And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (36 page)

They once were men?

Knowin’ that brought a boatload o’ questions and icy fear. How did they get here? Where were their faces? What made them that way?

Did the Small Gods take their faces?

Horace’s gaze darted from one gray face to another; the tall feller called Branch leered at him with what the ol’ sailor thought were somethin’ like hunger burnin’ in his eyes. Sweat ran along Horace’s temple onto his cheek. Suddenly, it seemed havin’ his skull cracked open by the big cat might’ve been preferable to what might happen to him now.

“But Thorn—” Ivy’s voice trailed off as she raised her head to meet Sky’s gaze.

“Thorn will be fine and will likely return soon,” he said, his tone softer, soothing. It hardened when his gaze found Horace again. “Ivy must take the man away from here.”

Thorn’s sister didn’t respond with words, simply nodded once and closed the distance between herself and the sailor. The big cat stayed behind, its golden eyes watchin’ as Ivy put her hand under Horace’s armpit and helped him to his feet. The energy she’d given him before flowed from her touch again, allowin’ him to hold himself up without fallin’ on his face. Gave him vigor, but not courage; it seemed to him a hideous fate awaited him.

Many of the gray people was leavin’, headin’ toward the mud huts from where they’d come. Sky remained, and Branch and a few others, watchin’ as Ivy led Horace away across the meadow and up the hill leadin’ to the ridge.

Toward them Faceless.

***

They walked for a long time without speakin’; long enough the sun dipped down outta the sky, showin’ Horace which direction were Sunset. They wasn’t headin’ that way as shadows crept their way through the forest. Ivy kept her hand on his the whole time, her energy keepin’ his legs movin’ toward his fate.

Though it appeared they followed a similar path to what they’d taken to arrive at the clearin’—they’d need to, to get back to them Faceless fiends where he suspected she meant to take him—Horace didn’t find anythin’ familiar in their surroundin’s. Not recognizin’ anythin’ and not knowin’ what lay ahead for him filled his chest with dread the way Ivy’s touch put energy in his limbs. The ol’ sailor drew a deep sigh in through his nose, expectin’ to pick up the scents o’ carrion and death but findin’ only foresty odors. He’d never expected it’d happen, but his heart ached to smell the sharp tang o’ oiled boards and brine upon the wind.

Least I knew what to expect with my feet on a ship’s deck.

“Are you gonna take my face?”

Ivy quit walkin’, but Horace carried on for two paces; her touch left his arm, makin’ thick and gooey fatigue ooze back into his limbs. He had no choice but to halt, too, or he’d end up with his nose in the mossy forest floor.

“Ivy will do nothing to hurt you, sailor. Why would you think that?”

“Because o’ what the broad feller said. You’re to get rid o’ me and all the men what comes to the Green turn into one o’ them Faceless we saw.”

She closed the short distance between them and Horace resisted the urge to back away, mostly because he didn’t think his legs’d hold him up if he tried to move. He tensed as her hand returned to his arm.

“It is not Ivy and her kind who take the faces of men, but the Green, as you call it, sailor.”

“Seaman,” he corrected. “I be called Horace Seaman.”

“Is that what Ivy’s brother Thorn called you? Horace Seaman?”

“Yes.”

The ol’ sailor thought of the small, gray feller, his joyous way o’ bein’, his love o’ the world around him. What had become o’ Thorn?

“Then Ivy will call you Horace Seaman, too.”

She began walkin’ again, pullin’ him along with her.

“If you ain’t gonna take my face, then what are you doin’ with me?”

“The prophecy must be fulfilled.”

Horace shook his head, but it did nothin’ to clear the foggy confusion what were sneakin’ into it. “Your friends said there weren’t no prophecy.”

“Sky does not believe it, but that does not mean it is not truth.”

As they walked, a stiff wind picked up, rattlin’ leaves and branches. Had he been on his own, the racket would’ve frightened Horace for what might be lurkin’ in the gatherin’ darkness, their movements hidden by the gustin’ wind. Rememberin’ how them Faceless couldn’t see Ivy helped him put some o’ the fear aside. Some, not all.

“So you believe it.”

“Ivy does, Horace Seaman. A Small God missing and a man who rides upon the sea. Both are in the prophecy. Does Horace see it cannot be a coincidence?”

