The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (2 page)

They both heard it—a mewling from within the first covered wagon. The girl’s eyes flickered toward it; Kuneprius raised his head. The small sound grew—a whimper to a whine, then to the full-throated cry of a tiny mouth that reminded Kuneprius why he was there.

A yell broke from the girl’s lips and she swung the sword tainted with Fildrian’s blood. Her grip slipped, the weapon twisted. The flat of the blade bounced off the leather chest piece hidden beneath the apprentice’s robe.

Time stopped for an instant, the baby’s siren cry filling the night. They stared at each other, each knowing what must come next. Kuneprius gulped around a lump solidifying in his throat and leaned forward on his sword. The tip sank into the girl’s neck.

She gasped, coughed. Blood burbled over her lips, ran along her cheek and into her ear. Her eyes found the young lad’s, a last plea shining in them, quickly fading. He turned away, unable to gaze upon her sorrow.

When her body went limp, he released his grip on the sword and stumbled away to retch on the ground beside the covered wagon. The baby wailed, beseeching him to come to it, take care of it. Kuneprius knew he needed to do just that, but his heaving gut and clenching throat prevented him.

Bent at the waist and breathing hard, he leaned against the wagon wheel. Sweat and snot and tears dripped from his nose and cheeks, the droplets pattering on the frozen dirt the same way as the blood of the Brothers as they lost their lives.

I should have aided them.

He coughed and spat bitter chunks of spew, wished for water to wash the horrid flavor off his tongue. The baby’s crying continued, assaulting his ears and rattling in his head until he could bear it no longer. With a shuddering breath, he forced himself upright and dragged his aching body to the back of the wagon.

Kuneprius pushed the flap aside a crack and peeked inside.

The babe lay on the wagon’s floor, a blanket tucked under its chin. Alone.

He clambered up, arms and legs exhausted as though he’d crawled here from the temple. On his second attempt, he struggled his way in and flopped on the deck beside the child. The baby ceased bellowing, eyes wide with wonder finding him. A few seconds passed as Kuneprius stared at the child’s tear-stained cheeks, its plump lips, and thin wisps of hair, then the wailing began anew.

Kuneprius wrestled himself to his knees and pulled the blanket off the baby, revealing a cloth wrapped around its groin and tied on either side. He fumbled with the knots, his numb fingers slipping until one knot came undone. If it wasn’t the right child, Fildrian and the others had sacrificed themselves for nothing. The thought weighing on him, Kuneprius hesitated a half-dozen heartbeats before pulling the diaper aside.

The stink of the baby’s soiled cloth made him gag. He raised his arm to cover his nose and undid the other knot. Beneath, he saw the baby’s tiny man-thing, and Kuneprius breathed a sigh of relief.

The Brothers were dead, but he’d accomplished what they’d come for: the babe was his.

***

Kuneprius attempted slinging each Brother over their saddle, intending to lash them in place and return them to the temple for burial, but they proved too heavy for him. He struggled Brother Fildrian up, the effort leaving him drained and panting, and worried that, if he took the time to do the same for the others, he’d be discovered. So it was the young Kuneprius rode through the gates of Teva Stavoklis with a child in his arms, four horses on leads, and a dead man lashed to a saddle.

Brothers and priests were already gathered in the square, though the leading edge of sunrise had just grazed the horizon. The sky perched on the cusp of the earth was crimson as the blood he’d seen spilled; the Small Gods swam in the ocean of darkness above that, waiting to surrender to the light of day.

Hands took control of Kuneprius’ steed, offered him help out of the saddle. He accepted, his sore and weary backside sliding off the smooth leather. When his feet hit the ground, his knees threatened to buckle, and another hand grabbed him by the elbow, helped him keep his feet. He glanced from one man to the next, realizing he knew each of them, but not recognizing any. A priest with his face hidden by a drooping cowl stepped forward and Kuneprius extended his arms, ready to hand over the child. The priest didn’t take the babe. Instead, he led the apprentice away from the throng of Brothers occupied with unlashing Fildrian from the saddle.

Three priests followed as the man led Kuneprius on a winding journey through the streets, past stone abodes and empty fountains, to a low building with no windows. To those unfamiliar, it appeared more storehouse than place of worship.

They crossed the threshold, as Kuneprius did every morning to pray for the return of the Small Gods, but didn’t stop to kneel on one of the threadbare prayer carpets. The hooded priest led him through the sanctuary room to a wide, stout door at the back, where they paused.

