And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) Page 2

  “Well?” the blade wielder asked as his patience waned. “Do you think you’re deservin’ of feedin’ the God of the Deep? Don’t know if’n he likes the flavor of stowaway or not. Only one way to find out.”

  Whispers and chuckles washed through the other men gathered, passing from one to another like a bottle of hooch to be enjoyed by all. The man with the sword leaned closer, forcing Teryk to lean away or be skewered on the end of his saber. The wale pressed hard against his lower back as it bent until his head hung out over the sea.

  “Please,” the prince whispered, lips barely moving.

  The fellow laughed, but the others gathered behind him went silent as another sound rose in place of their joyous encouragement. Clomp-thump. Clomp-thump. When the sailor holding the sword heard it, he leaned back a little, allowing Teryk to stand almost straight, but the blade’s tip remained at his throat.

  “Cap’n on deck,” a hoarse voice cried.

  Clomp-thump. Clomp-thump.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The words rumbled across the deck, dripping with the sound of authority and of a man used to being heeded. Teryk’s mustachioed captor’s eyes flickered toward the voice and back to the prince.

  “A stowaway, Cap’n. We be deciding what’s the best way to deal with him.”

  “The last I checked, such decisions belong to the captain. Were you proclaimed captain while I slept, Digred?”

  The man shook his head, the waxed ends of his moustache not so much as quivering with the movement. “Not as I recall, Cap’n.”

  “Then lower your blade and let’s treat this fellow like a real person until we learn his intent. We’re sailors of the king, not heathen pirates of the Water Kingdom.”

  With a final scowl and a flash of yellowed teeth, the saber’s tip left Teryk’s throat and its wielder stepped away. The prince immediately swallowed hard and brought his hand to his neck to check for blood; he found none.

  After heaving two relieved but still frightened breaths, he raised his head to peer upon the face of the man who’d spared him.

  So far.

  He wore his graying hair cut short and tidy, unlike most of the crew gathered around, and his salt-and-pepper beard matched his coif. His clothes appeared cleaner and in better repair than those of the other men, but none of this meant a thing once Teryk’s gaze reached the captain’s footwear.

  A polished leather boot with a modest heel and a gold buckle on the side covered his right foot, but where the left should have been was naught but a block of wood. Whatever doctor or artisan affixed it in place hadn’t bothered to shape it to resemble a foot or boot—a block of unfinished wood instead.

  Teryk had seen that unusual foot once before, when seasons past he’d gone for a ride on the Devil of the Deep’s maiden voyage. He gulped again but said nothing, waiting for the skipper to speak.

  “I’m Captain Bryder. You must forgive Digred for his lack of diplomacy; he’s just protecting His Majesty’s ship.”

  The prince nodded and realized he’d been rubbing the spot on his throat where the point of Digred’s saber had kept him at bay. He made himself stop and glanced past the captain at the mustachioed man. He’d stored his sword back in its scabbard but continued scowling as he twisted the end of his curled moustache between his thumb and first finger.

  “Well, don’t be rude, lad. I’ve told you my name, and you’ve probably guessed my purpose for being aboard His Majesty’s Ship Whalebone. How about you enlighten us with your moniker and reason for finding your way onto my deck?”

  Teryk’s gaze flitted from one sailor to the next before returning to the captain. He recognized none of the others, wouldn’t have recognized the captain if not for his unusual foot. But did Bryder or any of the other sailors recognize him? It didn’t seem so.

  If I tell them the truth, they’ll turn the ship about and take me back. Going back to Draekfarren will be the end of my part of the prophecy.

  “T…Taylor. My name is Taylor.” He heard the hesitation in his own voice and hoped they’d assume fear of being thrown over the side caused it rather than a struggle to find a lie.

  Captain Bryder nodded. “All right, T-Taylor. Now we know who you are, what brings you aboard my ship?”

  Teryk paused again, licked his lips; they tasted of salt and the sea.

  “I’m running away.”

  Before the captain could respond, Digred barked a harsh laugh. “Runnin’ away, be ya?” he said. “And what be ya runnin’ from?”

