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) 📕

The rain soaked into dirt churned up through the grass, and Teryk's boots sank in shallow mud as he hurried off to the fight. He considered looking over his shoulder to see if the rider followed, but decided against it; he no longer sensed the hoof beats beneath his feet, and glancing back might betray his hesitancy.

His focus narrowed to the men engaged in combat ahead of him. He spied flashes of red amongst the foot soldiers and on the horses, but it left him no closer to knowing who they were or the army they battled than before. Soon, he'd be part of the fray.

What will I do when I arrive?

It appeared unlikely he'd get to decide for himself. The color of his jersey marked him a target for the other fighters, sure to force his hand when he reached the fighting. Still, he'd do his best to avoid combat.

His heart beat hard in his chest, though not from the exertion of running across the field. He held the short sword's scabbard with his left fist, preventing it from banging against his thigh while his right grasped the hilt, ready to free the steel. His throat clenched tight, constricting his breath, and his mind flashed to another time, another place. He remembered a darkened street, a group of men, and the pain of the beating he'd taken, the agony of a blade sliding into his flesh. Physical torment, mental anguish, fever, delusion; it returned, slamming into his consciousness like the waves breaking against the Finger of the Goddess. The blank spot in his memory filled, and he wished it hadn't.

His mind told his legs to cease their forward motion, but the directive proved ineffective. Instead, his hand gripped the sword hilt tighter, his arm moved to draw the weapon.

The image of a robed figure came to him. He saw it move close to him, open its robe, but it revealed no body beneath, exposed no limbs or torso. Under the cloth lay a space, a void, and Teryk recalled being drawn into it, unable to resist. At first, terror gripped him. Was this the end of his life? The reaper come to steal him from the world of the living?

Ahead on the battlefield, a man spied him and broke away from the fight, charging toward him. The prince raised his sword, and the two came together, their steel clashing. The impact sent a vibration up Teryk's arm to his shoulder, a sensation he'd experienced often during his training with Trenan, but few times in an actual clash. His mind reeled, sorting through lesson after lesson, searching for how to proceed, but his body responded without conscious prompting.

He pushed his attacker back and swung his own blow. The other man caught it against his blade, but at the wrong angle. It glanced off and the edge of Teryk's steel sliced his arm. Surprised, he jumped away, inhaling a sharp, pained breath. The prince took advantage, lunging forward and placing his short sword to find the space between the man's chin and the top of this breast piece. He gasped again, the inhalation gurgling with blood around the sword point. He gave it a twist before pulling it free. Blood spurted after it, spraying across his front, adding its liquid to the mud squelching beneath their feet. The soldier's knees buckled, and he folded, sinking to the ground. His weapon fell from his hand as the other clawed at his throat, attempting to keep his life from emptying itself in the grass. Teryk loomed over him, watching him die as the memories swirling in his head continued.

The void wasn't empty. A man occupied it, or what he thought might be a man. Though the figure before him stood naked, the body possessed no sex organs to guide his opinion. Smooth, featureless flesh covered the entire human shape; no hair, no nipples or navel. Lashless eyes, lipless mouth, nose, arms, legs. The fingers and toes lacked nails—more like a poorly rendered clay representation of a person than anything.

Teryk remembered being prone and immobile as the ghastly figure leaned over him, laid its hands upon him. A charge flowed through him, increasing his pain to a level he'd never experienced. It thrummed through his bones, twisted his muscles into knots, but he lacked any way to react. He couldn't cry out or pull away. He screamed inside his head, no one hearing his suffering but himself.

The man at his feet went limp, his eyes wide and shocked, hand resting on his throat. Rain fell on him, diluting the blood to a shade of pink belying the severity of its presence.

The prince's boots moved again, carrying him around the fallen soldier and toward the fight. He didn't ask them to any more than he'd intended to engage the fellow he left behind, no more than he'd wanted to end the man's life. Rain ran from his forehead into his eyes, and he desired to wipe it away with his forearm, but his arm refused to act as his own.

I am but a pawn with a role to play. But what role?

Two men appeared in front of him and he cut his way through them without hesitation. The battle raged around him, its angry sounds assaulting his ears, but his mind wandered to the other place and time as his legs carried him forward.

The torture racking him eased, replaced by a burning sensation. His throat attempted to scream but failed as the fire sank deep within him, penetrating his heart and everything inside him, filling him until nothing else remained. A heartbeat later, the wraith disappeared, the void filled back up with nothingness, and then he'd returned to his body, staring at the darkness behind