And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (7 page)

How different would life be if we never met?

He’d asked himself the question over and over since he sacrificed his arm for his friend, but the answer never changed. Yes, he’d have his arm, and he might have risen through the army’s ranks as he had. He liked to think it happened because of his abilities with sword and strategy, but befriending Erral had facilitated the rise. No matter how many times he asked, or how he felt about the things that may have been different, he wouldn’t give up the night with Ishla for any of it—the only thing that took the deep hurt from the loss of his arm. Despite the heartache and frustration that followed—the wondering, the hidden desire, the secret love—it remained the defining moment of his life, more so than losing his limb.

Dansil thumped Trenan on the shoulder—purposely harder than necessary, it seemed—the impact pulling the master swordsman from his thoughts. The queen’s guard had raised his arm and pointed along the avenue ahead of them.

“Is that what you’re talking about?”

Trenan refocused and stared down the thoroughfare, hand held to his forehead to shield the sun from his eyes. A few blocks away, horses tethered outside a building whinnied and shuffled, and sun glinted on occasional slivers of exposed steel. As a child, he’d spent days on end at the outpost, admiring weapons and armor and carefully staying out of the way of the soldiers, the man his mother had told him was his father amongst them, though he knew not which. Back then, the building would have been but a shape in the distance when viewed from the city’s edge. Now, buildings and streets had overtaken the farmland that once separated the outpost, many spilled beyond so the outpost no longer served as demarcation of the Horseshoe’s leeward boundary.

“Yes, that’s it.” Trenan lowered his arm back to his side. “The last I heard, Captain Silvius still commanded the outpost. I’m sure he’ll see his way to loaning us horses and equipment.”

“An old war buddy of yours?”

The swordmaster didn’t like the manner in which his companion asked the question; the tone dripped ridicule rather than interest. Had Dansil ever drawn his sword in battle? Judging by the age of him and the station he held, Trenan doubted it.

“You might say that,” he replied, choosing once again to ignore the younger man’s inexplicable derision. “We’ve known each other a long while.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence and reached the outpost a few minutes later. Several men were gathered by the tethered horses, their voices loud as they engaged in their discussions, laughter occasionally overpowering the conversations. One noticed Trenan and Dansil approaching and stopped speaking mid-sentence. He smacked one of his companions in the shoulder with the back of his hand, drawing the other’s attention. A murmur spread through them and the playful arguments and boasts ended; the soldiers snapped to attention. Trenan smiled to himself; he wore nothing to denote his rank or status, but his missing arm made him the most recognizable officer in the king’s army.

“As you were,” he said upon their approach. None of them relaxed. “Does Captain Silvius still command this outpost?”

“Aye, he does, swordmaster,” the man who’d first seen them replied.

“Get him for us,” Dansil growled.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed as if to ask who this was who’d spoken. Trenan clenched his teeth again, biting back a reprimand. How did Ishla put up with him as part of her guard? He couldn’t imagine her enjoying his company. The thought forced him to suppress a disgusted shiver.

“We seek audience with him,” Trenan interjected, glancing sideways at Dansil. “If he has the time.”

“I’m sure he’ll have time for you, sir.” The soldier nodded once, then hurried inside. Awkward silence fell as they waited, so Trenan took it upon himself to break it.

“How is business at the outpost these days?”

“Quiet,” replied a man with a hawk nose and less hair than a newborn. “Not much happenin’ but petty crimes—thievin’, gamblin’, whorin’ and such.”

Dansil chortled. “Gamblin’ and whorin’ ain’t really crimes though, are they?”

Before Trenan could decide if he needed to school the soldier regarding the king’s stance on those activities outside the crown’s whorehouses and gambling establishments, the outpost door swung open and Captain Silvius strode across the threshold. As soon as he spied the master swordsman, a smile crossed his weathered face and he threw his arms wide.

“Trenan, you old war dog. How long has it been?”

“Too many seasons,” he replied, accepting the commander’s embrace; it included a solid bumping of chests and a slap on the back before quickly releasing him. “You look good. Time has treated you well.”

