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) 📕

moved its gaze toward him, ears standing straight, the coarse fur at the back of its neck rising, but too late. He shot forward, talons finding the animal's throat with practiced ease, and his allies joined the fray. The creature roared, lashed out with its wide paws, but its claws found empty air. Many like it had fallen to them; instinct and experience guided their attack in a manner to make short work of their prey but keep them from harm.

All but that one.

The sharp-tooth's struggles diminished from desperate flailing to limp distress as blood spurted from its throat and fingers dug into its flesh. Its knees faltered and gave way, the beast's body flopping to the ground with an expulsion of air. It continued snapping its jaws, but no longer possessed the energy to raise its head for more than a heartbeat. With little danger to them, once-was-Rilum and his companions began tearing strips of meat and fur from the animal.

The first piece touched once-was-Rilum's face and the familiar pang of frustration flooded his chest. A long time ago, he'd enjoyed a mouth filled with teeth. His body recalled the satisfaction of biting into a chunk of food, rending it to smaller pieces with incisors and molars, tasting bloody juice on his tongue. Though he no longer possessed a mouth nor the teeth once within it, the beast's energy and life-force still found its way into him. It penetrated his skin, satiating the craving, but it never satisfied the ache of disappointment.

They gorged, the sharp-tooth's fight ending along with its life. The bouquet of its bloody flesh filled his head even if its flavor could not. The hunger took over as he ripped chunk after chunk of muscle and fur, tendon and cartilage from the carcass, rubbed it against the indentation in his face to imbibe its goodness, then cast the wasted piece aside. Its essence overtook everything except the sight of his companions partaking in the bounty, the sounds of rending meat and cracking bone.

He didn't realize they weren't alone until three quiet and impossibly familiar words floated across the forest.

"Fuck me dead."

Once-was-Rilum stopped, straightened, cocked his head in the direction from which he'd heard the voice. He concentrated and identified other odors leeching past the stench of the blood smeared on his face: salt, smoke, meat, sweat.

Man.

He stared with his carapace-covered eyes at the gauzy white silhouettes of tree trunks and brush, shapes hidden amongst them. He tensed, ready to defend or attack, until another odor found its way into his head.

This one gave him pause. He'd smelled it before, many times. Once, they hunted a creature with a similar scent as this, back when they were five. It was the reason they'd become four, before a sharp-tooth had made them three. A hard lesson learned that day.

Once-was-Rilum waited a few moments longer, attempting to determine the small gray creature's intent. The faintest crunch of feet on moss suggested a retreat. Satisfied no danger threatened, he returned to his feast. The stink of a man would be easy to find.

Perhaps they'd be four again.

XXXVII  Dansil – Toward Sunset

When the trees and bushes became too dense to negotiate on horseback, Dansil guided his mount toward the track, halting before they reached it. He slid out of the saddle and picketed the horse on a handy branch, then trudged through the thicket to the edge of the road, brush and leaves damp from the previous day's rain depositing their wetness on him, extinguishing any hope of his clothes drying.

He'd drawn close enough to see the group he'd been pursuing and count the number of riders. Dansil ducked back into the foliage of a wide-leafed bush, breath held as he anticipated a sentry calling him out. His heart beat in his ears. By the time it did so twenty times, he decided he hadn't been spotted and released his air from his lungs.

It made little sense their goal turned out to be a widening of the dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He leaned out, confident none of them kept watch. His eyes darted from one rider to the next, not bothering to see their faces, instead counting their arms—the surest way to pick Trenan out in a crowd.

Each of the gathered riders possessed two.

He's separated from them, gone on ahead.

It meant they neared their goal. Dansil straightened and hurried from his hiding place, choosing a path both away from the muddy track and deeper into the woods. He passed by his picketed horse, noting the trees nearby so he might recognize this spot when he came back for his steed.

As he cut through the brush, broad leaves slapped at his face, splattered droplets of water across his cheek and forehead, against eyelids. Each unexpected contact startled him and he looked around, expecting to find the robed healer, reaching out toward him to relieve him of another piece of himself, or Stirk's deformed body grasping with his remaining hand to snag him by the ankle. No one. He flexed his three fingers and wiped the dampness away with the sleeve of his jerkin.

He moved doing his best to keep the noise to a minimum. Trenan's soldiers may not have appeared to be paying attention, but he doubted that was the case. Despite his care, his own movements grew louder in his ears, so he slowed, stopped. He listened to his heartbeat, his breathing, and the rustle of leaves, the gentle tromp of what might have been footsteps.

Dansil squatted, faded as tight into the nearest brush as he could. The forest remained dense, though thinner than where he'd left the horse. He inhaled a slow, steady breath through his nose, scenting wet moss and moist wood, then held his air.

A flash of black between tree trunks caught his attention. His heart sped, and he shuffled deeper