And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (25 page)

She spun away from the scene and allowed the man to lead her past the ramshackle house and into the woods, toward the sound of water. It filled her ears as they moved.

Until Juddah screamed.

XXIV Horace—The Green

Wakefulness arrived with a poundin’ skull and a ringin’ in his ears what refused to go away.

Horace pulled his tongue from where it stuck to the roof o’ his mouth and smacked his lips. The sound it made within his noggin worsened the pain, which prompted a groan outta him, which then put a worse hurtin’ in his head. He’d been in this predicament before and understood what it needed to make it stop…more ale.

The ol’ sailor pushed himself from prone to sittin’, eyes closed tight lest openin’ them allowed his eyeballs to jump clear outta his skull. He steadied himself with both hands on what his brain thought should’ve been a mattress, or a hard floor, but what were plainly dirty ground covered with what felt like needles fallen from some tree. A breeze caressed Horace’s cheek, disturbin’ his whiskers, and the tiny wind carried realization along with it.

More ale?

Weren’t no ale what brought Horace Seaman to this place o’ splittin’ headache and dry mouth this time. He wished it were so, but things far worse’n too much drinkin’ did it.

The ol’ sailor pried his eyes open, stuck shut as they was by more sleep’n he’d had in longer’n he might recall. The lids and lashes came apart and light flooded in, blindin’ him and bringin’ more pain. He caught a blurry glimpse o’ brown and green—leaves and tree trunks, he suspected—then threw his forearm in front o’ his face to block it out, not wantin’ to see neither the trees nor the light.

His memory returned: the rocky beach, the cliff what collapsed under him, the tasty apples he’d ate before dozin’ off.

More’n dozin’, judgin’ by the sun.

He forced his lids open again, filterin’ the sunlight with his grubby shirt-covered forearm until his peepers grew accustomed to the concept o’ lettin’ in the glare. When they did, he lowered his arm, notin’ the brown tree needles stuck to his palm. He brushed them away on his pant leg and turned his attention back to his surroundin’s.

Dense foliage encircled the small clear spot o’ ground upon which Horace sat. Outta the thick brush grew tall trees with wide trunks, their high boughs blockin’ out a part o’ the sun’s light, but not enough for the sailor’s achin’ melon. He tilted his head to look up at their height, but his noggin protested so much, he gave up on the attempt.

Don’t remember them trees bein’ so tall.

He let the thought slide through his throbbin’ brain but paid little attention to it. The pasty film on his tongue demanded he pay it more mind; without ale to soothe him, he’d need to find himself some water. It’d do wonders for his mouth and throat and help his poundin’ head, too.

Horace straightened his legs and pushed himself to stand. His back creaked, his knees popped, but he got up, stomach lurchin’ as he did. A wave o’ nausea weakened his knees and threatened to make him lose them apples he’d ate. He steadied himself with a hand restin’ against the trunk o’ the apple tree as he waited for the feelin’ to pass.

Why do I feel like I drank too much? I ain’t had ale in…

The thought made his arid mouth go drier still, so he let it fade without bein’ completed. He dragged a deep sigh between his lips and puffed it out before haulin’ in another chest full o’ air. It tasted o’ forest: cedar and pine and dirt and moss. Not unpleasant like the flavor o’ the hateful sea what always wanted to kill him, but not the fresh, untainted breath he wished to have in his lungs, neither. It’d have to do.

The ol’ sailor stayed for a spell, bent at the waist and gaspin’ in air until his stomach settled and the ache in his noggin eased up a might. Findin’ his balance and sense back, he straightened, movin’ like a man what thought his spine might be broken, though he worried most about his head.

His hand remained against the apple tree to keep him steady, its rough and pitted bark bringin’ him a sliver o’ comfort. He filled his lungs again, this time breathin’ in through his nose; about then, things began seemin’ odd to him.

The apple tree shouldn’t be so rough.

He moved his hand, his fingertips tracin’ the deep fissures in the tree’s bark on which he steadied himself. His brow creased.

Maybe just got spun ‘round.

His gaze crawled across the brush surroundin’ him, searchin’ for the apple tree, his belly grumblin’ now at the possibility o’ havin’ more o’ the tasty fruit despite how they’d made him feel. But he didn’t spy it, nor the path what might’ve led him here.

