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

by Bruce Blake

  When he got close enough, he dropped to the ground, pressed himself against the stiff grass, and waited. The noises he'd heard ceased, and no others replaced them—no one calling out, no approach of footsteps. He held his breath listening as long as his lungs allowed before releasing the air. He propped himself up on his elbows, counted six people in the clearing below.

  If a fight there'd been, it was finished. Three sat; of the others, one stood as though guarding the seated trio while the other two stationed themselves apart. Dansil squinted, attempting to pick out any features that might identify the players arrayed beneath him. The first thing he noticed—what he'd been searching for—was the missing arm.

  Trenan sat away from the others, or at least appeared to until the queen's guard realized he wasn't sitting, but kneeling.

  Like a beaten dog.

  A fight had occurred, and the other fellow bested the renowned soldier. Part of Dansil rejoiced at the defeat, but another side of him wished he'd driven the swordmaster to his knees. The man standing between the so-called master swordsman and the seated figures appeared familiar, though he couldn't recall from where he might have recognized him.

  His eyes traveled to the two sitters. A moment of scrutiny revealed them as women. He suspected one to be the princess. Next, his gaze moved across the short space between them, found a tall stick of a man—also familiar. As for the last fellow, the seated one, he didn't think he knew him. Dansil crawled forward as if a third of the length of his body offered to bring him close enough to recognize him. He squinted hard, stared.

  The lad's unkempt hair hung to his shoulders, draped onto the skin of his chest bronzed by the sun, whiskers dusted his cheeks. He held a chain wrapped around his forearm, the trailing end of it attached to his ankle. The distance and his appearance cast doubt, but recognition came.

  "Prince Teryk."

  Trenan had rescued them both. Despite his foul-ups, the kingdom would once again hail him a hero while Dansil found himself relegated back to his job babysitting the queen. Anger stirred in the queen's guard's guts, the pressure of it building, making him purse his lips. He gathered himself, ready to stand and stomp his way down the hill. What might happen once he reached them, he didn't know, for the blind engine of his rage drove him.

  Before he took his first step, movement flickered amongst those in the clearing at the bottom of the slope. Dansil stopped, stared. As the action unfolded, his eyes widened, his mouth fell open. The anger in his gut melted away, replaced by surprise, shock. His mind reeled at the unexpected twist of events. No longer did he need to take care of ending Trenan's life himself.

  And he'd be the kingdom's hero.

  He turned his back on the people at the base of the hill and hurried toward the place where his horse awaited, uncaring if anyone heard him. If the sun remained and the dirt track dried, he'd make good time heading for Draekfarren. Once returned, he intended to report what he saw to the king and queen. Then they'd take care of the master swordsman's fate. Might anything be more satisfying to Dansil than his death?

  Death and disgrace.

  XXXVIII Horace – The Mother

  After havin' seen how fast they moved, Horace realized weren't no point in tryin' to run away.

  He couldn't understand how the things might see, given they didn't appear to have eyes no more'n they did mouths, but the one what heard the woman make her peep stared right at him. If the pale feller possessed a real mouth, it'd likely have flicked its tongue out and licked its lips while lookin' at him. The way it leaned toward them, the white flesh on its forehead wrinklin' as it took another step, suggested it preferred the taste o' humans o'er the furry beast.

  The ol' sailor stared back at the abomination. Where did a thing like that come from? Its smooth head and featureless face, and how expressions appeared to form even without eyes and mouth mesmerized him. It moved one slow pace at a time, as though sneakin' up on him, tryin' not to scare him in spite o' the fact he gawked right at it. And he might've kept on starin' until it walked up and slit his throat with them sharp talons if the woman hadn't scuffled in the brush.

  The faceless thing turned its head, directin' its sightless gaze toward her and remindin' Horace o' her presence. His stomach did a flip. He needed to do everything in his power to protect her, to keep her safe.

  Why?

  The answer came to him as though he'd asked it out loud to a group o' academics.

  She's the Barren Mother what Ivy talked about.

