The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (35 page)

How did I end up here?

Her fingers slipped and Ailyssa let out a squawk.

“Sshh,” Juddah hissed. “Just let go.”

Ailyssa closed her eyes, muting the blinding glare of her sight, and imagined her life if she remained at Jubha Kyna—the pain, the embarrassment, the shame. She released her grip on the sill.

Air rushed around her, then she thumped into something soft yet sturdy. A tiny jingle and a grunt sounded and she knew Juddah had caught her, as he’d promised. She threw her arms around his neck and held on tight, her heart racing, breath panting in and out of her throat.

“I got ya,” he said. They stood for a moment before another voice called out.

“Hey!” The man’s voice yelled. “Hey you! What’re you doing?”

“Shee-it.”

Juddah spun away from the wall and loped across the ground, Ailyssa bouncing in his arms. Pain shot through her bruises and scrapes, but the adrenaline of jumping out of the window and being pursued blurred it into a pulse of fear and excitement coursing along the surface of her skin.

The man carrying her pulled up and the scent of horse sweat wafted to Ailyssa’s nostrils. With a grunt of effort, Juddah hefted her up, throwing her across the horse’s hindquarters, then he followed her up to sit in the saddle.

“Hold on,” he said and snapped the reins.

The steed leaped forward, nearly tossing Ailyssa off the back. She jammed her fingers under the saddle’s belly strap and curled her hand closed around it.

“Hey!” the voice called again, smaller with more distance between them.

“Claris,” Ailyssa said, struggling to hold on while making herself heard above the pounding of hooves on dirt road. “We have to go back and get my Daughter.”

“Can’t,” Juddah said over his shoulder. “Someone saw. They’ll be after us in no time.”

“But Claris.”

She craned her head around, looking back where they’d left, though her blind eyes saw nothing but the hazy mist. In her mind, she saw her Daughter—a girl of only fifteen turns—shrinking in the distance, lost to her once more.

XXXV Horace - Demise

It all seemed very familiar to Horace: the bushes hidin’ them, the tang o’ brine in the air, the wavy meadow leadin’ to the village what popped up outta nowhere. Made the ol’ sailor twitchy and right uncomfortable in his own britches.

As much as it were the same, though, it were different, too. Wilty leaves hung on the bushes; the wavin’ grass weren’t emerald, but yellowy-brown; instead o’ lookin’ like they’d been recently built, the buidlin’s might’ve been standin’ since Thorn’s kind went hidin’ in the Green.

“How can there be another village?” Horace said, not expectin’ an answer. He peered back over his shoulder into the stand o’ trees what hadn’t taken them so long to walk through when they left Haven behind. “That feller said there weren’t no other people. Said they ain’t never seen anyone but us.”

“Thorn doesn’t understand, either. They have neighbors.”

Horace fidgeted, the discomfort in his britches spreadin’ through the rest o’ him. Even though they’d been runnin’, his legs vibrated with energy wantin’ to spill out. He curled his fingers into tight fists and let them go again, flexin’ his hands.

“I don’t like this.”

“Neither does Thorn. But maybe they can direct us to the veil.”

Horace tilted his face toward the gray man and found the little feller lookin’ at him with pleadin’ eyes. The ol’ sailor raised one brow and looked him up and down.

“You’re all gray.”

Thorn’s eyes narrowed and a pink hue crawled across his flesh. Sparse brows sprouted above his eyes; his nose and cheeks didn’t change.

Not so much like Rilum this time. A familiar seemin’ grasshopper flitted by Horace’s face.

“Still think it’s a bad idea,” he said, rubbin’ his stubbly chin. “Didn’t go so well in Haven, and it appeared a nice place.”

“There probably isn’t anyone here,” Thorn said, wavin’ in the direction o’ the dirty-lookin’, lopsided buildin’s. “But we have to try.”

“We can keep headin’ toward sunset. If we—”

“Horace.” Thorn rested his hand on the ol’ sailor’s forearm and the energy feelin’ pulsin’ in him grew. “Thorn needs to get back soon.”

“What’re you—”

The pinky shade faded from the little feller’s face, leavin’ it a gray that looked sickly even on a man what normally wore the shade. Bags formed under his eyes and the skin on his cheeks sagged toward his chin as though it might slide right off. Horace gasped and swallowed to keep nausea outta his throat.

“I thought you said you was feelin’ stronger.”

The small man shrugged. “Thorn must get back soon.”

