When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods 4)

by Bruce Blake

  The flock pulled away from the horsemen, the sky opening again behind them as they went. Colors flashed amongst the birds—greens, reds, blues, yellows, and so many others. Another time, the variety would have astounded the prince, stolen his breath and left him in awe. Not now. Not with armed men bearing down on them, not when they knew not where they'd ended up or what may happen.

  The raven passed over the tree line, its shadow falling across Teryk, then the darkness expanding as the other birds followed. The gray figures let out a cheer as the throng flew over them. It lasted for the length of five heartbeats before the stocky fellow issued another command and they fell into silence; the same wasn't true of the world around them.

  Wings beat the air, hooves pounded the ground, swords and spears hammered against shields and men yelled. The cacophony assaulted Teryk, rattled his teeth. He put his hands up to block it out as though doing so might keep the outside pressure from expanding his head until it exploded like an overfilled water bladder. Even with his palms pressed hard against his ears, he heard a new sound joining the others.

  Indistinguishable at first, as the last of the birds passed overhead and the flapping of their wings dissipated, the resonance expanded, became more noticeable. Nothing more than a hum to begin with, it turned into a rhythmic chant as its volume grew.

  The sounds of the riders made the sounds indistinct to Teryk, but he assumed he lacked the ability to understand them if they'd been intelligible. He moved his hands away, the racket assaulting his ears and pounding into his head, but he wanted to find out if he comprehended any word the gray people intoned. They verbalized as one, their many small voices joining into a single great note. It grew louder, and he identified a cadence within it repeated over and over; eight or ten words they chanted again and again. This time, the stocky male who'd barked commands joined them, his arms held out to the sides like the others.

  Rilum grabbed Teryk's arm, pulled at him and spoke a plea lost amongst the tumult of voices and other noises. The prince might have guessed what his companion said, but he resisted answering or succumbing to his prompting. He sensed something important happening here, an event to set him upon the proper path to fulfill his destiny.

  The distance between riders and forest closed, the gleam of metal rectifying itself into rectangular shields, helmets of several shapes and styles. The men atop the horses waved swords and axes, spears and maces above their heads, threatening pain and death to any who got in their way. In response, the gray figures kept their ground, their mesmerizing chant's intonation unflinching, its measure unbroken, tempo unchanged. Teryk clamped his jaw tight enough he worried his teeth might bend and break; breath held, he awaited an explosion of warriors and steeds meeting and trampling their much smaller opponents.

  It will not happen. It can't happen this way.

  The space of a heartbeat after the thought completed itself in his head, the chanting changed. The cadence sped up, the tone climbing an octave. Each of the small gray figures raised their hands toward the sky in perfect unison. The trees and brush around Teryk and Rilum shivered, then shook, as though a windstorm arose from nowhere, but the prince felt no gusts against his cheek. The foliage whipped into a frenzy and he raised his arm to protect his face, but stopped halfway when he saw the small creatures lifting their arms, their wrists touching above their heads.

  And a green glow rose in front of them, expanding toward the sky.

  XVIII Dansil – Conscious

  Dansil stirred, rolled onto his back and regretted it as pain shot through his body. He groaned, reached for his spine, and touched the bandage wrapped around him. His brows furrowed; he possessed no recollection of anyone treating his injury other than Trenan. Everything after came to him hazy and indistinct. He recalled snatches of a journey on a horse, the master swordsman seated in front of him, but didn't trust his memories as anything other than fevered illusions.

  More than once, he'd thought he spied the fellow who stabbed him keeping pace with them, a robed figure at his side. Even feverish and in pain, he'd realized the impossibility of his assailant following them. The last time he'd seen Stirk, the man possessed no legs, one arm, and he suspected Trenan of killing him, but his memory grew foggy on the point.

