The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (38 page)

Teryk licked his lips, tasted dirt, and reached his arm over his head, joints aching as his fingers touched the hatch’s smooth, painted wood.

A hinge creaked quietly as he lifted the trap door, inching it open a crack to peer through. He climbed one more rung, bringing his eyes up to the opening. Teryk saw little beyond the narrow opening; bright sun found his eyes, blinding him to his surroundings, but telling him more than he’d known.

Outside. I was being kept in some sort of dungeon.

The sun’s warmth and brightness fortified him as he pushed the hatch open farther. His head passed the level of the hatch, extended up into the open.

A salty breeze touched the prince’s cheeks and the briny scent found its way into his lungs with his next breath. Once, in his youth, his father had taken him and Danya on the maiden voyage of his flagship, the
Devil of the Deep
. The scent of the ocean had stuck with him, and he’d longed to experience it again but never had the opportunity; he recognized it instantly now. It drew him out, encouraging his legs to climb the rest of the way up the ladder and out of his prison.

Gulls wheeled overhead, the beat of their wings mingling with the wash of sea against the side of the boat, a sound which attracted Teryk. His bare feet padded on warm, oiled boards as he lurched across the deck toward the wale, oblivious to everything around him. As he approached, he spied the ocean over the side, modest waves topped with white foam.

He increased his pace, hurrying to lean against the rail and peer out across the water, his breath sticking in his throat.

The spires of Draekfarren and the inner city were still visible, but the haze of distance blurred the docks and fishing wharves along the shoreline. He didn’t know how he’d ended up on the boat, but it appeared he’d been on it for the better part of a day.

The tang of the ocean air invigorated him, but the sensation was short lived, his thoughts returning to the scroll and the reason he’d left the inner city in the first place.

The man from across the sea.

Was this ship taking him away from his quest, or had the fates intervened to carry him closer to his destination? Fingernails dug into the painted wood as his fingers gripped the railing tight.

Am I the man from across the sea?

The thought left him chilled, but it was a familiar sound behind him that froze the prince.

The steely song of a blade pulled from its scabbard.

Teryk released his grip and raised his hands, turning to face a man who held his sword extended level with the prince’s throat. A ponytail held the sailor’s brown hair back from his face, and a long mustache waxed into curled ends perched atop his lip. A group of men milling behind him eyed Teryk, their hands hovering near their weapons.

“What have we here?” the mustachioed man asked. “A stowaway, it seems.”

The sailors grumbled and scowled; he waved his free hand, silencing them.

“Do you know what happens to stowaways, lad?”

Teryk looked at the man but didn’t answer. A smile tilted his lips beneath his coiffed facial hair and he stepped forward until the tip of his blade touched the prince’s throat. Teryk leaned back to get away, but the wale pressed against this back, keeping him from moving as the cold steel caressed his flesh.

“Feed ‘em to the sharks and honor the God of the Deep, they do. Ever thought your fate’d be to feed a god?”

The salty air Teryk drew into through his mouth no longer tasted so sweet.

XXXIX Horace - Back to the Sea

Each step made the scent o’ brine in Horace’s nose stronger, and his wish to turn himself ‘round and run the other way grew along with it. But he’d already experienced what lay that direction: Haven and Demise, though he’d started to think o’ the twin creepy villages as Death and Demise. Suited them better, he figured.

Ahead, a line o’ shrubs and sparse trees loomed, but they didn’t look like the bushes and jackpines what’d tempted him into thinkin’ he were gettin’ away from them towns before. The shrubs grew lower and more tangly, and the trees thin and tall with leaves what’d turn colors and fall off when third season came. And better’n that, he actually got closer and closer to them as he trudged along on legs beggin’ for a rest.

A breeze he recognized for seawind rustled through them leaves and set the grass to wavin’. Horace pressed on, tellin’ his legs they’d have to wait before they got some respite because if they didn’t keep goin’, he might end up dead, and then they’d get nothin’ but rest. But the thought o’ death were only one part o’ what kept him trompin’ on, he had to admit. He also desired to find a little gray man—his only hope for gettin’ outta this accursed place.

Horace waded into the shrubs, the breeze blowin’ stiffer as he got nearer to the shore. Amongst the shoosh o’ the wind through the trees and his feet disturbin’ bushes, he detected the rush o’ waves breakin’ against rocks. Judgin’ by the sound, they wasn’t big swells, but they was gettin’ closer. Knowin’ so gave the ol’ sailor a shudder.

