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

by Bruce Blake

  Without a gesture from either of them, the rest of the warriors followed, twin columns of riders flowing past on either side, a stream of horse flesh and armor parting around a shaking rock. When they'd passed, he remained where he sat, neither prompting his steed to move nor turning to watch them go. Even after the sounds of hooves on wet track disappeared, he waited, shivering, wishing to be anywhere else. Raindrops beat on his head, ran down his face, threatened to choke him every time he breathed too deeply through his nose.

  After a while, Gihl sat straight in his saddle. Through his soaked trousers, he felt like he noticed the difference between the rain and the cold piss trapped inside his pants. He cleared his throat, spat a wad of phlegm on the muddy ground, and pulled the horse's reins, turning her in the direction from which they'd come. He let his mount advance a step before hauling back on the lead again, stopping her.

  "What if they stopped somewhere ahead and they see me not doing what the one-armed bastard told me to do?"

  The rain pattered. His horse snuffled and blew water from its nostrils. Nothing and nobody else offered any advice.

  "He'd kill me," he said, answering his own query.

  The mare pawed the muddy ground, splashing in the rivulet flowing along the middle of the track.

  "Fuck."

  He turned his mount around again, pointing her toward Draekfarren. He dug his heels into her, prompting her forward with no more certainty this was the right thing to do than heading home.

  At least this direction meant less chance he'd die.

  ***

  "What now?"

  It wasn't long after the rain stopped when Gihl spied the three figures on the road ahead. One stood straight, a robe draped from his shoulders and a cowl pulled up to hide his face. The second either knelt by the robed figure, was a child, or the smallest damned man Gihl'd ever seen. The third crouched on hands and knees, puking beside the track.

  "Fucking lovely."

  He reined his horse to a stop, looked side to side in search of a path which might allow his escape, but the trees and brush grew too close together. Face them or retreat? They didn't look the most dangerous of sorts, but maybe they wanted him to think they weren't. As he glanced back up the road at them in the same positions, he recalled a saying—something to do with discretion and valor. He couldn't remember it, but thought it ended with the words 'fuck valor.'

  Through pulling reins and tapping heels, Gihl got the horse pointed down the narrow track away from the three strangers... or so he believed. When they faced the other direction, he found them right before him, closer, the one who'd knelt losing his lunch standing beside the others. Turned out he was a big man, imposing, and Gihl's heart sped up in his chest, knocking against his ribs as though it sought to break out. He tugged on the bridle, urging the mare to back up.

  "I'm not looking for no trouble," he said, voice quivering. He considered reaching for his short sword but pulling the weapon was more likely to get him killed than if he stayed away from it and left it alone. Why did he bother carrying the damn thing?

  None of the three made sound nor motion, which may have been worse than if they demanded his money or his mount. At least then he'd know where he stood. Not knowing their intent scared him.

  And how'd they get behind me so quick?

  He decided he didn't want to find out what they wanted or how they'd gotten around him. He dug his heels in again, yanked the reins again and jerked the horse's head around harder than he should have. The nag responded, rearing up and twisting to face the other direction, ready to launch itself down the track the second he prompted it to do so.

  They never gave Gihl the chance.

  The big man's arm caught him around the waist and yanked him from the saddle. His right foot snagged in the stirrup, wrenching his knee, and he cried out before it pulled free and he hit the ground with a sodden thump. The impact jarred the breath from his lungs and he gasped trying to restore it.

  "Where's the one-armed man?"

  The big fellow held him by the front of his shirt, the fabric bunched in his fists, and his face hung a hand's-breadth from Gihl's. With no air in his chest, he couldn't respond, so settled for widening his eyes and shaking his head, teeth gritted against the pain in his knee. The stranger shook him once, moved closer.

  "Where is he?"

  Spittle flew against Gihl's nose and cheeks and he recalled seeing this man vomiting at the roadside moments before. His own gorge rose, a lump in his chest making both breathing and answering the angry fellow more difficult.

