The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (37 page)

Horace stopped and glanced back the way Thorn’d gone. The little feller’d disappeared. His gaze dragged o’er the field o’ green grass, wavin’ ‘round in the slight breeze and practically gleamin’ in the sun, just like the buildin’s o’ Haven.

The village sat quiet and unmovin’ in the middle o’ the meadow, lookin’ like it should be a pleasant little place to call home. If them men and women what looked too much like one another hadn’t chased him out, it might’ve been the kind o’ place he’d’ve settled. That, and if it weren’t so near to the sea.

As he walked, Horace gazed at the boots what Birk’d given him, their narrow ends pinchin’ his toes. It seemed like so long since he’d been at the inn run by the big man they called Krin, enjoyin’ stew and ale and thinkin’ he’d been saved. But like Dunal’d been the one what put him in the drink to begin with, he’d also been the one what made it so he found himself doin’ his best to avoid a couple o’ bewitched villages. Made him wish he either didn’t wrap his fingers ‘round the oaf’s throat or he’d taken the time to choke the life outta him long ago.

The black boots trod upon the long grass, bendin’ it and breakin’ it under his steps. Horace watched the blades crushed under their soles, usin’ the gentle sound to distract him from memories o’ killin’ Dunal, and from knowin’ Thorn were gone—left him behind without a so long.

When the grass ended and Horace found himself standin’ on a patch o’ dirt, he stopped and stared at the puff o’ dust his last step kicked up. It rose a handspan and dispersed into the air. Horace raised his head to find the buildin’s o’ Haven standin’ directly before him.

The ol’ sailor’s breath caught up in his throat and he jerked his head ‘round to peek behind him. A stretch o’ grass, then the forest.

How can I be here?

The last he’d looked, he’d been walkin’ alongside the village as he followed the tree line. It weren’t possible for him to finish up standin’ at the sunrise end o’ the place, the way he and Thorn’d done when they first arrived. His head made its way back to gazin’ at the new-lookin’ buildin’s and he detected the twitterin’ o’ baby birds hidin’ in a nest. Two breaths later, he caught sight o’ a boy aged between eight and ten turns.

Horace didn’t need no more promptin’.

He turned tail and ran toward sunrise, not carin’ no more ‘bout seein’ Thorn’s veil nor the Green hidden behind it. He cared ‘bout nothin’ but gettin’ as far away from the town called Haven as his feet’d take him.

His too-small boots hammered the ground and his breath shortened into pants as he ran, but the forest didn’t appear to be comin’ no closer. He kept his tired legs pushin’ him forward, anyways. Each breath became a labor, his broken rib rubbin’ and shootin’ pain through him. He glanced sideways, half expectin’ Thorn to be runnin’ alongside, his breathin’ easy and gray skin showin’ no signs o’ the sweat spreadin’ under Horace’s own armpits.

Course, Thorn weren’t there. He’d gone chasin’ birds rather’n stayin’ with his friend.

His gait slowin’ up with fatigue, the ol’ sailor craned his neck ‘round to peer back over his shoulder, thinkin’ he’d find Haven keepin’ pace behind him. It weren’t. Instead, a patch o’ grass separated him from a stand o’ jackpines.

I didn’t go through no forest.

Horace slowed to a stop and bent at the waist, eyes closed tight and hands planted on his knees as he gulped mouthfuls o’ air into his chest. The rib begged him to stop, but his lungs insisted he keep on gulpin’. When he finally suspected he might be able to return his breathin’ to somethin’ near its normal, he opened his eyes. As soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t.

His feet was standin’ on a patch o’ dirt, and he’d seen but one place with a patch o’ dirt to trod upon.

Horace raised his head, peekin’ out ahead o’ him, but saw nothin’ besides yellow grass leadin’ to a stand o’ trees. His brows wrinkled. Shouldn’t be no dirty patch in the middle o’ the meadow on the way to the forest.

The ol’ sailor rubbed his stubbly chin with his fingers, strugglin’ to make sense o’ his current predicament. A stretch o’ field and a bit o’ trees behind him, the same thin’ before him, and a patch o’ dirt under his feet. Might be he’d’ve shrugged and kept on his way if not for the creepin’ shiver what crawled up his spine and made him spin himself ‘round.