Bushes with pointy thorns plucked at Horace’s sleeves and pant legs, and he wondered if a feller named Thorn worried ‘bout the same thin’ happenin’ to him. Prob’bly he did—a name didn’t mean much to the world…though given the moniker o’ Seaman’d condemned Horace to a life on the water.

The shrubs thinned and Horace lurched though the trees. Ahead, beyond another stretch o’ tangled bushes and brambles, rocks scattered across a wide shore, and then came the sea. He stopped in his tracks, suddenly findin’ difficulty in pullin’ air into his chest.

Horace stood for the space o’ as many breaths as he had fingers, his hands restin’ on his hips, his head not wantin’ him to go any nearer to the briny deep.

“I ain’t goin’ in it,” he said aloud as if doin’ so might convince him to keep goin’. “Just lookin’ for the little gray feller, is all.”

He attempted a step toward the shore, but his foot hesitated and it only ended up goin’ a half-step. Horace glared at it like it were a beast with its own mind what weren’t doin’ what he wanted it to.

“Ain’t no gettin’ outta here without Thorn.” He figured it may or may not be true, but he’d found out the hard way he weren’t goin’ nowhere alone. “One quick peek and if he ain’t ‘round, I’ll hightail it away from the shore.”

Lyin’ to himself did the trick. His achin’ legs made his stubborn feet move, carryin’ him between the thin trees with their peelin’ white bark. His stomach continued flippin’ ‘round at the smell o’ the salty sea, but he kept it under control and didn’t puke out the unusual yet tasty snacks they’d given him in Haven.

Horace got to the next line o’ shrubs and stopped, stretchin’ up on his toes to catch a glimpse past them. Driftwood and seaweed littered the rocky shore in the manner o’ most ev’ry beach he’d seen. Just beside where Horace were comin’ out o’ the shrubs, a short bay cut itself into the shoreline. On the other side, a point jutted out into the water. At the end o’ that, a small gray man stood atop a big rock, his hands stretchin’ toward the sky.

A sense o’ relief washed into the ol’ sailor, rinsin’ away some o’ the trepidation bein’ near the sea’d put inside him. The watery feelin’ in his arms and legs solidified, givin’ him more energy, and a smile tugged at the corners o’ his mouth. He pushed through the brush, ignorin’ the thorns tuggin’ at his arms as he moved toward the one tuggin’ at his heart.

I ain’t alone no more.

He emerged from the bushes onto the beach, feet crunchin’ on its rocky edge. The briny wind blew through his thin hair and tickled the scrubby whiskers on his cheeks. He breathed through his mouth, attemptin’ to avoid smellin’ the stink o’ the ocean and the dried-up seaweed it’d cast aside. Though he hated it, the sea’s familiarity calmed him more’n he’d been since he and Thorn set foot in Haven.

Horace picked his way a few steps over the rocky terrain, intendin’ to skirt the small bay and head for his wayward companion standin’ at the end o’ the point. The ol’ sailor stopped and tilted his head back, lookin’ up into the sky at what Thorn were stretchin’ his arms out toward, expectin’ what he found.

The bird Thorn’d called Father Raven circled high over the gray man’s head, spiralin’ closer to the ground with each successive turn. Seein’ it comin’ down and down, Horace realized what Thorn were attemptin’.

He’s usin’ magic to call him.

The ol’ sailor watched, his insides twistin’ and fightin’ at the thought. He’d be happy the little feller found his way home, but he’d miss him, too. Back when he’d set his feet on the deck o’ the Devil, who’d’ve thought he’d end up meetin’ a Small God from the Green, never mind missin’ him when he’d gone?

Life sure feeds you some funny meals.

Horace lowered his head and took one more step before holdin’ up again. He squinted and leaned forward, peerin’ not at Thorn stretchin’ his arms and callin’ Father Raven, but at the rocks behind him. It were hard to make anythin’ out from a distance, but it seemed to Horace somethin’d moved.

He held his breath, watchin’ and waitin’, until it happened again. When it did, he realized why it’d been so difficult for him to see.

The man were pretty near the same color as the rocks.

