The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (3 page)

Horace stared at him, findin’ himself unable to string together enough words to make any sense. They stood facin’ each other in silence awhile, the fire poppin’ and spittin’ at Horace’s back. They might’ve stayed that way for a while longer, too, if a crow sittin’ in the trees hadn’t’ve cawed. The sound jerked the gray feller what called himself Thorn’s gaze away.

He glanced up, searchin’ above his head with his eyes, and Horace looked up too, but he didn’t see nothin’ but branches full o’ jackpine needles and jackpine cones. By the time he lowered his peepers, Thorn’d taken off for one o’ the trees.

The little feller pulled up when he got to the bottom, raised his arms and jumped toward a branch what hung at least two dozen handspans over his head. He missed it by a good dozen-and-a-half handspans. It weren’t no surprise to Horace that were the case, but it sure appeared like it caught Thorn off-guard. He looked first at his hands held up high, then down at his feet, an expression on his kisser like them appendages’d left him disappointed. His head shook back and forth a couple o’ times and he gave it another try, gettin’ the same results.

When it didn’t work the second time, Thorn took to scuttlin’ up the side o’ the tree like one o’ them sailors who enjoyed the peace and privacy o’ the crow’s nest. Horace weren’t one o’ them; he didn’t have no love for bein’ up so high.

The one-time sailor and now shitter o’ pants watched for but a moment before the succulence o’ blackened pig flesh beckoned him away from the spectacle o’ a gray man shinnyin’ up a jackpine tree. Horace turned his back to the feller and paced toward the fire, wonderin’ what he meant by ‘the land behind the veil’.

The fire’d done a fine job charrin’ one side o’ the pig leg to a dry, cracked bit o’ charcoal, but the other side what faced away from the flames looked worth chokin’ down. Horace wrapped his fingers ‘round the knobby exposed bone end, then pulled away right quick. He weren’t no cook, so it didn’t occur to him the fire’s heat might’ve made the bone hot enough to burn him. Now he knew.

Horace shook his hand as though doin’ so might loosen up the pain. It didn’t do nothin’ to take away the burnin’, so he blew on it instead, puffin’ his cheeks out like one o’ them spiny fish when he did. Blowin’ didn’t help, neither, so he decided to resort to cursin’.

“Fuckin’ pig,” he said, castin’ a glance ‘round for somethin’ to protect his hand while he pulled his dinner offa the fire. When he didn’t find nothin’ he settled for usin’ the tail o’ his shirt. He wrapped it ‘round the bone and grabbed it with both hands this time.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he said, dancin’ across the clearin’ with a chunk o’ burnt pig in his hands. He dropped the bastard on the mess o’ firewood before it had the chance to burn him any more.

The hammy leg laid there starin’ up at him, temptin’ him to take a bite. Horace’s mouth filled full o’ saliva beggin’ for them savory piggy juices. He licked his lips and reached out to rip himself off a piece from the not-so-charred side when a sound like a wild animal crashin’ through the brush scared him into whirlin’ ‘round. He completed the turn in time to see the little gray feller thump in the dirt at the foot o’ the tree.

“This Thorn likes hittin’ the ground, it seems,” he said aloud.

The gray man lay motionless at the bottom o’ the pine. Horace crept forward a couple o’ steps, careful the way he’d been when he snitched the pig leg from the inn. He weren’t thinkin’ ‘bout cookin’ the man, though.

Thorn didn’t move. Horace went closer, muscles tensed and ready to flee, his body achin’ from when the little feller’d fallen on him. He took a breath what made the rib what’d been botherin’ him bother him more.

Least he missed me this time.

Horace were close enough to stick out a leg and poke the gray man with his toe when the feller finally moved. He jumped back, glad he didn’t stick that toe into Thorn’s side. The gray man sat up, wobblin’ as though somone’d spun him ‘round in a circle a few times too many.

“You all right, Mr. Thorn?” Horace asked, tentative.

The little feller’s eyes fell on Horace’s face, but it didn’t seem like he were really seein’ him. They kinda fluttered ‘round for a short time before findin’ their focus.

“Thorn couldn’t see it,” Thorn muttered once he’d regained a portion o’ his senses—not enough, it seemed to Horace. His eyes went off to the side, lookin’ at nothin’.

Horace raised a brow. “Couldn’t see what?”

