The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (21 page)

“Stirk?” his mother called out, invisible in the blackness.

He wanted to answer, but the darkness stole his voice, too. He opened his eyes as wide as they’d go, hoping they’d suck enough light into his head to allow him to see, if just a little.

“Shit.”

For a moment, he thought she meant the bowel movement he’d sent tumbling into the cellar earlier in the day, then he realized she was cursing. He knew he should understand why she was upset, but the unyielding pressure of the dark room squashed his thoughts, left him as dumb as the day of his birth.

“Stirk. We got to get the prince out of here. The one-armed man is in the tanner’s looking for him.”

Her words struck a chord in him.

One-armed man.

Did she mean him? With a huge effort, he raised his left hand and ratcheted his eyes toward it. Darkness kept him from seeing the shiny scar at the end of his forearm, but he did notice a sliver of light squeezing through the crack under the door. The slim slice proved enough to loosen the dark’s hold. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed it the entire time his mother had been gone.

“The one-armed man?”

“From the tavern. He’s a See-Gee, or a man of the king. He’s looking for the prince.”

Stirk sensed his mother’s presence near him. It spilled confidence into his chest and he climbed to his feet. “What do we do?”

“We got to get him out.”

“How?” He paused, realizing there was but one way out. “I ain’t going in the cellar.”

“No, Flenge’ll show him the cellar. You got to break down the door.”

The whistle in his mother’s words sent a shiver along his flesh—the sound only happened when she was excited or scared. If something frightened her, he should be afraid, too.

He shifted his gaze toward the splinter of sunlight shining under the door and closed his eyes, picturing what the room would look like were the taper still lit. The table set directly in the middle; the shithead prince laid out on his bed off to one side; his mother’s things lying to the other side.

Stirk opened his eyes and the light sneaking through looked even brighter. He gritted his teeth and stalked across the room, his right hand clenched in a fist, his left feeling as though it would be if he still had it.

“Stirk—”

“I got it, Ma.”

He navigated his way to the door, avoiding the table and keeping from stepping on their captive no matter how much he wanted to do it. This was the little turd’s fault. If he’d stayed in his castle, he and his Ma wouldn’t have this trouble, and Stirk’s hand’d be where it was meant to be instead of decorating some healer’s mantle.

When he reached the door, he stopped, the light shining underneath illuminating his toe sticking through the hole in the end of his shoe. He laid his hand on the wood, struggling to remember how many nails Enin hammered in, recall how many boards he put across the door.

“Hurry, Stirk.”

She was closer behind him, standing by the prince, he thought. Protecting him from her son. In a short while, he’d have the door open and it’d be up to him to take the captive away, find a place to hide him. She wouldn’t be able to protect him then.

Stirk reared back then pushed forward, slamming his right shoulder against the door. It shuddered but didn’t move, so he repeated the action with the same result. He stepped back and raised his foot, planted his heel hard beside the handle. Wood creaked.

“Hurry, Stirk.”

“I’m hurrying.” He faced toward the sound of her voice, saw the edge of her jaw dimly illuminated, recognized the fear in her expression. Seeing it churned his belly and he returned to his task.

Kick. Kick. Shoulder.

Nails squealed in the frame like pigs running to avoid slaughter. The door opened a quarter handspan, spilling more light into the room, fortifying Stirk.

“Good,” Bieta cried, her voice straining, suppressed.

Stirk put his shoulder to it again and a board split with a loud crack. He kicked it once. Twice. The third time his foot struck it, the door flew open, flooding the room with mid-morning sun. Warmth touched Stirk’s skin, light hurt his eyes, but he didn’t squint or look away. He allowed it to fill him.

Bieta rushed past her son, leaning out through the broken door to survey the alley beyond. She looked right and left, then turned back to him.

“Clear,” she said, and Stirk saw the strain and worry plain upon her brow. Her expression suggested the future held no gold for them, that this had all been for naught.

He’d lost his hand for nothing.

“Get him out of here,” Bieta commanded.

