When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods by Bruce Blake (books under 200 pages txt) 📗

frightened animal, trying to coax it into slowing its pace, but his seasons of handling horses did no good. Whatever had scared the steed did so well enough it refused to pay attention to him, ignoring the things for which its trainers raised it.

Trenan hunkered, Dansil's limp form leaning against his back, as he resigned himself to letting the horse run itself out. With two armored men astride the animal, it wouldn't take long.

In no time, they'd crossed half the distance to the city of the sick. The master swordsman lay flat against the horse's neck, the muscles and tendons in his body tense and tight as he compensated for the stallion's erratic gait, the dead weight of Dansil's swaying form throwing it out of true. Trenan kept his eyes straight ahead, saw a flash of sunlight on something metallic. He squinted, resisted the urge to sit upright and peer past the steed's head to figure out what he'd seen.

The animal's long strides gobbled up the distance and the walls loomed before them. Another glint and the sword master thought he spied shapes, but the horse faltered beneath him and his stomach lurched. He gripped the reins tighter, but it didn't matter. The beast's feet tangled, and it fell, throwing Trenan over its head. The swordsman contorted in the air, twisting himself to land on his shoulder. He hit with a crunch of metal and a clack of teeth. The impact jarred through his bones as his armor dug a furrow in the ground and sprayed dirt in his face.

Inertia dissipated and his body settled to a halt. Trenan didn't move at first; few times in his life had a mount thrown him, but it had happened. When you've sat a horse as much as the master swordsman, seen as many battles, you were bound to lose your seat now and again. He'd learned that, unless something threatened your life, it was best to take a moment to assess the damage rather than popping up without consideration.

He unfolded his arm. Pain lanced through the shoulder on which he'd landed, but nothing appeared broken or separated. He sighed a breath from his lungs, his face close enough to the ground for his air to disturb the parched dirt. The discomfort held his scrutiny for a few heartbeats, then he turned his attention to untangling his legs, a feat he accomplished without trouble. He rolled onto his back, eyes closed, and exhaled again, wondered how Dansil fared being both unconscious and tied to the steed. His search for the princess might have proven easier if he'd left the queen's guard lying in a pool of his own lifeblood, but he was a soldier of the king's army. Many turns of the seasons past, Trenan swore an oath he held above everything, a vow by which he lived his life. The pledge included not leaving behind a wounded man. The act of living with honor proved far more difficult some days than others, but perhaps a horse's fear both solved his problem and allowed him to keep his virtue.

Sun warmed the soldier's cheeks and, for a brief instant, he considered lying where he'd landed for a longer time. It felt like an escape from everything: Dansil, Teryk and Danya missing, unrequited love, his severed arm. Dallying offered an added benefit: every passing moment meant Dansil's life was less likely to continue.

Is that any different from leaving him behind to bleed to death in the forest?

To some, it might be, but his age-old sense of duty niggled at his mind again, tightening his chest. None knew the reality of what transpired, but that meant nothing, for honor and character are what one does when no one else knows.

Trenan inhaled and released another deep breath, preparing himself to stand, and opened his eyes to stare at the tips of five pikes.

***

They rode in silence into the shadow of the fortress, a rope round Trenan's wrist tethering him to one of the mounts as he jogged along behind. The horses' hooves clacked on the hardened ground, bouncing back to them from the face of the flat wall. None of them said a word from the moment he realized their presence, but he couldn't fathom how he hadn't heard the approach of the eight soldiers now escorting him toward the City of the Sick. With the walls looming over them, blocking the sun, the temperature cooled and, after a short time for his eyes to adjust, Trenan scanned the colorless surface. No windows, no door, no gates, and no sentries peering from a high parapet. He scowled, unimpressed they'd have to circumnavigate the place to gain access; walking so close to a horse's ass wasn't his preferred style of transportation.

The master swordsman looked over his shoulder, identified the featureless heap that was once his steed lying on the bare ground. He squinted but saw no sign of the queen's guard, so directed his attention back to his footing, not wanting to trip on an unseen rock or clump of weeds because of his own inattention.

"Who are you? What have you done with my companion?"

Referring to Dansil as such set his teeth on edge. He didn't care what had happened to the man, but the silence of his captors weighed on him like a stone. He hoped hearing an explanation might help lift it, though the sound of his own voice did not.

Not one of the helmeted heads so much as tilted in his direction.

They rode on, hooves kicking up dust, armor clattering, their pikes held pointing toward the sky. Whoever these warriors were, they appeared well trained. But from where had they come? Why were they here? And by whom had they been instructed? Their armor bore no marks of local nobility, and they weren't soldiers of the king. Trenan knew the deployment of all the kingdom's army detachments.

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