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

by Blake, Bruce

  To his surprise, the flesh was warm to the touch, as though blood had never ceased coursing through its veins. Its fingers entwined through the fingers of his other hand, lovers clasping each other, expressing their desire. He fought the urge to burst into tears.

  “On whom will you seek revenge first?”

  Stirk licked his lips, begrudgingly tore his gaze away from the reunited hands. He stared at the healer for a time, but didn’t speak. The reason for his lack of words wasn’t because he didn’t know which man he wanted to experience his wrath first, but because he needed to collect himself. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  “The horse doctor,” he said, his voice coming out a rasp despite his efforts.

  The healer nodded. “Enin it shall be.”

  The robed figure moved forward, closing the space between them. This time, Stirk did not shrink way. He stood straighter, pressing his back flat against the stone wall behind him, energy flowing into him from the completeness of the severed hand returned to him.

  He tensed when the healer raised an arm, laid a cool palm on the side of Stirk’s head. A bolt of pain shot through the big man’s temple and he opened his mouth the cry out. Before the sound left his throat, his knees gave out and the world went black.

  XI Horace—Along the Shore

  If the ol’ sailor leaned forward a hair, the tip o’ his nose’d’ve brushed the green wall.

  He took great care not to lean forward.

  The night’d ended without incident, so long as you didn’t count strange sounds comin’ outta the forest as incidents. A couple o’ times, Horace’d dozed off and caught a little rest. Once, he’d tumbled o’er, his shoulder hittin’ against the wall. He’d woken immediately, his sleepy eyes dazzled by emerald lightnin’ what he might’ve found breathtakin’ if it didn’t scare the same breath from him.

  He continued starin’ straight ahead. On the other side, the beach stretched away, sand tinted a shade o’ green same as the cheeks belongin’ to a man what hadn’t developed his sea legs, and the rocks transformed to opaque emeralds. Seein’ it tempted him, made him think he might just be able to walk on through and head for home, but he knew it weren’t a possibility. He couldn’t walk through any more’n he could go home.

  Not after what I’ve seen…what I’ve done.

  Farther along the shore, distant but noticeable, he spied the rocky outcropping where the big gray feller’d taken Thorn. Beside it lay the spot where the man what liked to count came near to endin’ his life what even the God o’ the Deep didn’t find a way to put an end to. He’d floated a good distance, as he’d suspected, but they’d been far closer to the Small God’s home than they knew.

  But we didn’t see the shimmery wall from there.

  Had Thorn realized how close they’d come? Where were he now?

  Horace heaved a sigh and stepped back from the veil, let his chin drop to his chest and his eyes find his feet. Nobody’d assigned him the job o’ takin’ care o’ the little feller, but somehow everythin’ suggested he’d been meant to, and he’d failed. The thought set his chest to achin’; for a god, the little gray man’d been a fine feller.

  The ol’ sailor closed his eyes and balled his fists. His mind wandered back to the Small God’s expression when he’d stolen the britches, his joy at tastin’ pig for the first time, how he’d known more ‘bout Horace and his life than most anyone else did, and the time he’d made himself appear as a young Rilum Seaman.

  Were that why Horace found himself carin’ so much for somethin’ what not so long ago made him shit his breeches in fear? Because he’d used magic to look like the ol’ sailor’s son?

  Despite standin’ on a deserted beach by his lonesome, Horace shook his head. More’n soft feelin’s for a boy he ain’t seen for season after season caused it. He’d sensed somethin’ special ‘bout Thorn the minute he’d landed on top o’ him. Why else did he about face when given the opportunity to flee? It weren’t as though Horace’d chosen not to skiddadle from other things when the chance presented itself. Weren’t that partly why he hadn’t seen Rilum in so long?

  “No,” he said, tiltin’ his head and openin’ his peepers to peer at the shimmery wall again. “I can’t let them take him.”

  A shiver crept along the ol’ sailor’s arms and made him unclench his fists, but it weren’t fear what gave him a shake this time. It were determination.

  Horace stepped away from the green veil and pivoted to his right, lookin’ down its length to where it disappeared into a thicket o’ brush and trees. With a deep inhalation what he meant for givin’ him courage but what instead put more o’ the sea’s taste on his tongue and clenched his throat, he took his first step toward the thicket.