A lie. Silvius appeared to have swallowed a whole pig since Trenan last saw him, and he’d aged beyond the seasons which had passed. The master swordsman wondered if stress caused the changes, or if the deep furrows in his face and spidery veins in his eyes might be the product of too much of the hooch the soldiers concocted in a still out behind the outpost.

“You’re a lying bastard, you are, Trenan. But the likes of you doesn’t come visit the likes of me just to make me feel pretty. What can I do for you?”

“My companion and I—”

“Dansil,” the soldier interrupted.

“Dansil and I—”

“I’m a queen’s guard.”

Trenan blew a firm breath out through his nostrils and Silvius surveyed his companion. The master swordsman could only imagine the size of the shit-eating grin plastered across the man’s face.

“Dansil the queen’s guard and I are in need of horses and equipment for a long ride. Rations, too, if you have any to spare.”

“The swordmaster and a queen’s guard heading off together into the countryside, is it? Never thought I’d see such a thing. Maybe today’s the day I should be headed to the king’s gambling hall to test my luck.”

A forced chuckle spilled from Trenan’s lips. “Isn’t every day the day for you to be headed to the gambling hall, Silvius?”

“Just so.”

The portly soldier headed past the outpost’s main entrance, leading them toward the stables. Trenan took up after him but didn’t look back for Dansil to follow; more than a good chunk of him hoped he’d stay behind.

“Renner,” the commander called over his shoulder. “Gather a tent and bedrolls for these men. Jinton, load saddle bags with all the rations they’ll hold, but don’t use the good wine. We don’t need the swordmaster and his friend wandering the wilds of the kingdom getting drunk and disorderly.”

“Dansil,” Trenan’s companion corrected.

For a moment, the master swordsman considered pointing out they were not friends, but he let the opportunity pass.

They crossed the dusty yard to a squat building with a thatched roof, its double doors thrown wide. Though the interior was dim, Trenan made out the familiar outline of stalls, men moving back and forth; the whickering of horses floated across the open air to his ears. The sight of it flooded him with memories of long days spent swamping out the stalls when he first found his way into the king’s militia. To this day, the sickly-sweet aromas of manure and hay cast his thoughts back to this place.

The smell struck him full force as they crossed the threshold into the stables’ shadowed interior. Silvius headed down the line of stalls without pausing until he reached the far end.

“You can take these two,” he said as he gestured for a stable hand to retrieve saddles and equipment for the horses. “They’re not the best of the crop, but they’re a damn sight better than walking. Or riding a jackass.”

Though I’ll be riding with a jackass.

“I’ll take that one,” Dansil said, indicating the more hardy of the two steeds.

Silvius glanced from the queen’s guard to Trenan and lifted an eyebrow. “I figured that one for your superior officer.”

Dansil snorted at the commander’s words and Trenan watched his friend’s face harden. He redirected his attention toward the queen’s guard and readied to take a step toward him and call him to task for his insubordination. The master swordsman stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“That one looks better suited for carrying a fellow Dansil’s size,” Trenan said. The words tasted of bile, but no point in reprimanding the queen’s guard now, not when they’d be forced to spend time in each other’s company.

Silvius glanced back to his old friend, a surprised expression creasing his forehead. The swordmaster shook his head minutely, letting the commander know not to worry. The portly soldier stared at him for a moment before nodding once.

“Fine, then. They’ll be saddled and ready in no time. For now, come with me to the mess and we’ll get a meal into you before you go.”

Silvius pushed past Dansil without looking into the man’s face; Trenan followed, but saw the wide grin curving across the queen’s guard’s lips, the deviousness flickering in his eyes.

He wondered if they’d both survive long enough to find the princess.

VII Thorn—Carried Away

The odor of gray clay filled Thorn’s nostrils as his cheek pressed against the cold substance and his arms dangled down the giant’s back. Normally, such an aroma brought him joy, indicative as it was of the great cliffs beside the sea being in near proximity. Thorn enjoyed sitting on the edge of those cliffs, staring out across the wide ocean and wondering what it would be like to ride upon one of the ships he sometimes saw. But the scent meant something different this time: the clay man carried him away from the cliffs, away from his home and his friend, Horace Seaman.

