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

his youth—the one the prophecy said must die—he must be biding his time.
    Kuneprius shuddered at the thought. Could it be the small man-like creature simply awaited the right time and place to kill them both? He gulped a mouthful of saliva; the lump in his throat rose and fell as another question occurred to him.
    Can a man made of clay be killed?
    If not, it left his life as the only one in real danger.
    Even after all he’d seen—remorseless killing, no need for rest, a lack of recognition when they spoke—he continued hoping his friend might be buried somewhere within the dun-colored being. Something had to make the thing act as though it were alive, and that something must be a someone.
    It has to be Vesisdenperos.
    If so, the clay man was a prison holding the friend he’d raised from a babe. He’d dedicated his entire life to protecting and nurturing the boy meant to become the sculptor, all the while having no clue about his friend’s true fate. If he’d known, he might have chosen a different path for both of them.
    The thing about a prison is there is always a way out.
    His eyes narrowed, gaze upon the being who may or may not be a Small God. If he was, and the stories were genuine, he might hold the key to breaking Ves out of his prison. Perhaps he might have a way to get his friend back.
    A hesitant smile crept across Kuneprius’ lips, and he lowered his chin to keep it from being noticed should the small gray man look up or the golem glance back. Upon seeing his feet again, he realized he’d lost count of his steps. It didn’t bring him the same relief as counting while he held his breath, but it was better than nothing.
    His smile disappeared as he got back to the task of tallying his steps and hoping Ves would soon let him rest.
    One. Two. Three. Four…

VIII Stirk—The Horseshoe
    Stirk glanced up at the dark sky and saw nothing. Black clouds hid the moon and the Small Gods, leaving the world below without light to guide travelers such as himself.
    The horse doctor, walking a few paces ahead, took a right down a narrow street, followed by a left onto a wider boulevard. They traversed streets and passed buildings unfamiliar to Stirk. It seemed to him they’d walked long enough to pass through Sunset and into either Waterside or Fishtown, but his nose detected neither of the distinct odors of those parts of the city. With no familiar landmarks, no telltale scents, and no moon or pinpricks of light in the sky—which, truthfully, helped him recognize direction no better than the sun aided him in telling time—the big man was lost and at Enin’s mercy.
    “How much farther?” he grumbled, the first non-threatening words he’d said to the horse doctor since they left.
    “We’ll get there when we get there,” Enin replied over his shoulder.
    Stirk frowned. What does that mean?
    They passed a man with no legs leaning against a building, his form nothing but a shape in the dark night, a shadow that might not have been real. A dog growled somewhere, a cat screeched. Stirk hurried his pace to catch up to the horse doctor.
    “Enin—?”
    “Soon. Do you smell it?”
    Stirk opened his mouth to say he smelled nothing aside from the stink of manure that followed the gaunt man everywhere, but he shut it instead and took a deep whiff of the night air. His nose detected horse shit first, but other odors mingled with it: fish and, faint beneath it, the sharp tang of the creosote they used on the docks. With those scents, he thought he’d finally placed where they were: in the far corner of Sunset bordering both Waterside and Fishtown.
    No wonder I don’t recognize nothing.
    He’d never been so far from home at night. Both Fishtown and Waterside were places he visited frequently, but he usually snuck in then beat a hasty retreat with items he’d stolen to keep him and his Ma eating because she’d had no visitors willing to pay that week. Even in the daylight, he’d likely not have recognized much.