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

by Bruce Blake

  They wore no clothes, their hairless bodies lithe and sinewy. To Rilum, they appeared threatening and dangerous. If they produced a lamb shank and a wine skin brimming full, he doubted he'd leave his covering of brush to partake if they invited him. He remained unmoving, watchful, tensed to flee.

  The point of a leaf rubbed against his cheek, the sensation a mix of tickle and itch. He raised a hand to sweep it away. As he did, his elbow contacted a heavily laden branch, the impact shaking it outside the cadence and rhythm of the breeze. The group of the gray skins closest to him halted their seemingly pointless meanderings and diverted their gazes in his direction. Rilum froze, breath caught in his throat, fingertips resting on his face.

  They stared at his patch of brush for what seemed an eternity. A drop of sweat rolled from his forehead and into his eye, its saltiness stinging, but he fought the urge to wipe it. Tension knotted his muscles. The small men continued their long-distance scrutiny but made no move toward him. His always-dry mouth became arid, and any attempt to swallow proved fruitless.

  Finally, the closest gray skin looked away, returned to the activities with which they occupied themselves. The sailor parted his lips and allowed the air to escape from his lungs a bit at a time, controlled so as not to make any sound. When he'd begun breathing again and the odd creatures re-engaged in their own doings, he inched backward from his brush cover. He cringed with each movement, progressing with such care and delicateness he expected his tendons might snap with the effort and leave him writhing on the ground at the mercy of the little ones.

  Will they eat me?

  A pathetic drop of saliva squirted into his mouth at the thought of food and eating. He swallowed it as quickly as it appeared, his throat thankful for the tiny watery respite. When he cleared himself of the hanging branches and fluttering leaves, he stood, knees creaking, backed away a few more steps, then turned and ran.

  ***

  He didn't remember seeing animals before his latest encounter with the gray skins, but now they appeared to be everywhere.

  Somehow, his nose recognized their proximity to the beasts before he came upon them and he avoided direct contact. He'd amend his course, choosing another direction to take him away from them. One time, their odors surrounded him. Not knowing what else to do, he scaled a wide-trunked tree with low-hanging branches. It occurred to him that, if his aching and atrophied muscles could help him make his way into the higher limbs, then he wouldn't find safety up high from any creature possessed with the ability to climb.

  He settled onto a limb, back leaning against the tree's trunk as a knot pressed into him. Not much time passed before satisfaction for his decision to force his poor self to scale the heights of the tree swept into him.

  The first animal sauntered into view a few moments later. It walked on four feet, its body squat and wide, coarse hair bristling along its spine. Two chipped tusks protruded from its short, flat snout, and each breath came out a snort.

  As it approached the base of Rilum's hiding place, more of its scent wafted up to the sailor. It reeked of dirt and feces, but he detected another odor beneath he realized was the animal's flesh. His stomach rumbled.

  The next beast made a much more dramatic entrance to the scene below him. Its long, sleek body shot out of the brush, startling the first creature. It turned to escape, but the new arrival pounced before it got three strides as its hoofed feet slipped in the blanket of needles on the forest floor. The second beast's sharp claws sank into the first's flesh, pulling itself up its back to plunge pointed incisors into its victim's neck.

  The squat animal squealed and Rilum pressed his hands to his ears to block out the sound, but he didn't stop watching.

  An instant later, the fight ended. The tusked creature thrashed and struggled, but the larger, stronger beast prevailed. The skirmish finished and the pungent aroma of blood blossomed in the air.

  Rilum's mouth watered.

  ***

  Darkness fell by the time the long and sleek animal satisfied its appetite. It ate until its stomach refused more, then laid down to sleep and allow its meal to settle. The sailor squatted on the wide limb, licking his lips and swallowing the saliva flooding his gob whenever he inhaled the coppery scent of the animal's blood.

  After the predator took its leave, Rilum knew to resist the urge to rush to the carcass, take some time before descending from his sanctuary. The beast may come back itself, or the whiff of freshly killed flesh might attract other hungry denizens. So he waited, shifting from foot to foot to keep his legs from going to sleep, to occupy himself until he could wait no more.