He shook his head again. “Can’t be me. I’m nothin’ more’n a man what spent too many turns o’ the seasons standin’ on one deck or another when I’d rather’ve been anywhere else.”

“Be that as it may, Horace is the sailor who met the Small God escaped from behind the veil. There can be no other.”

He didn’t respond at first. Were it possible he might be the feller mentioned in a prophecy? Seemed unlikely. He weren’t ever anythin’ but a less’n average man and it weren’t likely he’d be anythin’ but. What could he do what’d make him part o’ some prophecy? The ol’ sailor tilted his head skyward and saw the wind’d blown a bank o’ clouds in, hidin’ the moon and the stars from sight and throwin’ the world into deeper darkness. He shivered.

“If you ain’t makin’ me into one o’ them Faceless, then where are you takin’ me?”

“Horace’s arrival means the barren mother and the seed of life must be near.”

“My mother be long dead.”

“Not Horace’s. The barren mother.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Ivy does not know. The prophecy suggests sailor, seed, and mother must come together for there to be any hope.”

Hope?

Horace tried to speak, but his voice came out as nothin’ but a croak. He cleared his throat and gave it another go.

“What’m I to do with this seed and mother?”

“The prophecy does not explain. Horace will know when the time comes, as Ivy knew what to do when Horace showed up.”

“And what happens if I don’t?”

“Then all will perish.”

She spoke the words matter-o’-factly, as though she hadn’t just proclaimed the end o’ life. Horace gulped back a flood o’ spit what threatened to overflow his mouth, its taste acidy with fear and dread.

They walked on in silence, the ol’ sailor’s mind racin’.

How can I save anyone when I can’t keep myself outta trouble?

Through the trees, he saw a greenish glow against the backdrop o’ scuddin’ clouds. They was gettin’ close to the veil what he’d crossed while floatin’ in the water but what he hadn’t been able to get through here on the land. Why take him there? Even Thorn’d needed to use Father Raven to go o’er it because nothin’ were goin’ through it.

Horace’s eyes went wide. Were Ivy goin’ to make him fly o’er it with a bird? If that be the case, then the world were gonna end because Horace Seaman weren’t gonna fall from the sky the way Thorn’d done.

He peered up through the swayin’ branches at the clouds swirlin’ o’erhead; the wind stopped all o’a sudden. The leaves and limbs fell silent along with any other sound the forest might’ve been makin’. Ivy stopped walkin’ and looked up, too, leavin’ Horace’s own breath and the beat o’ his heart the only sounds in his ears. The world seemed to be waitin’, and Horace had no choice but to wait with it. After a bit, he could bear it no longer.

“What—?”

Thunder boomed, startlin’ him, and the wind whipped back to life, stronger’n before. Trees bent and flexed with its force and Horace suspected he might have to hold onto Ivy to keep her from blowin’ away. He moved closer to her, grabbin’ her hand when she spoke one word what sent a shiver along his spine.

“Thorn.”

Ivy still held her gaze skyward, so he did the same, lookin’ up in time to see a streak o’ light, but not like no lightnin’ he’d seen in many a storm. This streak o’ light trailed out behind a ball o’ fire what hurtled toward the ground.

Ivy ran.

XXXIV Kuneprius—Teva Stavoklis

The rumble of wagon wheels on hard ground became monotonous background noise soon after they left Murtikara. No one spoke aloud their destination, but the others knew, and Kuneprius suspected.

Teva Stavoklis.

When he’d first climbed into the covered wagon, his inclination was to peer out the side, both to see where they were going and to locate what the brothers had done with Thorn. He soon proved incapable of either as exhaustion leeched through his bones and muscles, bearing Kuneprius to the wagon’s floorboards and smothering him with sleep.

Despite his desperate need for rest, nightmares disrupted his repose. Faces of the dead stared back at him in the dark, their penetrating gazes accusing him of their deaths. The first innkeeper, the children by the creek, the serving girls and patrons of the last inn; their dead eyes glared at him, condemned him.

The young woman from the caravan all those seasons ago visited him, too. She smiled when she saw him, the glint in her eyes hinting at something Kuneprius longed for in secret but would never know. But the mirth on her lips melted away, leaving a scowl in its wake, then pain, and finally blood.

Kuneprius jerked in his sleep, moaned, but the nightmare wasn’t done with him. One more remained to lay blame at his feet.

Thorn.