  He pried his attention from the colorless thing and darted toward the woman, hopin' his movement didn't prompt their stalker to hurry.

  She did her best to scramble away from him, heels diggin' at the ground, pushin' and pushin' to escape, but the brush surroundin' her held her back. He understood it were him she wanted to evade, because she couldn't know the other things what threatened them. Maybe lucky for her bein' blind.

  Horace bent and got his arms around her, fightin' through her thrashin' and protestin'. He grasped her, speakin' in a whisper as close to her ear as possible without her scratchin' his face or punchin' him in the jaw.

  "Be calm," he urged, despite himself experiencin' anythin' but calmness. "I'm not the one what's gonna hurt ya."

  Her fight stopped as though he'd picked just the right words. Her eyes found his, but he recognized they didn't see him. She did what he took to be a nod and reached up to encircle his neck. Her doin' so caught him off guard, but he recovered quick, his own arms slippin' around her, fingers lockin' together behind her. He lifted her up, thankful for her ability to help. Had he needed to pick her up by himself, her weight would've caused him to tumble and given the faceless thing the choice which o' them it wanted to eat first.

  When she got her feet beneath her and found her balance, he pivoted back toward their stalker.

  It'd moved three more paces, closin' the space between them, movin' slow like it thought they didn't realize its presence. Not close enough to touch them, but Horace estimated two good leaps for it to get there.

  The woman shivered against him, her one arm around his waist as she used him for support and guidance. Not too far gone, he needed Ivy's help to stand and move. Now he found himself the helper. But how long before his poor body refused to keep goin'?

  He recalled how Ivy came to his rescue the last time he'd encountered these creatures—or others like them. If she were there, she'd find a way to protect them.

  Where is the little gray girl?

  Horace wanted to turn his head, scan the surroundin' forest in search o' his friend Thorn's sister, but didn't dare tear his gaze away from the horror creepin' up on them. He stared at the red smeared across its chin, noticed the skin on its cheeks tighten like it pulled back non-existent lips into an unseen snarl. He didn't have much experience with creatures found upon the land, but he thought that kinda expression suggested somethin' gettin' ready to attack.

  "What is it?" the woman asked, voice quivering.

  "Best you don't know," he said, surprised to find his response didn't share the same scared soundin' quake.

  He tightened his hold around her shoulders and pulled her with him, the two o' them draggin' their feet along the ground as they inched away. But the pale abomination followed, takin' another step, then another. It moved faster than them, closin' the space a bit at a time. Horace wanted to run but feared doin' so because it'd give the thing their backs. And if they tried hurryin' backward, they risked gettin' tangled in creepers and branches, fallin' and makin' themselves easier prey. With no other choice, he set his jaw and continued easin' them back.

  As if the creature sensed the sailor's indecision, it stopped, coiled itself, ropey muscles collectin' beneath the shiny skin. In the instant before it sprang, Horace's whole life flashed through his head. To his disillusionment, it didn't take long, and all he recognized were regret—for spendin' so many turns o' the seasons doin' what he hated, for desertin' his family to do so, for failin' Thorn, and now for not bein' able to save the
woman. Remorse, disappointment, failure. What kinda life did he live?

  The thing sprang at them. Horace pulled her hard against him and pivoted away from the blood-smeared horror, puttin' his body between her and it and gettin' ready to die.

  XXXIX Rilum – Now

  An odor found its way through the sweet bouquet of juice and meat and saliva, past the fetor of wood and needles and moss. Unusual, but familiar. A scent recently detected but which also lingered from sometime long, long ago.

  It stopped, surveying its surroundings with one carrion-filled hand raised halfway to its face, blood running along its stick-like fingers, pooling in its palm, dripping from its wrist. It observed the world through the usual gauze.

  The hairy beast lay splayed at its feet, chunks torn away from its body, used, and cast aside in the brush. It no longer breathed, the lump of muscle in its chest ceased beating; it made sure of it by tearing it out and devouring it. One other crouched to the side, preoccupied with ripping flesh from their fallen prey, opening its abdomen and pulling out loops of entrails. The second other had strayed from the kill.