Stirk obliged, stalking across the room to the unconscious prince. He grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him up, the captive’s arms flopping in the manner of a rag doll’s. When he had him in a vaguely sitting position, Stirk jammed his stump into the prince’s armpit and wrestled him onto his shoulder, uncaring if he caused pain in the pissant’s wound.

He made his way back to the doorway, face contorted in a scowl—not from the effort of carrying the prince, but disgust at having to touch him. Before he crossed the threshold into the alley, Bieta put her hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Be careful,” she said.

Stirk’s heart swelled. This was the first time she’d acted as though she cared more for him than the prince and his ransom since they found him bleeding in the street. His frown eased.

“Be careful with him. And be sure you hide him where we can find him after the one-armed man’s gone. Somewhere no one else will.”

The muscles in Stirk’s jaw balled up until they hurt. He sucked at his bottom lip to keep it from protruding and pushed past his mother into the alley, hurrying away without looking back.

XX Barn

He recognized the building around him as a barn, slivers of light shining through the gaps between its boards, but ascertained no more about his location. Or how he came to be there.

A vague recollection of water stirred in his mind, and a distant memory suggested a word used to represent him might exist, but it eluded him, too. The more he thought on it, and where he’d been before the poorly-built barn, the more his head throbbed. He stopped trying. He was where he was, and he knew no more.

Outside the gap-toothed barn walls, a cow lowed; overhead, birds twittered and flitted in the dark rafters. He stood and tilted his head back to gaze toward the ceiling, eyes squinted to see the birds, but the boards of the roof fit tighter than those of the walls and no light filtered in from the sky. Their birdsongs brought a smile to his lips, nonetheless.

He brushed hay off the backside of his red breeches, the tough fabric stiff with dried sea water and too much time being worn. His white shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. The heat within the barn wasn’t unbearable, but enough to keep his perspiration fresh and coax odors from every corner of the building.

Though he saw no animals, he detected the faint odor of livestock. Goats, he suspected, or sheep, but not the cow he heard, or horses. The dung of the larger animals possessed a distinctly different aroma, though he wasn’t sure how he knew.

The stink of wetness and decay overlaid the sweet scent of stale dung. Though the roof looked sturdy enough to hold up to the weather, the gaps in the wall would certainly let in rain carried upon a stiff wind. He inhaled deeply and detected the briny aroma of the sea. Whether it simply emanated from his clothing or the barn sat near the shore, he couldn’t be sure without seeing. If the building did rest by the ocean, then breezes brisk enough to turn the rain sideways and push it through the cracks in the walls were likely common, and decay, rot and mold inevitable.

He turned his attention away from the various smells and to the wide array of items around him. Some he recognized, some he didn’t, others he thought he should but couldn’t recall, much like his name and where he’d been before the barn.

A forest of long-handled tools leaned against one wall. Rakes; spades; hoes; a pitted and rusted scythe; three pitchforks; an instrument with a long, knife-like blade, sharp on only one side. He took a step toward the tools to gain a better view and a chain rattled, stopping his right foot from moving more than half a pace. His brow furrowed and he examined the cuff around his ankle, the chain snaking through the mess of dirty straw to a thick spike driven into the dirt floor.

He forgot the contents of the barn and dragged his tethered foot across the floor to the iron stake, the chain kicking up dust as it moved. When he reached it, he examined the plain, straight piece of iron and saw a device connecting his shackles to it. He grasped the end of the spike with both hands and pulled. It didn’t move.

I am a prisoner.

He squatted shallowly and used the strength of his legs to pull up on the post, but it remained driven too deep for him to extract. With a sigh, he gave up and returned to his survey of the barn.

Rickety shelves built of driftwood and scraps of board rested beside the row of tools, jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes balanced precariously on their surfaces. A clay jug with a broken handle sat beside a squat jar with no lid, unfamiliar letters inscribed in it before it went in the kiln. He squinted at it, but the strange shapes made no sense to him, triggered no memory or recognition. None of the other vessels showed any markings.