The path were disappearin’ when I sat me down to eat them apples.

The thought were the truth, but it didn’t make his worry ease up. In fact, it had the opposite effect. A sense o’ dread kindled in his belly, forcin’ aside both hunger and nausea. He took his hand away from the steadyin’ tree and pivoted in a slow circle, careful not to jar himself and increase the pain throbbin’ against the inside o’ his forehead.

Evergreen trees surrounded him with not a leafy bough amongst them. Cedars, jack pines, and others he’d heard people what know these sorts o’ things call fir, spruce, and hemlock. He knew enough to tell them apart by the shapes o’ their needles, but couldn’t recall which were which no more’n a man o’ the forest would recognize a bowline from a halfhitch.

For sure, none o’ them was apple trees.

Disoriented, his head spun. He turned another circle, too fast this time, and the pain swelled inside his skull. Horace groaned and put a hand over one eye, the other half o’ his gaze searchin’ the ground around him.

Did I walk here in my sleep?

To the best o’ his knowledge, he had no such habit. Course, because he’d been asleep when it happened, weren’t no way to be sure any more’n bein’ certain whether he snored or not. He’d never woken in a place he didn’t expect to be, except when he’d taken too much ale, and then it weren’t such a surprise. Perhaps havin’ spent so many turns o’ the seasons sleepin’ in a ship’s cabin with nowhere to go made it so he wouldn’t notice such a thing.

His hurried inspection o’ the area offered nothin’ he recognized, and no sign o’ how he’d got here. No path to follow and no broken branches, torn leaves, nor trampled bits o’ earth to suggest a method o’ gettin’ to this spot.

A shiver rattled Horace’s teeth. In the time since Dunal’d put him o’er the side o’ the Devil o’ the Deep, the ol’ sailor’d seen more o’ what he’d call magic’n he’d experienced in the rest o’ his life. And now he found himself in the Green, where no man should e’er be and no man’d e’er survived to tell the tale.

The pain in Horace’s head didn’t diminish, but he succeeded in pushin’ it from his attention. That is to say, the panic what started in his chest and leeched throughout his body overcame the throbbin’ ache behind his forehead and the hunger tearin’ at his gut.

A breeze shivered through the brush and the ol’ sailor became sure the broad leaves was movin’ closer, closin’ in around him. Horace’s gazed jerked back and forth, then up. Through the boughs hangin’ above his head, he made out the glowin’ ball o’ the sun. Havin’ spent near all his life on the decks o’ one ship or another, if he knew one thing, it were how to find his way based on the sun’s place in the sky.

Horace got his bearin’s, determinin’ which direction he’d find sunrise and which sunset, but what to do with the knowledge now he possessed it? The Green were an evil and foreign place, somewhere he knew nothin’ about and harbored no wish to spend his time. So where to go?

The sea.

More’n once now, the vast ocean’d done its best to end ol’ Horace Seaman, but it suddenly seemed more friendly’n a place where he’d find magic and gods only knew what else.

With a chill in his spine and an ache in his noggin, Horace left behind the small clearin’, plungin’ into the thick brush and pickin’ his way windward toward the sea, not a thought in his head about what he’d do when he arrived.

***

Somewhere along the way, Horace’d left the awful throb in his skull behind. He were happy for its absence, but not havin’ it to distract him made him notice his thirst and hunger. That and the plain fact he should’ve found himself at the top o’ the cliff leadin’ to the shore long ago, yet he stood deeper in the forest’n before.

The sailor stopped and tilted his head back, searchin’ through o’erhead branches until he located the sun. When he found it, his lips pressed tight together and his forehead crinkled.

It weren’t where it were supposed to be. Again.

Each time he’d directed his peepers skyward to confirm he headed the right direction, he found the ball o’ fiery light in a different place than expected. The only explanation were that somethin’d gotten him turned about over and over again, but he didn’t believe he’d veered from his path.

Keepin’ a straight line walkin’ through a forest were harder’n findin’ one’s way across the water. Atop the sea, no trees nor rocks nor thickets o’ bramble blocked your route and made you change course. Mind, weren’t no waves wantin’ to knock you o’er nor wind and currents pushin’ and pullin’ you in the forest, neither. Both had their challenges, but Horace fancied himself a good enough navigator he shouldn’t’ve been this far off track.