  It straightened, turned its head first one way then the other until it detected a flicker. The other stood several paces from their feast, facing away. It wondered what made it leave behind such delicious fare. More movement—two figures beyond the other. One of them had been with the beast. Even with the overpowering stink of the animal's matted fur, the odor of her womanness had been clear. But why forgo tasty meat for a skinny woman?

  But the second figure caught his attention. It bore the same scent he'd detected recently with a little one and was why the other had deserted their feast.

  Once-was-Rilum took a step away from the fallen beast himself, wanting to get a clearer scent of the air. Two steps from the kill and the odors became more recognizable. He smelled the woman, the man, the forest more plainly. His brow wrinkled and all but what he searched for filtered through the flaps of skin long ago grown over his nostrils.

  As with every part of their home, a faint whiff of a small one remained here, but its faintness suggested some time since the little creature passed. The fellow previously accompanied by a gray one wasn't so protected now.

  Once-was-Rilum understood why his companion had wandered from their meal. A different quality in the flesh of a man attracted him, an enlivening it brought not found elsewhere. An energy, a flavor, a fervor. Rarity. He took two steps away from the dead beast, following along behind the other. With his brethren so fixated on its prey, it wouldn't notice him coming to partake alongside.

  His feet whispered in the creepers and leaves lining the forest floor, the sound of his passing so quiet, he couldn't hear it himself. Thick, gummy saliva oozed into his mouth, held fast by sealed lips. Silent and quick, he moved closer to his companion. The odors of the man and woman grew with each step. Instead of enticing him, the man's pungent scent made him wary. During his unknown time in this place he'd found few men, either on his own or after he allowed the others to join him. But he remembered each one—their aroma, their flavor, how consuming them gave him energy. Enough for him to wonder if his companions might have the same effect, a question answered when the third other met its end.

  It should fill him with expectation and excitement at what lay in his immediate future, but a quality about the odor quelled it. Instead of anticipation buoying him, anger made his bones leaden. The desire to strike out in punishment filled him, threatened to spill out.

  Two more steps and not only did the man's stink fill his head, his face assumed a shape and features. Older and more wrinkled than he remembered, the cheeks weathered, the eyes sadder. He recognized the man without knowing him until one word swam out of the miasma of his mind and made itself clear.

  Father.

  Had once-was-Rilum heard it spoken, he wouldn't have understood its meaning. But it clarified in his head not as a sound uttered, but as a package of images, memories, feelings; things near unrecognizable to him as he'd experienced none of them in so long. The combination conjured a variety of responses within him, each of them tingling along his flesh. He knew the tightness in his chest and tension in his muscles, though he didn't know to call them anger, but the speed of his heartbeat, the rapid pulse in his ears, were foreign.

  Ahead of him, the other stopped, coiled. Once-was-Rilum recognized the action; many times he'd done the same, readying himself to pounce on his prey. The way of the world. They needed nourishment, had found it together for a long time. Not now. He wanted the other to stop, for him to leave the man alone, but not to have the flavorful morsels of his flesh to himself.

  Inexplicably, he wished the fellow to live.

  The other leaned back, collecting energy for the leap as once-was-Rilum had taught him long ago. After the change, this one had been like a newborn, unable to hunt for himself for ages, needing constant attention and instruction, but he'd learned, and learned well. Now, as instinct and nature required, he readied for another kill in a long history of kills. The first once-was-Rilum didn't want him to make.

  The last he'd ever attempt.

  An instant before the other left his feet to pounce, once-was-Rilum tensed, coiled, and leapt in one smooth movement. He hit his companion in midair, catching him by surprise and throwing him off course. They flew past the man and woman, and once-was-Rilum saw the expressions on their faces through the gauze covering his vision: fear and shock. He wished to see thankfulness, appreciation, recognition, but found them absent. He suspected they'd been so before the change, but he still couldn't allow the other to end the man's life.