  “None of your damned business,” Teryk replied with a curl to his lip. The response surprised him; it had come from him before he had the chance to consider an answer. Digred tensed and his hand dropped from twiddling his moustache to find the hilt of his saber.

  “Well, you look the part, lad,” Bryder said, surveying Teryk up and down. “Stand down, Digred.”

  Teryk watched the man look to the captain. His expression shifted as though he might say something, perhaps to plead for the opportunity to dispose of the scoundrel who’d stowed away on their ship, but then he released his grip on the sword. His hand found its way back to the end of his moustache and a smile spread across his lips.

  “As ye say, Cap’n.”

  “If we were closer to port,” his gaze swept across the crew gathered behind him, “if my lazy crew had done their jobs and cleaned the ship before we got this far from land, I’d put you ashore. Alas, I’m not of a mind to be turning the Whalebone around.”

  Relief flooded through Teryk and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease. A murmur spread through the sailors and the captain waited for it to pass, as though he’d expected it. When it didn’t die away, he faced his crew.

  “Any of you got something to say?”

  “One more mouth to feed,” a man with a shiny bald head called out.

  “Ain’t no space,” said another missing his two front teeth.

  “We’ve got plenty of food in the stores,” the captain pointed out, “and if he came out of the hold, then he can go back into it to make his bunk, too.”

  The murmuring continued, but no one else spoke until Digred took a step toward his captain. The way he acted suggested to Teryk that he held higher standing on the ship than the rest of the crew. He hooked both his thumbs in his sword belt, smile gone from his lips, and glared at Teryk for a moment before returning his attention to Bryder.

  “If’n you let one stowaway aboard your boat,” he said, his voice no louder than if he engaged in a regular conversation, “then others’ll surely follow. Don’t want no one thinkin’ ye be soft, do ye, Cap’n?”

  The prince couldn’t see the captain’s face, but his tone suggested he pressed his teeth tight together, that he thought Digred had spoken out of turn.

  “He’s a runaway. No one but us on this ship know of his presence. Which of you will tell so other stowaways try their luck, too?”

  The murmurs ceased and a palpable tension fell across the crew. Digred’s smug look eased and he shook his head slightly, indicating it wouldn’t be him. To Teryk, it was obvious the men respected their captain, perhaps feared him despite his seemingly calm and fair demeanor.

  “Right, then.” Bryder spun on his wooden foot, the grain of it grinding against the deck. “No one rides for free, lad. You’ll be pitching in and doing your part or Digred gets his wish. Understand?”

  Teryk nodded enthusiastically, the fear and dread at being put overboard or taken back to the wrath of his father dissipating and the hope to fulfill the prophecy returning. Captain Bryder nodded, too.

  “We have an agreement. Ash.”

  Behind the captain, the crew dispersed, heading back to their duties. As the crowd parted, a boy Teryk hadn’t seen amongst them made his way to the captain’s side. He looked to have seen no more than twelve or thirteen turns of the seasons, and his diminutive stature explained why the prince hadn’t noticed him before.

  “Taylor, this is Ash, my cabin boy. Seems the two of you might have somew
hat in common.”

  Teryk nodded toward the boy. “Hello, Ash.”

  He took a step to his left, half hiding himself behind the captain.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll get used to you quick enough.” Bryder put his hand on the cabin boy’s shoulder and Ash looked up at him. “You’ll be showing our guest around the boat, Ash. Get him some bedding and clothes and find him some jobs so the boys don’t get riled by him being here.”

  Ash nodded and took two tentative steps forward, reached out and grabbed Teryk by the wrist. The captain spoke again before the cabin boy led him away.

  “Before you do all that, take the poor lad to the galley and get him some food. Looks like he hasn’t eaten in a long while.”

  Wood scraped wood as Bryder spun on the block of a foot and strode away across the deck. Clomp-thump. Clomp-thump.