  When the time came, he shifted on the branch to lower himself from the tree. Despite his best efforts, his numb limbs failed him. With his first step, his boot slipped, and he tumbled from his perch. He bounced limb to limb, bashing his arms and legs, his head and back as he caromed his way to the ground.

  He landed with a dull thump hard enough to force the breath from his lungs with a grunt. For a while, he lay waiting to recover, staring up at the branches above, the slivers of night sky and twinkling stars peek-a-booing through the spaces between. When a pinch of air trickled into his chest, Rilum rolled onto his front and crawled toward the animal's remains. Shards of sticks pressed into his palms, ignored, decaying needles stuck to his hands, his knee struck a protruding root shooting pain along his leg.

  The pungent bouquet of spilled blood drove him.

  When he reached the carcass, the sailor leaned forward, buried his face in the gaping hole left when the beast of prey made its meal. He sank his teeth into cold flesh, shook his head side to side the way he'd seen the other animal do as it feasted. A strip came away from the bone and Rilum lifted his hands to stuff it into his mouth.

  He chewed with vigor and relief, forgetting the potential dangers of the surrounding forest. The stink of meat and blood filled his nose, seeming to adhere to the inside of his nostrils as he inhaled it. He gobbled it, the sinew snaking down his throat.

  The instant it reached his belly, his body revolted.

  He turned and retched, vomiting the freshly swallowed meat in long strings to hang from his lips until he grabbed them and yanked them from his esophagus. He freed it, then returned it to his mouth, chewed again, devoured it a second time. This time it stayed put.

  Rilum lowered his head and ate.

  XXV Teryk – Truth Be Told

  Teryk's eyes snapped open, and he gasped a breath into his lungs as he sat up. The softness of a mattress supported him and he gazed at the dull gray of a stone wall. Neither registered because, once again, he knew not where he was or how he got there. This time, though, it mattered less. How he came to be anywhere or anytime seemed impossible.

  I killed my father.

  He covered his eyes with one hand, did his best to calm his breathing. Logic said, if he'd killed the king, then he himself should be no more. The thought made his head light, and he swallowed around a lump developing in his throat. After everything he'd seen, all that appeared to have happened, should anything surprise him? Since finding the scroll, the world had become unrecognizable in so many ways.

  A deep inhalation filled his lungs but did nothing to calm the trepidation creeping along his limbs. He threw off the blanket covering him and draped his legs over the side of the bed. His feet came to rest in the fur of an animal turned into a rug. The sensation on his bare soles reminded him of his youth—similar shags covered parts of the floor in his chamber at Draekfarren. Many a morn he'd sat on the edge of his mattress wiggling his toes to enjoy the luxurious experience as long as possible before beginning his day. Another time, another place.

  He pushed himself to stand, the movement making vertigo spin his head, so he reached back, rested his hand on the thick bed to keep his balance. As he waited for it to pass, he looked down and surveyed himself. The white chemise he wore fit as if it was made for him. He didn't recall ever having a top in this style. The plain, dark gray breeches rested comfortably on his hips,
their quality high.

  Teryk inhaled through his nose, his sense of equilibrium returning. Somewhere nearby, sandalwood incense burned, though he spied no burner anywhere, nor the telltale ribbon of smoke carrying the aroma to his nostrils. The rest of the chamber appeared unremarkable—small, with the bed, a desk and chair, a chest, and no more. Little to see, all of it high quality. A carving of a ship at sea decorated the trunk's lid, highlighted by an outline of gleaming brass. The same metal formed the hinges and hasp, polished with care. A darker wood composed the sitting furniture, so dark as to straddle a line between deep red and night black. An intricate design of painted flowers and ivy wound its way around the legs from floor to desktop and seat.

  Teryk stepped away from the bed, dragging his feet through the rug's thick, soft fur. He considered crossing the short space to the chest, opening it to search for clues of his whereabouts, but veered toward the door instead.

