And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (2 page)

On a whim, he took a right and maintained a slow but steady pace, the muscles in his thighs tight and ready to hie him away should one of the many doors lining the hall open and a visiting noble step out. He figured none would this late at night, but better ready than caught.

The end of the hall intersected another; here he stopped again and found himself rewarded for his care. Halfway along the corridor, a door opened. A woman clothed in white bedclothes emerged, the wall sconces behind her illuminating the outline of her body through the cloth.

Dansil sucked a sharp breath at the sight and his hand darted to his groin. The woman stood for a short time, hand on the door’s handle, her head hung. Her long hair caressed her arms and shoulders, the light highlighted the shape of her breasts, the curve at the small of her back. After a moment, she raised her head, glanced along the hall away from where Dansil peered around the corner, then swivelled her head toward him. The young man faded back from the corner before she saw him, a silent curse on his lips.

He waited, breath held, resisting the urge to peep around the corner again. If he did, and she was walking away, the wall sconce’s light might shine between her legs, outlining the most secret of places. But if she headed toward him, he’d be discovered.

The whisper of footsteps padding on the rug interrupted his thought.

She’s coming this way.

No time to hurry back the way he’d come; if he tried, she’d see him, even if she didn’t turn his direction. Lips squeezed hard together, he pressed himself against the wall and hoped she’d continue straight along the corridor.

A moment later, she passed by and Dansil saw her face. His eyes widened and his grip on his half-swollen man thing released.

The queen!

As she hurried down the corridor, Dansil stepped out from his hiding spot to watch her go, forgetting the possibility she might glance back and see him. She didn’t and, instead of admiring the swing of her hips, the shape of her body hidden beneath the bedclothes, the young man wondered why she’d be out alone at this time of night. When she disappeared around the far corner, he peered back toward the door she’d exited.

The curiosity was too much for Dansil. He crept along the corridor in the direction from which the queen had come, his hand extended and fingertips dragging along the rough stone wall. Every door appeared the same as the others, but he’d noted the one from which she’d emerged: the third on the left. A moment later, he stood in front of the plain wood slab, staring at the handle. After a quick survey of the empty hall, he leaned close, pressed his ear to the door, but heard no sounds within.

Excited saliva filled his mouth. He swallowed hard, raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the wood.

The knock garnered no immediate response so Dansil assumed the chamber empty until a man’s voice spoke a single word.

“Ishla?”

The curiosity burning in his brain tingled into his chest and along his limbs. The hand he still held raised after knocking fell to the door handle, gripped it. He didn’t recognize the voice or know who might reside within, but was aware he shouldn’t enter any room in the castle without invitation. He also knew no invitation would come if he waited for one, and he’d never discover who the door concealed.

Dansil set his jaw and pushed the door open.

A musky odor filled the air in the room, one he recognized from the occasions when his mother came home with a man and sent him off to his chambers. The furnishings were sparse and a man lay upon a bed to the left, one shoulder wrapped with a pink-tinged bandage where his arm was missing. The tender expression on his face went stony when he spied the lad.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Beg your pardon, m’lord swordsman. Wrong chamber.”

Dansil backed out of the room and closed the door behind him, a wicked grin creeping onto his lips as he went. The door clicked shut; he hurried away along the hall lest the man rise and come after him.

Trenan and the queen. The king’s friend and his wife. Together.

He rounded the corner and hastened to the staircase, the path of his future falling into view.

Sometimes, one unexpected turn of events can change a boy’s life.

I Teryk—Stowaway

Afraid to swallow for fear the tip of the saber brushing his throat might slice him, Teryk’s mouth filled with saliva, threatened to spill out between his lips. The sailor holding the broad-bladed sword glared at him, one brow raised, sun gleaming on the wax holding his moustache in its curls. A bead of nervous, fearful sweat on the prince’s forehead rolled between his eyebrows and along the bridge of his nose.

“Well?” the blade wielder asked as his patience waned. “Do you think you’re deservin’ of feedin’ the God of the Deep? Don’t know if’n he likes the flavor of stowaway or not. Only one way to find out.”

