When Shadows Fall

by Bruce Blake

  But he’d never learned his true limitations, or the art of care.

  She wanted to blame the master swordsman. He’d lied to the prince, led him to believe his skills were greater than what they truly were, but Danya understood Trenan was merely another puppet of the king, following orders, doing what his regent expected of him. No, the responsibility for her brother’s death lay on their father’s shoulders, though he’d never accept the blame for it. Ultimately, it would be the guard assigned to watch her brother who’d pay, and likely Trenan because he’d known the prince left. And Danya was at fault for whatever punishment awaited the master swordsman.

  I could have stopped him. I should have.

  Tears blurred her vision and she fought to hold them back. She stumbled around a corner, leaned against a wall to collect herself, but felt exposed standing in the open. Eight paces farther along the street, she found the opening to a short, dark alley. The stench was overpowering, but the knotted sob choking her throat kept it from her lungs.

  Danya leaned with her back against the wall, let her knees give way and slid along the stone to sit on the ground, her head in her hands. Small Gods, a man from across the sea, the seed of life, her brother dead. None of it made any sense and his death was her fault.

  She sobbed into her hands, smothering the sound with her palms. Frustration and despair leaked down her cheeks, her shoulders trembled.

  I should have gone back with Trenan.

  The thought made her picture the castle—her home, so empty without her brother in it, exploring it at her side, adventuring with her. She thought of swimming in the river, playing hide-and-go-find in the gardens, sparring in the practice ring. The certainty of her mother’s sorrow squeezed her heart, then the image of her father’s face, his responsibility, hardened it.

  The princess dragged her sleeve across her face, wiping the tears off her cheeks. She drew a shuddering breath, nostrils flaring as the stink of the garbage-filled lane assaulted her, pushing her to her feet.

  “You didn’t die for nothing, Teryk,” she said aloud and strode out of the alley.

  Her jaw set and determined, she swallowed the last of her tears. She had no use for sorrow; grief couldn’t bring her brother back to life. She’d cried her tears and sobbed her sobs.

  Should Small Gods rise, man will fall.

  The ominous line made her shudder, but Danya didn’t know where to find a Small God, or a man from across the sea. Her brother had set out to find them, determined to save the kingdom, and now he was dead, so it fell to her to continue his task. But she couldn’t begin to guess where to search for this creature of fable, or a man who couldn’t exist.

  A lock with no key. Living statue. Seed of life.

  None of it made sense. Not a line gave a clue how to save man from the rise of the Small Gods.

  A barren Mother.

  The priestesses of the Goddess were called Mother. Could the scroll refer to one of them?

  Danya stepped out of the stinking alley, straightened her doublet and adjusted her sword. ‘Mother’ might refer to any woman who’d given birth, perhaps even her own, but there were Goddess temples in the city and it gave her a place to start. Small Gods and men from across the sea were shadows to chase; a Goddess Mother could be found.

  She set out along the avenue, picking her way between potholes in the pock-marked street, unsure which way to head, but knowing she had to go. The night wind stirred her hair and she gripped her sword’s hilt, ready should she need to draw it. As her boots carried her along a bridge over the swirling river she paused at its apex and stared down into the dark water.

  At first, she saw nothing but the whirlpools and eddies caused by the current flowing around submerged rocks. A chunk of wood bobbed past, destined to catch against the grate separating the outer city from the inner, then a piece of fabric floated by. She watched it drift into the distance, then another caught her attention, followed by another.

  A hand floated past, its fingers curled into claws, and Danya gasped. She took a step back from the edge of the bridge, one hand held to her mouth, but curiosity forced her back to the brink. She leaned on the rail, looked over the edge.

  An arm. A leg. A head floated by, turning over and over, its shriveled face glaring up at her before rolling over into the water, then tumbling again to cast its dead gaze upon her once more. Other bodies drifted past, carried on the current, their exposed flesh hacked, burned, stripped.

