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) 📕

his closed lids. Voices penetrated the veil, unrecognizable, their words meaningless. The tones suggested a female and one male, maybe more. In his mind, they belonged to his sister calling for him, Trenan admonishing his carelessness. Then they became the utterances of his worried mother and his angry father. She implored him to be careful, to come home; he berated his son, called him stupid and useless.

Teryk bulled his way through the fray, slashing and hacking, his legs carrying him forward with purpose, though what purpose, he didn't know. Blood spattered his forearm, covered his sword. The little resistance he encountered withered before his onslaught, and pride swelled his chest. If his father saw him now, he'd no longer think him stupid and useless, scroll or no.

He gritted his teeth at the thought of the king and lost focus for an instant. A soldier to his right caught him with a surprise blow and the short sword flew out of his hand, but Teryk recovered. He launched himself at the man without giving him the opportunity to ready for another swing.

The prince hit him in the midsection, dislodging his breath from his chest and carrying him to the muddy ground. With a quick motion, he pinned the fellow's sword arm with a knee and extracted the soldier's own dagger from his belt. The tip sank into the man's eye with little resistance; his body stiffened, convulsed, fell limp.

Teryk knelt by the corpse, staring at his pained expression—the final contortion of his features. A pang of guilt stabbed through him. This man might have had a lover, children, people who cared for him and whom he loved. Did he deserve to die?

A body tumbled beside him and the prince gave his head a shake, forcing the shame deep inside with the other dishonors and disgraces he carried. He didn't know if the soldier deserved death or not, but he knew he didn't; important things lay ahead for him, events bound to change the world for everyone, so he couldn't afford to dally here, inviting his own death.

The rain fell harder, pattering on the armor and bodies of fallen men, and Teryk jumped to his feet. Before pushing on, he cast around the ground near him, searching for his weapon. When he didn't locate it, he snatched the closest thing from the hand of a corpse.

The axe proved heavy and unwieldy, its weight and balance so different from the swords to which he'd grown accustomed. Trenan had trained him with weapons like this, but not as in depth as he'd done with the sword. He didn't have to wait long to test his ability.

A monster of a man came at him, a roar of a battle cry echoing behind his visor as he brandished a mace. Teryk ducked under his first swing and hit him on the back with the flat of the axe head. The impact sent him reeling forward, but he kept his balance and regained his equilibrium. The two faced each other, both glowering, searching for an opening. Teryk's gaze trailed across the man's shoulders and arms, his hips and chest, watching for the slightest movement to show his intent. In his avoidance of eye contact, he spotted an insignia on the fellow's breast plate, visible beneath smears of blood and dirt.

Once again, he lost his focus upon recognizing the crest.

My father's mark.

The man howled and charged, swinging the mace at the prince in a wide loop intended to separate his head from his shoulders. Teryk raised the axe and caught the blow, hooked the club with the bottom curve of the blade. With a twist of his wrists and taking advantage of the momentum of the swing, he pulled the weapon from the soldier's hands, sent it tumbling to the mud. The fellow overbalanced and went to one knee. Teryk didn't give him the opportunity to recover, holding the point of the spike protruding from the top of the axe handle to the man's throat.

"Open your visor," he growled.

The prince's heart hammered in his chest while waiting for the warrior to comply. It took a moment, but he did.

The opened helm revealed a face familiar to Teryk. Despite no lines beside his eyes or gray showing in his short-trimmed beard, this was the man who would give over his rearing to nannies and soldiers. Here knelt the king who'd one day call him stupid, useless. The prince snarled, his upper lip pulling back to show his teeth.

"Father." He spat the word, clearing the foul taste of it from his mouth, and watched the king's expression tilt with confusion.

"I am no one's father."

"Not yet."

Teryk didn't know why he'd come to this place, this time, but with the man he'd disappointed so often kneeling in front of him at the mercy of his axe, realization dawned.

But what will happen to me if I kill my father?

The answer to such a riddle lay far beyond his comprehension. Whatever force possessed the power to transport him through the ages must also have planned for this. Killing his sire might be the key to saving the world. Phrases from the scroll rattled through his mind, each of them spoken in his sister's voice. None of them suggested the death of the king, yet here he was.

The memory of the words brought up another recollection: the regent ordering the parchment burned, punishing him and Danya.

Rage consumed Teryk, flooding out of his chest and through his limbs, energizing his muscles. He jerked the axe away from his father's throat, raised it toward the overcast sky. Droplets of rain rolled off the steel, spattering on his nose and cheeks as he enjoyed the fear crossing the king's face. He brought his hands up, turned his head.

Teryk swung the weapon, closing his eyes with effort as he did. The blade bit into flesh and