Horace glanced from the sallow Small God to the woebegone village and back again. If anythin’, in his state, he looked as though he might fit in pretty good. Against his better judgment, Horace nodded his agreement. Better judgment were an unusual thin’ for him to have, anyway.

“Fine,” Horace said, standin’ straight. “Let’s get on with it.”

They set out across the field o’ yellowed blades, a feelin’ o’ havin’ done this before sittin’ on Horace’s shoulders like he were wearin’ a jerkin made outta it. The smell o’ dyin’ grass and a whiff o’ the sea filled Horace’s nostrils while wadin’ through the dried-out meadow, right up until they approached the village’s edge. They stopped when they got there, starin’ at the dirt track what started right where the buildin’s did, too.

“Somethin’s wrong here,” Horace whispered directin’ his gaze sideways at his companion.

Thorn peered back with glazed eyes. The pink o’ his skin pulsed and faded, pulsed and faded. The ol’ sailor sighed heavily because he didn’t enjoy seein’ the little feller lookin’ this way.

“Come on,” he said and plodded out o’ the grass, Thorn followin’ close behind.

They entered the village from the sunrise end, walkin’ out onto the dirt track the way they’d done at Haven. The buildin’s was the same, except for their appearance o’ havin’ seen season after season o’ harsh weather and neglect. Paint chipped and faded; shutters hung askew; moss growin’ on roofs. Made Horace a might nervous, right down to an unseen bird twitterin’ up underneath the eaves o’ the closest buildin’. Horace tilted his head back for a peek, squintin’ against the sun until a cloudy wisp crept across it, throwin’ them into shade. But the chill didn’t rattle its way up his spine until Thorn jerked on his sleeve. He lowered his gaze and saw the boy.

The feller appeared to have seen the seasons turn eight or ten times and stood a similar height to Thorn, same as the boy at Haven. This young one were different too, though, in the same way o’ the buildin’s and the grass. His countenance didn’t shine with no childlike glow, and dirt were smeared on his cheeks. He leaned to one side, like many o’ the village’s structures, and when Horace glanced down, he saw he possessed but one leg and supported himself with a crutch on the side where it were missin’.

This broken-down boy what appeared outta nowhere stood watchin’ without movin’, his presence callin’ nervous sweat to Horace’s brow. The ol’ sailor’s pulse raced, thumpin’ in his ears, and he sensed Thorn standin’ beside him, starin’ at the boy along with him. They didn’t move forward a few paces this time. Horace cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said, raisin’ his hand the same way he’d done before.

The boy continued starin’, mouth pulled into a frown and his gaze dartin’ between Horace and Thorn.

“What’s the name o’ this place?”

The boy’s gaze rested on Horace. He squinted. “Demise.”

Demise.

The same chill what he had upon seein’ the boy came back and perched itself in Horace’s spine. He swallowed hard, shivered, and took a shuddery breath before askin’: “There be anyone else ‘round?”

The boy kept starin’, his empty gaze makin’ Horace feel like sea water were pumpin’ through his veins instead o’ nice, warm blood. Finally, he pivoted on his one leg and hobbled toward the square at the middle o’ the village.

“Fuck me dead,” Horace said. “We gotta get out o’ here.”

He spun to take off back the way they’d come, but Thorn holdin’ onto his sleeve wouldn’t let him. The ol’ sailor glared at the little feller, energy pumpin’ through him and promptin’ him to get runnin’. The thought o’ pickin’ up the Small God and carryin’ him entered his consideration, but the faded glow in Thorn’s eyes stopped him.

“This way,” Thorn said soundin’ outta breath.

He pointed across the village with the ominous name o’ Demise, toward the field o’ yellow grass on the far end, and the brace o’ trees beyond. It were the shortest way to get past the place without goin’ back, Horace had to admit.

But it’s a place named Demise.

Horace huffed, disbelievin’ he were ‘bout to do this, and caught sight o’ the youngster disappearin’ into what would’ve been the meetin’ hall if they was in Haven instead o’ here. Time were runnin’ short.

After a peek at his companion in which he noticed Thorn’d given up the appearance o’ bein’ anythin’ but a small gray man, Horace let his achin’ legs get movin’. His feet tromped on the dirt track, the too-tight boots pinchin’, his broken rib pokin’, and Thorn keepin’ up the pace. Halfway across the square, the crowd began comin’ outta the buildin’ and rain started to fall.

