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) 📕

into the damp foliage, leaves dumping cold droplets onto his neck to run down his back. Had the healer found him, come to extract more payment? He curled his left hand into a fist, scowled at the feel of the missing fingers.

Another glimpse of black accompanied the first, and another, then more, their direction taking them along an approximation of the path Dansil himself followed to get here. He watched, eyes darting from one flash of dark cloth to another, until he spied a figure bringing up the rear wearing clothes other than plain, colorless robes. If this was the healer come for him, the strange being had brought several friends, none of them Stirk.

A cramp threatened in Dansil's left calf, the muscle drawing itself into a knot, but he dared not move to relieve it. He set his jaw, clamping his teeth against the pain as the group moved past, unaware of his presence. It constricted into a ball uncomfortable enough to curl his toes. Still, he waited until the parade of strangers went by, their sounds fading until silence ruled the forest again. Only then did the queen's guard stand, the twist of sinew in his leg paining him so much he covered his mouth to keep from crying out.

He stood a moment, one hand clasping the closest branch to hold him steady while he flexed his foot, curling and uncurling his toes inside his boot. He pressed his lips tight, moaned in the back of his throat waiting for it to pass. When it did, he took a last look around, scouring the surrounding forest for any glimpse of a black robe. Without any, he set out again, pushing himself as fast as he dared, the remnants of the knot lending him a distinct limp.

The trees thinned and his progress became quicker. In the sky ahead of him, a wall of shimmering green rose, stretching from the earth up and up and up so high it appeared to grow past the sun. He tilted his head, attempting to divine its height, but found it impossible, thought it may go on forever.

Stopping at the top of a hill, grassland spreading out below, he looked first to his right at the wall continuing as far as he could see, the ground beside it cleared of trees and brush the same as in front of him. He directed his gaze to the left, saw the shapes amongst the yellowing grass.

The queen's guard crouched. Too distant to make out their faces, he faded back to the edge of the forest and hurried along the tree line, both the cramp and the spot where Stirk stabbed him pestering him with discomfort. Dim sounds crossed the space to him—the clatter of swords, he thought, but couldn't be sure.

When he got close enough, he dropped to the ground, pressed himself against the stiff grass, and waited. The noises he'd heard ceased, and no others replaced them—no one calling out, no approach of footsteps. He held his breath listening as long as his lungs allowed before releasing the air. He propped himself up on his elbows, counted six people in the clearing below.

If a fight there'd been, it was finished. Three sat; of the others, one stood as though guarding the seated trio while the other two stationed themselves apart. Dansil squinted, attempting to pick out any features that might identify the players arrayed beneath him. The first thing he noticed—what he'd been searching for—was the missing arm.

Trenan sat away from the others, or at least appeared to until the queen's guard realized he wasn't sitting, but kneeling.

Like a beaten dog.

A fight had occurred, and the other fellow bested the renowned soldier. Part of Dansil rejoiced at the defeat, but another side of him wished he'd driven the swordmaster to his knees. The man standing between the so-called master swordsman and the seated figures appeared familiar, though he couldn't recall from where he might have recognized him.

His eyes traveled to the two sitters. A moment of scrutiny revealed them as women. He suspected one to be the princess. Next, his gaze moved across the short space between them, found a tall stick of a man—also familiar. As for the last fellow, the seated one, he didn't think he knew him. Dansil crawled forward as if a third of the length of his body offered to bring him close enough to recognize him. He squinted hard, stared.

The lad's unkempt hair hung to his shoulders, draped onto the skin of his chest bronzed by the sun, whiskers dusted his cheeks. He held a chain wrapped around his forearm, the trailing end of it attached to his ankle. The distance and his appearance cast doubt, but recognition came.

"Prince Teryk."

Trenan had rescued them both. Despite his foul-ups, the kingdom would once again hail him a hero while Dansil found himself relegated back to his job babysitting the queen. Anger stirred in the queen's guard's guts, the pressure of it building, making him purse his lips. He gathered himself, ready to stand and stomp his way down the hill. What might happen once he reached them, he didn't know, for the blind engine of his rage drove him.

Before he took his first step, movement flickered amongst those in the clearing at the bottom of the slope. Dansil stopped, stared. As the action unfolded, his eyes widened, his mouth fell open. The anger in his gut melted away, replaced by surprise, shock. His mind reeled at the unexpected twist of events. No longer did he need to take care of ending Trenan's life himself.

And he'd be the kingdom's hero.

He turned his back on the people at the base of the hill and hurried toward the place where his horse awaited, uncaring if anyone heard him. If the sun remained and the dirt track dried, he'd make good time heading for Draekfarren. Once returned,