  Teryk tilted his head back, gazing skyward and filling his lungs with salty air. Ash tugged at his arm, but he stayed put for a moment, enjoying the sun on his face and noticing a bird circling in the cloudless blue high above. It wasn’t a gull like he’d have expected, but a black bird with wide wings and a long, blunt beak. He watched it until his stomach gurgled, confirming what the captain had noted but what, in his excitement and then fear, he hadn’t realized until now.

  He looked away from the raven, rubbed his belly, and allowed Ash to lead him away.

  II Trenan –A Familiar Voice

  Godsbane’s hilt felt foreign in Trenan’s hand as he gripped it tight. The man called Stirk knelt before him, forced to his knees by Dansil. Jeers and cheers rose from the crowd, each taunt and holler grating on the swordsman’s ears, disgusting him that the mob so enjoyed watching the deaths of others. He took no joy in death, no matter what the reason or how deserved; any soldier would tell you the same.

  What must be, must be.

  He raised the crownsword, his face pulled into a frown, and the rabble gathered in front of the platform fell into relative silence. Stirk shifted, staring at the wooden boards, and Dansil tightened his grip on the man.

  “Trenan! No!”

  The words reached him clear and loud, spoken in the princess’ voice as though she stood beside him. Trenan jerked his head away from the task at hand, blade still held aloft, and for an instant the crowd parted. He glimpsed two figures—one clad in the drab green smock and wooden mask of the Goddess, the other in red—then they disappeared. The mob’s noise rose in angry tones calling for blood, but the master swordsman ignored their pleas.

  Trenan leaped from the platform and waded into the sea of onlookers, its members doing their best to move aside and avoid Godsbane’s sharp edge, but their mass impeded him. He shouldered his way through, growling in his throat, and finally burst out the far side into the open.

  The lanes beyond lay empty.

  Three of them opened into the square. In his haste to pursue the voice that sounded like the princess, he hadn’t seen which one they’d followed. He stared first down one, then the next and the next, hoping to spy a green smock, a flash of red, but saw nothing. With no other reason than a feeling in his gut, he took a step toward the lane to his right, halting at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Trenan wheeled, sword poised ready to defend himself, but held up when he found Osis standing behind him, arms raised defensively. The sword master lowered his weapon and spun on his heel to continue his survey of the lanes.

  “It was Danya who called out. I’m sure of it,” Trenan growled.

  “Then we must inform the king,” Osis said.

  Trenan clenched his teeth and breathed heavily through his nostrils. His friend was right. Any news of the princess or prince should be relayed back to the king and queen as expediently as possible, but the master swordsman couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Ishla with news and nothing more. The next time he saw her, he intended to have both her children with him.

  Finally, Trenan nodded and faced Osis.

  “You return to the king. I’ll keep after the princess while the trail is warm.”

  The clatter of armor caused both of the men to spin around and stare back toward the square where the execution took place. They found Dansil and Strylor heading toward them at double time. The sight of them tightened Trenan’s chest with anger.

  “What are you doing? Where is the prisoner?”

  A vision of Dansil’s axe falling across the big man’s neck, completing the job they’d intended, came to Trenan. His grip tightened on Godsbane’s hilt; it wasn’t the soldier’s place to execute a man without a direct order. Doing so was murder, not justice.

  Maybe this is how I’ll be rid of him.

  “Bastard escaped,” Dansil said as the two of them pulled up short of where Trenan and Osis stood.

  “Escaped? How could you let—”

  “We ain’t to blame. He slipped away in the ruckus you caused jumping off the platform instead of finishing the job you was supposed to do.”

  “A kneeling man escaped,” Trenan grated between clenched teeth. “All you had to do was keep him there.”

  Dansil shrugged. “He was quicker than we thought and Strylor’s feet got caught up in the woman’s body when he went to go after him, didn’t they, Stry?”

  The other man glanced sideways at the big soldier but said nothing. He replied with a quick, curt nod.

  “He headed toward Waterside, though, makin’ for the docks. He can’t have gotten too far.”

  “Forget him,” Trenan said.

