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

by Blake, Bruce

  The brush shook again and a flash of gray showed between two branches, then disappeared. It didn’t have the look of fur.

  “We have to go,” Kuneprius said, struggling to squash the panic threatening to rage through him.

  He grabbed Thorn’s elbow and walked backward from the place where they’d dozed allowing the clay abomination the opportunity to catch up to them.

  It doesn’t need to rest.

  Kuneprius put his arm around the Small God’s waist and pointed them both down the hill toward the gully, the next hill, and whatever lay beyond.

  ***

  They’d put several hills behind them by the time the trees thinned. Sweat ran from Kuneprius’ forehead and he wiped it away with his free hand, the other supporting the Small God’s limp form. He didn’t dare peek back for fear of what he might see.

  To his surprise, he had more energy and strength than he’d have expected his accidental sleep to give. It remained an effort to carry Thorn—the benefits he’d reaped from their rest were short-lived—but his arms and legs did not threaten to remove themselves from his body as they had before, nor did his heart beat so hard it might escape his chest. He labored to breathe, his muscles ached, but he was confident he’d be able to continue for some while yet.

  Exhausted or not, what choice did he have with a murderous statue chasing them?

  As they neared the crest of the hill, the trees became sparse, then disappeared completely leaving broom and scrub brush impeding their path. It grew thickly, but not so dense as to slow the invigorated Kuneprius.

  Does this energy mean we are nearing Thorn’s home?

  The Small God dangled in his grip, toes brushing the dirt as his feet did their best to aid his companion, but they came up mostly unsuccessful. If they neared the Green, shouldn’t it cause Thorn’s power to grow, not his rescuer’s?

  Step by step, Kuneprius pondered this question, using it to distract himself the way counting his steps might have if the numbers hadn’t disappeared from his head. With the top of the hill a few paces away, he realized the answer.

  Thorn is using his magic to give me energy.

  He’d tried to make Kuneprius save himself and leave him behind, but guilt and dismay prevented him from accepting the Small God’s sacrifice. Now he understood Thorn had found a different way to sacrifice himself for him.

  But I am responsible. He wouldn’t be in this situation if not for me. Why should he care to save me?

  He tilted his head to peer at the gray man dangling in his grasp but Thorn’s chin drooped to his chest, his energy gone. Kuneprius hefted him, pulling his feet up off the ground, and pushed on, determined to rescue the Small God from his foretold fate.

  They reached the hilltop, bursting forth through a tangle of brush onto bare earth. The hill sloped down and away, the path ahead of them clear of trees, broom, and tangled roots. The ground at their feet was stony with patches of moss and grass, but after a short distance, it became grassland. In the dimness of twilight, it appeared near black, but Kuneprius suspected it might be lush green in the daylight.

  Like the pasture close to where we found Thorn.

  The thought blossomed further as his gaze followed the field to a darker spot on the land. It was large and oddly shaped, and lit here and there.

  A village!

  Kuneprius stopped in his tracks, staring down the hill at the spots of light his heart knew to be flickering torches, burning lamps, roaring cook fires. The verdant grass at the edge of the trees, the town… this must be near where they’d found Thorn.

  We’re saved.

  The thought filled him with hope and he gave Thorn an excited shake, but the Small God made no response. Kuneprius took two steps forward, beginning the descent, but stopped again.

  I don’t remember a hill.

  He pursed his lips, concentrating. Perhaps they approached from a different direction and he hadn’t noticed it the first time they were near this village. If he couldn’t remember how to count after all the turns of the seasons he’d done so, it seemed likely his memory had no room for a hill he’d seen once.

  Kuneprius sucked a deep breath through his nose, searching for the briny scent of the sea to confirm where they were. His nostrils detected no salt in the air.

  The wind blows the wrong direction, that’s all.

  He took two more steps, glancing skyward. He’d been avoiding eye contact with those who looked down from above, but it was the only other way he knew to approximate their direction and location.

