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

by Bruce Blake

  He stretched, raised his eyes skyward, regarded the limbs and branches hanging over him. Most belonged to conifers with their various verdant needles, but a few leafy trees stood amongst them, the broad flat leaves shades of red and yellow. Rilum frowned—with it being second season, why wouldn't their foliage be green as well?

  The sailor lowered his chin, setting the mystery aside in favor of ungumming his lip. His first try, he used only the muscles of his jaw. When that proved unsuccessful, he jammed his fingers between his lips the way one might force a board beneath a rock and use it as a lever. They came apart bit by bit. Part of him expected to hear a sound like tearing parchment, experience pain as though someone ripped flesh from his body, but neither happened. Instead, his mouth opened, and he sucked a breath tasting of dirt and loam. His throat rattled with the passing air.

  I have to find me some water.

  With the orifices in his face properly dealt with, he remembered his predicament. He pivoted on his heels, observing his surroundings, a crick in his neck shooting pain along his spine. As expected, trees and brush clogged the surrounding area. They appeared fuller and more leaf-covered than he recalled them being the day before when he crawled beneath the log for some much-needed sleep.

  Where is the lad?

  He drew his stone-dry tongue across his cracked lips.

  "Teryk?"

  The prince's name was his intended pronouncement, but nothing issued from his throat but a dilapidated croak suitable for making proud the hardiest of bullfrogs.

  He swallowed the nothingness left in his mouth and stepped away from the mossy log, determined to find water or the prince, preferably both.

  XXIII Teryk - Battlefield

  Stale air burning in his chest, Teryk put all his strength into a final push, one more stroke toward the surface. He knew if he didn't make it, this would be his last attempt. No more breaths, no life, no prophecy or saving the world. Of them all, this last thought most galvanized him. He pulled with his arms, kicked with his legs until his head broke through and he gasped a ragged breath to fill his desperate, thankful lungs.

  He opened his eyes to muted sunlight, but no gray smoke, no vaporous white mist.

  And no water.

  Instead of the river, the prince sat on grass. Not the charred black stuff of the courtyard, but lush turf with hard earth beneath him. He unfolded himself and stood, noting his clothing wasn't wet, and peered from atop a hill facing downslope to a shallow, grassy valley beyond. Pregnant clouds filled the sky, running together into a blanket of many shades of gray hiding both sun and firmament. They also hid the time of day and an estimation of the season from Teryk's ability. The lushness of the meadow suggested it might be late second season.

  In the middle of the lowland, armored men clashed. A few sat horses but most fought on foot. The clank of weapons and armor floated through the air, its sharpness diffused by distance. Banners flew near groups of tents at either side, but too far away for the prince to recognize them. Considering how many turns of the seasons he'd traveled backward in time—a hundred hundred, if he believed his nanny's tales—this might be any era and anyone fighting before him.

  Teryk took a step toward one camp but stopped, glanced at himself. He wore a leather breast piece over a thick red jersey and rough-spun breeches. A sword hung at his side, a shield strapped to his back pressed against him, and a helmet sat upon his head. At other times, in other situations, he'd have wondered where these items came from but, once transported to places and ages he couldn't possibly travel to, such mysteries carried little importance. A fat drop of rain struck the rim of his helm, spattered water on his nose.

  "Great," he muttered as he broke into a trot.

  The scabbard of the short sword dangling at his waist, much smaller than the size and weight of Godsbane, bounced against his thigh. What'd happened to the weapon? He tried not to think about what his father might do when he discovered he'd lost the Crown Sword. But if he didn't fulfill his part of the prophecy, Crown Swords and everything they represented meant nothing.

  As he approached the fray, the cries and yells of men added to the clamor of weapon and shield. No one voice distinct, no words intelligible, but the cacophony rose toward the high clouds unable to hold back the increasing frequency of raindrops. The ground beneath his feet changed, the grass beaten flat by the passing of boot and hoof, dirt churned, ready to become mud at the coming storm's behest.