Whispers and chuckles washed through the other men gathered, passing from one to another like a bottle of hooch to be enjoyed by all. The man with the sword leaned closer, forcing Teryk to lean away or be skewered on the end of his saber. The wale pressed hard against his lower back as it bent until his head hung out over the sea.

“Please,” the prince whispered, lips barely moving.

The fellow laughed, but the others gathered behind him went silent as another sound rose in place of their joyous encouragement.
Clomp-thump. Clomp-thump.
When the sailor holding the sword heard it, he leaned back a little, allowing Teryk to stand almost straight, but the blade’s tip remained at his throat.

“Cap’n on deck,” a hoarse voice cried.

Clomp-thump. Clomp-thump.

“What’s going on here?”

The words rumbled across the deck, dripping with the sound of authority and of a man used to being heeded. Teryk’s mustachioed captor’s eyes flickered toward the voice and back to the prince.

“A stowaway, Cap’n. We be deciding what’s the best way to deal with him.”

“The last I checked, such decisions belong to the captain. Were you proclaimed captain while I slept, Digred?”

The man shook his head, the waxed ends of his moustache not so much as quivering with the movement. “Not as I recall, Cap’n.”

“Then lower your blade and let’s treat this fellow like a real person until we learn his intent. We’re sailors of the king, not heathen pirates of the Water Kingdom.”

With a final scowl and a flash of yellowed teeth, the saber’s tip left Teryk’s throat and its wielder stepped away. The prince immediately swallowed hard and brought his hand to his neck to check for blood; he found none.

After heaving two relieved but still frightened breaths, he raised his head to peer upon the face of the man who’d spared him.

So far.

He wore his graying hair cut short and tidy, unlike most of the crew gathered around, and his salt-and-pepper beard matched his coif. His clothes appeared cleaner and in better repair than those of the other men, but none of this meant a thing once Teryk’s gaze reached the captain’s footwear.

A polished leather boot with a modest heel and a gold buckle on the side covered his right foot, but where the left should have been was naught but a block of wood. Whatever doctor or artisan affixed it in place hadn’t bothered to shape it to resemble a foot or boot—a block of unfinished wood instead.

Teryk had seen that unusual foot once before, when seasons past he’d gone for a ride on the Devil of the Deep’s maiden voyage. He gulped again but said nothing, waiting for the skipper to speak.

“I’m Captain Bryder. You must forgive Digred for his lack of diplomacy; he’s just protecting His Majesty’s ship.”

The prince nodded and realized he’d been rubbing the spot on his throat where the point of Digred’s saber had kept him at bay. He made himself stop and glanced past the captain at the mustachioed man. He’d stored his sword back in its scabbard but continued scowling as he twisted the end of his curled moustache between his thumb and first finger.

“Well, don’t be rude, lad. I’ve told you my name, and you’ve probably guessed my purpose for being aboard His Majesty’s Ship Whalebone. How about you enlighten us with your moniker and reason for finding your way onto my deck?”

Teryk’s gaze flitted from one sailor to the next before returning to the captain. He recognized none of the others, wouldn’t have recognized the captain if not for his unusual foot. But did Bryder or any of the other sailors recognize him? It didn’t seem so.

If I tell them the truth, they’ll turn the ship about and take me back. Going back to Draekfarren will be the end of my part of the prophecy.

“T…Taylor. My name is Taylor.” He heard the hesitation in his own voice and hoped they’d assume fear of being thrown over the side caused it rather than a struggle to find a lie.

Captain Bryder nodded. “All right, T-Taylor. Now we know who you are, what brings you aboard my ship?”

Teryk paused again, licked his lips; they tasted of salt and the sea.

“I’m running away.”

Before the captain could respond, Digred barked a harsh laugh. “Runnin’ away, be ya?” he said. “And what be ya runnin’ from?”

“None of your damned business,” Teryk replied with a curl to his lip. The response surprised him; it had come from him before he had the chance to consider an answer. Digred tensed and his hand dropped from twiddling his moustache to find the hilt of his saber.

“Well, you look the part, lad,” Bryder said, surveying Teryk up and down. “Stand down, Digred.”

Teryk watched the man look to the captain. His expression shifted as though he might say something, perhaps to plead for the opportunity to dispose of the scoundrel who’d stowed away on their ship, but then he released his grip on the sword. His hand found its way back to the end of his moustache and a smile spread across his lips.