He were standin’ at the sunrise edge o’ the town called Demise, a one-legged boy with a stick for a crutch frownin’ at him. A cloud crossed the sun and a drop o’ rain landed on Horace’s nose.

For the second time in a short while, Horace thought he might be leavin’ a brick-shaped shit in his britches. He faced back toward the trees and got to runnin’ again before it squeezed outta his porthole.

He ran as many paces as he possessed fingers and toes before the cloud passed from in front o’ the sun and he realized there wasn’t no trees ahead. Where they’d been a moment before stood a shiny, white town what he knew without gettin’ no closer to be called Haven. He stopped again, surprised at the gratin’ sound o’ footwear in dry dirt.

Confused and worried his frightened heart might beat right outta his chest, Horace gazed at his boots and the patch o’ dirt on which they rested.

“No,” the ol’ sailor breathed.

He raised his head and found the town what were sittin’ before him a few quick heartbeats ago were gone. A stretch o’ green grass and a patch o’ trees replaced it; he figured he knew where to find the village what he lost.

Horace whirled ‘round, the tiny chirps o’ baby birds already findin’ his ears. Freshly painted-lookin’ buildin’s loomed on both sides and a boy at least eight turns but no more’n ten stood exactly where Horace expected him to be. One thin’ were different ‘bout the town o’ Haven this time: the big group o’ men and women what looked too much like each other standin’ behind the boy, glarin’ at Horace.

The ol’ sailor didn’t wait to find out what the mob’d do, nor did he set out for the trees, already knowin’ he’d somehow find himself standin’ on the town o’ Demise’s doorstep. This time, Horace lit out the direction he’d watched Thorn go chasin’ after the raven.

The ol’ sailor’s feet cut through tall grass, carryin’ him toward the sea.

XXXVIII Teryk - Awakening

A splinter of light shone through the impenetrable blackness. Teryk focused on it, waiting for his surroundings to resolve into something recognizable, something other than darkness and nothing.

An odor came to him, salty and sharp, then a sound. He didn’t recognize it at first, but it became the creak of boards. The noise came from under him, all around him. Air entered his lungs, brushing across his lips, cooling his tongue on its way through his mouth. Hardness pressed against his left shoulder and arm, his hip, his leg.

I’m alive.

He stretched out, but his foot stopped after moving less than a hand’s breadth as it hit something solid with a gentle thump. Teryk closed his eyes and the sliver of light—the shred of hope—disappeared. Mind straining, he attempted to remember where he might be and how he got here, but came up empty. Vague and fleeting impressions came to him—memories, perhaps—but each fled before his precarious awareness grasped them.

He shifted and his head brushed a hard, flat surface. He stretched his hand straight up, but it caught in a rough fabric. After a moment’s struggle, he freed it and his fingers encountered another surface the same as the ones restricting his head and feet.

A coffin. I’m in a coffin.

His eyes snapped open and his stomach seized when he couldn’t find the thin fragment of light again. Heart racing, his gaze darted in the dark until he located it and released his held breath into the enclosed space. His exhalation pressed on him as though weights held the air around the edges like a fisherman’s net.

Teryk jerked, thumping his head and feet against the ends of the coffin.

“Help,” he croaked, his parched throat unable to create meaningful sound.

The muscles in his arms and chest ached, twisted in painful knots as though he’d spent a day training with Trenan and the master swordsman had pushed him beyond his limits. The thought of his mentor brought memories along with it: Godsbane, a man in an alley, a woman missing an eye and her teeth. His gut lurched as he recalled being skewered on his own blade.

Maybe I’m not alive and this is what it’s like to be dead.

“No.”

The word scarped his throat and he reached up and rested his hand on the board above him, measuring the distance. More space lay between himself and the lid of the coffin than between his feet or head and the ends. But enough?

Teryk shifted himself to lie flat on his back, the muscles along his spine unimpressed with the effort. Panting, he waited for his tortured sinews to recover. His pulse beat in his ears, whooshing through his head like waves washing against the shore. He closed his eyes again and took control of his breath, inhaling deeply, filling his chest until his ribs ached, then letting the air go. His racing heart slowed.

This time, he found the dim line of light easily, and let it encourage him. He may be in a coffin, but if light shone in, he wasn’t buried in the ground, and hope remained.