  The distant clatter of hooves on flagstone broke the silence of the dark room. Dansil raised his head, looked around. He first thought the chamber lightless, then spied a lighter square to his right—a window. He struggled himself upright, his back hurting as his hands pressed against loose straw strewn across the floor beneath him as a makeshift mattress. After a rest to allow the pain to subside, he gathered himself and got to his feet. The action left him winded. He inhaled, listening to the hoof beats approaching as he brushed his palms on the front of his breeches, knocking off bits of dirt stuck to his skin. With small, deliberate steps, he made his way to the window, dragging the soles of his boots to avoid tripping over unseen obstacles.

  The morning-cool air wafting through the opening touched his face, chilling the sweat he hadn't noticed settling upon his brow. It sent a shiver along his neck but refreshed him all the same. He sucked a lungful through his nose, recognized his own body's odor mixed in with it, and wondered where he was and how long he'd been there.

  He tried to push the thought from his mind, but it nagged at him. His hazy memory failed in its attempt. Where were they going when Stirk proposed his plan? He stood close enough to the window his knees touched the wall, but didn't lean out as he glanced along the empty avenue running below his room. Though the sound of riders grew in volume, he spied no one.

  Ikkundana.

  The word came to him out of nowhere, and he expelled the filth from his lungs with force, spit its taste out of his mouth. Who knew what terrible disease the wind in the City of the Sick might carry? He held his breath, but his body's need to breathe betrayed him. Instead of gulping air into his chest, he sipped it like a beverage too hot to drink.

  Hoof beats rattled against the buildings and the first rider coming into view caught his eye. He leaned forward, the act stretching the scab over his healing stab wounds and causing fresh pain. Breath hissed between his clenched teeth.

  As the abundant clatter of hooves on stone suggested, more riders followed. A line of them came, two abreast, twelve rows, twenty-five in total, each of them armor-clad and carrying weapons. They neared, and Dansil faded back from the window to survey them from a position where he'd escape notice.

  The first rider pulled level with the opening and the queen's guard recognized him at once. Few men with one arm sat horses in plate with a sword at their side. In fact, he doubted he knew the name of anyone else who fit the description besides Trenan. The queen's guard's teeth grated together at the sight of the swordsman, the muscles in his jaw bunching and knotting. He forgot the specter of disease and inhaled fresh morning air and the stink of his own sweat through his nose. Anger brewed in his gut until something occurred to him.

  He kept me alive.

  Trenan rode by without a glimpse in Dansil's direction, and the tension drained from the queen's guard as a question formed in place of the thought.

  Why did he save me? He must realize my role in Stirk's attempt to kill him.

  His mind reeled as the line of warriors continued riding by. His eyes observed their smooth young faces, their lithe limbs, but he did not register what he saw. They filed past in the brightening dawn, heard but barely seen.

  He knows my part in the failed assassination. He kept me alive to make sure I'm punished.

  Dansil stepped back from the window, the sounds of the warriors' passage echoing in his dark room. It didn't occur to him to wonder why a squad of well-equipped soldiers rode through the City of the Sick, or why Trenan led them. One line of thought suffocated any others, squashing details which might have appeared unusual or out of the ordinary.

  He knows.

  Did he tell anyone?

  He wants to punish me.

  He left me here. Left me to a
horrible death.

  His jaw clamped tight again, hands curling into fists. His entire life, he'd lived by one credo which always served him well, keeping him alive and advancing his position:

  Do it to them before they do it to you.

  I have to get out of here. Trenan has to die.

  Dansil backed away from the window, a sudden bout of vertigo seizing him. The chamber spun; he stumbled, caught himself. A wave of nausea followed, throwing his belly into turmoil and his throat into convulsions. He reached an arm out, searching for anything to use to steady himself, but found nothing. The dark room went darker, an unsettling haze at the edge of his vision. He shuffled his feet, hoping he'd chosen the right direction to take him to the makeshift straw mattress. He inched forward, groping blindly, until his legs refused to carry him any farther. His knees buckled and the queen's guard toppled to the floor, exhaustion stealing his consciousness.