  The banner flying over the camp nearest him snapped in the rising wind, its red fabric with gold markings rippling. It pricked a sense of familiarity in his mind, but its significance eluded him. From what he saw at this distance, few men milled around the tents; the battle engaged most of them.

  Teryk stopped. The impulse to continue to the camp nagged at him, urged him to go on like someone stood at his back, pushing him. He looked from encampment to fight, rain now falling heavier and blurring the proceedings with a gray hue. When he returned his attention to the gathering of tents, it surprised him to spy a horseman galloping toward him.

  The prince debated what to do. Draw his blade? What if the rider intended friendship? Then again, what if he didn't, and he didn't unsheathe his weapon?

  A man in leather armor with naught but a short sword stands little chance against a mounted warrior.

  He searched his memory for one of Trenan's lessons to guide him but found none. When most needed, those endless days of practice and teaching deserted him, leaving him with an empty sensation in his chest and a knot in his gut. He caught himself inhaling and exhaling short breaths through his nose, forced himself to return his breathing to normal. He swallowed the bitter saliva his mouth produced at the sight of the rider's bared steel, moved his own hand closer to the hilt of his sword. If he meant to draw it, he'd wait until the last instant, seeking to avoid inciting the horseman to violence.

  If I had my armor, and Godsbane, then I'd give him a fight.

  "Oy," the soldier called, his tone unfriendly. "Get back over there before I lop off your head and make you carry it with you!"

  A sliver of red on the man's breast plate flashed. Teryk glanced from it to the banner, then his own jersey, finally understanding. Wherever and whenever he found himself, he appeared to be in alignment with this man and must trust the force controlling things put him here for his best interests.

  The beating of hooves vibrated against his soles, the rumble seeming to loosen his feet from their place on the ground. He raised his hand toward the horseman, then did the one thing he remembered Trenan teaching him never to do: he turned his back on a man with a drawn weapon.

  The rain soaked into dirt churned up through the grass, and Teryk's boots sank in shallow mud as he hurried off to the fight. He considered looking over his shoulder to see if the rider followed, but decided against it; he no longer sensed the hoof beats beneath his feet, and glancing back might betray his hesitancy.

  His focus narrowed to the men engaged in combat ahead of him. He spied flashes of red amongst the foot soldiers and on the horses, but it left him no closer to knowing who they were or the army they battled than before. Soon, he'd be part of the fray.

  What will I do when I arrive?

  It appeared unlikely he'd get to decide for himself. The color of his jersey marked him a target for the other fighters, sure to force his hand when he reached the fighting. Still, he'd do his best to avoid combat.

  His heart beat hard in his chest, though not from the exertion of running across the field. He held the short sword's scabbard with his left fist, preventing it from banging against his thigh while his right grasped the hilt, ready to free the steel. His throat clenched tight, constricting his breath, and his mind flashed to another time, another place. He remembered a darkened street, a group of men, and the pain of the beating he'd taken, the agony of a blade sliding into his flesh. Physical torment, mental anguish, fever, delusion; it returned, slamming into his consciousness like the waves breaking against the Finger of the Goddess. The blank
spot in his memory filled, and he wished it hadn't.

  His mind told his legs to cease their forward motion, but the directive proved ineffective. Instead, his hand gripped the sword hilt tighter, his arm moved to draw the weapon.

  The image of a robed figure came to him. He saw it move close to him, open its robe, but it revealed no body beneath, exposed no limbs or torso. Under the cloth lay a space, a void, and Teryk recalled being drawn into it, unable to resist. At first, terror gripped him. Was this the end of his life? The reaper come to steal him from the world of the living?

  Ahead on the battlefield, a man spied him and broke away from the fight, charging toward him. The prince raised his sword, and the two came together, their steel clashing. The impact sent a vibration up Teryk's arm to his shoulder, a sensation he'd experienced often during his training with Trenan, but few times in an actual clash. His mind reeled, sorting through lesson after lesson, searching for how to proceed, but his body responded without conscious prompting.