  Danya wanted to run from the bridge, but her legs refused to take her. She wanted to close her eyes or look away, but her head wouldn’t do that which she asked of it. Instead, she leaned farther over the precipice, teetering above the water as the moon’s light reflected on its surface.

  The body of a child bobbed past.

  Finally, the princess pried her fingers from the bridge’s railing, covered her face, rubbed her knuckles hard in her eyes. She sucked a deep breath through her nose, inhaling the scent of the water, and it turned her stomach queasy.

  After a moment, she took her hands away and gazed down at the water, ready to view more atrocities. She saw only a log.

  “A vision,” she whispered.

  The night wind rose again, touching her face and whistling by her ear, whispering in response:

  Should Small Gods rise, man will fall.

  With a shudder, Danya forced her feet to carry her from the bridge and went into the dangerous city, determined to find the barren Mother. And, perhaps, a Goddess.

  XXIV The Sculptor

  The first bead of sweat formed as Vesisdenperos molded the middle finger of the right hand. The droplet rolled down his temple, along his cheek. When it reached the angle of his jaw, he stopped sculpting, took the vial from the ground by his knee, and caught the drop in the glass container. He put the stopper in the top, then set it carefully back on the ground.

  The finger grew to fingers, the fingers into a hand, the hand led to an arm. The clay whispered and sang under Vesisdenperos’ expert touch, each knuckle rendered exactly so, each vein and ridge of muscle in the forearm proportionate to his vision of the overall size.

  As his work progressed, the master sculptor stopped more often to collect his perspiration in the vial. When he’d filled it to the top, he uncorked another.

  The right shoulder came to be and he directed his attention to sculpting the side of the prone figure, recalling his plan: eight handspans from armpit to waist. Clay collected beneath his nails, clogged the lines in his fingertips. Vesisdenperos hummed.

  Waist, hip, thigh.

  Each detail exact, meticulously measured and depicted.

  Knee, calf, foot.

  Not once did he have to flatten the clay and begin a section again, such was the sculptor’s skill. Since the time he gained control of his hands, he’d trained for this. A thousand hundred replicas he’d made to get him here, miscues and wrong placements long ago worked from his fingers, banished from his abilities. Every day of his life he’d knelt in a cave like this one, molding the clay, humming, whispering words. Always the same figure, always the same dimensions, never in this cave.

  Until now.

  He completed the inside of the right leg and paused. He leaned back, raised his arm to wipe sweat off his brow, nearly forgetting himself, but stopped and used the vial. A deep breath inhaled through his nose brought the tang of his own perspiration, the grittiness of the clay, a hint of beeswax wafting from the tapers burning around him. He removed his shirt, the back of it soaked due to his efforts and the sticky heat gathering in the cave. An unseen hand attached to an unseen arm took the damp chemise from his grasp and disappeared back into the shadows.

  Vesisdenperos flexed his hands. The ache was beginning, but his dexterous fingers were yet a long way from the twisted, knotted things they’d be when he completed his work. He rested his hand on the sculpture’s thigh, leaned forward to examine the clay awaiting his fingers to mold next—one of the most important places, where a mistake likely meant failure.
r />   One of the areas of power.

  He rubbed his palms together sending flakes of dry clay spinning through the air in a cloud. After waiting for it to settle, he set to work.

  The sculptor formed the scrotum first, setting one testicle lower than the other, shaping it as though the figure stood rather than lay prone, getting the dangle just right. With that task complete, he moved on to the next: the penis. Erect, of course, and large enough to do justice to a creature of such power.

  Vesisdenperos’ own cock stirred as he formed and molded, smoothed and stroked. It neither surprised him nor gave him pause when it did for it was always so, even in practice. He’d have been more concerned if his manhood didn’t stiffen when given the honor of laying his hands on the magnificent specimen.

  The construction of the genitals took as long as the arm and leg combined. The veins needed to bulge the right way, the tip shaped in the perfect manner, the ridges straight and true. He formed it lying against what would become the figure’s belly, as though contained behind breeches, and its tip extended beyond the spot earmarked for the navel.