  Gihl lifted a shaking hand, pointed along the road the direction the master swordsman and his troop had gone. The same way led to his home. He wished he'd heeded his first instinct and abandoned Krin's stupid task the second he'd gotten clear of the tavern and the barkeep's line of sight.

  "Toward sunset? The Green?"

  Muddy water lapped against Gihl's ear as he nodded.

  "Why?"

  His lips parted and closed, his throat working to make a sound, but nothing came out. The big man shook him again, jerking him up off the ground, snapping his head forward, then dropping him again. Dirty droplets splashed onto his face.

  "Why?"

  Gihl opened his mouth again, forced his tongue and gullet to do the things they needed to do to produce sound, and this time they did.

  "The princess," he said, the proclamation coming out more gag than actual words.

  "They have the princess?"

  Gihl shook his head, neck sore from the latest shaking he'd endured. "Weapon merchants. Have her. Taking to Green."

  The big man's lips peeled back from his teeth in a sneer dripping with such hatred it made Gihl flinch. His limited future in the grasp of this maniac became clear to him and he deiced he needed to do anything necessary to save himself.

  "The king," he gasped. "I'm to inform the king."

  "Are you?" The hate-filled expression turned to an ugly smile, one lacking the smallest sliver of humor, warmth, or happiness. He leaned closer and, now Gihl had his air again, he smelled the man's sour breath when he spoke. "Tell you what: I'll pass the message along for you."

  A lancet of hope poked through Gihl's fear. "So I can go home?"

  The terrible smile broadened, an expression worse than the hateful sneer.

  "Oh, you'll be going back where you came from."

  The first blow from the big man's clenched fist sent flashes of light exploding across Gihl's vision, as if the stars in the sky sprang to life all at once. The second broke his jaw, the bright pinpricks forced away by the pain. With the third punch, he tasted blood on his tongue, then filling his cheeks and spilling from his lips. When the fourth struck, he barely noticed it through the agony consuming him; he only hoped for consciousness to leave him. He tried to move his mouth, to beg for mercy, but had no idea if he met with any success. The world grew dim, leaving him with the vague impression of the fellow's face, his horse's front leg, and then a different visage loomed over him.

  A cowl concealed the figure's features. Long fingers reached out from loose sleeves and peeled the hood back to reveal a smooth pate so white it might have glowed. The dark eyes stared at him, a smile on the lips much more gentle than the one worn by the fellow who beat him. The robed figure raised his arms, stretched his hands to Gihl's face, laid his fingers on the side of his head. For an instant, the pain from the beating subsided, and Gihl thought his life saved.

  Until the burning began.

  The long appendages seared themselves into his flesh, sinking through his skin and into the bone beneath, pressing their way toward his brain. Agony expanded in his skull, pushing outward, bulging his eyes and popping his ears.

  Gihl screamed.

  ***

  Dansil stood back, panting from the exertion of smashing his fist into the rider's face. He drew his arm across his forehead, wiping off what might have been rain, sweat, or blood. When he'd caught his breath, he stepped away from the fellow; he still felt the pain from
the stab wound given him by Stirk, but not the debilitating kind he'd experienced at Ikkundana. He watched the robed healer crouch over the fallen man, lay his hands on him. The queen's guard turned his back instead of watching what he knew came next, flexing his left hand now missing two fingers he'd possessed the day before. He reached up, grasped the saddle's pommel, and put one foot in a stirrup. Before he climbed on, fingers gripped his ankle.

  He jerked his head, at first thinking it might be the healer laying hands upon him, but found Stirk holding his leg. The legless man teetered but stayed upright.

  "Where do you think you're goin'?"

  "The healer's method of travel don't sit well with my insides. I'll be taking the horse from here."

  "But you don't—"

  Dansil shook free of Stirk's grip and the one-limbed fellow toppled over into the mud with a splash that brought a smile to his lips. He threw one leg over the horse's back and guided the nag to turn toward the Green, uncaring if he should trample Stirk or the healer. He set his heel to horse flesh, and the steed bounded forward as its former rider began to scream. Dansil thanked whatever god might bother to listen to him he was getting away from them, though he knew he'd never really get away.