  Sometime during the night, while the trees hid the Small Gods from him, a layer of cloud had crept across the sky. The moon was naught but a blur while the evenstar and the others were invisible. Kuneprius froze, his fears confirmed.

  Ine’vesi and his priests are angered at what I’ve done.

  He didn’t know what the Small Gods would do to him, if they possessed the power to do anything from their place in the sky, but he didn’t intend to find out.

  They started out again, feet scuffing along the stony ground. Thorn seemed heavier now, as if the judgement of those who looked down from the sky added to his burden. He hiked him up with a grunt, the pain which had mostly disappeared from his back returning, bringing with it a knot in his shoulder blade.

  “Come on, Thorn,” he muttered.

  Grass sprouting between stones became more frequent until his steps whispered through blades rather than scraping across stone. A familiarity of the landscape struck Kuneprius, energizing him with hope they may have stumbled upon the village by the sea while also filling him with dread it might not be.

  If it wasn’t, where were they? And how would he explain the comatose gray man he dragged along with him?

  He slowed his pace, hesitant. Perhaps they’d be better off avoiding civilization. What they found behind the town’s walls may be worse than—

  Behind them, brush crashed, moved and thrashed by an unseen, unstoppable force. Kuneprius craned his head but saw nothing in the darkness.

  He didn’t need to see. The sound was enough to remind him the thing trailing them was worse than anything they might encounter in a village. Worse than anything, anywhere.

  We can hide amongst the buildings.

  Mind made up, Kuneprius forced his pace as fast as possible without throwing himself off balance to tumble to the ground. He thought they might find a cellar, a shed, somewhere the clay monstrosity wouldn’t search for them, but the carnage left behind at the inn flashed across his memory. He saw the serving wench’s twisted body, the barkeep’s severed head sitting upon the bar where he’d spent his life pouring ale for his patrons.

  Kuneprius shivered. He didn’t want the deaths of these villagers on his hands, but if they sacrificed Thorn and the prophecy proved true, then how many more would die?

  One of his knees buckled and he lost his balance, twisting as he went to the ground to keep from falling on top of his charge. As he rolled, he caught a glimpse back up the hill where a clay monster in the shape of a man emerged from a tangle of broom.

  Kuneprius’ heart jumped up to clog his throat, making it difficult to draw breath, but he clawed his way to his feet. To stop now would surely mean his death.

  “Come on,” he wheezed grabbing Thorn under his armpits. “Come on. Please…please.”

  The Small God found a reserve of energy and pushed with his legs, helping Kuneprius. He hiked him up, back and hips protesting at having to bear the weight yet again, and pointed them toward the flickering lights ahead.

  The golem possessed but one speed, he knew. If he outpaced the abomination to the village, it might give them enough time to find a hiding spot before the golem got there. Kuneprius clamped his jaw tight, nostrils flaring with the effort of drawing air into his chest, throat raw with fear.

  They drew closer to their goal; the flickering lights brightened. To Kuneprius’ mind, the ground shook beneath him with each step the golem took, but he dismissed the thought. Despite the pain shooting through his
back, the knots threatening in his calves and thighs, he knew himself to be faster than the monster, that he was leaving it farther behind.

  As they came nearer the village, Kuneprius blinked away the sweat stinging his eyes and saw the picketed wall surrounding the town. Like the hill, he hadn’t noticed the fence before, but it seemed familiar nonetheless. Could he have forgotten so much? Hunger and exhaustion played many tricks on a man’s mind, he knew.

  He pressed on, but doubt nagged at the back of his mind, finding its way through the fear of the golem chasing them down. He was a keeper, tasked with keeping the sculptor safe. His job never included fighting or fleeing, only ensuring meals were eaten, clothing repaired, and sleep allowed in appropriate quantities.

  How did I end up here?

  To his right, Kuneprius noticed a lighter spot in the wall: an open gate. It meant those who lived within didn’t fear attacks from beasts or man, but had they ever seen the likes of the golem?

