When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods 4)
Page 27
We did it.
He wasn't yet able to experience joy—at least not the fulfilling, physical side of it—but his consciousness swelled with pride.
But why does Kuneprius not appear overjoyed?
He possessed no control over the clay body and couldn't redirect his gaze to his friend to assess why this might be the case. Instead, the dun eyes watched the Small God's blood seep out of its corpse. It collected in cracks and channels in the altar's surface invisible until they brimmed with the bright red fluid. They directed it to a short trough cut in the altar before the golem. It filled slowly, steadily. The mythical being reached out, dipped its fingertips into the liquid.
A shock ran through the unnatural body, and it tensed around Vesisdenperos as though the muscles in this creature that didn't truly have such things tightened. The sculpture lifted its hands, touched the smooth tips of its fingers to its face and drew four lines along each cheek. This accomplished, it returned to the trough, this time cupping its palms, allowing them to fill. It raised them again, tilted them so the thickening fluid cascaded onto its chest, flowed down its abdomen. The golem placed its hands on the splash of red, dragged them across its torso, mixing the blood with its mud flesh.
A tremor shook through the monster, a jolt of energy Vesisdenperos' own detached consciousness recognized. Then the living statue did something he'd designed it not to need: it drew breath.
The incantation swirled around the sculptor and his clay vessel, filling the night air as droplets of rain pattered on priest's robes, on tiled floor, on the Small God's cooling flesh. Hidden beneath these sounds, he heard the strained sobs of his mentor, the sorrow Kuneprius struggled to hide but failed. With no power to influence the living statue's actions and observe his friend, the creature instead tilted its head back, raised its gaze skyward.
As Vesisdenperos might have expected, a layer of cloud obscured the night and trapped souls of the Small Gods. How he wished to see them. It had been so long since he gazed upon the evenstar and the others, offered his prayers. If only the sky above provided a glimpse, the faintest glimmer, the shallowest glow.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a light broke through the cloud cover. It appeared tiny at first but grew and expanded as it hurtled through the firmament. Vesisdenperos stared along with the golem, seeing through the creature's eyes, hearing the priests' chant grow and change through the living statue's ears. The High Priest's voice stood out amongst them, his tone excited, bordering on manic as he led his followers to the moment for which they'd waited so long.
The glow rushed toward them, aimed at the temple of Teva Stavoklis, and the sculptor experienced the unexpected notion he should flee. Not by himself—he'd gather his mentor in the golem's powerful limbs and carry him from danger as Kuneprius had kept him safe for so many seasons turning. But as he considered scooping his friend up in his arms, the living statue instead raised them skyward, as if welcoming the onrushing light with an embrace.
For the first time since his awakening, Vesisdenperos experienced a palpable sensation, physical rather than simply a thought. The mouth he didn't possess went dry; muscles not attached to his bones tightened; a heart not his own sped. Fear gripped him, made him wish to be anywhere but here, prompted him to want to be anyone but himself.
The light grew to the point of blinding. The sculptor screamed a scream no one but he heard, and then the luminescence touched him.
It didn't strike the golem with great impact but enveloped him, spreading buoyancy and sensation over, through, around the living statue, penetrating it so Vesisdenperos himself experienced its warmth. The clay man's vision clouded. The priests gathered near him disappeared, swallowed by yellowish-white light overtaking everything. It leeched color from the tiles underfoot, the blood on the golem's hands, melted sky and walls and altar to the wax of a candle made of the world.
And then Vesisdenperos wasn't alone.
Kristeus, Kuneprius, and the other men remained beside him, hidden in the overpowering glow, but the sculptor realized he no longer had the inside of his creation to himself. The clay vessel holding his essence now contained that of another, too.
A figure stepped out of the light, emerging naked and shaking like a bather might do when stepping from the mist of a waterfall. It started out a silhouette, a dark outline against the bright background. Its hunched shoulders and lowered head gave it the appearance and demeanor of a man who'd seen the seasons turn many times. But as the thought crossed the sculptor's mind, the form raised its chin, inhaled a deep breath that seemed to inflate it. Then he drew upward, straightened, appeared to grow.
It stepped forward, and the light that had swallowed everything gathered around him, revealing the robed priests, the altar, the temple, the sky.
All but Kuneprius had fallen to their knees. He continued standing beside the golem, sagging, arms dangling at his side as his head tilted down far enough his chin touched his chest. The others either didn't notice or paid him no attention. The Small God's body lay upon the shrine in the same place as before the light came to overtake everything. Vesisdenperos hadn't detected the smile tilting the dead man's ashen lips, but it sat his features as if he welcomed death.
"He doesn't welcome it, but he understood its inevitability."
The now-glowing figure stepped around the table and the corpse upon it without a sideward glance, approached the golem. His features appeared clear and visible and, though it wasn't a face the sculptor had ever seen before, he realized who stood before him.
"Lord, Ine'vesi," he said, his words spoken by the sculpture's lips.
"Yes, child. You have done well."
The evenstar laid his hand on the living statue's shoulder, and energy flowed through Vesisdenperos, and excitement. He put his other palm on the creature, and the sculptor redirected the golem's eyes, saw Ine'vesi's fingers sink into the clay. It caused no pain, only exaltation.
