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) 📗

trees and brush clogged the surrounding area. They appeared fuller and more leaf-covered than he recalled them being the day before when he crawled beneath the log for some much-needed sleep.

Where is the lad?

He drew his stone-dry tongue across his cracked lips.

"Teryk?"

The prince's name was his intended pronouncement, but nothing issued from his throat but a dilapidated croak suitable for making proud the hardiest of bullfrogs.

He swallowed the nothingness left in his mouth and stepped away from the mossy log, determined to find water or the prince, preferably both.

XXIII  Teryk - Battlefield

Stale air burning in his chest, Teryk put all his strength into a final push, one more stroke toward the surface. He knew if he didn't make it, this would be his last attempt. No more breaths, no life, no prophecy or saving the world. Of them all, this last thought most galvanized him. He pulled with his arms, kicked with his legs until his head broke through and he gasped a ragged breath to fill his desperate, thankful lungs.

He opened his eyes to muted sunlight, but no gray smoke, no vaporous white mist.

And no water.

Instead of the river, the prince sat on grass. Not the charred black stuff of the courtyard, but lush turf with hard earth beneath him. He unfolded himself and stood, noting his clothing wasn't wet, and peered from atop a hill facing downslope to a shallow, grassy valley beyond. Pregnant clouds filled the sky, running together into a blanket of many shades of gray hiding both sun and firmament. They also hid the time of day and an estimation of the season from Teryk's ability. The lushness of the meadow suggested it might be late second season.

In the middle of the lowland, armored men clashed. A few sat horses but most fought on foot. The clank of weapons and armor floated through the air, its sharpness diffused by distance. Banners flew near groups of tents at either side, but too far away for the prince to recognize them. Considering how many turns of the seasons he'd traveled backward in time—a hundred hundred, if he believed his nanny's tales—this might be any era and anyone fighting before him.

Teryk took a step toward one camp but stopped, glanced at himself. He wore a leather breast piece over a thick red jersey and rough-spun breeches. A sword hung at his side, a shield strapped to his back pressed against him, and a helmet sat upon his head. At other times, in other situations, he'd have wondered where these items came from but, once transported to places and ages he couldn't possibly travel to, such mysteries carried little importance. A fat drop of rain struck the rim of his helm, spattered water on his nose.

"Great," he muttered as he broke into a trot.

The scabbard of the short sword dangling at his waist, much smaller than the size and weight of Godsbane, bounced against his thigh. What'd happened to the weapon? He tried not to think about what his father might do when he discovered he'd lost the Crown Sword. But if he didn't fulfill his part of the prophecy, Crown Swords and everything they represented meant nothing.

As he approached the fray, the cries and yells of men added to the clamor of weapon and shield. No one voice distinct, no words intelligible, but the cacophony rose toward the high clouds unable to hold back the increasing frequency of raindrops. The ground beneath his feet changed, the grass beaten flat by the passing of boot and hoof, dirt churned, ready to become mud at the coming storm's behest.

The banner flying over the camp nearest him snapped in the rising wind, its red fabric with gold markings rippling. It pricked a sense of familiarity in his mind, but its significance eluded him. From what he saw at this distance, few men milled around the tents; the battle engaged most of them.

Teryk stopped. The impulse to continue to the camp nagged at him, urged him to go on like someone stood at his back, pushing him. He looked from encampment to fight, rain now falling heavier and blurring the proceedings with a gray hue. When he returned his attention to the gathering of tents, it surprised him to spy a horseman galloping toward him.

The prince debated what to do. Draw his blade? What if the rider intended friendship? Then again, what if he didn't, and he didn't unsheathe his weapon?

A man in leather armor with naught but a short sword stands little chance against a mounted warrior.

He searched his memory for one of Trenan's lessons to guide him but found none. When most needed, those endless days of practice and teaching deserted him, leaving him with an empty sensation in his chest and a knot in his gut. He caught himself inhaling and exhaling short breaths through his nose, forced himself to return his breathing to normal. He swallowed the bitter saliva his mouth produced at the sight of the rider's bared steel, moved his own hand closer to the hilt of his sword. If he meant to draw it, he'd wait until the last instant, seeking to avoid inciting the horseman to violence.

If I had my armor, and Godsbane, then I'd give him a fight.

"Oy," the soldier called, his tone unfriendly. "Get back over there before I lop off your head and make you carry it with you!"

A sliver of red on the man's breast plate flashed. Teryk glanced from it to the banner, then his own jersey, finally understanding. Wherever and whenever he found himself, he appeared to be in alignment with this man and must trust the force controlling things put him here for his best interests.

The beating of hooves vibrated against his soles, the rumble seeming to loosen his feet from their place on the ground. He raised his hand toward the