  He amended their path, directing them toward the opening. If he could get himself and Thorn behind the walls, they might survive, but the closer they got, the more the doubt whispering in his ear grew louder, more desperate.

  They reached the gate and found no one guarding it. Kuneprius stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Overhead, the clouds parted, allowing the moon to shine through and cast its silvery light over the grassy expanse leading to the hill. Halfway across it, a dark figure followed footstep for footstep in Kuneprius’ path.

  He dragged his arm across his face, the rough fabric of his shirt chafing his skin as he wiped sweat away, and hauled Thorn over the threshold of the fence and into the village. He inhaled a deep breath filled with the hickory scent of a cook fire, the odor increasing his discomfort with the familiarity of this place. It was as though he’d been here before, but he couldn’t think of when in the same way he had difficulty recalling what number came after four.

  The moonlight illuminated simple buildings behind the picketing, none of them more than a single storey. They were built of wattle and daub, clay and wood, their roofs thatched, the doors hinged with thick rope. Surely one of them would offer a hiding place from the golem.

  Kuneprius redirected them toward the nearest street, intending to find the most stout-looking of the structures, but his pace slowed, a cramp in his right leg and a knot in his shoulder blade hindering him. The pains made it a struggle to keep Thorn from slipping from his grip.

  “Please, Thorn. Help me if you can,” he pleaded.

  “Who is there?”

  Kuneprius halted. The man who’d spoken stood directly ahead of them. He wore a cloak dark enough in color to blend him into his background, hiding him from Kuneprius’ gaze.

  “Help us, please,” Kuneprius wheezed. His head felt light, the exhaustion he’d previously experienced returning full-force as Thorn’s aid disappeared. His legs trembled and failed him; he went to his knees, arm still supporting the Small God. “Please, there’s a—”

  “Kuneprius?” The man stepped away from the shadow of the building and into the moonlight. “Is that you, brother?”

  How can this man know me?

  Kuneprius’ eyes narrowed to slits as the robed man approached. He thought to raise his hand, prepare to defend himself, but his body failed him. Thorn slipped out of his grip, the Small God sliding to the ground. Not having to bear the weight gave Kuneprius the impression he might float away, but the opposite happened and he sagged to the dirt beside Thorn.

  Kuneprius stared toward the Small God. Thorn’s eyes were open, but milky. He couldn’t tell whether the gray man saw him or not, but it didn’t matter. Soon, the golem would be upon them, making their struggle for nothing. Kuneprius licked his lips and wished he’d said goodbye to Vesisdenperos the last day before the monster who would turn out to be both their killers came to life.

  A pair of sandaled feet came into view and the hem of a robe. The man standing by Kuneprius’ head knelt, put his hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Kuneprius, you’re home.”

  With blood roaring in his ears, Kuneprius thought he’d misheard.

  “Home?” he croaked.

  “Yes, brother. You’ve reached Murtikara.”

  XXX Dansil—Revenge

  Thrice the man who’d escaped them appeared to Dansil, and all three times Trenan proved too wary to be caught off-guard. The queen’s guard might not agree he was the best swordsman in the kingdom, nor did he like him, but even with only one arm, Trenan was a more dangerous opponent than most men. He didn’t think a demented half-wit armed with a knife and missing his nose, half an arm, and various other body parts would fare well without surprise on his side.

  The night after the sun set for the fourth time, Dansil found himself in the woods awaiting Stirk as they’d arranged. A sour odor disguised the forest’s usual aromas of wood and moss this night—a sign they neared Ikkundanna.

  The stink of sickness and death.

  Dansil swallowed hard to keep his gorge from rising at the thought. He’d never harbored any desire to visit this place, nor come within any distance of it, yet he’d allowed the one-armed fool to drag him here.

  “You’ll be the death of me if I’m not careful,” he growled aloud.

  A rustle of leaves at his back startled him and Dansil whirled around, hand reaching for the haft of his axe. The wan moonlight cast the man who’d crept up behind him in silhouette, his shape leaning against the trunk of a tree, torso touching the bark because he had no arm at the shoulder to rest upon. In the dark, Dansil thought Trenan had snuck up behind him. Anger and surprise flashed in him before he realized it was the wrong limb missing for it to be the master swordsman.