  A wind what weren’t blowin’ a moment before shook the leaves and bristled the whiskers on his cheeks. He hesitated, suddenly aware o’ a layer o’ sweat on his palms, then took another step. He followed it with another, then a fourth, surprised to find out walkin’ here weren’t so different from doin’ it anywhere else.

  Sand and pebbles crunched under his boot heels, each flex o’ his foot makin’ the too-small footwear pinch. A few more paces and the ol’ sailor stood at the verge where the beach ended and the tangle o’ brush began. He searched it with his gaze, hesitant to reach out his hand and touch bare flesh to any o’ those leaves. Instead, he stuck out his foot, preparin’ to toe one o’ the thick stalks with it.

  And he’d’ve done it if the thing didn’t move away when he tried.

  Horace set his foot on the ground, a chill crawlin’ up his spine, and this one he’d attribute to the return o’ fear. Funny how quick determination can turn on a feller.

  The ol’ sailor took a step back the way he came, then one to his left, movin’ closer to the green wall what separated him from his own world. It might’ve been a place what’d done its best to kill him, and he were damn near sure it’d disown him if he returned, but at least he knew what kind o’ creatures in it wanted to get their teeth into him, and that no bushes’d be shakin’ on their own.

  Horace sidled up to the veil, stoppin’ with his shoulder half a hand’s breadth from touchin’ it, and peered along its length. It went for ten paces, plain as can be, before disappearin’, hidden by trees and bushes. Between where Horace stood and where he stopped bein’ able to see his prison’s wall, branches and leaves dangled in the space where the wall were as though it weren’t even there.

  Seein’ that gave the ol’ sailor a thought.

  He eased forward, doin’ his best not to get too near the brush, especially with his bare flesh. Not too far away, a long, curved branch o’ one o’ the bushes hung across the veil, its end danglin’ in Horace’s world, tauntin’ him.

  He reached out, gaze fixed upon it until he realized it were outta his reach. He glanced down at his chest, makin’ sure he didn’t lean into the broad leaves belongin’ to the nearest bush. The width o’ a finger separated them.

  With his bottom lip sucked into his mouth, Horace got up on his toes to stretch farther, leaned forward as far as he dared. His goal remained outta reach. He grunted in his chest, twisted to extend his arm the little bit more it needed. His hand brushed the veil, shooting the verdant energy along its surface, startlin’ him.

  Horace’s feet slipped out from under him.

  He toppled face first, eyes and mouth clampin’ shut to keep foliage from findin’ its way into him. One hand bent back when it hit the ground, jarrin’ his wrist and shootin’ pain up his arm. His chest hit next, knockin’ breath through his tightened lips with a whoosh o’ air he might’ve found funny if it’d happened to someone other’n himself. The broken rib he’d hoped had healed gave him a poke to let him know it hadn’t.

  Horace lay still a while, eyes closed, chest tight and strugglin’ to get him some air. He waited, not sure what to expect—leaves beatin’ him? Stalks and creepers wrappin’ him up like snakes squeezin’ the life from their dinner? A tree uprootin’ itself to walk o’er and cl
ub him with its thick limbs?

  What happened were the one thing he didn’t think’d happen: nothin’.

  After a short bit, the ol’ sailor’s air came back. He sucked a breath through his nose, inhalin’ the loamy odor o’ the forest floor. It were strong enough to hide the sea’s briny scent, for which Horace were glad no matter where he found himself lyin’. Even after his chest loosened up and let his lungs do their job, he kept his eyes shut tight, waitin’ for somethin’ else to happen and not wantin’ to see what it’d be.

  After a few breaths and a couple o’ dozen frightened beats from his heart without leaves beatin’, creepers squeezin’, or limbs clubbin’, Horace pried open his uncooperative lids. His peepers showed him moss and dirt and rocks—everythin’ what one might think they’d find on the ground underneath bushes and trees.

  The ol’ sailor got his arms under him and pushed. A jolt o’ pain shot outta his wrist, but it weren’t unbearable, so he thought it twisted, not broken. Should’ve had some relief o’er that, but it’d have to wait. He climbed to his feet, back pressed against the veil for support as green lightnin’ spider-webbed out ‘round him. To his surprise, he’d fallen into a clear space—leaves all about, but none touchin’ him. To his right, less than an arm’s length away, were the branch he’d been reachin’ for.

