The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (4 page)

“Yeah, yeah. Heard him that time.”

He bent and hooked one arm around the lad’s back, the other under his knees, and picked him up as though he weighed no more than a sack of grain. Bieta pushed on the injured fellow’s back to make it appear as though she helped; her palms came away smeared with his blood.

“You got him?”

“Yeah,” Stirk grunted. “I got him.”

They started along the dimly lit street, following the same path as Teth and his mates because it was the quickest way home. The next closest bridge would take them too far out of their way and through parts of the city Bieta wouldn’t want to go even when Stirk wasn’t carrying a load.

“What was he doing here?” she mused. “Don’t everyone know to stay out of Thieves’ Alley?”

“Don’t think he’s from around here, Ma.”

“That’s the truth.”

“And he wouldn’t’ve been here if you hadn’t been screwin’ around with Teth.”

She glared at Stirk, lips pressed together tight, tongue working hard in the gap between her teeth. He was too busy concentrating on keeping one foot moving in front of the other to notice.

“Someone’s gotta make money, or how’re we going to eat? You getting a job?”

“Ain’t no jobs.”

“That’s right. And you ain’t willing to put some fellow’s cock betwixt your lips for a coin or two, are you?” This time, Stirk didn’t respond. “Didn’t think so.”

She stopped him short of the corner and Bieta stuck her head out to peer around. The street was empty, so she signaled Stirk to follow as she continued.

“Hurry.”

Stirk grunted and increased his pace, the young man hanging limp in his arms, weighing him down with the worst kind of load. Bieta wished there was more she could do to help—by reason of wanting to get home quicker, not due to caring about the strain on her son’s back—but there wasn’t. Being lookout for Teth and his boys would have to be her contribution.

They stopped to rest halfway along the next block, Stirk leaning against a wall with its daub chipping off the wattle, though he likely didn’t need the pause. He sucked a few heavy breaths to give his mother the impression he’d done some hard work, tilted his head and wiped sweat from his brow off with his shoulder. Bieta rolled her eyes and peeked over her shoulder, surveying the street ahead.

Empty.

Not much traffic at this time, but they’d pass The Dented Cup on their way to the bridge. Day or night, people frequented the tavern, and there’d be a good chance Teth and his thugs might stop in on their way by.

“Come on,” she said, snagging Stirk by the ripped sleeve of his shirt.

“Can’t we leave him? I think he’s dead. He’s getting cold.”

Bieta touched the back of her hand to the lad’s forehead and found it warm and moist. A faint breath caressed her fingers when she held them in front of his mouth.

“He’s alive.” She started out again, expecting her son to follow. “Just his blood on your shirt cooling off.”

“Great.”

Around the next corner, they walked into the busy tavern’s noise spilling along the street. Bieta hesitated and Stirk lurched to a stop beside her.

“If we’re gonna do this,” he said, feigning panted breath. “Let’s just do it.”

She knew his strength would last and he just liked to play at getting tired to illustrate his contribution, but she worried about being discovered toting a blood-covered fellow through the streets, especially if one of the rarely-seen city guards picked tonight for an evening stroll. No See-Gee would believe for a second they weren’t the ones who poked him with a sword.

They hurried up the street, Stirk’s feet dragging in the dirt and broken cobbles, sending rocks skittering across the ground. Had it been quieter, Bieta might have hushed him, but the tavern’s clamor was louder than usual. Loud enough it made her nervous.

Stirk was busy concentrating on hauling his load, but it didn’t take Elishbieta long to realize it wasn’t normal tavern sounds seeping out through the door. The harsh clash of swords cut through the crowd’s chatter, followed by a man’s pained cry. As they drew even with the building, the place went deathly silent. A hush fell like a fog bank appearing out of nowhere to swallow the shacks along the river and Bieta stopped in her tracks, grabbed Stirk’s arm.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

Stirk grunted. Bieta tugged his sleeve, pulling him toward the alley opposite the tavern’s entrance.