Drops plunked on top o’ the heads o’ men and women what looked like the ones they’d left behind in Haven, except for their tattered clothes and dirty faces. The men wore scraggly beards instead o’ bein’ clean-shaved, but there weren’t no mistakin’ their eyes. The women was unkempt, with locks stickin’ out and empty gazes starin’, but they might’ve been the same bunch. And Horace didn’t see no more because he lowered his head and ran.

The rain fell hard, plasterin’ what hair the ol’ sailor had to his scalp in no time. The dirt track turned to slop under their feet, the thump o’ runnin’ steps hurryin’ up behind them becomin’ splashes instead. He raised his gaze, fightin’ against the urge to peer back at the pursuin’ throng, and saw they was gettin’ near the sunset edge o’ Demise.

Horace and Thorn leaped from the muddy track into the tall grass, wet blades thwappin’ against their legs. No sooner’d they made it outta the village than the sound o’ pursuit stopped. The ol’ sailor glanced back, came close to losin’ his footin’ before skiddin’ to a halt to turn back. Sure enough, the angry-lookin’ mob stood at the edge o’ Demise as though held back by a wall what couldn’t be seen.

“I guess no one ever leaves Demise, either,” Horace said.

They turned their backs on the tumbledown village and ran through the field into the woods, runnin’ until the trees and rain both stopped. The last clump o’ brush parted and they emerged on the edge o’ a greener’n green field with the village o’ Haven in the distance, shinin’ in the sun.

XXXVI Kuneprius - The Small God

One hundred seventy-eight. One hundred seventy-nine. One hundred eighty.

Kuneprius blinked. The salt water felt different against his eyes than the fresh water drawn from a well to which he’d become accustomed—more natural. A crab no bigger than his thumbnail scuttled across the bottom of the tidal pool, its tiny legs disturbing individual grains of sand as it scuffled its way to hide beneath a stone.

One hundred ninety-three. One hundred ninety-four. One hundred ninety-five.

He wanted to be excited at eclipsing the highest number he’d ever counted with his face in the water, but he couldn’t. A piece inside him had broken, leaving shards of anger and despair embedded in his chest, working themselves into his belly, his heart.

A fish tinier than the crab wriggled past his nose—he’d never have seen it if he hadn’t plunged his face below the surface of the tidal pool. He blinked again; his lungs ached.

Two hundred.

Kuneprius pulled his face and hands out of the water, leaning over the pool to allow the liquid to stream out of his nose and ears, from out of his hair and off his eyelashes. The falling drops stirred the pool and he imagined the fish fleeing, the crab jamming itself deeper into the sand under the rock.

He wished to do the same.

A bird squawked overhead—a crow, by the harshness of its voice—and Kuneprius raised his eyes, but the sky lay empty except for the endless blue. He waved his hands, drying them, and wiped his face on his sleeve, then inhaled the salty air. His stomach clenched at the hint of clay lurking beneath the brine and the ghost of old blood clinging to his cheeks, the new blood soiling his fingers.

“How long this time?”

Kuneprius didn’t reply. He knew it wasn’t the golem who’d asked, but a memory of the way things had been, the way he wanted them to be again. It seemed far too late for that.

He peered along the shore and it took a moment to identify the clay man seated amongst the rocks. The color difference between him and the boulders strewn across the seashore was subtle, and he’d curled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them so his appearance varied little from his surroundings.

The waves washed against the rocks, filling Kuneprius’ ears with the tumbling roil of water as he picked his way across the beach. His boots lay discarded on the verge between forest and shoreline, tossed aside in favor of navigating the shore with his bare soles, allowing the sea to kiss his toes. It pleased him for having done so, but like everything else in the days since they’d left two young and broken bodies lying in the mud beside a creek, a shadow hung over the little pleasure it gave him, painting it black.

Pebbles shifted and crunched under his feet as he came to stand in front of the clay man. The living statue didn’t move. Kuneprius glared at the thing’s muscles bulging beneath its smooth skin, its aquiline nose and symmetrical features, its face looking so perfectly…

Sculpted.

A splinter of pride wedged itself between the anger and sadness gripping his soul. No matter what this thing was crouched before him, or what it had done or might do, Vesisdenperos made it. The same Vesisdenperos whom Kuneprius had killed for to liberate from the Goddess’ caravan. The same Vesisdenperos whom Kuneprius raised and cared for from that moment on.