  ***

  Before he opened his eyes, Dansil knew light filled the room. How much time had passed since he clambered to the window, he didn't know. Might be the same day as when he watched Trenan lead his squad past, merely later, when the sun placed itself to shine into his chamber. It could as easily have been any other day.

  The queen's guard inhaled a deep breath, eyes remaining closed, and took stock of his body: manageable pain in the wound in his back, straw beneath his torso but not his legs—he'd dragged himself most of the way on to the mattress, at least enough to soften his fall. Thankful for that, if for nothing else about his situation, he shifted, hand sliding on the loose bedding, the sound of it loud in his ears, seeming to echo in the empty room.

  He held himself rigid, breath captive in his lungs. The space he'd traversed on his way to peer out the window wasn't large enough to create a reverberation. Was he not alone?

  Dansil recalled vague memories of someone tending to him during his recovery—a clay cup pressed to his lips and water trickling as much down his chin as his throat, soft food forced into his mouth, bandages being changed. He resisted the temptation to reach around and touch the spot where Stirk's knife had punctured him, see if his fingers came away bloody or if they'd find an expertly applied bandage covering the outline of sutures holding his skin together beneath.

  He waited but no further sound found his ears, so released his breath in a wooshing sigh, the noise echoing again when he stopped. In his mind, he pictured an old hag bending over him as he sweat and gibbered in the throes of fever and infection. He saw her in a red cowl hiding boils and warts of sickness on her cheeks while age and pain warped and crooked the fingers she used to guide the needle and thread. Could this be her sitting by his sickbed, watching over his recovery and mimicking the sounds he made to pass the time? Not likely. Surely, in the City of the Sick, many needed tending.

  The queen's guard forced one eyelid open a crack. At first, he saw nothing but blurs of gray and white and black past the brightness of the day and the wetness of his freshly opened eye. He blinked, dared to force it wider.

  A shape reconciled itself into a robed person, as he'd expected, but not in the red cowls worn by the Goddess' sisters to warn of their sickness. Instead, this robe appeared dark as soot, its hood pulled forward to hide the wearer's face in the shadow beneath. Hands so white they practically glowed protruded from the long and wide sleeves, the fingers unnaturally long and thin. The figure's right hand lay on the pate of another shape crouched on the floor beside him.

  Dansil opened his other eye, turned his head toward the unexpected visitors.

  With the two of them in view, he saw the second wasn't actually crouching. Instead, he lacked both legs. And an arm.

  "Stirk?" The word came out of his mouth as a rasping croak, his throat unused to producing sound since this man's knife had sliced through his flesh.

  The legless fellow moved as though he might shuffle toward the straw bed, his stumps rubbing against the stone floor and explaining sounds Dansil had heard. The robe wearer's hand kept him from doing so. He stared at the queen's guard without blinking, his eyes wide. His tongue snaked out, licked his lips like a hungry animal.

  "Ignore my pet." The words must have come from the robed man—Stirk's mouth hadn't moved—but it sounded to Dansil as though they came from many places.

  The queen's guard's saliva dried up and the urge to urinate sprang into his lower belly. He realized that, if he thought himself able to accomplish it, he'd have jumped to his feet and rushed out the door, taking his chances with whatever the City of the Sick might hold rather than stay and deal with this mysterious being. Dansil twisted to do so, but pain shot from his wound, reminding him of the tottering steps from the window to passed out on the straw mattress.

  "You need not fear." The robed figure lifted its hand from Stirk's pate, threw back the cowl to reveal a head and face devoid of hair, delicate features as likely belonging to either man or woman. "You see, you and my pet seek the same result."

  Dansil looked from the smooth, sexless visage to Stirk. He leaned forward, propped on his one remaining limb like a crutch. His eyes bore into the queen's guard as though he worried he might disappear should he divert his gaze. Sweat stained his shirt and dirt streaked his face—a far cry from the hulking, formidable fellow who escaped the edge of Dansil's ax not so long ago.

