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) 📗

The flock pulled away from the horsemen, the sky opening again behind them as they went. Colors flashed amongst the birds—greens, reds, blues, yellows, and so many others. Another time, the variety would have astounded the prince, stolen his breath and left him in awe. Not now. Not with armed men bearing down on them, not when they knew not where they'd ended up or what may happen.

The raven passed over the tree line, its shadow falling across Teryk, then the darkness expanding as the other birds followed. The gray figures let out a cheer as the throng flew over them. It lasted for the length of five heartbeats before the stocky fellow issued another command and they fell into silence; the same wasn't true of the world around them.

Wings beat the air, hooves pounded the ground, swords and spears hammered against shields and men yelled. The cacophony assaulted Teryk, rattled his teeth. He put his hands up to block it out as though doing so might keep the outside pressure from expanding his head until it exploded like an overfilled water bladder. Even with his palms pressed hard against his ears, he heard a new sound joining the others.

Indistinguishable at first, as the last of the birds passed overhead and the flapping of their wings dissipated, the resonance expanded, became more noticeable. Nothing more than a hum to begin with, it turned into a rhythmic chant as its volume grew.

The sounds of the riders made the sounds indistinct to Teryk, but he assumed he lacked the ability to understand them if they'd been intelligible. He moved his hands away, the racket assaulting his ears and pounding into his head, but he wanted to find out if he comprehended any word the gray people intoned. They verbalized as one, their many small voices joining into a single great note. It grew louder, and he identified a cadence within it repeated over and over; eight or ten words they chanted again and again. This time, the stocky male who'd barked commands joined them, his arms held out to the sides like the others.

Rilum grabbed Teryk's arm, pulled at him and spoke a plea lost amongst the tumult of voices and other noises. The prince might have guessed what his companion said, but he resisted answering or succumbing to his prompting. He sensed something important happening here, an event to set him upon the proper path to fulfill his destiny.

The distance between riders and forest closed, the gleam of metal rectifying itself into rectangular shields, helmets of several shapes and styles. The men atop the horses waved swords and axes, spears and maces above their heads, threatening pain and death to any who got in their way. In response, the gray figures kept their ground, their mesmerizing chant's intonation unflinching, its measure unbroken, tempo unchanged. Teryk clamped his jaw tight enough he worried his teeth might bend and break; breath held, he awaited an explosion of warriors and steeds meeting and trampling their much smaller opponents.

It will not happen. It can't happen this way.

The space of a heartbeat after the thought completed itself in his head, the chanting changed. The cadence sped up, the tone climbing an octave. Each of the small gray figures raised their hands toward the sky in perfect unison. The trees and brush around Teryk and Rilum shivered, then shook, as though a windstorm arose from nowhere, but the prince felt no gusts against his cheek. The foliage whipped into a frenzy and he raised his arm to protect his face, but stopped halfway when he saw the small creatures lifting their arms, their wrists touching above their heads.

And a green glow rose in front of them, expanding toward the sky.

XVIII  Dansil – Conscious

Dansil stirred, rolled onto his back and regretted it as pain shot through his body. He groaned, reached for his spine, and touched the bandage wrapped around him. His brows furrowed; he possessed no recollection of anyone treating his injury other than Trenan. Everything after came to him hazy and indistinct. He recalled snatches of a journey on a horse, the master swordsman seated in front of him, but didn't trust his memories as anything other than fevered illusions.

More than once, he'd thought he spied the fellow who stabbed him keeping pace with them, a robed figure at his side. Even feverish and in pain, he'd realized the impossibility of his assailant following them. The last time he'd seen Stirk, the man possessed no legs, one arm, and he suspected Trenan of killing him, but his memory grew foggy on the point.

The distant clatter of hooves on flagstone broke the silence of the dark room. Dansil raised his head, looked around. He first thought the chamber lightless, then spied a lighter square to his right—a window. He struggled himself upright, his back hurting as his hands pressed against loose straw strewn across the floor beneath him as a makeshift mattress. After a rest to allow the pain to subside, he gathered himself and got to his feet. The action left him winded. He inhaled, listening to the hoof beats approaching as he brushed his palms on the front of his breeches, knocking off bits of dirt stuck to his skin. With small, deliberate steps, he made his way to the window, dragging the soles of his boots to avoid tripping over unseen obstacles.

The morning-cool air wafting through the opening touched his face, chilling the sweat he hadn't noticed settling upon his brow. It sent a shiver along his neck but refreshed him all the same. He sucked a lungful through his nose, recognized his own body's odor mixed in with it, and wondered where he was and how long he'd been there.

He tried to push the thought