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Book: And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) by Bruce Blake
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Authors: Bruce Blake
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veil.
The giant’s stride bounced the Small God on his shoulder, making deep breaths difficult as Thorn wondered if his efforts to save his friend had proven successful. Immediately after, he’d sensed the sailor lived, but as the golem and his companion took him farther from the man and the Green, his sense of Horace’s well-being dissipated.
He hoped it wasn’t because the sailor’s life had faded. He’d saved him from the giant’s touch, but he couldn’t aid him in the water; the sea was a more powerful monster than the beast carrying him could ever hope to be.
Thorn can’t save him from everything.
The thought, though true, caused an unfamiliar discomfort in his chest.
To distract himself from worry for his friend—an emotion he’d never imagined he’d experience—Thorn listened to the sounds around him, using them to guess their surroundings, and maybe where the clay man and his companion intended to take him.
The most prevalent sound was the crunch of the giant’s footsteps in dry grass as his strides devoured the ground yards at a time. Beneath that, the quicker, quieter steps of his companion, and the man’s heavy breathing as he did his best to keep up with the much larger man of clay. His ragged breath made Thorn realize two things he didn’t hear: the giant neither breathed nor possessed a heartbeat. With his ear pressed against the smooth clay back, the Small God wouldn’t have missed it.
What sort of creature neither breathes nor has a beating heart?
The answer to the question was obvious: A creature formed of clay.
Thorn remembered how one of his sisters, Ivy, sometimes fashioned the shape of a man out of dried grass bound together, then made him dance for the tribe’s amusement. But that figure had been small, and only capable of doing Ivy’s bidding as long as she concentrated on the task. When she stopped, the straw man ceased dancing and fell limp to the ground, nothing but a bundle of grass tied with lengths of creepers.
If Ivy made a man as big as the giant, would she have the power to make him dance?
Perhaps. The magic in the Green was immense, concentrated as it was behind the veil, and few channeled it as well as Ivy. But things were different on this side, at least for their kind. He doubted she or any of the others could do it over here, certainly not for such a long time and so seamlessly. Everything about him resembled life.
But what of those who lived here? Was one of them able to perform such a feat?
Horace had never given Thorn reason to suspect he might have the ability to exert such power…or any at all, truthfully. If someone pressed the Small God for the truth, he’d admit his friend had more in common with a child than a man grown—likely why Thorn felt such a connection with him.
His heart ached again, but not just for the sailor; now it ached for Ivy and the others of his kind. Before now, he’d put little thought to them, never doubting he’d find his way back to his home.
The clay man’s grip around his legs dispelled his surety.
But who is animating him?
He peered out from between slitted lids at the man struggling to keep up to the giant. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, exhaustion tinted his cheeks pink. His lips moved with the effort of breathing, or he might have been speaking to himself.
This does not look like one capable of wielding such power.
“Can we rest, Ves?” the man asked. He raised his head from watching his footing; Thorn closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”
The golem responded with a grunt and slowed his pace. The exchange confirmed to Thorn that the fellow trailing behind was not responsible for the golem’s movements and actions. If so, and he desired a rest, he’d simply make the creature stop. That meant the clay man was either truly alive or controlled by someone with power beyond Thorn’s imagining.
The prospect sent a shudder through his body and the golem tightened his grip around the Small God’s
The giant’s stride bounced the Small God on his shoulder, making deep breaths difficult as Thorn wondered if his efforts to save his friend had proven successful. Immediately after, he’d sensed the sailor lived, but as the golem and his companion took him farther from the man and the Green, his sense of Horace’s well-being dissipated.
He hoped it wasn’t because the sailor’s life had faded. He’d saved him from the giant’s touch, but he couldn’t aid him in the water; the sea was a more powerful monster than the beast carrying him could ever hope to be.
Thorn can’t save him from everything.
The thought, though true, caused an unfamiliar discomfort in his chest.
To distract himself from worry for his friend—an emotion he’d never imagined he’d experience—Thorn listened to the sounds around him, using them to guess their surroundings, and maybe where the clay man and his companion intended to take him.
The most prevalent sound was the crunch of the giant’s footsteps in dry grass as his strides devoured the ground yards at a time. Beneath that, the quicker, quieter steps of his companion, and the man’s heavy breathing as he did his best to keep up with the much larger man of clay. His ragged breath made Thorn realize two things he didn’t hear: the giant neither breathed nor possessed a heartbeat. With his ear pressed against the smooth clay back, the Small God wouldn’t have missed it.
What sort of creature neither breathes nor has a beating heart?
The answer to the question was obvious: A creature formed of clay.
Thorn remembered how one of his sisters, Ivy, sometimes fashioned the shape of a man out of dried grass bound together, then made him dance for the tribe’s amusement. But that figure had been small, and only capable of doing Ivy’s bidding as long as she concentrated on the task. When she stopped, the straw man ceased dancing and fell limp to the ground, nothing but a bundle of grass tied with lengths of creepers.
If Ivy made a man as big as the giant, would she have the power to make him dance?
Perhaps. The magic in the Green was immense, concentrated as it was behind the veil, and few channeled it as well as Ivy. But things were different on this side, at least for their kind. He doubted she or any of the others could do it over here, certainly not for such a long time and so seamlessly. Everything about him resembled life.
But what of those who lived here? Was one of them able to perform such a feat?
Horace had never given Thorn reason to suspect he might have the ability to exert such power…or any at all, truthfully. If someone pressed the Small God for the truth, he’d admit his friend had more in common with a child than a man grown—likely why Thorn felt such a connection with him.
His heart ached again, but not just for the sailor; now it ached for Ivy and the others of his kind. Before now, he’d put little thought to them, never doubting he’d find his way back to his home.
The clay man’s grip around his legs dispelled his surety.
But who is animating him?
He peered out from between slitted lids at the man struggling to keep up to the giant. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, exhaustion tinted his cheeks pink. His lips moved with the effort of breathing, or he might have been speaking to himself.
This does not look like one capable of wielding such power.
“Can we rest, Ves?” the man asked. He raised his head from watching his footing; Thorn closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”
The golem responded with a grunt and slowed his pace. The exchange confirmed to Thorn that the fellow trailing behind was not responsible for the golem’s movements and actions. If so, and he desired a rest, he’d simply make the creature stop. That meant the clay man was either truly alive or controlled by someone with power beyond Thorn’s imagining.
The prospect sent a shudder through his body and the golem tightened his grip around the Small God’s
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