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) 📗

needle and thread. Could this be her sitting by his sickbed, watching over his recovery and mimicking the sounds he made to pass the time? Not likely. Surely, in the City of the Sick, many needed tending.

The queen's guard forced one eyelid open a crack. At first, he saw nothing but blurs of gray and white and black past the brightness of the day and the wetness of his freshly opened eye. He blinked, dared to force it wider.

A shape reconciled itself into a robed person, as he'd expected, but not in the red cowls worn by the Goddess' sisters to warn of their sickness. Instead, this robe appeared dark as soot, its hood pulled forward to hide the wearer's face in the shadow beneath. Hands so white they practically glowed protruded from the long and wide sleeves, the fingers unnaturally long and thin. The figure's right hand lay on the pate of another shape crouched on the floor beside him.

Dansil opened his other eye, turned his head toward the unexpected visitors.

With the two of them in view, he saw the second wasn't actually crouching. Instead, he lacked both legs. And an arm.

"Stirk?" The word came out of his mouth as a rasping croak, his throat unused to producing sound since this man's knife had sliced through his flesh.

The legless fellow moved as though he might shuffle toward the straw bed, his stumps rubbing against the stone floor and explaining sounds Dansil had heard. The robe wearer's hand kept him from doing so. He stared at the queen's guard without blinking, his eyes wide. His tongue snaked out, licked his lips like a hungry animal.

"Ignore my pet." The words must have come from the robed man—Stirk's mouth hadn't moved—but it sounded to Dansil as though they came from many places.

The queen's guard's saliva dried up and the urge to urinate sprang into his lower belly. He realized that, if he thought himself able to accomplish it, he'd have jumped to his feet and rushed out the door, taking his chances with whatever the City of the Sick might hold rather than stay and deal with this mysterious being. Dansil twisted to do so, but pain shot from his wound, reminding him of the tottering steps from the window to passed out on the straw mattress.

"You need not fear." The robed figure lifted its hand from Stirk's pate, threw back the cowl to reveal a head and face devoid of hair, delicate features as likely belonging to either man or woman. "You see, you and my pet seek the same result."

Dansil looked from the smooth, sexless visage to Stirk. He leaned forward, propped on his one remaining limb like a crutch. His eyes bore into the queen's guard as though he worried he might disappear should he divert his gaze. Sweat stained his shirt and dirt streaked his face—a far cry from the hulking, formidable fellow who escaped the edge of Dansil's ax not so long ago.

"What result, stranger?"

Words scraped across his throat and tumbled from his lips without the confidence and strength he'd intended.

"The death of the one-armed man, of course." The mouth on the smooth head turned up at the corners, a ghastly slash threatening Dansil's gorge.

He shivered, the unintentional action shooting further pain from the not-quite-healed wound. His muscles tightened and strained; he wanted to leave, get as far from these two as possible, feeling that, if he stayed, things would go very wrong.

"And what's in it for you?"

"Oh, there's a small cost." The ambiguous being put its hand on Stirk's head. The legless man nuzzled against it like a cat needing attention. "But don't worry, it's not too steep."

Dansil inhaled through his nose, held it for a few heartbeats, then let it leak out between his teeth. "And Trenan will die?"

The ghastly smile again. "Indeed."

Before he intended to, the queen's guard nodded his agreement and couldn't stop. As his chin rose and fell, his stomach tied itself in a knot, his throat tightened in realization the master swordsman may not be the only one who died because of his deal. He stopped nodding and his eyes slid closed, his head throbbing, hoping against hope that, when he opened them again, the two figures would be gone.

When he did, they remained.

XIX  Teryk – Somewhere in Time

Swords, spears, and axes hammered against the translucent green wall, each impact sending verdant lightning scintillating across its surface. The men on the outside—most of them now dismounted and wearing rage on their faces—howled and shouted, shook their fists and brandished their weapons.

On the near side, the silvery creatures—Small Gods, he'd become sure—danced.

If the magical barrier didn't separate them, the distance between gray gods and enraged men was short enough to reach out and touch each other, dance together, kill one another. But the blockade held, as the Small Gods appeared to expect, and their knowledge of the wall's impenetrability angered the warriors further.

They watched for a while, Rilum at Teryk's side, the sailor's breath shallow and quick, fearful. In his mind, the prince realized he should fear, too; they bore no weapons to defend themselves, nor possessed any idea how the Small Gods might react if they found them. But these thoughts held no sway with his body. Calm and relaxed, intuition suggested he found himself in the right place, seeing and doing the necessary things without understanding how or why he understood this. For the first time in longer than he recalled, he felt on the path meant for him.

"Gotta get out before it's too late."

Rilum tugged at his arm, trying again to coax the prince into moving. He pivoted to face his companion.

Sweat sparkled on the man's furrowed brow; his widened eyes darted from Teryk to the Small Gods, the men beyond them, and back. His expression softened the prince's heart,