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) 📗

When the time came, he shifted on the branch to lower himself from the tree. Despite his best efforts, his numb limbs failed him. With his first step, his boot slipped, and he tumbled from his perch. He bounced limb to limb, bashing his arms and legs, his head and back as he caromed his way to the ground.

He landed with a dull thump hard enough to force the breath from his lungs with a grunt. For a while, he lay waiting to recover, staring up at the branches above, the slivers of night sky and twinkling stars peek-a-booing through the spaces between. When a pinch of air trickled into his chest, Rilum rolled onto his front and crawled toward the animal's remains. Shards of sticks pressed into his palms, ignored, decaying needles stuck to his hands, his knee struck a protruding root shooting pain along his leg.

The pungent bouquet of spilled blood drove him.

When he reached the carcass, the sailor leaned forward, buried his face in the gaping hole left when the beast of prey made its meal. He sank his teeth into cold flesh, shook his head side to side the way he'd seen the other animal do as it feasted. A strip came away from the bone and Rilum lifted his hands to stuff it into his mouth.

He chewed with vigor and relief, forgetting the potential dangers of the surrounding forest. The stink of meat and blood filled his nose, seeming to adhere to the inside of his nostrils as he inhaled it. He gobbled it, the sinew snaking down his throat.

The instant it reached his belly, his body revolted.

He turned and retched, vomiting the freshly swallowed meat in long strings to hang from his lips until he grabbed them and yanked them from his esophagus. He freed it, then returned it to his mouth, chewed again, devoured it a second time. This time it stayed put.

Rilum lowered his head and ate.

XXV  Teryk – Truth Be Told

Teryk's eyes snapped open, and he gasped a breath into his lungs as he sat up. The softness of a mattress supported him and he gazed at the dull gray of a stone wall. Neither registered because, once again, he knew not where he was or how he got there. This time, though, it mattered less. How he came to be anywhere or anytime seemed impossible.

I killed my father.

He covered his eyes with one hand, did his best to calm his breathing. Logic said, if he'd killed the king, then he himself should be no more. The thought made his head light, and he swallowed around a lump developing in his throat. After everything he'd seen, all that appeared to have happened, should anything surprise him? Since finding the scroll, the world had become unrecognizable in so many ways.

A deep inhalation filled his lungs but did nothing to calm the trepidation creeping along his limbs. He threw off the blanket covering him and draped his legs over the side of the bed. His feet came to rest in the fur of an animal turned into a rug. The sensation on his bare soles reminded him of his youth—similar shags covered parts of the floor in his chamber at Draekfarren. Many a morn he'd sat on the edge of his mattress wiggling his toes to enjoy the luxurious experience as long as possible before beginning his day. Another time, another place.

He pushed himself to stand, the movement making vertigo spin his head, so he reached back, rested his hand on the thick bed to keep his balance. As he waited for it to pass, he looked down and surveyed himself. The white chemise he wore fit as if it was made for him. He didn't recall ever having a top in this style. The plain, dark gray breeches rested comfortably on his hips, their quality high.

Teryk inhaled through his nose, his sense of equilibrium returning. Somewhere nearby, sandalwood incense burned, though he spied no burner anywhere, nor the telltale ribbon of smoke carrying the aroma to his nostrils. The rest of the chamber appeared unremarkable—small, with the bed, a desk and chair, a chest, and no more. Little to see, all of it high quality. A carving of a ship at sea decorated the trunk's lid, highlighted by an outline of gleaming brass. The same metal formed the hinges and hasp, polished with care. A darker wood composed the sitting furniture, so dark as to straddle a line between deep red and night black. An intricate design of painted flowers and ivy wound its way around the legs from floor to desktop and seat.

Teryk stepped away from the bed, dragging his feet through the rug's thick, soft fur. He considered crossing the short space to the chest, opening it to search for clues of his whereabouts, but veered toward the door instead.

He stood in front of it, staring at the handle set in an iron plate, the keyhole beneath. Locked or not? Who or what might lurk behind it?

Not only do I not recognize where I am, I don't know when, either.

A tiredness settled into the prince. How long since this began? The making of the Green, the Small Gods' fall, the battle. Did it happen in the blink of an eye or, as his body now suggested, had the sun risen and set multiple times since his last opportunity for rest?

He sighed and extended his arm, grasped the handle but paused before testing it. If it opened, where should he go? If it didn't, what then? He recalled the way an unseen hand drew him across the battlefield, directing him to where he needed to be. If it happened thus before, he must trust it to