by Bruce Blake
When the priest withdrew the knife, the sculptor rotated his arm and the blood flowed free. It pattered and splashed, but its wetness didn’t mar the surface of the clay chest—it disappeared into it.
The hooded man grasped Vesisdenperos’ other arm, inserted the tip, made the cut, then stepped behind him. The sculptor watched his blood spill, feeding the mud man, his life force sucked into the heart of its clay chest. A smile dawned across his face, slow and sure the way the sun had found its way over the horizon that morn. The last sunrise he’d ever see. The last smile he’d ever smile.
A pinpoint of regret pricked the sculptor’s heart. All that time and practice, years spent on his knees, alone with the clay. He’d completed that for which he’d been given life and now, without him to see it, his art would live on to change the world.
The flesh of Vesisdenperos’ cheeks prickled and the cave grew hazy around him, the dark creeping out of the priests’ hoods to steal the light. His knees shook as though they’d give way, but the priest he’d forgotten stood behind him encircled his chest with an arm. Gratitude for the man keeping him from falling, perhaps ruining his creation, flowed through the sculptor, and he opened his mouth to say so, but the touch of a cool metal edge against his throat stopped him.
The priest sliced his throat with one quick swipe. It stung, and the coppery scent of blood filled Vesisdenperos’ nose. He gagged, gurgled. The hooded man let him go and his knees buckled. In vain, he attempted to redirect his path and avoid falling on the statue, but he possessed no strength, what wasn’t up by the hard work of the day having been freed from him by the dagger’s sharp edge.
Vesisdenperos fell upon the clay man’s chest, his life’s blood flowing straight out of his wrists and throat onto the figure. His breath burbled in his throat, the calming scent of the clay filled his head. The regret he’d experienced earlier returned, but not for the lack of seeing a sunrise this time; he regretted he wouldn’t live to see the product of all that practice, all that work. He’d never see why he’d spent day after day hunched over a pile of clay, putting aches in his back and working his fingers until they couldn’t clutch or feel.
A rumble beneath him.
With great effort, the sculptor opened eyelids he hadn’t realized had slipped shut. He gazed at the underside of the statue’s chin, the slope of the top of its chest. The tip of its nose showed beyond the chin and, if he concentrated his focus, he thought he saw the lobes of its ears.
The rumble beneath him again, a sound in his ear. Vesisdenperos’ breath caught on the slice in his throat, choking him with blood flowing out of his arteries. The rumble came again, again. Two together, then a brief pause. Two more, a pause.
And the rumble became a heartbeat.
The cave went dark to Vesisdenperos’ eyes, as though all the tapers blew out at once, but he realized it was his life extinguishing, not the light. His mind wandered from the beating in the statue’s chest as a sculpted arm fell across his shoulders, the scent of his own perspiration and his own blood on clay wafted into his nostrils. A single line from the prophecy the Fatherhood held so dear came to him in his last moment, lending him satisfaction as his life slipped away.
A Small God shall fall so the Small Gods might rise.
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Also by Bruce Blake
Khirro's Journey Trilogy:
Blood of the King
Spirit of the King
Heart of the King
Icarus Fell Urban Fantasy:
On Unfaithful Wings
All Who Wander Are Lost
Secrets of the Hanged Man
The Lady Corsairs (Erotica co-authored with Rosie Bitts)
The Invitation
The Handmaid
The Pirates
The Master
About the Author
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow, and the dog is too small to pull a sled. Since snow isn't really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the "u" out of words like "colour" and "neighbour" then he does shovelling (and darn those double l's). The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of a burlesque diva.
Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn't until a few years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, "Another Man's Shoes" was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, "Yardwork", was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, On Unfaithful Wings, was published to Kindle in Dec., 2011. The second Icarus Fell novel, All Who Wander Are Lost, was released in July, 2012, and the third, Secrets of the Hanged Man, in July 2013. Sept., 2013 saw the publication of Blood of the King, the first book in the Khirro's Journey epic fantasy trilogy, followed by second book, Spirit of the King, in Dec., 2012, and the third, Heart of the King in Jan., 2013. He has plans for more Icarus novels, several stand alones, and several more books in the Small Gods series.
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/BruceBlakeWrites
Twitter: @bruceablake
www.bruceblake.wordpress.com
[email protected]
First Original Edition, 2013
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the ebook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Copyright 2013, Bruce Blake & Best Bitts Productions
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form of by any electronic or mechanical means, including information and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review,
This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-927687-09-3