  “Forget him? Has it left your mind what the bastard and his mother did to the prince?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” he snapped. “But that was the princess who called out my name. If there’s a chance we can recover her and return her to the queen, that takes priority.”

  Dansil raised an eyebrow. “You mean return her to the queen and king, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Trenan glanced at Osis; he remained beside him but stayed out of the conversation. The man was a good soldier, willing to do anything to support his friend; anything except turn against his king.

  The master swordsman drew a long breath, hating the stink of the city streets that found its way into his lungs. He looked from Osis to Strylor, who wore a derisive grin Trenan wanted to knock from his face with the butt of his sword, and then to Dansil. Every fiber of his being wanted to return the two of them to the castle with the latest news, allowing him to be free of them, but he didn’t trust Dansil and, by association, Strylor.

  “We’ll find the man, Stirk, another time to administer the king’s justice. Now we must do everything we can to locate the princess while she is so close.”

  Dansil nodded but refused to speak his agreement. The grin on Strylor’s visage continued unhindered. Each passing moment as they remained there doing nothing tugged at the back of Trenan’s mind as he pictured Danya’s footsteps carrying her away from being found.

  What is she doing? Where does she think she’s going?

  “Osis will return to Draekfarren and pass news of the princess on to the king and queen,” Trenan said.

  “And Strylor will go along with him so I know nothing ain’t amiss.”

  Trenan bit back a curt response. Another time, he’d have called out the soldier for his insubordinate words and tone, but the press of time kept him from doing so. In addition, he’d have less to worry about with Dansil’s compatriot safely out of the way with Osis, whom he knew as trustworthy. Still, the thought of being alone with Dansil brought a curl to his upper lip.

  “Fine,” Trenan agreed at last. He turned his attention to Osis. “Take Strylor with you, sergeant. The king will decide whether you two should return to us on your own or with reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements?” Dansil scoffed. “Against one novice of the Goddess cult?” He devolved into laughter.

  Once again, Trenan bit back his response. He held his gaze on Osis, knowing the sergeant could see the flame of dislike burning in his eyes. The opportunity would come for Dansil to answer for his ways but, f
or now, he had to concentrate on the princess. If they found Danya, perhaps she could lead them to the prince, though he had no love for spending his time alone with Dansil.

  “Be off,” he said to Osis, returning Godsbane to its sheath. “And take Strylor with you.”

  Osis nodded, glanced sideways at Dansil then back at Trenan, as if to ask if the two would survive each other. He then turned his attention to Strylor who, in the master swordsman’s estimation, resembled a grinning fool.

  “Come,” Osis gestured for Strylor to follow and started along the lane that led most quickly back to the walls around Draekfarren.

  Dansil slapped his companion on the shoulder with the thump of leather gauntlet against armor. “Keep an eye on that one,” he said. “And I’ll keep mine on this one.”

  He nodded toward Trenan, ensuring he caught the master swordsman’s eye. Strylor continued grinning and took off after Osis, armor rattling.

  For a moment after the two of them left, Trenan and Dansil remained facing each other in the middle of the lane, gazes locked. In that time, Trenan realized that, if he still held the crownsword in his hand, he’d have struggled to keep from wetting it with Dansil’s blood.

  Perhaps Osis is right to wonder if both of us will survive.

  The lopsided smile on Dansil’s face suggested the same thought had occurred to him.

  III Stirk—Escape

  The big soldier who’d lopped off Elishbieta’s head clapped one hand on Stirk’s shoulder while the other gripped the axe tinted with his mother’s blood. Stirk considered glaring at him, fighting back against his fate, but the sight of his mother’s lifeless body lying near his feet drained fight and defiance from him.

  The soldier—he’d heard the one-armed man call him Dansil—exerted downward pressure, directing Stirk to his knees in front of the block of wood stained with Bieta’s lifeblood. He did his best to make it difficult, but his legs didn’t have the energy to resist. Fresh blood on the boards of the platform soaked the knees of his breeches, its wetness bringing tears to his eyes, blurring the faces in the crowd barely more than an arm’s length away.