He scanned the rest of the barn: piles of tattered furs, an apple barrel with the hilts of swords and hafts of axes protruding out the top, spears with broken shafts, oddly shaped chunks of wood, bricks, rocks, a heap that might have been a pile of rotting vegetables. Stacks of stuffed-full burlap sacks sat in one corner; angular corners pressed against the inside of a few, others looked as though they held feathers.

The spike pinning his chain to the floor had been cunningly positioned to keep him from reaching anything but the grubby straw strewn across the dirt floor. The weapons and armor were farthest from him, though he didn’t have the sense he’d know how to use a sword or axe if he reached them.

He redirected his focus from the sundry items contained by the barn to the gaps in its walls. Sun shone through, but he saw little beyond the light: snatches of yellowed grass and dirt, a house not too far away, perhaps the green foliage of a forest. He crouched, attempting to peer through at different angles. When that showed him nothing further, he closed his eyes and listened.

A dull breeze rattled the tall grass. Birds flitted overhead, but others called and responded from the forest. The wind occasionally lifted something hanging on the outside of the barn, then dropped it back with a gentle thump. Beyond it, he heard the slosh and tumble of waves rolling onto the shore.

He recalled a vision of the sea, but not the view standing on the beach, gazing out over churning green water reflecting the sun’s glow. Without intending to, he pictured waves washing over his head, felt the chilly sea biting into his body and tightness in his chest as though struggling for air. He sensed a shadow pass over him and snapped his eyes open, fear gripping him.

Nothing had changed in the barn. The tools leaned, the pots sat, the sacks bulged. He stood, dragged the chain in a circle as he scanned the corners of the wide-open room and searched the shadows. When he realized he remained alone, he released his breath and sagged to the floor again, limbs feeling exhaustion like he’d truly been in the sea treading water for hours. His eyelids fluttered and he allowed himself to tilt over, lying on his side, sleep sliding over him to push fear and confusion out of his head.

***

A noise woke him, but he didn’t know what.

He pushed himself up to sitting and brushed away straw stuck to his cheek. Sunlight still found its way through the spaces between the boards, so he hadn’t slept too long, but what had jarred him from his sleep?

“Giddup.”

The man stood by the door, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, a dark and shaggy beast sitting at his side. How he’d missed the fellow and his dog, he didn’t know—he resembled a barrel onto which someone affixed arms and legs, with a head covered almost completely in black hair. His eyes and nose and a sliver of cheeks peeked out, but the mouth uttering the nonsensical sounds hid deep in a thicket of facial hair. The dog growled and made its considerable teeth conspicuous.

“Giddup,” the man repeated. This time, he waved both arms in an upward motion, palms facing the roof.

Still groggy with sleep but understanding the gesture, he wiped his hands on his red breeches and climbed to his feet, wary eyes darting between the man and his dog. The fellow crossed his arms again, his gaze unreadable in the dim light.

“Whadder yadoin onmaland?”

The man in the white shirt shook his head, hoping the burly man realized it meant he didn’t understand his language.

Bushy brows lowered; he scratched an itch deep in his beard. “Wassername?”

He considered attempting to explain his lack of comprehension, but thinking of doing so made him realize he wasn’t aware if he possessed the ability to speak. Or what words he might form if he did. He only knew he couldn’t decipher this man’s communications.

“Wassername?”

He shook his head again. This time the man didn’t take as long to reply. The fellow uncrossed his arms and tapped his chest with both hands.

“M’name sjud ah.”

His bushy brows dipped further. He tapped himself again, more insistently.

“Juddah. Wassername?”

The sounds were words, he realized, but their meanings were as mysterious to him as the contents of the over-stuffed sacks. He shrugged, wondering if it was a gesture this stocky man covered with hair might understand.

The fellow blew a breath out that slapped his lips together and fluttered the long hairs of the mustache draped over his mouth. He let his arms hang at his sides, the fingers of his left hand finding the fur at the back of the dog’s neck. The beast looked up at him and stowed its teeth.

“Stay.” He pointed and the dog whined in its throat.

The animal stayed put as the man walked closer, but not close enough for the two men to reach each other. The facial hair under his nose tilted as though a smile might be hidden underneath the tangle.