  He pushed his attacker back and swung his own blow. The other man caught it against his blade, but at the wrong angle. It glanced off and the edge of Teryk's steel sliced his arm. Surprised, he jumped away, inhaling a sharp, pained breath. The prince took advantage, lunging forward and placing his short sword to find the space between the man's chin and the top of this breast piece. He gasped again, the inhalation gurgling with blood around the sword point. He gave it a twist before pulling it free. Blood spurted after it, spraying across his front, adding its liquid to the mud squelching beneath their feet. The soldier's knees buckled, and he folded, sinking to the ground. His weapon fell from his hand as the other clawed at his throat, attempting to keep his life from emptying itself in the grass. Teryk loomed over him, watching him die as the memories swirling in his head continued.

  The void wasn't empty. A man occupied it, or what he thought might be a man. Though the figure before him stood naked, the body possessed no sex organs to guide his opinion. Smooth, featureless flesh covered the entire human shape; no hair, no nipples or navel. Lashless eyes, lipless mouth, nose, arms, legs. The fingers and toes lacked nails—more like a poorly rendered clay representation of a person than anything.

  Teryk remembered being prone and immobile as the ghastly figure leaned over him, laid its hands upon him. A charge flowed through him, increasing his pain to a level he'd never experienced. It thrummed through his bones, twisted his muscles into knots, but he lacked any way to react. He couldn't cry out or pull away. He screamed inside his head, no one hearing his suffering but himself.

  The man at his feet went limp, his eyes wide and shocked, hand resting on his throat. Rain fell on him, diluting the blood to a shade of pink belying the severity of its presence.

  The prince's boots moved again, carrying him around the fallen soldier and toward the fight. He didn't ask them to any more than he'd intended to engage the fellow he left behind, no more than he'd wanted to end the man's life. Rain ran from his forehead into his eyes, and he desired to wipe it away with his forearm, but his arm refused to act as his own.

  I am but a pawn with a role to play. But what role?

  Two men appeared in front of him and he cut his way through them without hesitation. The battle raged around him, its angry sounds assaulting his ears, but his mind wandered to the other place and time as his legs carried him forward.

  The torture racking him eased, replaced by a burning sensation. His throat attempted to scream but failed as the fire sank deep within him, penetrating his heart and everything inside him, filling him until nothing else remained. A heartbeat later, the wraith disappeared, the void filled back up with nothingness, and then he'd returned to his body, staring at the darkness behind his closed lids. Voices penetrated the veil, unrecognizable, their words meaningless. The tones suggested a female and one male, maybe more. In his mind, they belonged to his sister calling for him, Trenan admonishing his carelessness. Then they became the utterances of his worried mother and his angry father. She implored him to be careful, to come home; he berated his son, called him stupid and useless.

  Teryk bulled his way through the fray, slashing and hacking, his legs carrying him forward with purpose, though what purpose, he didn't know. Blood spattered his forearm, covered his sword. The little resistance he encountered withered before his onslaught, and pride swelled his chest. If his father saw him now, he'd no longer think him stupid and useless, scroll or no.

  He gritted his teeth at the thought of the king and lost focus for an instant. A soldier to his right caught him with a surprise blow and the short sword flew out of his hand, but Teryk recovered. He launched himself at the man without giving him the opportunity to ready for another swing.

  The prince hit him in the midsection, dislodging his breath from his chest and carrying him to the muddy ground. With a quick motion, he pinned the fellow's sword arm with a knee and extracted the soldier's own dagger from his belt. The tip sank into the man's eye with little resistance; his body stiffened, convulsed, fell limp.

  Teryk knelt by the corpse, staring at his pained expression—the final contortion of his features. A pang of guilt stabbed through him. This man might have had a lover, children, people who cared for him and whom he loved. Did he deserve to die?

  A body tumbled beside him and the prince gave his head a shake, forcing the shame deep inside with the other dishonors and disgraces he carried. He didn't know if the soldier deserved death or not, but he knew he didn't; important things lay ahead for him, events bound to change the world for everyone, so he couldn't afford to dally here, inviting his own death.