  He stood in front of it, staring at the handle set in an iron plate, the keyhole beneath. Locked or not? Who or what might lurk behind it?

  Not only do I not recognize where I am, I don't know when, either.

  A tiredness settled into the prince. How long since this began? The making of the Green, the Small Gods' fall, the battle. Did it happen in the blink of an eye or, as his body now suggested, had the sun risen and set multiple times since his last opportunity for rest?

  He sighed and extended his arm, grasped the handle but paused before testing it. If it opened, where should he go? If it didn't, what then? He recalled the way an unseen hand drew him across the battlefield, directing him to where he needed to be. If it happened thus before, he must trust it to be the same again.

  His fingers tightened, and he tugged it with a solid yank. The door swung open, smooth and silent on well-oiled hinges, and Teryk peered into the wide hall beyond. Thick carpet, ornate wall sconces, and meticulous portraits the prince recognized, though he'd never known the people they depicted.

  "I'm in Draekfarren."

  He spoke the words aloud without thinking, clamped his palm over his mouth as he did and faded back into the chamber. After a few breathless moments passed, he lowered his hand and peeked around the jamb. The hall lay empty in both directions, so he stepped out, bare soles padding soft carpet.

  He'd been to this part of the castle, though rarely—the guest wing. Visiting nobles and their attendants laid their heads here during their visits and, judging by the size of the chamber and the style of his clothes, he must be here as the latter, not the former.

  He stood in the hall for a dozen heartbeats, glancing one way then the other. To the right led deeper into the castle while the other route headed outside. He waited, expecting the guiding hand as before, and it took but the space of ten more beats of his heart before he strode to the left, not knowing if he'd chosen it himself or if another force decided for him.

  A huge stained-glass window interrupted the line of portraits hanging on the wall to his right, the pattern symmetrical but nonsensical. Sun shone through, casting colored puddles of light onto the hall carpet, each of them creeping across Teryk's limbs and body as he walked. He passed three more chamber doors to his left before reaching the end of the hallway where a staircase led to the lower floor. He paused again, listened for footsteps on the stairs or the metallic rattle of an armed guard, but heard nothing. Satisfied, he descended the steps, the stone risers cool on the soles of his feet.

  The stairway curved, following the inside rounded wall of a corner tower. As a child, he loved these staircases. They afforded one the ability to creep along, hidden by the wall's contour to avoid notice by someone else—a sister, for instance. Today, the same bend, the same possibility of a person hiding beyond his vision slowed his step, made him cautious. He might find an armed man a few steps farther on, or run into a noble returning to their room. Likely no matter if he did, for it seemed whoever guided him also disguised him, evidenced on his father's field of battle.

  The stairway ended at an iron door, as every portal to the outside did in Draekfarren. He wondered again whether he'd find himself locked in or free to roam. He didn't hesitate this time, grasping the handle and leaning his shoulder against the metal. It swung open with ease, flooding the landing with sunlight bright enough to blind the prince while his eyes grew accustomed. Teryk squinted, filtering out the brightness while his vision returned. When it did, he gazed out on a courtyard of trimmed grass and hedges pruned into shapes with not a single a leaf out of place. Without exception, it appeared as he remembered it from his visits. He'd spent most of his life in the main gardens, but liked this terrace near as much. It possessed an air of being hidden away from the rest of the castle, a private oasis to take refuge with little fear of discovery.

  The prince stepped out into the light and pushed the door closed behind him. It clanked against the stone jamb; since he'd encountered nobody thus far, he doubted anyone lurked within earshot. Outside, a flagstone path led straight away into the yard; he followed it but did so to one side, choosing to walk in the grass instead. The short lawn tickled his feet, sent a refreshing sensation up his lower legs and brought a smile to his lips. The warmth of the sun on his face and the green blades on his soles seemed so long ago, so distant. Did it delight him so other times in his life? He didn't think so, because he'd never imagined it not being a part of his world.

