Its visage bore some resemblance to Vesisdenperos, a likeness he hadn’t noticed before.

  “He’s dying.”

  Kuneprius lifted Thorn’s hand and let it drop. It fell back to the ground, but whether it did so because the Small God was unable to hold it up anymore or because he played along, he couldn’t say. He suspected the former.

  Without a sound, the monster raised its arm and extended a finger, jabbing it toward them, then it turned away and strode into the trees.

  It worked.

  Leaves trembled and thin trees shook in the golem’s wake; Kuneprius watched the signs of the beast’s passing until the clay man’s gray flesh disappeared amongst them. Its gesture had been an admonishment to stay put, a threat at what he’d do if they didn’t, but Kuneprius had no such intention.

  For sunrise after sunrise, he’d been unable to scrub the sin from his cheeks and their burden weighed upon him. This was his chance for atonement. His opportunity to set things right. It might cost him his life, but it might save so many others.

  Kuneprius grabbed Thorn’s arm and pulled him up. The Small God flopped and gave no aid: he wasn’t feigning his inability to move.

  “Get up.”

  Thorn’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes spun, then settled on his companion and recognition flickered on their milky surface.

  “Horace?”

  “No, I’m not Horace,” Kuneprius said as he draped Thorn’s arm across his shoulders and put his around the Small God’s waist. “But I will take you to him.”

  He inhaled a deep breath and pushed hard with his legs, dragging Thorn to his feet. Despite the Small God’s diminutive size, he seemed impossibly heavy. Kuneprius faltered under his weight.

  “Come on,” he said and glanced back over his shoulder at where the golem had disappeared into the trees. No sign of him yet. “I need your help.”

  T
horn’s legs shifted beneath him, taking some of the load off Kuneprius’ shoulders, enough to allow him to walk.

  “That’s better.”

  He headed into the trees, away from the golem and the dirt track, half-dragging Thorn along with him, counting his stumbling steps as they went.

  One. Two. Three…

  XXVII Ailyssa—Fleeing

  “Can we rest?”

  The night hadn’t been chilly, but it dragged on. When was the last time she had a good night’s sleep? Her energy-sapped limbs and sagging lids suggested it had been even longer than she might have thought.

  Ailyssa followed the nameless man through the forest, their hands joined until the sun rose again. She desired to stop and enjoy the sights—tall trees, glimpses of ocean between their branches, colorful birds she’d never seen before—but he insisted they keep a brisk pace.

  At least we’re not running anymore.

  “Not yet,” he replied without casting a backward glance. “They may still follow us.”

  He hefted the chain he carried wrapped around his shoulder, the links clanking together, the muscles in his arm rippling. Ailyssa stepped over a broken branch lying in her path, careful where she set her tender foot. Why did everyone who rescued her want to hurry?

  Why do I always need rescuing?

  Similar thoughts had filled her mind through the night as they fled the robed men. Why was it so difficult to find someone to trust? Why did people want so much of her? What did she do to deserve this?

  Who is this man leading me into the wilderness?

  She wanted it all to be behind her. Olvana seemed so far away, so long ago, but she thought she might do anything to return to its plain walls, to the one place she’d ever felt safe. But had she? From the moment she birthed her first son, she’d worried about being forced out of the order, and it happened. They’d deserted her when she needed them most.

  But Olvana’s cloistered walls were safer than being pursued through the wilderness, lost with a man without a name. Even Jubha Kyna might be a better choice than the untamed woods and the mysterious men in robes.

  They skirted a thicket aromatic of berries hidden amongst the dark green leaves; the bouquet made her stomach rumble. The surrounding trees thinned, giving way to more brush; the remaining trees grew with wide trunks, the forest floor carpeted with moss and fallen needles.