  The rain fell harder, pattering on the armor and bodies of fallen men, and Teryk jumped to his feet. Before pushing on, he cast around the ground near him, searching for his weapon. When he didn't locate it, he snatched the closest thing from the hand of a corpse.

  The axe proved heavy and unwieldy, its weight and balance so different from the swords to which he'd grown accustomed. Trenan had trained him with weapons like this, but not as in depth as he'd done with the sword. He didn't have to wait long to test his ability.

  A monster of a man came at him, a roar of a battle cry echoing behind his visor as he brandished a mace. Teryk ducked under his first swing and hit him on the back with the flat of the axe head. The impact sent him reeling forward, but he kept his balance and regained his equilibrium. The two faced each other, both glowering, searching for an opening. Teryk's gaze trailed across the man's shoulders and arms, his hips and chest, watching for the slightest movement to show his intent. In his avoidance of eye contact, he spotted an insignia on the fellow's breast plate, visible beneath smears of blood and dirt.

  Once again, he lost his focus upon recognizing the crest.

  My father's mark.

  The man howled and charged, swinging the mace at the prince in a wide loop intended to separate his head from his shoulders. Teryk raised the axe and caught the blow, hooked the club with the bottom curve of the blade. With a twist of his wrists and taking advantage of the momentum of the swing, he pulled the weapon from the soldier's hands, sent it tumbling to the mud. The fellow overbalanced and went to one knee. Teryk didn't give him the opportunity to recover, holding the point of the spike protruding from the top of the axe handle to the man's throat.

  "Open your visor," he growled.

  The prince's heart hammered in his chest while waiting for the warrior to comply. It took a moment, but he did.

  The opened helm revealed a face familiar to Teryk. Despite no lines beside his eyes or gray showing in his short-trimmed beard, this was the man who would give over his rearing to nannies and soldiers. Here knelt the king who'd one day call him stupid, useless. The prince snarled, his upper lip pulling back to show his teeth.

  "Father." He spat the word, clearing the foul taste of it from his mouth, and watched the king's expression tilt with confusion.

  "I am no one's father."

  "Not yet."

  Teryk didn't know why he'd come to this
place, this time, but with the man he'd disappointed so often kneeling in front of him at the mercy of his axe, realization dawned.

  But what will happen to me if I kill my father?

  The answer to such a riddle lay far beyond his comprehension. Whatever force possessed the power to transport him through the ages must also have planned for this. Killing his sire might be the key to saving the world. Phrases from the scroll rattled through his mind, each of them spoken in his sister's voice. None of them suggested the death of the king, yet here he was.

  The memory of the words brought up another recollection: the regent ordering the parchment burned, punishing him and Danya.

  Rage consumed Teryk, flooding out of his chest and through his limbs, energizing his muscles. He jerked the axe away from his father's throat, raised it toward the overcast sky. Droplets of rain rolled off the steel, spattering on his nose and cheeks as he enjoyed the fear crossing the king's face. He brought his hands up, turned his head.

  Teryk swung the weapon, closing his eyes with effort as he did. The blade bit into flesh and a man cried out in pain.

  XXIV Rilum – A Long Time Ago

  A breeze stirred the foliage hanging in front of Rilum Seaman's face, some of them brushing his cheek and nose. He held his place, motionless, watching the little gray people as they scuttled back and forth.

  He'd seen them before, more than once. In his wanderings to find sustenance—leaves and berries and the odd slow-moving insect he got his hands on—he'd come across them on three or four occasions. He lacked the ability to remember how many times, but he'd turned tail and fled when he did. This time, it occurred to him they may lead him to food or water.

  A vague memory tickled the back of his mind, a recollection of many of the gray-skinned fellows gathered together, of men on horses, and of a green wall, but a haze obscured the remembrance. He failed to place when or where it happened, if it did at all. As he observed them going with their business, the vision of the past faded, forgotten moments later.