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) 📕

Once-was-Rilum settled on his haunches. The breeze blew the right way to keep his scent from them, and theirs wafted across him, sank into his skin. They stank of salt and sweat, desperation and hopelessness. Familiar odors—he'd smelled of them himself until he took to smearing mud or feces on his bare flesh to hide his essence when he hunted. He moved in silence, but too many times his stench cost him meals.

For ages, he'd wondered what he might do if he found men again. He vaguely recalled their flavor, the way it satisfied his belly, but he'd learned to hunt in the time since. The hunger stayed with him always; perhaps if he hadn't just gorged on the two-horn his thoughts may have been different. But with its blood smeared across the indentation where once had been his mouth, curiosity got the better of him.

And so he watched, waited.

***

They were stupid, the same as he'd been at first. They seldom wandered from their tiny clearing and into the forest. How would they feed without hunting? How would they survive if they didn't protect themselves?

They'd do neither if it wasn't for him.

Thrice he intercepted predators determined to make them their meal. Each time, he ate most of the meat himself, but left the rest for the four during their long slumber. He didn't sleep that way anymore. Instead, the days and nights passed at an excruciating slow pace. He felt each moment it took the sun to cross the sky, counted every breath he exhaled while the moon lit the forest.

Those moments pained him, each inhalation hurt.

He no longer slept, leaving pain and hunger, waiting, despair to possess him. Though the craving drove him to feed and feed, a minute sliver remained in him that wished for the long suffering to end. Part of him wanted to die.

This time while they dozed—their sleeps became shorter during the period he watched them—he circled the clearing, found a spot which allowed the breeze of third season to waft his scent across their position. He crouched on hands and knees. Waited. The sun rose and set. The moon cast its dark shadows on the forest floor. Birds sang, animals chattered. The hunger gnawed at his gut, but he resisted its need.

And he waited.

XXXIII  Trenan – The Green

Trenan slid out of the saddle, his fingers wrapped around Godsbane's grip before his feet touched the ground. He signaled to the others to stay put as he leaped over a low bush, pulling the sword free as he ran, sharp edge glinting in the sunlight. The oily scent of the well-kept blade wafted to him, reminding him of bygone fights, of battles fought long ago. How many lay dead at his hand? Impossible to count. Hundreds of blades—maybe thousands—had left notches in his own. He'd wiped so much blood away from his silver steel. Despite his lack of faith, he prayed after every time, asking whatever God or Goddess to forgive him for taking those lives, beseeching them to take mercy on the men sent on their way from this world.

The stocky man lifted his sword, ready to accept the attack. Over his shoulder, Danya watched, hands bound. To her left, across a short expanse of grass, her brother sat on a log, a confused expression on his brow. His face appeared slack enough he might soon drool on himself. Trenan's heart raced—he'd found them, the princess and his son. Before the first blow fell, he decided to offer no prayers once he dispatched these men from the world. They deserved what they got, which didn't include mercy, now or after their deaths, and taking their wretched lives required no forgiveness.

The second man, tall and slight, stood near the princess. He'd have to keep his eye on him; best to dispatch the stocky fellow as quick as possible to make sure the other one didn't harm Danya.

His gait gobbled up the last bit of ground separating them, and Trenan raised his weapon. His opponent grinned and, in the instant before steel clashed against steel, the master swordsman understood this man's experience included his share of battles and fights, too. Without a doubt, his sleeves hid a multitude of scars, but the suspicion didn't deter him—no one bore injuries as great as his.

Their weapons came together with a deafening clang, the impact sending a jolt up Trenan's arm hinting at the strength of his opponent. He drew back and struck again, and the stocky man received the blow with deft, quick moves. His breadth and thickness made his power expected, but he possessed more agility for a fighter of his girth than one might guess. Another stroke, and Trenan formed a good sense of his foe.

He took a step away, reset, and the other fellow smiled.

"An honor to meet you, swordmaster Trenan. I'm sure you've never heard of me, but they call me Fellick."

"Fellick. If you want to leave here with your life, release the prince and princess."

"Prince and princess, you say?" He tossed a casual glance over his shoulder. "These two? You must have made a mistake. You'll find the heir to the throne hidden somewhere in Draekfarren castle, playing games and learning lessons, not on a patch of grass outside the Green. This be the foretold man from across the sea."

Trenan fell on him again as he spoke the final word, but the attack didn't catch him off-guard. The blow struck the edge of his blade, slid toward the hilt. With a twist of his wrist, he guided it away. Fellick chose not to counter, instead waiting en garde for the master swordsman's next strike.

What is he up to?

He moved to circle him, gaze darting over the fellow's shoulder at Teryk and Danya and the slender man.

"Over there's Ive," Fellick said,