Thorn shook his head real slow, like he might be worried somethin’ got knocked loose inside, then dragged his gaze back to Horace. “The veil. Thorn couldn’t see the veil. How far away are we?”

“I ain’t ever heard ‘bout no veil.” Horace reached ‘round and scratched his ass, then immediately regretted it. “What is it?”

“A magical barrier,” Thorn said, climbin’ to his feet. “It separates the land where Thorn and the rest of our kind live from,” he gestured wide with his arms, “this.”

Despite not wantin’ it to happen, Horace felt his eyes get big, the lids pullin’ away in fear and shock.

“You mean the Green.”

The place above Thorn’s eye where one’d normally find a man’s brow wrinkled upward. “The veil shines with the brilliance of an emerald. An emerald is green, yes?”

Horace’s head tilted forward and back slowly, confirmin’ Thorn’s statement and because it felt like it weighed more’n his neck wanted to hold.

“You really are one o’ them Small…one o’ them gods, aren’t you?”

“Thorn is Thorn,” the gray man said. He brushed pine needles off his arm what had stuck to his skin. “A part of nature, a piece of the world. Thorn always was, Thorn always will be.”

Horace gulped a mouthful o’ fearful spit. “Do you mean you can’t die?”

Thorn tilted his head as though he didn’t understand. “Die? Everything dies. Not Thorn, but everything else.”

“Really?” Horace raised his arm and felt embarrassed by the shakin’ in his hand, but there weren’t nothin’ to do ‘bout it. “What ‘bout that? Don’t it hurt?”

Thorn’s lowered his head to gaze at the branch stickin’ outta his side, a few pine needles and a cone still hangin’ from it. His mouth crinkled up and he grabbed it with both hands. When he pulled it out, It made an unpleasant suckin’ sound what caused Horace’s stomach to clench. A gout o’ bright red blood followed the chuck o’ wood.

“Hmm.”

Thorn touched one finger to the flow and held it up in front o’ his face, peerin’ at it like a man what didn’t know anythin’ ‘bout blood. After a second, he popped the finger into his mouth, which didn’t bother Horace because he might’ve done the same thin’ with his own.

“Can I help?” Horace said, takin’ one step forward.

Thorn waved a hand at him, his gaze returnin’ to the hole poked in his side. His brow furrowed, then he laid the fingers o’ one hand beside the wound on one side, the other fingers on the other side. His face cinched up like Horace’s when pushin’ out a dump didn’t work the way he wanted it to, but he didn’t think the little feller were makin’ the expression because o’ constipation. He had somethin’ else in mind.

Every muscle in Thorn’s body tensed up, veins and such showin’ through his thin, gray skin. A drawn out grunt escaped his lips. Half o’ Horace wanted to take the opportunity to put as much distance between him and this feller as his achin’ legs’d carry him, but the other part desired findin’ out what he were attemptin’.

The blood flowin’ from the wound slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Horace opened his mouth, his brain disbelievin’ his eyes. An instant later, the hole where a branch’d been stickin’ out puckered up; Horace’s porthole followed its example.

“That’s—” Horace began, but his incredulous exclamation got cut off by the little gray feller collapsin’ to the ground.

Horace stared.

Nothin’ happened for a time. Horace eventually remembered to breathe—the broken rib pokin’ into him, protestin’ when he did—and his heart continued beatin’. He weren’t sure the same could be said o’ Thorn’s, though.

“Hello?” He took a step. “You all right?”

Blood discolored the ground ‘round the gray man. Horace stepped real careful to make sure he didn’t get any on the boots Birk’d loaned him. When he were close enough, he poked his toe into Thorns ribs the way he’d been tempted to do before. No reaction. He did it again, and the same nothin’ happened.

Without hesitatin’ or stoppin’ to worry what he might step in, Horace took off into the forest, jumpin’ o’er logs and thrashin’ through underbrush, intendin’ to put a great deal o’ distance between him and the gray man. He’d made it ten long paces, his chest hurtin’ and his legs wishin’ to do anythin’ but runnin’, when he stopped.

“I can’t go like this,” he said aloud. A crow cawed in response.

Horace ‘bout-faced and went back to his camp where he grabbed hold o’ the bone end o’ the pig leg, happy to find it’d cooled off. He rested the chunk o’ meat on his shoulder, took one more look back to be sure the gray feller hadn’t moved, then took off into the forest as if one o’ them Small Gods were after him.

Because if he waited, one o’ them just might be.

