And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) Read Free

him, Teryk’s mouth filled with saliva, threatened to spill out between his lips. The sailor holding the broad-bladed sword glared at him, one brow raised, sun gleaming on the wax holding his moustache in its curls. A bead of nervous, fearful sweat on the prince’s forehead rolled between his eyebrows and along the bridge of his nose.
    “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