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) 📕

sensed his hands once appeared thus, though he couldn't be sure. Now: white like a frost-covered rock. White like the foam atop an angry wave. White.

His shortest finger had grown to match the others, each of the digits the same length. Or were they always this way?

He reached up with his other hand, took hold of the edge of his thumbnail between his other thumb and forefinger. It rocked back and forth, moving beneath the flesh until it came free. He pulled it out, a last attached string of skin following like a bit of elastic until it snapped. Rilum held it up in front of his eyes, turned it, examined it, then let it drop to settle amongst the hair scattered around his feet.

XXVII  Gihl – Road to Draekfarren

Gihl pulled the wet blanket tighter around his shoulders and wiped rain away from his face.

"Why the fuck did I let Krin talk me into this?"

The horse he sat—the fastest in the kingdom, by his estimation—said nothing in response. Its hooves splashed in puddles, the dirt track turning to mud beneath them, and the speed his mount stored in its haunches didn't mean a tinker's damn for keeping him dry.

"What the fuck was with that bird? Who's ever seen a bird shittin' out storm clouds?"

He hung his head, doing his best to hide from the rain pelting against his face, lank, wet hair stuck to his cheeks. A stiff gust of wind threw a sheet of drops hard against him, each droplet a pinprick stinging his skin. The horse took exception to the extra dowsing and shook its snout, throwing more water at him from its mane.

"Damn you," Gihl sputtered. He wiped his arm across his face and thought of a hundred things he'd rather do than ride this lonely dirt road in the rain performing a task he didn't understand for a man who held no more sway in his life than serving him ale. "Fuck this."

He reined the horse to a halt and straightened in the saddle. The muscles in his legs tightened, readying to turn the speedy nag around and beat a hasty retreat to his home, but he stopped when he looked along the dirt track ahead.

More riders than he possessed fingers on his two hands sat in the middle of the road. The length of ten horses separated him from them and how he hadn't heard them approaching made little sense. Another thing to blame on the rain. He considered reaching toward the short sword dangling from his belt, but the strangers wore armor, each of them with swords more dangerous looking than his at their waists. To draw his blade meant his death, to be sure, so he kept his hand as far from the grip as possible.

He sat staring at them, and them at him, as though none of them had ever seen another rider before as cold rain ran down his back. He shivered. After an interval longer than seemed comfortable, the front two riders detached from the others and came toward him. Gihl's fingers tightened on the reins and he wondered if his horse was as fast as he thought. Maybe not the best time to find out.

"Ho, rider. What has you riding a muddy track on this dreary day?"

Gihl didn't respond. Droplets of water dripped from his ragged beard, ran down his face from the unkempt hair plastered to his head. His gaze darted from the man who'd spoken to the second person. This one wore stern features, but softer, and it took him a moment to realize it was a woman. He might have wondered about this, perhaps commented on it, if the first soldier hadn't released the reins and wrapped the fingers of his lone hand around the hilt of his sword. Gihl gulped; he knew of this fellow. The fact didn't relieve any of the stress of his situation. If anything, it produced the opposite effect.

"I know you," he said. His words came out sounding breathless, as though his horse rode him to this place rather than the other way around. He swallowed hard again, did his best to suppress the nervous quake threatening to shake his spine but met with little success.

The rider narrowed his gaze, looked him up and down. He shifted in his saddle but did not relinquish his grip on his weapon. "If we know each other, I apologize for not recalling your face."

Gihl shook his head, sending water droplets flying from his beard, his hair.

"No, we've not met, but I've heard of you." He drew a forearm across his eyes, wiping away the rain. "The one-armed swordsman, the king's man. Everyone in the kingdom with a brain in his noggin knows about you."

"We don't have time for this," the female rider said, leaning toward her companion. He released his grip on his sword long enough to gesture for her patience, then replaced it.

"I am Trenan." He nodded in a way that didn't require he take his eyes from Gihl's. "And you are?"

"Gihl. Krin sent me because I have the fastest horse."

The soldier raised an eyebrow. "Who is Krin? And where did he send you?"

"Trenan," the woman said, annoyance plain in her voice.

Gihl suddenly thought he'd be better off having to deal with the one-armed warrior than his companion. He suspected she'd prefer to kill him and finish it than anything else.

Trenan turned his head toward her and their gazes met for an instant. Gihl couldn't have said what passed back and forth in the look, but he thanked the gods he wasn't standing between them.

He let his gaze fall away, searched his lap and the ground at his steed's feet, scratched his beard. His fingers caught in a knot in his facial hair; he tugged to free it, cringing as he did. A series of heartbeats