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) 📗

Hold your son.

He blinked, pushed himself up to his knees.

Son.

Legs watery and unstable, he stood and put a hand to his forehead, lurched an unsteady pace away from the topiary.

"Trenan is my father, not Erral." He licked his lips then wiped his forearm across his mouth. "I'm not the firstborn child of the rightful king. No one is."

Another step, his body swaying atop uncertain legs.

"The world will perish."

Vertigo overtook him, and the prince stumbled back three steps, then ahead before his feet tangled and he pitched forward. He landed hard, the impact jarring his head. Things around him changed instantly. The dissonance of steel on steel replaced the soothing gurgle of the fountain; the scent of grass and brush disappeared, overpowered by the coppery reek of blood and muddy ground. He put his gauntleted hands under himself, pressed against soggy, churned turf and pushed himself up to observe his surroundings.

Men swirled, their weapons flashing. Rain pattered against Teryk's cheek and he understood where he found himself, and when. He climbed to his feet, the ax he'd used to kill his father dangling from his right hand. Without thought to his actions, he trudged forward, moving past the fighting men as though they didn't notice his passing. A few strides ahead, he spied the man for whom he searched on one knee, visor raised. The prince stopped in front of him, lifted the ax's spike to the king's throat with no intention of doing so.

"I am no one's father."

Deja vu sent a shiver along Teryk's spine and his mouth opened, words spilling out despite his not intending them to.

"Not yet."

He pulled the ax from his father's esophagus, raised it skyward. The king lifted his arm to protect himself, turned his face away. A shout from his left gave Teryk pause, and he directed his gaze toward the soldier rushing to save his monarch. The prince amended his stance and brought the weapon down, separating the warrior's limb from his shoulder instead of splitting the king's head in two.

Trenan cried out and fell to the ground, writhing on the sopping grass as blood squirted from his wound. Teryk backed away a step, his stomach threatening to rise into his throat. The ax slipped from his grasp and he looked from the master swordsman to the man he thought of as his father.

Did I set things right?

The king leaped forward, snatching Trenan's sword from his hand as he did. The point of it entered Teryk's belly and, to his surprise, he felt the full length of it slide through him and the tip exit through his back. Pain exploded through him and he gasped, the sudden inhalation sucking droplets of rain into his mouth. He relished the refreshment of them for a moment before Erral wrenched the blade from his gut and he coughed the acidic flavor of blood onto his tongue.

He tottered in place for a few seconds, watching as the king threw aside the sword and rushed to Trenan's side, shouting for a medic as he did. Teryk hacked into his hand, viewed the red clot doing so left in his gauntlet, then fell forward. He didn't stop himself, giving into the inevitable impact of hitting the muddy ground...but he didn't.

Instead, when he hit, it wasn't grass, but water.

He went under, the chill of it shocking him. Briny fluid found its way into his mouth, stung his eyes. He kicked and thrashed until his face broke through and he emerged from the sea sputtering and coughing. But salty water was the only thing he tasted, the tang of blood gone from his tongue.

Why should I taste blood?

His heart beat fast in his chest and he gasped for air, lungs thankful to find it. The smooth surface of the ocean allowed him to keep his head above the water line with little effort. He blinked the briny sting from his eyes, the world around him blurry. Straight ahead, a hazy brown smudge dominated the horizon. He blinked again and again until his vision returned and he saw the ship, words painted on the side near the bow. He squinted until they became legible: Devil of the Deep. Faintly, he made out the shape of a man waving at him, pointing.

The ship's name tickled the back of his mind, teasing out a suspicion that it should hold meaning for him. The feeling remained undefined, an itch he couldn't reach. He concentrated. Why should he recognize this ship? He realized other things he didn't know: where he was, how he got here.

Who am I?

Panic clawed at his gut, but waves washing over him, splashing up into his face, made him forget it for an instant. He craned his head toward the source of the ripples, saw the bubbles rolling across the surface. A heartbeat later, a sliver of gray flashed, then broke through. A flat skull emerged atop a long, smooth neck, a wide mouth lined with pointed teeth opened, a screeching roar tore through the air.

And the God of the Deep rose from the sea.

XXVI  Rilum – Long Ago

Rilum gazed at the clump of hair in his hand. The tangled strands lay across his featureless palm like a small, dead animal. He exhaled, his breath stirring it back to life momentarily before it returned to its final slumber.

This wasn't the first shock of hair he'd pulled from his head. It wasn't even what currently caught and held his attention.

The sailor rotated his hand palm down, the fine strands fluttering to the ground, landing around his feet. He didn't watch their erratic fall, instead concentrating on the white skin stretched across the back of his hands.

White.

Not pink. Not scattered with dark hair. He