Kuneprius’ head spun and his belly churned, though his body had taken steps to ensure nothing remained inside it during his return. The scent of melting fat hung thick in the sanctuary room, given off by the squat tallow candles flickering and hissing on stands in each corner. For an instant, he thought his stomach might rebel again at their odor, but he forgot his beleaguered gut when the priest raised his hand and rapped on the door.

The baby, who’d been miraculously sleeping, shifted in Kuneprius’ arms, as though sensing the lad’s discomfort. He’d often wondered what lay hidden behind the short, wide door but now, as he stood on the precipice of finding out, he decided he’d prefer not to know. Unfortunately, the choice didn’t belong to him.

“Enter,” a voice within said, and a shiver ran along Kuneprius’ spine.

The priest pushed the portal open. Beyond, the chamber appeared similar to the sanctuary room, except much smaller. Bundles of herbs hung from spikes driven into the beams supporting the ceiling and thin tapers flickered in the corners. A table sat in the center of the room, a roll of yellowed parchment atop it. Beside it knelt Kristeus, the high priest.

In his twelve turns as an apprentice, Kuneprius had never laid eyes on the man or even heard of the door being opened. Seasons of wondering if someone truly lived behind the door had come to an end.

He hesitated in the doorway, gaping and waiting for the priest who’d led him there to enter, but he didn’t. A moment passed, expectation hanging in the air, before one of the other hooded priests behind Kuneprius laid his hand on the lad’s back and ushered him across the threshold.

The door clunked closed and the apprentice turned to find the others had left him alone with the high priest. The baby wriggled in his arms, then settled. Kuneprius gulped.

“This is the babe?”

Kuneprius knew the hooded figure spoke the words, but they seemed to float down to his ears from the ceiling. Before answering, his eyes flickered around the barren room, noting the lack of honey pot or personal items—only herbs, tapers, table, scroll, high priest.

“Y…yes.”

The hood moved minutely, as though the invisible head inside nodded.

“And the others are dead? Killed by the women?”

The words dropped on Kuneprius flat and monotone, except the last: women. It came out twisted and skewed, spat more than spoken. Kuneprius’ throat tightened with the urge to sob, forcing him to nod rather than attempt speaking. A dozen heartbeats passed and he thought the high priest might not have seen the gesture.

“Yes,” he said, his tone quiet.

Kristeus tilted his head back, revealing a chin and mouth, but nothing further. Lips pale to the point of transparency moved, the yellow teeth behind them clicking together twice before he spoke again.

“Bring him to me.”

The High Priest held out his arms, the sleeves of his robe falling away as he extended his hands. Skin as pallid as his lips; nails long, curved, yellowed, and cracked. Kuneprius hesitated. The baby stirred again, squeaked in his sleep.

“Come, boy.”

Kristeus gestured with his fingers and Kuneprius found his feet carrying him the short distance to the middle of the room, despite not having asked them to do so. He passed the baby into the High Priest’s hands and the child’s eyelids fluttered open. Kristeus regarded the babe for a moment, then lay him on the floor and bowed his head, words whispering from within the hood. Kuneprius resisted the urge to fidget.

Time crawled. The apprentice glanced away from the child, saw the herbs hung on the spikes were fresh, the floor swept, the walls free of soot from the tapers’ greasy smoke.

Someone comes in here.

The baby gurgled and the air in the room grew warmer on the lad’s skin. Kuneprius snapped his gaze back to the High Priest and found the man looking at him instead of the baby. He shivered despite the rising temperature.

“You have done well, apprentice. I have seen the coming of this child and you have done what needed to be done to make it so. Henceforth, you are Brother Kuneprius.”

The boy’s eyes widened and a flutter of pride pushed aside the nausea gripping his midsection. Never had an apprentice been named Brother before reaching their fourteenth turn. Eight seasons yet remained before Kuneprius reached that age. He thought it must be expected of him to respond, so he parted his lips to thank the High Priest, but Kristeus raised a hand, stopping him before he spoke.

“You will no longer be part of the liberating expeditions.” He slipped his hands under the baby, his long nails scraping on the wooden floor. “From this time forward, you have a much more important role to fulfill.”