The first few times he’d noticed the sun sittin’ in a spot where he didn’t expect it, he’d corrected his course. After a while, he followed his instincts instead, until now he found himself lost without so much as a hint o’ brine in the air.

He stood still as the figurehead mounted to a ship at port, nothin’ movin’ but for his eyes dartin’ back and forth. His breath he held captive in his lungs as he listened to buzzin’ insects, the beat o’ his own heart, the rustle o’ barely noticeable wind in the trees.

A branch snappin’.

Horace whirled toward the sound, heart beatin’ faster all o’ a sudden. Nothin’ to see but trees and brush, branches and leaves and needles, just the same as ev’rywhere else. A bird croaked from the boughs high above, its unfamiliar sound starling the sailor and makin’ him jump. He glanced upward and saw nothin’, though it cried out again. Wings fluttered, branches bounced, but he caught no glimpse o’ the bird. It crawked once more, the noise sounding eerily like a man with no voice attempting to speak the sailor’s name, then it went silent.

Horace spent awhile stayin’ where he were, his breath doin’ its best to keep pace with his racin’ heart. The feeble breeze fell away to nothin’, but the rattlin’ o’ tree limbs continued. The ol’ sailor walked a tight circle, eyes searchin’ through the leaves o’ bushes, sweat what weren’t there a moment before comin’ to his forehead and palms o’ his hands.

A noise bigger’n the others came from behind and Horace spun again, expectin’ to see the same nothin’ he’d found before. In the distance, a thin-trunked tree shook, seemingly by its own accord. Another trembled, closer. The sailor stuttered back a step, feet draggin’ in the needle-littered dirt. His legs desperately wanted him to about face and run, but his head told him he couldn’t be sure any other place’d be safer for him.

I don’t see nothin’. Maybe my peepers are playin’—

A wailin’ what didn’t sound o’ this earth joined the hubbub o’ jostlin’ branches and the ol’ sailor’s feet won out o’er his brain.

Horace leaped from his spot like one o’ the rats some men on the ships liked to race and bet upon. He plunged though the brush, arms raised to keep branches from pokin’ him in the eyes, but he didn’t take no time to look back and find the source o’ the caterwaulin’. He didn’t care what made the racket, preferred not to see it.

His feet throbbed and ached from so long wearin’ the boots what pinched them, but he pushed on, fear driving him through tangles o’ branches and walls o’ leaves. He gave no consideration to what might be on the other side o’ them, only cared about gettin’ away from whate’er were behind him.

Until he found out what lay ahead.

XXV Dansil—An Unexpected Meeting

By the time the sun prepared to set on the third day, frayed nerves and disappointment made both men grip their reins tighter and eye each other warily.

Every town, every inn and tavern they passed, they stopped to ask if anyone had seen anything unusual: a young woman new to the area, sisters of the Goddess traveling together. At Trenan’s insistence, they didn’t mention the red robe. No need to—it would come up on its own if it had been seen; if not, mentioning it would only instill unnecessary fear.

“Time to stop for the night,” Trenan said as the sky faded toward gray.

“Another fucking wasted day,” Dansil grumbled as he reined in his horse and slid out of the saddle. Grumbling appeared to have become the only way the queen’s guard chose to communicate; still more than the master swordsman wanted from him.

Trenan followed him off his perch and led his horse to a spot under the boughs of an ancient ash tree. He wrapped the lead around a low hanging branch and the steed lowered its head to nibble at the sparse grass growing at its base.

“It’s not much farther to Ikkundanna,” Trenan said, his back to his companion. When the queen’s guard didn’t respond, the master swordsman faced him. “Four or five more sunrises should see us there.”

Dansil stood beside his horse, the lead hanging loose, a glare hardening the queen’s guard’s features. Trenan noted he’d taken his weapon from its riding place tethered to the saddle and hung it from the strap at his back.

“Don’t fucking matter how many times the sun rises, we ain’t going to find the princess in that disease-ridden death trap.”

Trenan took a step in his direction, fighting against training to keep his hand from moving toward Godsbane. As much as he didn’t enjoy traveling with Dansil, it was better to have two of them watching for Danya’s trail. A fight to the death would help no one, least of all Ishla’s daughter.

“What would you have us do then?”

“You know what we’d be doing if I was in command.”

“You seem to think you are most of the time. So what would you do?”