  They crashed to the ground, and something popped—a bone, a joint. Momentum sent them rolling, and the son saving the man took advantage of catching the other off-guard. His talons found the soft flesh of his longtime companion's belly, sank in to his second knuckles. Blood spurted across his hands, combining with the congealed fluid from the fur-covered beast. With his other hand, he reached for the other's throat, but he'd lost the luxury of surprise and his adversary caught his wrist, twisted hard. Another snap and pain surged up his arm, through his shoulder and chest.

  He'd felt this kind of agony before. They were efficient hunters, but sometimes their prey proved too strong. As before, he ignored it, intent on his goal, determined to save the man.

  XL Horace - Savior

  The second faceless came outta nowhere, pluckin' the first from the air before it had the chance to tear Horace and the woman into pieces.

  She curled up against him, warm and shiverin', not seein' what went on nor makin' any kinda sound. For himself, he wished he couldn't see what were happenin', either, but when he made a try at closin' his eyes, he found himself unable to do so.

  So he watched them roll across the ground. He heard a pop, a snap, but weren't sure if it came from one o' the things or if they fell on top o' branches what broke underneath them. The blood what spurted out, though, were definitely from them.

  Neither o' the pale abominations made a noise as they fought other'n the sound o' their limbs thrashin'; no snarlin' or growlin', gruntin' or groanin'. They moved quicker'n Horace'd ever seen a livin' creature move. He watched mesmerized, forgettin' his life and the life o' the woman in his arms was in danger from these creatures.

  But why'd one attack the other?

  Made no sense, but no chance he'd figure it out any more'n divining the reason for the tides or how a fish holds its breath so long. Last two didn't matter, either, just the way things was. They was alive. Nothing else mattered.

  They tore at each other with their overgrown nails, the sound o' rippin' flesh enough to make the ol' sailor's stomach do a flip. He wrenched his gaze away, and it found the third o' the creatures what'd stopped gorgin' on the furry beast to find out what its fellows got up to. When it spied them, it abandoned the carcass, beatin' a straight line through the underbrush toward the fracas. Seein' it dartin' their general direction prompted Horace into movement o' his own.

  "Come on," he said close
to her ear but not expectin' any o' the pale terrors'd hear amongst the ruckus o' their fight.

  He tightened his grip around the woman's shoulders, turned her from the bloody skirmish, and began herdin' her away from danger. She allowed him to do so, cringin' and startin' with each sound o' talons tearin' flesh. He couldn't imagine how terrifyin' it must be for her not bein' able to spy what made them horrible noises. Plus she were lettin' a man she didn't know lead her into the woods. Horace suspected if the roles was reversed, he'd likely curl up on the ground and wait for his turn to die.

  The woman were much braver than him.

  As he guided her away, steerin' her around fallin' log traps and pokin' branches, he glanced back o'er his shoulder time and again, makin' sure no abomination followed. None did. Instead, the third of the creatures joined the first two in their grisly wrestlin' match.

  The three o' them stayed on their feet, tangled together as they tore at each other. Blood smeared most ev'ry exposed bit o' pale flesh and they was so intertwined, it made it impossible to tell one from the next—not that Horace'd've been able to recognize any if they stood in front o' him smilin' mouthless smiles.

  One o' them raised an arm what dangled in a spot where a joint shouldn't've been, but it didn't notice this inconvenience. It swung the arm, usin' the bottom part and hand like a whip to attack its compatriot. Another had a chunk torn outta its belly and a purple curve o' its insides bulged through the jagged wound. The last sported a long gash on its face, skin pulled back and away like a taut and ripped piece o' canvas. Horace thought he spied features what belonged to a man hidden behind the white flesh.

  The sight o' such a thing nearly gave him pause, but by then the woman got movin' of her own accord, makin' it her turn to keep him goin'. He diverted his attention to watchin' she traveled a clear path what wouldn't trip her up. Five paces passed under their feet before he couldn't help but look back one last time.