They melted into the shadows as best a big man with another fellow in his arms can hide. Bieta held her breath, both to keep from being heard and to prevent the stink of garbage and offal invading her nose. Her tongue rubbed back and forth against her gum, her one eye hard on the door as she wondered what might cause the drinking house’s normally giddy crowd to go quiet. Were Teth and his cohorts menacing them? He wasn’t the biggest thug in the outer city, but maybe the fancy sword he’d stolen from the young man was enough to make the others take note.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. Bieta pushed Stirk and his load deeper into the alley, their feet squelching in damp refuse.

The one-armed man who exited the tavern and the young with him were strangers to her, but she recognized the sword in his hand. Even her untrained eye couldn’t mistake the value of that sort of weapon. The pattern etched along its blade caught the light, twinkling and flashing, a beacon signaling this sword was different from all others.

The two strangers backed out of the public house, acting tense and wary. Through the open door, she glimpsed the faces of some of the tavern-goers watching them with eyes opened wide with shock. A path split between them led back into the room, and she spied bodies lying on the floor, recognized Teth amongst them. Her gut jumped at the sight, part of her pleased he’d paid for what he’d done to the lad, another part distressed she’d have to find a new man to pleasure for money. She decided to be pleased—men loved the feel of her gap on their cocks, so it shouldn’t be difficult to replace the meager coin Teth provided.

The door swung closed and the man and girl turned away from the tavern. He glanced up the street, but her gaze fell on the alley in which Bieta and Stirk hid, the bleeding man draped in his arms. The injured lad chose that precise moment to groan.

They froze.

The girl stared right at them, not seeing them in the dark, and took a half step their direction, but got no farther. The one-armed man rested his hand on her back, directing her away down the avenue. Bieta watched until they disappeared around the corner.

“Let’s go,” she whispered, dragging Stirk by his shirt sleeve once more.

At any second, the tavern crowd might come rushing through the doors. She didn’t know what’d happened, but she could make a good guess. With men lying dead on the floor, someone within might come out seeking vengeance, and they didn’t want to get caught up in it. And if no one had retribution on their minds, then one of them might decide to find a See-Gee and report the incident. Not that the city guard would care nor do anything about it, but they’d for sure take an interest in Bieta and Stirk and the man bleeding on Stirk’s shirt.

She yanked on her boy’s arm, urging him to put aside his theatrics and increase his pace. Two more blocks remained to the bridge, and two more beyond to the stinking room behind the tanner’s where they made their home. If they didn’t dally, they should be able to get well-hid long before any lazy-assed See-Gee showed his face.

They hurried through the next intersection and Bieta took a peek to her right. The two they’d seen leaving the tavern stood in the middle of the street far enough away to be no more than black shapes in the distance. With them heading that direction, she assumed they must be going to gather the city guard themselves. She pulled harder on Stirk’s sleeve.

“Hurry up, dummy.”

“Shut it, Ma, or you’ll be carrying your friend.”

One Way Bridge loomed ahead, so named for the fact its breadth only allowed one wagon to cross at a time. For this reason, most carts and wagons found their way to another bridge rather than get caught in a jam. The old One Way Bridge saw mostly pedestrian traffic, and this easier use had left it in better condition than the other paths over the river, save those reserved for nobles. Flagstones worn smooth by boot heels paved the bridge, but their edges remained unchipped by horseshoes and steel rimmed wheels. Since she was a young girl, Bieta had liked coming to the bridge and leaning over the edge to watch the swirling water flow by.

Not tonight.

She ran her hand along the crown as they crossed, fingers grating on the rough bricks, their corners worn smooth by innumerable hands over the course of a thousand of turn of the seasons. They reached the far side without notice, but figures milled about on the street ahead. Bieta leaned close and whispered in Stirk’s ear.

“We’ll have to go the back way.”

“No,” he groaned. “Ma, I—”

“Shh.”

She tugged hard on his ear and he bent toward her to release the pressure. The lad moaned again, a sad, pained sound that brought Bieta back to the task at hand. This wasn’t just about sneaking back to their humble abode, but saving the young man’s life, too.

She held on to Stirk’s ear as she led him down the side street running alongside the river. A block along, they took a right into a narrow lane. The mingled smells of murky river water, the sausage factory, and the tanner’s shop made her stomach grouse and complain.