He cocked back both arms, resting his elbows on the wooden bottom of his prison, and drew another breath in through his nose. The salty aroma tickled his nostrils, but he detected the scent of wood and dirty straw, animal fur and feces, too.

Where am I?

Hands stretched open and palms flat, Teryk extended his arms with all the strength he could muster. The heels of his hands slammed against the wood above him, pain shooting along his body, but nails screeched in the shifting wood, and the sound energized him.

Teeth clenched, he repeated the action. The thin line of light widened, his hope growing along with it. He hit it again. Again.

Man from across the sea.

These words flashed across Teryk’s mind unbidden, stopping him before he struck the board again. The light coming through the widening gap flickered and cast shadows into his prison which he now recognized as a crate, not a coffin.

The scroll.

Memories flooded back to the prince—getting caught beneath the grate in the river under Draekfarren; finding the parchment; his father taking it, burning it; sneaking out of the inner city. He remembered the deadly encounter with the brigand and had vague recollection of being rescued, cared for, but then a gap.

A gap ending with him in a crate.

He hit the top of the crate again and nails squealed, the space wide enough to allow his fingers to poke through. Heart pulsing with frightened excitement, he scrambled to a crouching position, fighting to tear himself out of the fabric tangled about him. Head bent and shoulder pressed against the wooden lid, he lifted with his aching legs, pushing the crate’s top free.

The lid tumbled off, the jagged end of a nail or piece of broken wood scratching his cheek. Teryk threw the top aside with one hand and brought his other to the scrape, felt the warmth of blood flowing from his face. He cursed under his breath and straightened creakily, his spine resistant to the efforts.

A lantern hung from a hook affixed to a post, its light flickering across a host of crates of similar size and shape to the one imprisoning the prince. When his bare foot touched the wooden floor boards, he realized he wore only his undergarments. He gazed at the dark patch on the front of his shirt, touched it and found it hard with dried blood.

Panic flooded through him, filling his mouth and clamping around his lungs. He clawed desperately at his shirt, pulling it up to see his abdomen. Dark blood covered it, flaking away at his touch, but he found no wound beneath, no gash or hole, no sign of the stabbing he now clearly remembered.

Teryk stared at his dirty stomach for too long, forgetting his situation as he attempted sorting through his memories and the reality before him. Had so much time passed for him to heal? Or did he misremember the events leading here?

A sound above his head yanked him out of his thoughts. He looked up at the wooden ceiling and discovered more light seeping through cracks between the boards. He waited, listening.

Footsteps.

The sound shifted away, but Teryk didn’t doubt it was the clomp of boot heels on wood. He let the stiff fabric of his shirt fall back over his dirty but uninjured belly. After the sounds moved far enough away Teryk could no longer detect them, he surveyed the room. His gaze fell across crates, sealed barrels, and finally a ladder leading up to a hatch. He stepped furtively across the floor and paused at the bottom.

Standing with his hand on one of the ladder’s rungs, Teryk stared up at the trapdoor, brow furrowed. What sort of place had a floor and walls of wood and a hatch overhead? As he pondered his situation and the wisdom of climbing the ladder and through a door into the unknown, he felt the floor shift ever so slightly beneath him. The prince grabbed the rung tighter.

It’s in my head.

Amongst his memories, he recalled the beating given him before the brigand ran him through with his own sword. The thought made him cringe. He knew he should be thankful for being alive, but how when he didn’t know where he was or why?

One way to find out.

Teryk set his foot on the bottom rung and stepped up onto the ladder, then reached higher with his hand. He paused when he noticed it tremor and curled his fingers into a tight fist, willing it to stop. His entire life, he’d let his sister take the lead when he wanted nothing more than to be the one being followed. Now, standing at the bottom of a ladder staring up into the unknown, he wished for Danya to be there to encourage him and give him strength.

The prince shook his head, loosening the thought. He was his own man and didn’t need the princess’ help. Let her sit in her chamber, safe at Draekfarren while he set out to save the world—that was what he’d wanted from the beginning.

An opportunity to prove himself.

He climbed the ladder, pausing between each step to listen for footsteps from the room overhead, but he heard none. Upon reaching the top, he stopped again, examining around the edge of the hatch in the dim light thrown over his shoulder by the lantern hanging behind and below him. He saw no latch meant to hold him in or keep anyone else out.