  Its leaves danglin’ on the end on the other side o’ the veil moved with the touch o’ a gentle wind. On Horace’s side, they was dead still.

  I’m here now. Might as well find out.

  He reached out and touched the wall where the branch protruded through.

  Solid.

  His brow creasin’, Horace’s hand did somethin’ he didn’t mean it to do—grab the piece o’ bush what were pokin’ through the veil and give it a shake.

  The leaves rattled together with an ominous sound. The tremor traveled along the branch and through the wall, shakin’ the foliage on the other side, too. Seein’ this made shallow goosebumps crawl o’er Horace’s forearm. He gripped the stalk tighter, shook harder, its motion unimpeded by the wall what felt same as a slab o’ stone to the ol’ sailor.

  His heart grew in his chest, inflated by the hope this meant he were close to findin’ a way outta the green. The swollen organ shriveled again when the branch tore itself from Horace’s grasp.

  It whipped away as though jerked by an unseen hand, and Horace’s now fearful mind wondered if it might’ve actually been the case. He stumbled backward, leaves brushing his ears and slappin’ his back, so he threw his arms up o’er his head and ducked. Elbows first, he blundered toward the sea, hopin’ the thick stalk didn’t fall across him, seekin’ revenge. He imagined creepers reachin’ for his ankles, limbs pokin’ at him, and didn’t stop movin’ until sand crunched beneath his feet followed by the splash o’ salty water on his boots.

  Horace stopped and lowered his arms, gazed back at the tangled brush with his heart beatin’ hard against his ribs. The leaves and bushes was motionless, hangin’ in the air as though nothin’d happened. The ol’ sailor stared at the mess, waitin’ for somethin’ to happen and promisin’ himself he weren’t goin’ in there again.

  ***

  Enough steps passed beneath Horace’s boots that, when he turned ‘round to peek back, he no longer had a view o’ the green wall.

  The sun’d climbed its way high into the sky, o’er its zenith, and begun headin’ toward the far horizon. Its warmth prompted sweat to the sailor’s brow, under his arms, and along his back, makin’ him stop to wipe it away on his sleeve now and then, to keep it from rollin’ into his eyes. An achin’ rib, a tweaked wrist; he didn’t need stingin’ peepers, too.

  Horace’d walked for the whole day, gaze peekin’ first one way then the other, unsure if he should keep his eyes on the ocean to his right what’d tried to kill him more’n once, or the forest to his left what he didn’t know the kinds o’ things lurkin’ beneath its boughs.

  One thing he knew for sure: if he could walk right ‘round the end o’ sunset and make his way to the Leeward Kingdom without settin’ foot under them trees, he’d do it.

  Gonna be a long walk.

  As much as his heart wanted him to do whate’er he could to help poor little Thorn, his head realized there weren’t nothin’ for him to do, not trapped behind the veil. He had no idea where the big gray feller and the countin’ man was plannin’ to take him, except it weren’t here.

  He walked on, thinkin’ on the little gray feller. Did he have any o’ the magic left he’d used to make himself appear the same as Rilum? Enough to save himself? Horace didn’t know, but he thought if they took him farther away from the Green, it’d make Thorn weaker and weaker, maybe even kill him.

  He didn’t want that happenin’.

  While he were walkin’ and thinkin’, the beach’s grains o’ sand grew to pebbles, then rocks. By the time the sun’d dropped halfway from its peak toward the sea, the rocks’d become the size o’ fists, makin’ the footin’ precarious and slowin’ Horace. He pulled himself from thoughts and regret to take care o’ his footin’ and noticed there weren’t no driftwood scattered along the shore, but somethin’ else instead.

  Bones.

  He crept up on the closest pile o’ bones as if it might jump up and run if he made too much noise. They didn’t, o’ course, and when Horace stood o’er them, he recognized they’d belonged to a fish ‘bout the length o’ his forearm. Its ribs was translucent and pointy, achin’ to find their way into some unsuspectin’ diner’s throat, and the shape o’ its head were like no fish Horace’d ever seen. Besides its odd noggin, he counted too many fins, though not a speck o’ scales or flesh were left stuck to none o’ them, fins and bones alike.

