When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods by Bruce Blake (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📕

waiting with it. The sensation in her leg ceased, the seed returning to being nothing more than dead weight thumping against her thigh as she walked. Did its quietness mean she'd made the right choice, or she hadn't?

They'd find out soon enough.

III  Trenan - Ikkundana

Trees and brush came to a sudden conclusion, a straight and stark line marking the end of the forest and the beginning of barren ground.

Trenan reined his horse to a halt, and the beast snorted its relief. He'd pushed it hard through the night, an evil air of death chasing them as he fled with Dansil lashed to the saddle behind him. Even in the light of day, the sensation of being pursued remained, but he took time to allow his steed to catch its breath while he surveyed the land stretching out before them.

In the distance, bland, gray walls rose from the parched earth, reaching up toward the sky, never to achieve their goal. They stood featureless and implacable, their lack of windows or murder holes making the slabs of wall more imposing.

"Neither easy to defend nor a pleasure to attack," Trenan muttered. Dansil groaned from his seat behind him on the horse.

The forest ended near a league shy of the fortress, the earth between the last tree and the city of Ikkundana bare and dead—appropriate, by Trenan's estimation. When a past king converted the stronghold to house the sick and dying of the Sisters of the Goddess, they'd hacked away the trees nearest the walls, razed the rest. It left no means to sneak up without detection—a byproduct of its actual intent: to make sure no attempted escape went unnoticed.

Trenan allowed his steed to recover a bit longer as it nibbled at the sparse grass growing along the border between lush forest and dead earth. Anxiety coiled within the muscles of his legs. He knew he should put heels to his horse and cross the dry ground to the fortress ahead, but what man in his right mind went to Ikkundana? A visit to the city of the sick was to invite suffering and death—no way for a lifelong soldier to die. When his time came, he'd decided it should happen with a sword in hand, gazing into the eyes of his killer.

He hauled a deep breath through his nostrils, the smell of this place an odd mix between dusty ground and green foliage. Again he delayed in coaxing his horse to advance.

Why do I need to go there?

A lack of medical aid likely meant Dansil's death. The thought reminded Trenan of the queen's guard leaning against his back and it set his teeth on edge. He didn't enjoy being within eyesight of a man of his ilk, and knowing Ishla's safety fell to him nauseated him further.

I could leave him.

But aid for Dansil wasn't the only reason for visiting Ikkundana. When last he'd seen Danya, she'd been wearing the red robe of the Goddess' sick. But did the vestment mean they'd be taking her to the much-feared city? Too obvious. Had he planned the princess' escape, he'd use the garment to dissuade the curious, to keep anyone from peering beneath the cowl. If he put the robe on Danya's shoulders to flee Draekfarren, he'd make the city of the sick the last place he'd take her.

The master swordsman's eyes narrowed, and he noticed the man leaning against him, his breath stirring the short hairs at the back of Trenan's neck. The touch of both prickled through him, spreading anger and disgust through his body. No one would call the world worse less a fellow of Dansil's character.

Trenan dropped the reins and turned in the saddle, enough movement to displace the queen's guard had he not lashed him in place. All the better—it meant once he loosened the knot, unseating became easy.

His fingers found the first knot and worked the rope. He couldn't see what he was doing and fumbled it, cursed, tried again. He twisted farther, straining to look over his shoulder and past Dansil's waist to lay eyes on the fastening he now wished he hadn't tied so well. It had just loosened in the grip between his forefinger and thumb when a rattle of leaves caught his attention.

The horse nickered and raised its head, ears pricked, and Trenan stopped, held his breath. No wind caressed his cheek, so a breeze didn't cause the sound. He scanned the thicket behind them but saw nothing other than greenery, trunks, and branches at first. His gaze darted from one forest shape to another, tree to bush to rock, until they ran together and other shapes coalesced amongst them: a silhouette in a robe, face hidden in the shadow cast by its cowl, a second figure beside him, this fellow with no legs and one arm.

Without warning, the horse reared and bolted. Trenan reeled, the sudden move throwing him backward, the efficient knots holding Dansil fast the only things between him and a dangerous fall to the ground. He reached forward, grasping for the reins as his steed's hooves beat clouds of dust out of the parched earth. When he found them, he straightened himself in the saddle, regained his equilibrium, but the animal refused to heed his commands to slow its pace. It raced across the bare expanse as though a devil from hell nipped at their heels.

Trenan pivoted, glancing over his shoulder toward the woods they'd left behind, but the dust cloud of their passing choked the air, obscuring any view of the figures he'd spied amongst the trees, leaving him doubtful of their reality. Had Stirk found his way back to hunt him?

Impossible.

The horse thundered across the barren ground, headed straight for the fortress. Its walls grew taller and more imposing as they neared it, the gray surface seeming to swallow the sky. He did his best to calm the