  “Where’d your arm go?” Dansil nodded toward the limbless shoulder. Last time they’d met, he’d possessed an arm as far as the elbow.

  Stirk looked down as though he didn’t know what Dansil spoke of. When he raised his head, his expression reflected no surprise. He offered a one-sided shrug.

  “There’s a cost,” he replied, leaving the queen’s guard to wonder what he meant.

  Stirk stepped away from the tree and moonlight flashed on the edge of the short, sharp blade he held in his remaining hand. He pointed it toward Dansil half-heartedly, his arm threatening to give way under its own mass and the weight of the knife. Dansil considered rushing him and relieving him of the weapon but decided against it; why disarm the man who wanted to kill his enemy?

  “Is tonight the night?” Stirk asked. “Or do you have more reason for delay?”

  “Tonight must be the night,” Dansil replied, the miasma of sickness hanging in the forest flaring his nostrils. “Tomorrow, we arrive in Ikkundanna and he will be out of your reach.”

  “Then lead me to the bastard who killed my mother.”

  Dansil nodded, goose bumps prickling along his flesh. He told himself anticipation of Trenan’s death caused them, not fear of this man who seemed to be decaying and disappearing before his eyes. Why should he be afraid of such a person?

  Because it’s wise to be afraid of someone with nothing to lose and nothing to live for.

  The queen’s guard retraced his steps toward the camp where he’d left Trenan and their steeds, more slowly than he’d traveled to meet Stirk. Each footstep he lifted from the ground carefully, placed it gingerly so as to avoid noise that might warn the master swordsman of their coming. Stirk followed along behind, making no more noise than a wraith navigating the fog. He was so quiet, Dansil felt compelled to glance over his shoulder to ensure the man still followed and hadn’t lost his nerve.

  A sliver of moonlight shone across Stirk’s face and the queen’s guard noticed he wasn’t merely missing his nose; his teeth showed through a hole in one cheek and pink skin shone in the hollow his right eye used to occupy. Dansil glimpsed patches of flesh on his head where hair had been before, but now those spots gleamed red and sore and through two of them he spied the gleam of white bone. He cringed and returned his gaze to the path ahead
.

  What’s happened to this man?

  Despite what should have been hindrances, Stirk moved through the brush, making less noise than Dansil himself. He forgot the man’s handicaps when, through the trees, he noticed a flicker of light—Trenan had lit a fire.

  “We’re close,” he whispered. Stirk hissed at him to stay quiet.

  Dansil slowed his pace, being even more careful of his footing. Trenan wouldn’t expect an attack, but he was always on alert, as was any soldier of reasonable skill and experience. The queen’s guard inched his hand toward the haft of his axe, at odds over whether he hoped to be involved in the killing or not.

  As they approached the clearing Trenan had chosen for them to spend the night, one of the horses nickered and scuffed the ground with a hoof. The sounds drew Trenan’s attention and he stood from where he crouched beside the fire, surveyed the area near their mounts. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the woods until his eyes fell on Dansil’s approach. The queen’s guard gritted his teeth and awaited the master swordsman’s reaction to Stirk accompanying him. Instead of pulling his weapon or questioning the other man’s presence, Trenan released his grip on the sword hilt, raised his hand in a grudging gesture of welcome.

  “Any luck finding game?”

  At first, Trenan’s question confused Dansil, but then he remembered the lie he’d told to get away and meet Stirk.

  How can he not see him?

  He resisted the urge to peek back for himself. Stirk must have hidden himself, he realized, but the way the man appeared as if from out of nowhere and disappeared the same way tended to unnerve him.

  “No. No game,” Dansil said, distracted. “We’ll be eating rations tonight.”

  Trenan’s scowling response brewed a familiar ire in the queen’s guard’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for Stirk to end the bastard; he’d find it much more satisfying to do it himself.