The gray man strode into his dream, full of smiles and enthusiasm and vigor. A nod of his head brought light to the darkness. He waved his hand and flowers bloomed. He danced in a circle and birds of many colors took to the sky.

Such beauty; a welcome relief to Kuneprius’ sleep after the stench of blood and death had permeated it. But the respite proved short-lived. The flowers wilted, the birds fell to earth, and the sky dimmed to night. Thorn’s energy faded with the light, his shoulders drooped with the dying flowers.

And the evenstar shone overhead.

Ine’vesi glowed brighter than Kuneprius had ever seen, the intensity of the evenstar a palpable thing. It bombarded Thorn, its heat making his flesh sag on his limbs like wax melting from a taper. Ine’vesi’s glare drove the Small God to his knees, head hung forward in defeat.

Kuneprius himself appeared next, walking into the scene with a measured gait. He’d never watched himself like this in a dream, observing as though he were someone else.

Light flashed on an object in his hand: a long knife with a curve to it and a wicked edge. He stopped behind the kneeling Thorn, stared at the Small God for a time before raising his hands skyward and throwing his head back in a gesture of reverence to the priest in the sky. In front of him, Thorn trembled but did nothing to protect himself. He merely kneeled in his place, ready to accept his fate.

Dream Kuneprius lowered his arms, faced the Small God. He placed one hand on Thorn’s forehead, tilted his head back, and brought the blade to his throat, his expression blank, unreadable. His arm jerked and the knife’s edge opened Thorn’s throat, sending bright red blood fountaining into the air.

Kuneprius woke with a gasp, the tang of musty canvas on his tongue, and sat upright fast enough to send a jolt of pain through his back. His gaze flickered around the inside of the covered wagon, lit from the outside by the sun, but found nothing except the same coils of rope and boxes of supplies he’d seen when sleep overtook him.

How long did I sleep?

The hard ground clattered by under the wooden wheels, the solid axle transferring every bump and rut through the boards beneath him, rattling Kuneprius’ teeth. He panted through his nose, trying to regain a sense of well-being as sweat cooled on his brow. No surprise to him, the calm he yearned for eluded him, leaving him to wonder if he’d ever experience comfort again.

And if he ever truly had.

When the beating of his heart slowed to a reasonable pace, Kuneprius rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The fabric of the robe the Brothers gave him to replace his filthy clothes with was rougher than his shirt had been. Despite having lived most of his life in such a robe, he missed the softer touch of the shirt. He flexed the toes of his bare feet, expecting to relish the lack of footwear but finding he missed the manner in which the boots had contained his feet.

It’s not the clothing and footwear I miss.

The rumbling in the floorboards smoothed out. The sensation of movement continued, but the rattle and clatter disappeared and Kuneprius’ teeth ceased juddering in his mouth. He stretched out, reaching for the canvas covering the wagon to pull it aside and see what had changed, but his knotted muscles prevented him, and he found himself with his cheek pressed to the floor once again.

He lay on his front, listening, trying to vanquish the last remnants of the nightmare clinging to his mind. All those he’d seen were dead, and he blamed himself for their deaths, but what about Thorn? What did the horrendous end to his dream mean?

Is he dead?

If so, the Brothers wouldn’t be going to Teva Stavoklis. But what if they weren’t? It occurred to him Thorn may have died and they’d taken Kuneprius as part of a caravan making its way back to the Green to kidnap another Small God.

He shuddered and forced himself to sit again. Outside, the sounds of water came to his ears; horses’ hooves splashed in it, wooden wheels shushed through it. It should have made sense, but sorting through it proved impossible. The sound meant something, but what?

He closed his eyes, imagining the procession making its way through water. Across a creek or river? Through a swamp or bog? Neither seemed right. The path was too smooth, the sound continuing too long.

Moving more slowly this time to protect his fatigued body, Kuneprius inched his way to the side of the wagon. He rested and drew three long breaths before reaching out and lifting the edge of the yellowed canvas, peeking through the opening.

Water.

It stretched on as far as his vision. No one walked beside the wagon, no other horse or wain traveled at his side. Not trees, no rocks, no land. Water and nothing else.

With the canvas pulled aside, the briny scent of the sea found its way to Kuneprius’ nose. He inhaled, the scent reminding him of the shore where they’d found Thorn. But that wasn’t where they were. They rode atop the water without sinking, which meant only one thing.