Free And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) by Bruce Blake

legs.
    With the giant’s pace slowed, his companion’s footsteps came closer. With few other options, Thorn opened his eyes again and directed his attention toward the man. At first he didn’t notice the Small God’s gaze upon him, so Thorn exerted what little influence his body made available. The man’s eyes found his and his lips ceased moving.
    They stared at each other, the man’s exhaustion rendering his expression unreadable. Again Thorn attempted to draw together the power he’d grown up with coursing through him, but the little he’d just expended left him empty.
    “Where are you taking Thorn?”
    The man’s gaze remained on the Small God, but he didn’t answer. His mouth drooped at the corners, but Thorn couldn’t be sure if displeasure at his speaking caused it or effort and tiredness. His expression did not suggest he might respond.
    “Who are you?”
    This time, the man’s eyes widened, as though he attempted to use them to communicate with Thorn, but the Small God had not developed an ability to read such things in the people outside the Green. Horace Seaman had not been a man of subtlety, so gave Thorn no opportunity to practice this talent he used so well with the creatures behind the veil. A glance from Father Raven, Ivy’s eyebrow crook, the way a dragonfly angled its wings, all spoke to him, but not this man’s expression. He had no choice but to press him further.
    “What has Thorn done?”
    The man pursed his lips and shook his head.
    “Why have you taken Thorn from—ahh!”
    The giant man of clay squeezed the Small God’s legs together firmly enough to grind the bones against one another, sending pain flaring from his knees to his hip. Thorn closed his mouth tight to keep from crying out again. He didn’t understand pain, but experiencing it helped him realize the nature of the man’s expression.
    He tried to warn Thorn.
    No more speaking, no more trying to find out where they planned to take him or why, but deep down, Thorn knew the answer. He supposed he had from the moment he met Horace Seaman, the man who rides upon the waves, just like the ancients foretold. Like most of his kind, he’d never thought them more than stories. How could they possibly be true? Small Gods were all but immortal, and no man had ever crossed over into the Green, only washed up on the shore, dead or dying.
    But none ever crossed out of the Green, either. Until Thorn.
    He allowed his body to go limp again, sagging against the giant’s back and letting his gaze fall away from the man following behind them. He continued to sense the man’s eyes upon him, but the sensation welling up inside him made him ignore it—another new feeling he hadn’t experienced before, nor ever expected to:
    Dread.
    ***
    Three hundred eighty-nine. Three hundred ninety. Three hundred ninety-one.
    At first, when the small gray man interrupted while he counted his steps, Kuneprius had been unimpressed with losing his place. After the interruption, and seeing how Ves dealt with it, he’d been happy for the distraction. The counting of strides made by a pace forced upon him didn’t have the same soothing effect of his usual rituals. How he longed for the kiss of cool water on his face to help him center his thoughts, allow him to be where he needed to be.
    He looked up from his feet, lips still moving as he counted silently. The gray man continued lying limp against Ves’ back, the color of his flesh lighter than that of the golem. Kuneprius didn’t realize the clay used to mold the giant held a brown tinge until seeing the Small God for comparison.
    Is he really a Small God?
    When he’d happened upon the creature at the shore, Kuneprius knew him to be the one they searched for, though he’d never have expected such a fabled being to be so easily captured. Where was the magic the old stories told of? Where was the power to control, to shape shift, to dominate? If this truly was a Small God from the stories he’d heard in