The One Who Watches From the Sky stepped forward, sinking into the golem like a red-hot dagger pressed against a block of lard. Vesisdenperos felt a change. The living statue grew around him, altering his point of view so he looked down on the priests from on high—not because they knelt but because he stood twice the height of the tallest of them. He swelled within the clay, taking up more space though he knew he now shared it.
He glanced to his right, at Kuneprius, who had raised his gaze and stared up at the golem with both astonishment and stark terror reflected in his features. The sacrificial blade lay shattered on the ground at his feet, its role complete. Would the same thing happen to his mentor and handler now he'd completed his job?
"Arise."
The lips and tongue of the statue formed the word, but its mouth spoke with the combined voices of the evenstar and the sculptor. The single utterance rattled the stone and wood altar, shaking dust from its joints and the rope holding it together. Priests gathered at the feet of their god raised their heads, clambered to stand.
"Arise, my faithful, for the return of the Small Gods is nigh."
<<<<>>>>
The fight against the rise of the Small Gods continues April 15 in The Twilight Fades, now available for pre-order for your Kindle.
Hello again, readers.
I have to admit, writing can be a little bit of one of those love/hate things. While the joy of creation is undeniable, there are times tings just don’t flow as well and authors have to just trust the process. I don’t believe “writer’s block” is a thing—any pause in the creative flow merely needs to be worked through—but it can be frustrating, nonetheless. The funny thing is, the stuff that gets written when one is simply “forging ahead” is often as good or better than everything else. Sometimes the best stuff arises out of adversity.
Speaking of adversity, things aren’t looking great for out heroes, are they? I hope you want to see what happens. If so, you can find out in the fifth book of the Small Gods, The Twilight Fades.
As always, if you have any comment or questions—about thi
s book, the characters, or even about me (or if you found a mistake or typo)—I'd love to hear from you. Simply fire me off an email to bruce@bruceblake.net.
The Twilight Fades (The Fifth Book of the Small Gods)
Blood has been spilled on the altar of the Evenstar. As the prophecy forewarns, the return of the banished is nigh.
The forgotten scroll spoke of unbelievable things: A man from across the sea, a barren mother, a living statue, and the return of the Small Gods. Unbelievable, and yet the pieces for the second coming of the Small Gods are drawn together by fate’s hand, destined to bring evil back to the world.
Those who would stop them are spread far and wide without hope of coming together, leaving them no chance of fulfilling their destines. Captured, threatened, fleeing…the sister, the firstborn, the Mother can all only pray to escape with their lives.
If they die, what hope is there for a kingdom?
The Twilight Fades (The Fifth Book of the Small Gods)
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
About
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More Epic Fantasy Available From Bruce Blake:
Khirro's Journey Trilogy
Blood of the King (Khirro's Journey Book 1)
A kingdom torn by war. A curse whispered by dying lips. A hero born against his will.
Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman's curse binds him to the fallen king, changing his life forever.
Driven by the Shaman's dying words, Khirro's journey sends him through haunted lands, pits him against an army of the dead, and thrusts him into the jaws of beasts he wouldn't have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman's enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king's blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer's keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raise the king from the dead to save them all from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?
Can a coward save a kingdom?
Urban Fantasy Available From Bruce Blake:
The Icarus Fell Urban Fantasy Series
On Unfaithful Wings (An Icarus Fell Dark Urban Fantasy)
To some, death is the end; to others, a beginning. To Icarus Fell, it should have been a relief from a life gone seriously awry.
But death had other plans.
Icarus doesn't believe that the man awaiting him when he wakes up in a cheap motel room is really the archangel Michael, or that God's right hand wants him to help souls on their way to Heaven. Icarus doesn't believe there is a Heaven, so why should they want his help?
But the man claiming to be the archangel tempts him with an offer he can't ignore--harvest enough souls and get back the life he wished he'd had.
It seems Icarus has nothing to lose, until he botches a harvest and the soul that went to Hell instead of Heaven comes back to make him pay by threatening to take away the life he hoped to win back.
To save the wife and son he already lost once, Icarus will have to become the man he never was. Somehow, he will have to learn to believe.
"The next book in this series cannot come out soon enough for this reader. Not just my favorite Kindle book of the year, but one of my favorite books ever."
"I loved this book."
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About the Author
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn't really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the "u" out of words like "colour" and "neighbour" then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce was once the trophy husband of burlesque diva..not so much any more, but they remain friends.
Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn't until the mid-2000's he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, "Another Man's Shoes" was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, "Yardwork",was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod. Since then, he has concentrated on writing novels, publishing the Khirro's Journey trilogy (Blood of the King, Spirit of the King, and Heart of the King), three books in the ongoing Icarus Fell urban fantasy series (On Unfaithful Wings, All Who Wander are Lost, and Secrets of the Hanged Man), and the Books of the Small Gods series (When Shadows Fall, The Darkness Comes, And Night Descends, When Ravens Call, The Twilight Fades, and And Kingdoms End). Bruce has many more projects simmering on the back burner, so stay tuned.
Copyright 2020, Bruce Blake & Best Bitts Productions
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form of by any electronic or mechanical means, including information and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review,
This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-927687-20-8
Published by Bruce Blake and Best Bitts Productions
Copyright 2020 Bruce Blake
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