Along the alley, they side-stepped broken crates and a man she presumed to be sleeping before finally arriving at the tanner’s. Here, the river’s smell and the sausage aroma faded, overpowered by the stench of the tannery. As much as she despised it, the stink was the only reason they had somewhere to live—no one else wanted to reside where the shopkeep used dung and urine in his work.

“Get him in,” she said, releasing Stirk’s lobe and ushering him ahead of her before glancing along the alley to ensure the man they stepped over hadn’t awakened.

Stirk went through into the storeroom that provided them shelter and she followed, shutting the door behind him.

“Ma! I can’t see.”

“Hold on to your breeches.”

She reached up to the shelf mounted beside the door, found the taper and lit it. The dancing flame bounced light around the small room, across the disheveled blankets spread in the corners upon which Bieta and her son slept. A table with splintered edges sat in the middle of the room, a wooden crate and a chair with one leg too short pulled up to it. An empty pot hung over the cold hearth.

“Put him there,” Bieta said, waving her hand toward the far corner.

“But that’s where I sleep, Ma.”

She raised her hand, showing him the back of it. Stirk made a display of flinching, but they both knew the days of the mother striking her son had long since passed.

“Do as yer told and stop arguing. You can sleep somewhere else.”

With a frown on his lips, Stirk stalked the few paces to the corner.

“Put him down gentle.”

Her son grunted and crouched, setting the man on the heap of blankets with all the care a man his size could muster. The fellow groaned and Stirk jumped back a step, staring at him as though he thought a Small God might burst out of his stomach.

“Why do you wanna keep him?” he asked finally, satisfied no creature intended on finding its way out of the man’s gut. “We ain’t got enough food for the two of us.”

Bieta dipped a cloth in a bowl of cloudy water set in the center of the table and wrung it out. She kneeled beside the lad and drew the damp cloth across his forehead; breath sighed out between his lips.

“You didn’t see him, Stirk,” she said. “Didn’t see him when he saved me.”

Her son’s feet scraped on the dirt floor as he shifted, dissatisfied with her answer.

“You wanna give him my bed and food because he acted brave? What kinda—”

“No, you fool,” she snapped and fixed him with a gaze that was always more effective at straightening him out than the threat of a backhand. “Yer only seeing a fellow in his underpants. Before they got to him, he wore fancy clothes, like a merchant. And you should have seen his sword.”

“Aw, Ma. You don’t have to tell me about his cock.”

“Not that sword.” Bieta laughed despite herself. “His
sword
sword. Its blade was etched and it had gold on the handle.”

“It’s called a hilt, Ma.”

She shook her head and returned to wiping the greasy cloth across the lad’s forehead.

“Don’t matter what it’s called if it was made of gold.”

“Gold, huh? What happened to this gold sword?”

“The one-armed man had it, but that don’t matter, neither. Don’t you get what it means?”

Stirk scratched his stubbly chin, long nails grating in the tough hair.

“Not only do I lose my sleeping place and half my meals, but a fellow with one arm got himself a nice sword?”

“It means he has money, and people who have money have friends.”

Bieta raised her eyes to her son and saw his blank expression. Stirk had never been one for planning or figuring things out, which explained why he lived in a tiny storeroom with his mother and had to sleep facing the wall when she brought her work home. She stood and went back to the table to dip the cloth.

“People who have money and friends will be missed,” she told him, watching the turbid water run between her fingers. “When people with money are missed, someone’s willing to pay to get them back. Understand?”

Bieta raised her head and watched comprehension creep across Stirk’s expression. He grinned and nodded once.

“We’re gonna ransom him.”

“Aye, we are.” Bieta leaned over the poor lad, dabbing the wound in his gut with the cloth and prompting a near noiseless groan. “But he won’t be worth nothing if we let him die.”

III Horace - A Change o’ Mind

While runnin’ through the forest—walkin’ fast, really, because Birk’s too-small boots was pinchin’ his feet—Horace kept thinkin’ ‘bout Dunal. The big oaf’s face refused to leave his head, but he weren’t sure why. A bush resembled his misshapen head, its straw hair stickin’ out at cock-eyed angles. A saplin’ reminded him o’ the simpleton’s mop handle what he always held in his hand.