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) 📗

He raised his eyes again to the blank wall. Now they were closer, he spied scars made during an ancient battle breaking the wall's uniform smoothness at irregular intervals. No other features marred its surface, as if builders had carved the fortress out of a single great piece of stone. As a military stronghold, Ikkundana was formidable, near impenetrable. How it fell from the army's grasp into the hands of the Goddess worshipers, history had forgotten. It had been so since the time of the Small Gods and no one dared challenge it; no soldier desired to risk their lives for a city full of the diseased.

So why are these soldiers here?

He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, readying the tone he used to get what he wanted from the men in his charge, but stopped short of speaking.

Ahead, a patch of the stone faded to a lighter gray. Anyone else might have overlooked the subtle difference, but so many turns of the seasons training and fighting had honed Trenan's observational powers to a higher level than most—it kept him alive when other men perished. His escorts rode toward it, their captive in tow.

When they drew within the length of ten horses from the fortress, the leader halted his steed, and the others did the same. Trenan continued forward a few more paces, pulling even with the horse to which they'd tied him. The rider atop it leaned his pike over until it touched Trenan's chest, prompting him to stop.

The master swordsman did so, staring ahead at the wall. He doubted he'd have noticed the minute color change if the sun shone on the surface. The uniform edges started at the ground and climbed to the height of three men. Another straight line connected them at the top to form the shape of a gate. Trenan clamped his jaw tight; he'd come here to find the princess and the end of his journey could lie on the other side of the barrier, yet what lurked within might kill him. He didn't recall anyone he'd known going to Ikkundana, certainly no one returning to tell stories of it.

He glanced from wall to riders. None of them moved. If not for the occasional huff from a horse's nose or impatient whip of a tail, they might have been detailed statues fashioned by the most talented of hands.

"What now?" Trenan demanded.

His words fell against stone and died, unheeded by any ears close enough to hear them. He thought of the scars he'd seen on the smooth surface, remnants of attacks gaining no more success than his greeting.

Trenan swept his gaze along the top of the wall, searching for the slightest movement, or a head peering over the edge. A place such as this received infrequent visitors—likely none other than supply deliveries and the ill arriving from every corner of the kingdom. They may not have reason to mistrust him in particular, but he supposed the rarity of strangers explained their wariness of any who approached the refuge.

But who'd come to the City of the Sick without good cause?

He couldn't imagine why anyone might risk disease and death. If not for the possibility of the princess being here, and then his honor demanding his concern for Dansil's miserable life, he'd never have found himself here, either. All of it begged more questions: why did this place need soldiers to guard it? Who were these men who risked their lives guarding the deathly ill? Where did they come from? If the king's command stationed them here, why didn't he know of them?

The distinct sound of rock scraping against rock fell on his ears and the rectangle in the wall ahead of them moved, sinking into the fortress, then shifting to the right, creating an entrance in the barrier. Trenan's eyes widened; he'd never seen such an ingenious system for ingress and egress. The riders started forward, but Trenan stood his ground, legs tight with apprehension at what lay beyond. He'd fought in battles, one on one, and in tournaments, experience making fear a rare emotion in the master swordsman, but he'd stared into the faces of his opponents in each of those situations, known the danger. Disease and sickness were dangers unseen, impossible to fight or prepare a defense against. Since those condemned to Ikkundana were the sickest of the sick, any breath or touch might be deadly.

Trenan wanted to reach for Godsbane's pommel but knew he wouldn't find it where it should be; his sword belt hung from the saddle of the same horse to which they'd tethered him. An instant later, the rope around his wrist tightened, forcing him to follow the rider toward the gap in the wall. His lips pressed into a thin line. From his youth, he'd known he'd likely not die an old man. He'd always imagined coming to his end on a battlefield or at the hand of a swordsman who bettered him in a duel. The thought of dying from an unseen virus had never crossed his mind.

The rider's pace quickened, forcing him to increase the speed of his own steps to faster than a quick walk. His shoulder tensed, the muscles in his arm knotted from the strain of the rope pulling at his wrist. He tried to ignore it, splitting his attention between ensuring his footing and the widened space in the wall. Would a robed woman step into the opening, perhaps wearing a red robe to warn of her sickness? Others must live in Ikkundana to care of the ill. He didn't know how any of them survived living with the mortally sick. Or maybe no one did.

Hoof beats and the song of armor filled his ears, hiding all else from his notice. So it was he wasn't expecting the solitary rider who stepped into the opening in the wall.

The lone horseman's chestnut steed looked bred