II Teryk - Dead Weight

The beating Teth and his thugs laid on the young man was difficult enough to watch, but when he drove the fancy sword into the boy’s guts, Elishbieta put her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping.

Bieta and Stirk sank back into the shadows as Teth and his boys stalked away with the sword, coins, and clothes they’d stolen. One of them kicked the torn back pack, but the ripped fabric wrapped around his foot and stuck. If not for her rescuer lying bleeding in the dirt, Bieta might have laughed at him for it. The fellow shook his leg like a dog dislodging a flea, and the satchel fell off.

When the group of men was halfway along the block toward the corner, Bieta straightened and took a half-step, but Stirk’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Wait,” he whispered, all urgent-like.

Bieta glared at him, but did as he said. Getting themselves killed alongside the young man wouldn’t help the lad.

Cheek pressed against rough stone, she peeked around the corner and watched them leave with her one good eye. Viewing things was always easier with the scarred and empty socket hidden behind something. When her head didn’t expect input from the eye unable to give it, it fooled her into thinking she saw the way everyone else did, though she knew it a lie.

The men rounded the corner, a burble of laughter following them, and Bieta pulled away from Stirk’s grasp. Truly, he’d released his grip, but it came out the same result, either way.

She hurried to the fallen man, rocks and chunks of broken flagstone pressing into her feet through the worn-thin soles of her shoes. Upon reaching the fellow, she meant to fall to her knees dramatically but noticed a pool of blood seeping out around him, so searched for a better spot before kneeling. Stirk skidded to a stop beside the poor man, spraying him with a shower of dirt. Bieta shook her head at how stupid her boy could be, but bit back any admonishment. No point giving him hell if the guy was dead, anyway.

The man neither moved nor made a sound. Bieta’s tongue found the space once occupied by her two front teeth and the tip chafed against the ragged gum. She pressed hard enough to feel the bone beneath as she leaned forward and pried one of the lad’s eyelids open with her thumb and finger.

“Why d’you think they took his clothes?” Stirk asked, staring at her.

Bieta shot her son the admonishing look she’d been holding back. “Must have thought they was worth taking, dummy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop acting the part.”

She peered back into the injured man’s eye, but it stared unfocused at the night sky without seeing the Small Gods twinkling in it. Nothing under his lid let her know for sure if he still lived or not.

“Is he dead?”

Bieta shook her head. “I think he might be living.”

“I ain’t got a good feeling about this, Ma. Let’s leave him and head on home.”

She moved her hand to pry the other eyelid open. “He helped me, Stirk. Can’t just let him be if there’s any chance of returning the favor.”

The woman leaned in close, the tip of her tongue grinding into her gum, and aligned herself to match her one eye up with his. The coppery scent of his spilled blood found her nose, so she held her breath to keep it out. She bent low and peered into his peeper, saw the way the white had gone pink, and hope seeped out of her the way his blood leaked out onto the ground. She couldn’t imagine any way he’d still be alive.

Until he groaned.

Bieta jerked her gaze toward her son. “You hear that?”

Stirk shook his patchy-haired head without lifting his eyes from the lad.

“He made a sound,” she said, standing. “Groaned.”

“Didn’t hear nothing.”

“We can’t leave him.”

Stirk raised his wide-eyed stare to her. “Well, it don’t look as if he’ll be walking nowhere.”

“You gotta carry him.”

Her son raised one brow and lowered the other, fixing her with a disbelieving expression. Bieta crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Carry him? I’d get his blood on me. And he ain’t going to make it, at any rate.”

She let her gaze trail down Stirk’s grubby, gray shirt with the rip in the sleeve and the front bulging open over his generous belly where two buttons were missing. One leg of his breeches ended just below the knee in a jungle of dangling thread where it had torn off after the hole in it got too big.

“You afraid to get your clothes dirty?”

Stirk shrugged. “Don’t wanna get blood on me, is all.”

“We’re taking him, so pick him up or you won’t be getting any of this.” Bieta cupped her ample breasts and jiggled them; Stirk sagged like a man beaten.

“Alright, but you gotta help me.”

Bieta shook her head. Her son was strong as a horse—and near smart as one—so didn’t need her help, but she obliged to keep him happy. She took up a position at the injured man’s head and grasped him under the armpits, leaning him forward for Stirk to reach under. A moan shuddered in the fellow’s throat when she propped him up, startling her so she nearly let go. She fixed Stirk with a hard gaze.