He let himself hang limp over the golem’s shoulder, eyes closed and breath steady as he tried to reclaim the magic he’d spent when the golem laid a finger on Horace Seaman’s chest. Thorn wasn’t sure why he’d known the touch meant death for his companion; perhaps the power told him, but he was unsure—he wasn’t used to how it worked on this side of the veil.

The giant’s stride bounced the Small God on his shoulder, making deep breaths difficult as Thorn wondered if his efforts to save his friend had proven successful. Immediately after, he’d sensed the sailor lived, but as the golem and his companion took him farther from the man and the Green, his sense of Horace’s well-being dissipated.

He hoped it wasn’t because the sailor’s life had faded. He’d saved him from the giant’s touch, but he couldn’t aid him in the water; the sea was a more powerful monster than the beast carrying him could ever hope to be.

Thorn can’t save him from everything.

The thought, though true, caused an unfamiliar discomfort in his chest.

To distract himself from worry for his friend—an emotion he’d never imagined he’d experience—Thorn listened to the sounds around him, using them to guess their surroundings, and maybe where the clay man and his companion intended to take him.

The most prevalent sound was the crunch of the giant’s footsteps in dry grass as his strides devoured the ground yards at a time. Beneath that, the quicker, quieter steps of his companion, and the man’s heavy breathing as he did his best to keep up with the much larger man of clay. His ragged breath made Thorn realize two things he didn’t hear: the giant neither breathed nor possessed a heartbeat. With his ear pressed against the smooth clay back, the Small God wouldn’t have missed it.

What sort of creature neither breathes nor has a beating heart?

The answer to the question was obvious: A creature formed of clay.

Thorn remembered how one of his sisters, Ivy, sometimes fashioned the shape of a man out of dried grass bound together, then made him dance for the tribe’s amusement. But that figure had been small, and only capable of doing Ivy’s bidding as long as she concentrated on the task. When she stopped, the straw man ceased dancing and fell limp to the ground, nothing but a bundle of grass tied with lengths of creepers.

If Ivy made a man as big as the giant, would she have the power to make him dance?

Perhaps. The magic in the Green was immense, concentrated as it was behind the veil, and few channeled it as well as Ivy. But things were different on this side, at least for their kind. He doubted she or any of the others could do it over here, certainly not for such a long time and so seamlessly. Everything about him resembled life.

But what of those who lived here? Was one of them able to perform such a feat?

Horace had never given Thorn reason to suspect he might have the ability to exert such power…or any at all, truthfully. If someone pressed the Small God for the truth, he’d admit his friend had more in common with a child than a man grown—likely why Thorn felt such a connection with him.

His heart ached again, but not just for the sailor; now it ached for Ivy and the others of his kind. Before now, he’d put little thought to them, never doubting he’d find his way back to his home.

The clay man’s grip around his legs dispelled his surety.

But who is animating him?

He peered out from between slitted lids at the man struggling to keep up to the giant. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, exhaustion tinted his cheeks pink. His lips moved with the effort of breathing, or he might have been speaking to himself.

This does not look like one capable of wielding such power.

“Can we rest, Ves?” the man asked. He raised his head from watching his footing; Thorn closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”

The golem responded with a grunt and slowed his pace. The exchange confirmed to Thorn that the fellow trailing behind was not responsible for the golem’s movements and actions. If so, and he desired a rest, he’d simply make the creature stop. That meant the clay man was either truly alive or controlled by someone with power beyond Thorn’s imagining.

The prospect sent a shudder through his body and the golem tightened his grip around the Small God’s legs.

With the giant’s pace slowed, his companion’s footsteps came closer. With few other options, Thorn opened his eyes again and directed his attention toward the man. At first he didn’t notice the Small God’s gaze upon him, so Thorn exerted what little influence his body made available. The man’s eyes found his and his lips ceased moving.