  More than once, the sculptor stopped and peered into his own loincloth, observing, inspecting, comparing. Another man might have judged himself inadequate when surveying his own worm next to this python, but not the sculptor. The sculpture’s python was his creation, as the Father had created the sculptor’s worm.

  The power center complete, Vesisdenperos leaned back on his haunches and extended his arms to the side. More unseen hands wiped his chest and back with soft, absorbent cloths, the fabric to be wrung out and the salty water collected, but that wasn’t the sculptor’s job.

  He returned to his work, forming the left leg from its inside. His throat hummed, his lips parting occasionally to whisper words the meaning of which he didn’t know, but which he’d learned by rote. The leg came into being, kneecap positioned in the exact right spot, toes splayed, muscles contoured.

  The sculptor’s fingers worked as though each one possessed its own mind, manipulating the clay into a ridge of hip bone, rippled stomach, slabbed pectorals. He leaned in close to do the detailed work of the nipples, pausing to collect his sweat, careful to ensure none of it dropped onto his creation. Not yet.

  The torso complete, Vesisdenperos built the left arm. This time, he rendered the hand with the palm facing upward, laboring over the lines, making sure each one matched his, but for two. The line representing strength he made deeper, longer. The life line began farther down the palm, ended sooner. To create the whirls and loops at the tips of the figure’s fingers, he pressed his own fingertips into them, the only way to make them identical.

  When he completed the arm, he stood, stretched. Twilight muted the glow outside the cave, making it indiscernible from the early dawn light that shone through the opening when he began his work. He nodded to himself, pleased things were progressing exactly as expected. The sculptor allowed a smile to creep onto his lips.

  Movements whispered in the shadows around him; the priests were beginning their roles, expecting to complete theirs the same time he finished his. No more time for rest.

  Vesisdenperos knelt at the top of the headless clay body, closed his eyes, pictured the face his hands were about to create. He imagined the wide-set eyes, the aquiline nose. High-set bones, full lips. He’d sculpt no hair on head or cheeks, nor any part of the body.

  Ears made for hearing. Nostrils formed for breathing. A face never meant to smile.

  The sculptor bent to his work, the humming in his throat louder, the words more frequent. Next to the genitals, this was the most crucial part, but his hands moved with the grace and knowledge of practice beyond practice. He knew this face better than his own. Every curve, every hollow, every line honored him in his dreams each night, implanting themselves in his mind until his fingers lost the ability to make any other nose, any other eyes.

  Vesisdenperos smoothed the final line from the figure’s forehead and leaned back. A sigh shushed through the shadows as the others completed their tasks, as personal and alone as the sculptor’s, equally important. Without them, he spent his life to create the most detailed, lifelike statue ever seen. With their contribution, it became so much more.

  Together, they created a god.

  The sculptor pushed himself to his feet, knees creaking after being folded beneath him, feet aching from toes curled in concentration. His back complained, his head throbbed. In a short while, his fingers would curl into claws, but not before he’d finished.

  A hooded figure stepped from the shadows. In his right hand, the man held an ewer, the vessel formed of the clay found in this very cave, designed and molded by the sculptor’s hands, fired in his kiln. Vesisdenperos nodded and took the pitcher in both hands, gripping as tightly as his aching hands allowed. Only a few moments remained before they’d become useless, but he needed but a few moments.

  He faced the sculpture and the hooded man disappeared into the shadows. Vesisdenperos tilted the ewer, splashing the model’s brow with perspiration of his own brow, dampening its chest with sweat of his own chest, moistening its arms with sweat of his own arms. He doused it head to toe, emptying the jug.

  Finished, he stepped back and a robed and hooded figure took the pitcher. Another replaced it with a bowl, born of the clay from this very cave, shaped by the sculptor’s hands, hardened in his oven. He gazed at light reflecting in the pearlescent white liquid it held. Semen of the twelve priests, plus his own—the first deposited before the sun rose, before the work began.