  Never again in his life.

  XXVIII Rilum – Long Ago

  The water reeked of salt.

  It attracted Rilum from a distance, drawing him through the forest of trees and brush to a rocky shore. He picked his way over stones the size of his head and around boulders too big for him to scale. The air turned cold again and his short breaths boiled out his mouth in rolling white mist, but not so colorless as the flesh on his hands and fingers. He supposed the breathy fog suggested he should notice the chill, but he did not.

  When he reached the edge of the water, he stood watching as waves rolled across the smaller stones with a hiss to gather about the soles of his boots. At some point, he'd worn holes in them, and the sea touched his feet. He leaned forward, scooped water into his pasty palm, and raised his hand to his mouth.

  The salt stung his tongue and set his mind reeling, though he didn't know why. He sensed he should remember this flavor, this scent; nothing came to him to explain why. It did not satiate his hunger, nor did it make him want to imbibe more of the briny fluid. He wiped his hand on the front of his pants and spat into the wash at his feet, his thick and sticky saliva floating atop the rolling waves like a thing swimming for its life.

  Rilum turned and left the wad of phlegm behind, continuing along the shore at the edge of the water, his soles squelching inside his soaked boots. He'd gone fewer than ten paces when he realized he wasn't alone.

  Normally, his nose warned him when other creatures lurked near, but the stink of salt in his nostrils and throat clogged his sense until he raised his gaze and saw them standing farther along the shore, staring at him.

  They stood on two legs like him, had two arms as he did. Hair on their heads, clothes on their bodies. Their shoulders hunched and their eyes opened wide as they watched him. He stopped, a spark igniting in his chest.

  They look like me.

  Not exactly; their skin wasn't white, their hair wasn't patchy, he suspected they'd have all their teeth. But his flesh had once been pink, his hair full, his set of teeth complete. The memory of those things was hazy in his mind, separated from the present by time and distance, but the sight of them brought it back, the remembrance carrying enthusiasm and hope on its shoulders.

  The sailor started out again, increasing his pace. If it hadn't been so long since he saw others like himself, he might have raised a hand in greeting. If he'd been in the habit of speaking, he'd call out a friendly hello, but his eternally parched mouth hadn't spawned words in ages.

  The two men tensed at his approach and Rilum told himself they did so because it surprised them to see him here. One of them turned to the other and spoke too quietly for him to hear. When he finished, they both bent at the waist, their nervous hands working to gather items from the shore. The sailor put no thought to what they gathered until they flung the first stone at him.

  It bounced off his thigh, not quite hurting him, but throwing off his gait so he nearly stumbled. The part of his face where once he'd possessed eyebrows dipped. Why did they throw rocks at him? Shouldn't it delight them to find another of their kind on these hostile shores?

  A second rock flew past his ear, its odd shape causing it to whistle through the air. The sound might have delighted him if the next, larger projectile didn't hit him square in the middle of his forehead.

  This time, the impact hurt. Rilum closed his eyes, shook his head. His feet tangled, and he fell, the sharp edge of a rock digging into his knee. The spark which seeing them lit in his chest extinguished like a guttering candle in a stiff breeze, replaced by explosive rage. He climbed back to standing as another stone struck him in the shoulder, a fourth in the belly.

  His vision narrowed, the sea and the rocky shore all but disappearing until it appeared to him they stood at the end of a tunnel. They continued hurling stones, some striking him, most of them missing, but he no longer noticed. He increased his pace, his feet finding their way across the rugged ground as though he'd done it a thousand times before. Frantic, the two men stooped to gather more rocks, launched them without taking the time to aim; fewer and fewer of them found their target.

  As the space between them diminished, they gave up beating him back with thrown stones. One turned, intending to flee, but stumbled on the closest rock and fell to the ground, flailing. The other decided on a different tack and moved toward Rilum, fists clenched.