Kristeus picked the babe off the floor, held him up as though examining a ripe melon rather than gazing on a living thing. Kuneprius wondered if the High Priest viewed everything in this manner, but put the thought from his mind. The air in the room prickled against his skin, standing the short hairs on the back of his neck on end. His sight wavered and, for an instant, he saw flames raining from the sky, trees burning, a river boiling. The hallucination disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Henceforth, you will be caretaker to the child,” Kristeus said, raising the baby into the air. “For you have brought to me Vesisdenperos, the sculptor. The one born to ensure the return of the Small Gods.”

The sweat on Kuneprius’ brow went cold.

I Horace - Pig and Small God

Once upon a time, Horace were a Seaman, and a First Man to boot. One in a long line o’ men what spent their lives plyin’ the dangerous waters off the Windward coast. But Horace had enough o’ sailin’ and stopped bein’ a First Man, stopped bein’ a man o’ the sea, and called himself Tailor, but that weren’t really him. Now, ol’ Horace weren’t nothin’ but porthole clenchin’ afraid for his life with a lump o’ shit in his breeches.

The small gray man scowled at the one-time sailor, his bony arms crossed in front o’ his narrow chest. If it weren’t for his talkin’ and movin’ ‘round, a thin’ such as him might’ve been mistook for a hunk o’ clay.

Horace’s lips opened and closed in a manner resemblin’ a fish yanked outta the sea and left on deck to suffocate. Life givin’ breath didn’t come no easier to him’n it’d do for that fish neither, with a creature escaped from the Green standin’ in front o’ him and a broken rib pokin’ him ev’ry time he drew air. Instead o’ words, he merely gasped and tasted the singed flavor o’ his burnin’ pig leg and the embarrassin’ odor o’ fear soilin’ his britches.

“Where is Thorn?” the gray man demanded.

“Th…th…th…” Didn’t make no sense, but Horace couldn’t manage nothin’ else at that partic’lar time.

The angry and distressed expression on the miniature man’s gray brow deepened, his voice grew louder.

“Where is Thorn?”

Horace cast his gaze ‘round the small clearin’ what served as his temporary home, searchin’ for the thorn the gray man were speakin’ ‘bout. Weren’t no thorns anywhere to be seen—flowerin’, poisonous, or otherwise. The sailor raised his shoulders and let them fall, the pain in his chest makin’ him regret havin’ done so.

“Wha…What’s a thorn?”

The bird-dropped man’s skin faded to pink, more likened to the color o’ Horace’s own. A heartbeat later, it deepened to red as if he’d been too long o’er the flames, like the poor ol’ pig leg what Horace’d stole. His lids narrowed over his eyes and the sailor noticed a lack o’ lashes on them.

“Thorn.” The gray man said, pointin’ his finger at his own chest. “Where is Thorn?”

Not knowin’ what else to do, Horace raised his shakin’ hand and extended a quiverin’ finger, addin’ his pointin’ to the man’s chest, too. “Thorn’s right there?”

For a second, Horace figured the feller’d go so red, his head might pop off in a spray o’ blood what’d cover the sailor in gooey brains and fill the air with steam. Might be a relief, too, because at least he’d be dead then and Horace’d be free to eat his crispy pig leg and wash his fear-filled breeches. Instead, the small man’s red skin went back to gray and he laughed so hard he fell over onto his backside.

Horace gaped, not seein’ anythin’ funny in the proceedin’s. The little feller rolled back and forth with his mirth, rockin’ side to side akin to a rowboat caught in a storm. Even thinkin’ ‘bout rowboats caused a knot in the back o’ Horace’s throat what made him suspect he might lose them few mouthfuls o’ stew he’d stole.

“What’re you laughin’ at?” Horace demanded, his fear forgotten in favor o’ a good bit o’ righteous anger.

The gray man chuckled a little more and wiped a tear offa his cheek with a long finger before sittin’ upright and fixin’ Horace with his gaze. Fear trickled back in.

“Oh, the look on your face,” the gray feller said. “Thorn scared you.”

Horace frowned and his belly gurgled at the burnt piggy aroma what were overpowerin’ even the stink o’ dirt in his britches. The thought o’ puttin’ a bite o’ tasty pig meat in his mouth maybe gave him more courage’n what he might normally’ve possessed.

“Who are you?” Horace growled, tryin’ his best to sound more frightenin’ and less scared’n he actually were on both counts. “Where’d you come from?”

“Thorn,” the gray man said, slappin’ both his hands against his chest with a clap. He followed it up by wavin’ his arms o’er his head, in the general direction o’ sunset. “Thorn is of the land behind the veil. Is it far from here?”