  Vesisdenperos held the bowl in his cramping fingers, extended his arms. The shadows lining the walls of the cave hummed as the priests took up their chant. Words vibrated the clay beneath his feet, the air thrummed with their intonations of power spoken in a language dead before the Goddess banished the Small Gods to the sky.

  And I will help them return again.

  Vesisdenperos’ chest swelled with pride. He inhaled deeply, the musky scent of the bowl’s contents invigorating him, making him forget the painful cramps warping his fingers. He tipped the bowl, allowing a thick and stringy stream of viscous fluid to flow over the edge. It spattered the statue’s scrotum, drenched its erect cock.

  The clay absorbed it hungrily.

  The last drop fell and the sculptor turned the bowl upright. A thrill shivered through him, shaking his hands. He bobbled the bowl but kept from dropping it. The hooded figure—the same man or perhaps another—relieved him of the vessel, untangling his gnarled fingers to pry it away.

  With his shriveling hand emptied, the sculptor allowed his arms to fall to his side. His fingers were curling and he knew from experience that they’d soon become claws, not opening again until the sun returned, but he’d not see the sunrise marking the new day. This morning, he’d watched the sun creep over the horizon cloaked in hues of purple that became pink and then faded away. He’d drank in its rays, inhaled its warmth, knowing it to be the final time, and he experienced no hesitation at what he must do, no regret.

  Another hooded man slid out of the shadows, a black shape born of darkness, and the sculptor wondered if the priests were truly with him in the cave, or if they appeared from where once there was naught but air. This man held a long, curved dagger. Light cast by the flickering tapers danced on its blade, winking and shining as Vesisdenperos watched him approach.

  Apprehension fluttered in his belly. His eyes flickered to the clay statue on the ground at his feet.

  What if it wasn’t as perfect as it needed to be? What if his fingers betrayed him?

  His gaze crawled over the prone shape, reassessing every detail. The eyes appeared the same size, one arm a reflection of the other, each leg the same length as its twin.

  The power center.

  Had he sculpted the genitalia correctly? Had he created manhood worthy of a god?

  A splinter of doubt crept into the sculptor’s mind and sweat sprang to his brow. His eyes scanned the ground near his feet, searching for a vial to capture the dro
plets before they escaped, then he remembered that task was complete. His breath shortened, his heart beat faster. He swiped the inside of his mouth with his tongue, attempting to prompt saliva to return, give him something to use to wet his parched lips.

  The hooded man touched his shoulder.

  Vesisdenperos jumped, startled. He dragged his gaze to the priest, squinting into the blank spot beneath the hood and saw not even a reflection of the light. It appeared as though night had gathered beneath the robe, night with no face but with the hand of a man to hold the dagger.

  Something about the lack of face—no eyes to see him, no mouth to speak—siphoned the panic from the sculptor’s chest, relieved the ache in his belly. He looked back to the figure at his feet and now saw the perfection of every finger, every joint, every muscle. With a breathy sigh, he expelled the last of it and let peace enter his body.

  The priest gestured with the knife, flicking its tip once, and Vesisdenperos nodded. He reached out with both arms, wrists facing the ceiling of the cave, his fingers and hands bunched into painful knots he refused to acknowledge. He wouldn’t allow the pain of the work to usurp the glory of the accomplishment.

  Chanted words droned back to life, their cadence drifting through the dank cave like wisps of smoke from the guttering tapers. The hooded man holding the knife stepped toward Vesisdenperos, grasped one of the sculptor’s forearms with his free hand. His fingers were cold as death, the air whispering from the black hole where his face should be stank of rotted things.

  “I am ready,” the sculptor murmured, though he didn’t need to.

  The dagger’s pointed tip dug into his left wrist. Pain raced up his arm, his hand spasmed, but the priest gripped him tighter as he drew the knife up toward his elbow. Blood welled up and flowed over the sides of his forearm, a trickle at first, then quickening as the hooded man increased the size of the cut. Droplets of Vesisdenperos’ life spilled over and fell on the clay statue’s chest.