  "What result, stranger?"

  Words scraped across his throat and tumbled from his lips without the confidence and strength he'd intended.

  "The death of the one-armed man, of course." The mouth on the smooth head turned up at the corners, a ghastly slash threatening Dansil's gorge.

  He shivered, the unintentional action shooting further pain from the not-quite-healed wound. His muscles tightened and strained; he wanted to leave, get as far from these two as possible, feeling that, if he stayed, things would go very wrong.

  "And what's in it for you?"

  "Oh, there's a small cost." The ambiguous being put its hand on Stirk's head. The legless man nuzzled against it like a cat needing attention. "But don't worry, it's not too steep."

  Dansil inhaled through his nose, held it for a few heartbeats, then let it leak out between his teeth. "And Trenan will die?"

  The ghastly smile again. "Indeed."

  Before he intended to, the queen's guard nodded his agreement and couldn't stop. As his chin rose and fell, his stomach tied itself in a knot, his throat tightened in realization the master swordsman may not be the only one who died because of his deal. He stopped nodding and his eyes slid closed, his head throbbing, hoping against hope that, when he opened them again, the two figures would be gone.

  When he did, they remained.

  XIX Teryk – Somewhere in Time

  Swords, spears, and axes hammered against the translucent green wall, each impact sending verdant lightning scintillating across its surface. The men on the outside—most of them now dismounted and wearing rage on their faces—howled and shouted, shook their fists and brandished their weapons.

  On the near side, the silvery creatures—Small Gods, he'd become sure—danced.

  If the magical barrier didn't separate them, the distance between gray gods and enraged men was short enough to reach out and touch each other, dance together, kill one another. But the blockade held, as the Small Gods appeared to expect, and their knowledge of the wall's impenetrability angered the warriors further.

  They watched for a while, Rilum at Teryk's side, the sailor's breath shallow and quick, fearful. In his mind, the prince realized he should fear, too; they bore no weapons to defend themselves, nor possessed any idea how the Small Gods might react if they found them. But these thoughts held no sway with his body. Calm and relaxed, intuition suggested he found himself in the right place, seeing and doing the necessary things without understanding how or why he understood this. For the first time in longer than he recalled, he felt on the path meant for him.

  "Gotta get out before it's too late."

  Rilum tugged at his arm, trying again to coax the prince into mov
ing. He pivoted to face his companion.

  Sweat sparkled on the man's furrowed brow; his widened eyes darted from Teryk to the Small Gods, the men beyond them, and back. His expression softened the prince's heart, and he nodded. They faded behind the brush they'd used to hide them while the gray warriors raised the mystical veil, then stood. Teryk's knees creaked after having remained crouching for so long, but they loosened. As they crept away from the raging soldiers and dancing folk, he noticed the same wasn't true of Rilum; his companion hobbled for several paces before his gait evened out.

  They picked their way deeper into the forest in silence, choosing their footing to keep noise of their passing to a minimum. Teryk considered it unnecessary. He assumed the small ones intended to dance before the wall as long as the men continued their anger, but he did it to help Rilum overcome his fear. They crept from tree trunk to tree trunk, hiding wherever the opportunity afforded itself until the men's fury and the gods' delight faded to a distant hum and disappeared. The prince wondered if it meant they'd gone far enough to distance themselves from it or if the sounds had ceased. He didn't voice this thought—one possibility might disperse the sailor's anxiety, but the other refresh it.

  Birds chirped and sang in the branches high above them. Teryk tilted his head back, looking for a glimpse of the colored feathers they'd seen as they fled into the forest, but they eluded him. He spied the occasional bounce of a branch or rustle of needles as an unseen bird flitted from one place to another. Searching for them but not finding them, he recalled the creatures great and tiny accompanying the Small Gods in their flight. Where did they go? Did they hide somewhere amongst the trees with them?