“As ye say, Cap’n.”

“If we were closer to port,” his gaze swept across the crew gathered behind him, “if my lazy crew had done their jobs and cleaned the ship before we got this far from land, I’d put you ashore. Alas, I’m not of a mind to be turning the Whalebone around.”

Relief flooded through Teryk and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease. A murmur spread through the sailors and the captain waited for it to pass, as though he’d expected it. When it didn’t die away, he faced his crew.

“Any of you got something to say?”

“One more mouth to feed,” a man with a shiny bald head called out.

“Ain’t no space,” said another missing his two front teeth.

“We’ve got plenty of food in the stores,” the captain pointed out, “and if he came out of the hold, then he can go back into it to make his bunk, too.”

The murmuring continued, but no one else spoke until Digred took a step toward his captain. The way he acted suggested to Teryk that he held higher standing on the ship than the rest of the crew. He hooked both his thumbs in his sword belt, smile gone from his lips, and glared at Teryk for a moment before returning his attention to Bryder.

“If’n you let one stowaway aboard your boat,” he said, his voice no louder than if he engaged in a regular conversation, “then others’ll surely follow. Don’t want no one thinkin’ ye be soft, do ye, Cap’n?”

The prince couldn’t see the captain’s face, but his tone suggested he pressed his teeth tight together, that he thought Digred had spoken out of turn.

“He’s a runaway. No one but us on this ship know of his presence. Which of you will tell so other stowaways try their luck, too?”

The murmurs ceased and a palpable tension fell across the crew. Digred’s smug look eased and he shook his head slightly, indicating it wouldn’t be him. To Teryk, it was obvious the men respected their captain, perhaps feared him despite his seemingly calm and fair demeanor.

“Right, then.” Bryder spun on his wooden foot, the grain of it grinding against the deck. “No one rides for free, lad. You’ll be pitching in and doing your part or Digred gets his wish. Understand?”

Teryk nodded enthusiastically, the fear and dread at being put overboard or taken back to the wrath of his father dissipating and the hope to fulfill the prophecy returning. Captain Bryder nodded, too.

“We have an agreement. Ash.”

Behind the captain, the crew dispersed, heading back to their duties. As the crowd parted, a boy Teryk hadn’t seen amongst them made his way to the captain’s side. He looked to have seen no more than twelve or thirteen turns of the seasons, and his diminutive stature explained why the prince hadn’t noticed him before.

“Taylor, this is Ash, my cabin boy. Seems the two of you might have somewhat in common.”

Teryk nodded toward the boy. “Hello, Ash.”

He took a step to his left, half hiding himself behind the captain.

“Don’t worry, he’ll get used to you quick enough.” Bryder put his hand on the cabin boy’s shoulder and Ash looked up at him. “You’ll be showing our guest around the boat, Ash. Get him some bedding and clothes and find him some jobs so the boys don’t get riled by him being here.”

Ash nodded and took two tentative steps forward, reached out and grabbed Teryk by the wrist. The captain spoke again before the cabin boy led him away.

“Before you do all that, take the poor lad to the galley and get him some food. Looks like he hasn’t eaten in a long while.”

Wood scraped wood as Bryder spun on the block of a foot and strode away across the deck.
Clomp-thump. Clomp-thump.

Teryk tilted his head back, gazing skyward and filling his lungs with salty air. Ash tugged at his arm, but he stayed put for a moment, enjoying the sun on his face and noticing a bird circling in the cloudless blue high above. It wasn’t a gull like he’d have expected, but a black bird with wide wings and a long, blunt beak. He watched it until his stomach gurgled, confirming what the captain had noted but what, in his excitement and then fear, he hadn’t realized until now.

He looked away from the raven, rubbed his belly, and allowed Ash to lead him away.

II Trenan –A Familiar Voice

Godsbane’s hilt felt foreign in Trenan’s hand as he gripped it tight. The man called Stirk knelt before him, forced to his knees by Dansil. Jeers and cheers rose from the crowd, each taunt and holler grating on the swordsman’s ears, disgusting him that the mob so enjoyed watching the deaths of others. He took no joy in death, no matter what the reason or how deserved; any soldier would tell you the same.