  When you perceive no risk of losing a thing, it's more difficult to appreciate it.

  The thought drove the smile from his mouth; it wasn't just sunlight and grass he'd taken for granted, but also Trenan's guidance, Danya's laughter, his mother's love. His heart ached over them; he didn't see a future in which he'd ever walk beside any of them again.

  Ahead, the tumbling gurgle of a fountain reached his ears. The larger hedges of the topiary hid it from him, but having seen it before, he pictured in his mind what they concealed. His feet carried him toward it, each step silent in the grass. As he neared, the quiet murmur of a woman's voice came to him on the still air. He stopped, listened, but it sounded as though she spoke a different language. If so, it meant he remained sometime far in the past; the ancient languages had died along with the banishment of the Small Gods, spoken in secret circles, if at all.

  The prince crept farther from the path, avoiding the space between hedges where one entered the topiary's cool interior to sit by the fountain and enjoy the water's music. He circled around the outside of the hedge fortress; in his memory, he'd find another small opening near the base of the largest bush. He hadn't decided if the gap occurred naturally or if his father or a previous king commanded it created on purpose—a hole through which someone might spy on their visitors. The latter, most likely.

  He arrived at the spot, happy to discover it opposite the entrance to the enclave where he remembered it. Here, the hedges grew closest to the castle wall, this stretch of it blank and windowless—another hint toward the opening being man-made. Teryk checked over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him. Confident of being alone, he squatted, bent closer to the hole. Here, naught but the length of two horses separated him from the woman sitting near the fountain, and her words floated to him through the warm air.

  She's singing.

  Though the lyrics remained indistinct, both the melody and her voice proved familiar.

  "Mother?"

  He whispered the word then felt compelled to glance around, be sure no one heard. He continued to be alone. Teryk lay flat on the grass, but wriggled forward, bringing his face to the opening in the hedge.

  She sat on a marble bench to the left of the fountain, her profile visible as she gazed into her crossed arms. A blissful expression perched upon her visage as she cooed and sang and rocked back and forth. It took the prince a moment to realize she wasn't hugging herself and singing to her forearms. She held a bundled blanket, its contents hidden from him, but he realized what it contained.

  It's me.

  Teryk's heart swelled with equal parts joy and hurt. How peaceful and
happy she appeared away from his father and the crown which weighed heavy on her head in his time. Here, now, the contented smile refused to leave her face, giving her a glow. How he wished to be the babe in her arms again, without a care or the fate of its people hanging on his shoulders like the yoke on an ox. With it to do over, would he follow Danya into the river under the castle? Insist on heeding the words of a prophecy written so many turns of the seasons ago? He didn't have answers to those questions and, truly, they made no matter. Here he was instead of his own era, with no way to change his circumstances.

  His mother stopped singing and rocking, looked up from the bundle gathered against her, gazing toward the entrance to the topiary hideaway. Teryk followed her gaze, his eyes finding the man lingering beneath the green and leafy arch. He'd entered in silence, might have been watching for a few moments before she'd noticed him. He leaned against the hedge with arms crossed, a grin on his face. The prince didn't recognize him, though he thought he should.

  Seeing him, his mother stood, her joyous expression expanding further. The new visitor strode toward her, his smile matching hers. As he approached and Teryk saw him more clearly, he realized who he gazed upon.

  Trenan.

  His gait gobbled up the ground between them and he put his arms around her in an embrace like he'd never seen the two of them share.

  Both arms. He has both arms.

  Blood rushed away from his face, his cheeks went chill. Trenan with both arms meant his father was dead, killed by his son. Thoughts swirled in his head, none of them landing long enough for him to grasp. The master swordsman bent and pressed his lips against the queen's. Teryk's eyes saw the kiss, but didn't register the act as it lingered, as Trenan's one hand cradled her head, his fingers finding their way through her hair while the other rested on her hip. She held him with her free arm, pulling him close against her as she twisted to keep the babe from being crushed between them.