***

The sun on Thorn’s cheeks fed him, though not enough to compensate for the energy he expended. Masquerading as a human had drained him, but seeing Father Raven prompted him into drawing on what power he had left to control the bird, use him to return behind the veil. At home, he’d never come close to depletion, so he didn’t know how much more remained to give, but it wouldn’t matter once he made it back. When Father Raven carried him over the veil, all the magic in the world would belong to him again.

Eyes closed, he stood up on his toes, stretching his body as high toward the sky as his small stature allowed. In his mind, he pictured his energy extending upward, felt it brush the raven’s feathers as though he touched them with his own fingertips. The hold he gained on the bird was tenuous, but he had it.

If he kept concentrating, if his power held, he’d be home soon.

The sea breeze caressed his face, whistled gently in his ears. He breathed in the saltiness Horace despised so much, the scent of fish swimming in the sea, of sun on stone, bird droppings baking in the heat, and the distinct aroma of clay.

Father Raven spiraled closer and Thorn nearly lost concentration as he wondered what had become of Horace Seaman, his mind hearing a phantom of the man calling his name. He quickly refocused before his grip on the bird slipped. The old sailor had survived a long time before he met Thorn; he’d survive a good while after the Small God was gone.

Thorn’s energy lagged, but the bird had come close enough he needed to expend less to hold him in his thrall. His heart swelled with bliss at the thought of returning home—for himself and to restore glorious Father Raven to his rightful place.

“Thorn!”

The Small God’s eyes snapped open. No mistaking it: the voice belonged to the real Horace Seaman, not a memory or his fatigued mind playing tricks. His hold on the raven slipped.

“Behind you!”

For an instant, Thorn considered ignoring the old sailor’s warning, but the tone of his voice convinced him something was amiss. The gray man pivoted his body and lowered his arms, releasing some of his influence on Father Raven. He glanced across the small bay at Horace splashing through the water and waving his arms over his head. The comical sight might have brought a smile to Thorn’s lips had there not been another man racing through the sea, chasing his friend.

It didn’t seem to Thorn that Horace realized his pursuer’s presence.

The Small God inhaled a breath, intending to call out a warning. The scent of clay filled the air he drew, overpowering everything else.

Powerful limbs encircled Thorn, pinning his arms to his side and squeezing the air from his lungs. Sea and sky wavered before his eyes and his hold on Father Raven was severed. The gray man wrenched his gaze over his shoulder and saw angry eyes, flared nostrils, cheeks the color of clay.

Beyond, the black bird rose into the sky, then the world faded into darkness.

***

“Thorn!”

Horace waved his hands o’er his head, desperate to attract the little feller’s attention. Salty water splashed up ‘round him, drops landin’ on his lips and spillin’ the briny flavor into his mouth, threatenin’ to turn his stomach. He ignored it.

“Behind you!”

Thorn faced Horace, but it were too late. The giant feller grabbed him ‘round the middle and the gray man went stiff first, then sagged in his grip. Outta the corner o’ his eye, Horace spied someone else splashin’ through the bay, but it were too late for him, too. The man jumped across the last bit o’ space between them, tacklin’ Horace and draggin’ him into the water.

Salty fluid filled his eyes and found its way into his mouth. A silvery flash o’ fish scales fleein’ the scene went past his head, but he didn’t think nothin’ ‘bout it while he tried to keep from swallowin’ the ocean what experience told him’d mean unpleasant thin’s for him.

The weight o’ the man what tackled him held Horace under. He worried the feller’d wrap his fingers ‘round his neck the way he’d done to Dunal, but if he didn’t get his face outta the sea to get himself a breath, it wouldn’t matter ‘bout squeezin’ his throat, anyways. Horace thrashed like when he thought the God o’ the Deep’d drag him to the ocean’s depths, fightin’ for his life. This time, at least he understood what it were wantin’ to end his days, even if he didn’t grasp the stranger’s reasonin’.

The ol’ sailor twisted and got one shoulder out from under the other feller. It gave Horace enough leverage to lift his face outta the water for an instant and suck a hurried breath, but sea water went in with it, makin’ him cough. He glimpsed the face o’ the man holdin’ him, fear in his eyes and his lips movin’ as he counted off numbers out loud.

An instant later, Horace’s head were back under again. He struggled and writhed, but the man on top o’ him had a better grip and he held him from gettin’ free.