  Horace scratched his stubbled cheek and tilted his head to glare toward the sea.

  “What’re you up to?”

  His words died in the warm, late-day air, swallowed by the wash of surf rolling onto the shore. He narrowed his eyes, suspectin’ even the sound comin’ from the treacherous ocean might be a lie, then returned his gaze to the bones what used to be a swimmer. His stomach gurgled.

  “Too bad the birds already got you,” he said. “You might’ve been tasty.”

  Saliva washed across his tongue at the thought what made his belly clench and churn. Fish and all the sea’s bounty scored low amongst Horace Seaman’s favorite foods, despite how much he’d eaten during those seasons with his feet on one deck or another. To him, the flavor o’ the briny deep clung to ev’ry bite—a flavor he didn’t enjoy havin’ on his tongue.

  Horace left the bony fish behind, concentratin’ on where he needed to place his boots and tryin’ to forget the complainin’ in his belly.

  ***

  The collections o’ bones got more frequent and the creatures what they’d belonged to grew larger as Horace continued his journey toward sunset.

  He passed a big fish what might’ve been one o’ them ones what liked to race alongside the ships. The ol’ sailor’d always liked watchin’ them, usin’ them to distract him from starin’ out o’er the water with nothin’ much to see. He enjoyed the way they swam and the grace and ease with which they leaped outta the water.

  Farther along, he found what must’ve been a seal, because it certainly weren’t no fish. Sharp little teeth lined the jaw in its sun-bleached skull but, same as ev’ry other skeleton he passed, not the smallest scrap o’ flesh clung to it.

  Horace thought it strange the carrion eaters had done such a good job o’ pickin’ clean the bones when he’d seen not a single livin’ creature since he floated across the veil. No birds, no fish, not so much as a crab.

  If there ain’t nothin’ livin’ ‘round, what be eatin’ the dead?

  The ol’ sailor added the question to the myriad o’ others floatin’ in his brain search’ for answers and findin’ none. The biggest of them all were how he’d crossed the wall the one way, but couldn’t go back the other. It bubbled to the surface again, stoppin’ him in his tracks.

  “I were in th
e water,” he said aloud, gaze starin’ straight ahead at the sunlight beginnin’ to glint a shade o’ pink upon the water. “I were in the water when I crossed, but my feet was on the ground when I tried to go back.”

  Horace spun ‘round, fist-sized rocks grating under his foot. The shore stretched away behind him, bleached bones shining in the late day sun, but his eyes found no green shimmerin’ wall.

  “Fuck me dead,” he whispered. “The answer were right there and I left it behind.”

  He took one step toward where his journey’d started, but stopped. The shadow stretchin’ out in front o’ him and the pink shine upon the sea made it plain he didn’t have time to get back before night claimed the beach. The footin’ were too treacherous to walk the shore in the dark.

  Horace chewed his bottom lip and squinted, doin’ his best to see the emerald veil, but it were invisible to him now; he’d come too far.

  “Far enough if I go back and I’m wrong, I’ll be dyin’ o’ hunger.”

  He peeked o’er his shoulder toward sunset, then along the beach at the distant gatherin’ night.

  “Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t.” He lifted his hand and banged his flattened palm against the side o’ his head. “If you keep thinkin’ like Dunal, you might as well lay down and die.”

  Once upon a time, Horace Seaman might’ve done exactly that if he found himself lost in the Green. He’d’ve made dirt in his drawers and fallen to the ground curled up in a ball to await death’s tap on the shoulder. But the Horace Seaman who’d’ve done those things hadn’t been spat out by the God o’ the Deep, or killed a swabbie to save his own neck, or had a Small God fall on his head. Things’ll change a man and, though it might’ve taken more to change the ol’ sailor than it’d’ve taken for others, change came nonetheless.

  Horace gritted his teeth and faced away from the dark lurkin’ behind sunrise’s horizon, determined to get farther along the shore before night made him stop. An energy he hadn’t had since Thorn’d left him surged through his limbs, urging him on. He thought it might be hope, or courage, but whatever name he put to it, it gave him the strength to keep goin’.