  The sailor crashed into him full-force, sending him sprawling. Before he had any opportunity to recover, Rilum fell upon him. He snagged the fellow by his wrist and yanked, rending his arm from his shoulder. Blood squirted, and he screamed as Rilum went for the man who'd tripped.

  He clambered away, his face gone white, but still not as white as his attacker's. His feet churned against stones that slid out from beneath his efforts. When Rilum reached him, the stranger raised his hands in front of him, but they did him no good as the sailor clubbed him with his companion's arm.

  He hit him again and again until his defensive gesture gave out, arms falling to the rocky ground at his sides. Rilum continued hitting him, the fellow's cheeks and forehead having turned shiny red, covered with his own blood and his friend's. The tang of it forced its way into Rilum's consciousness, past the reek of brine, the stench of his own body. Viscous saliva crept into his mouth and he stopped swinging the severed arm and let it fall from his tacky, blood-smeared hand.

  He drew his shriveled tongue across cracked and pitted lips.

  The other man's terrified screams pulled him out of his hunger-lust. Rilum turned and found the fellow had leveraged himself to his feet to stumble away toward the forest. He craned his neck to peer back at his friend's horrific death. Rilum deserted the dead man to stalk after the runner. He stooped on his way without slowing, plucked a rock from the ground twice the size of his own fist.

  He caught up to the fellow in no time. The stone contacted his skull with a satisfying crunch and he crumpled as if the blow had severed every tendon in his body.

  Rilum didn't bother to find out whether the man was dead or continued to live. He dropped to his knees beside him, leaned in, and tore into the soft flesh of his belly with hat few teeth remained in his head. Blood splashed across his cheeks, into his mouth, down his throat. His stomach rumbled happily.

  XXIX Teryk – Bear in the Woods

  It happened so fast. Jud-dah jerking away from his captor, the ensuing chaos, pushing the woman behind himself for protection, her touch slipping from his so words faded back to indecipherable.

  Two men grabbed him by the arms as he watched the man who'd imprisoned him fold to the ground, life gone from him. Their fingers hidden in the cuffs of their robes dug into his flesh, sending pain through his biceps. He ignored it, instead surprised to find slivers of sadness and compassion at the fellow call
ed Jud-dah's death. After being locked in a barn, forced to dig beyond exhaustion, and watching the mistreatment of the woman captive with him, he shouldn't experience anything but relief at the man's execution, yet he did. Somewhere deep inside, he sensed Jud-dah and his dog might be the lesser of evils.

  The other men, including the one not dressed in black cowl and robe, turned their attention toward him. He tensed, awaiting an attack. A fat drop of rain struck his temple, rolled along his cheek as lightning cut a path across the darkened sky. In the flash of light, he realized they weren't staring at him; they gazed past him.

  The leader—Jud-dah called him Birk, he recalled—pushed his way between the others to stand beside the prisoner and his captors. In response, the man twisted against the grip of the two holding him to look back over his shoulder at what usurped their attention.

  The rain pelting against the glistening wall spattered bright patterns, then rolled along its surface as though it had struck a window. Behind the barrier, the woman—his companion in the barn and on their journey, the person who'd given him the ability to understand the world—knelt on hands and knees. She raised her head, cocked it to one side, listening.

  "Howdshee geto verthar?" the fellow called Birk said in the gibberish the man hoped he'd never experience again.

  None of the others responded. He wasn't sure Birk expected any of them to answer, but neither did Ailyssa act as though she'd heard. He leaned toward the green divide, pulling against the two robed men's grasp. They held firm, but his closer proximity to the wall allowed the nameless man to glimpse her between the spider webs of lightning cast by the rain hitting it.

  It wasn't Birk she attempted to listen to, but the black-haired creature stalking toward her.

  Its thick mane bristled and its yellow-white teeth stood out in stark contrast to its dark fur. The snarled mouth may have meant a growl emanated deep in its chest but, if it did, only Ailyssa and the beast's own ears detected it. It crept closer to her as she moved her head, sightlessly attempting to locate the predator.