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) 📗

After a while, Gihl sat straight in his saddle. Through his soaked trousers, he felt like he noticed the difference between the rain and the cold piss trapped inside his pants. He cleared his throat, spat a wad of phlegm on the muddy ground, and pulled the horse's reins, turning her in the direction from which they'd come. He let his mount advance a step before hauling back on the lead again, stopping her.

"What if they stopped somewhere ahead and they see me not doing what the one-armed bastard told me to do?"

The rain pattered. His horse snuffled and blew water from its nostrils. Nothing and nobody else offered any advice.

"He'd kill me," he said, answering his own query.

The mare pawed the muddy ground, splashing in the rivulet flowing along the middle of the track.

"Fuck."

He turned his mount around again, pointing her toward Draekfarren. He dug his heels into her, prompting her forward with no more certainty this was the right thing to do than heading home.

At least this direction meant less chance he'd die.

***

"What now?"

It wasn't long after the rain stopped when Gihl spied the three figures on the road ahead. One stood straight, a robe draped from his shoulders and a cowl pulled up to hide his face. The second either knelt by the robed figure, was a child, or the smallest damned man Gihl'd ever seen. The third crouched on hands and knees, puking beside the track.

"Fucking lovely."

He reined his horse to a stop, looked side to side in search of a path which might allow his escape, but the trees and brush grew too close together. Face them or retreat? They didn't look the most dangerous of sorts, but maybe they wanted him to think they weren't. As he glanced back up the road at them in the same positions, he recalled a saying—something to do with discretion and valor. He couldn't remember it, but thought it ended with the words 'fuck valor.'

Through pulling reins and tapping heels, Gihl got the horse pointed down the narrow track away from the three strangers... or so he believed. When they faced the other direction, he found them right before him, closer, the one who'd knelt losing his lunch standing beside the others. Turned out he was a big man, imposing, and Gihl's heart sped up in his chest, knocking against his ribs as though it sought to break out. He tugged on the bridle, urging the mare to back up.

"I'm not looking for no trouble," he said, voice quivering. He considered reaching for his short sword but pulling the weapon was more likely to get him killed than if he stayed away from it and left it alone. Why did he bother carrying the damn thing?

None of the three made sound nor motion, which may have been worse than if they demanded his money or his mount. At least then he'd know where he stood. Not knowing their intent scared him.

And how'd they get behind me so quick?

He decided he didn't want to find out what they wanted or how they'd gotten around him. He dug his heels in again, yanked the reins again and jerked the horse's head around harder than he should have. The nag responded, rearing up and twisting to face the other direction, ready to launch itself down the track the second he prompted it to do so.

They never gave Gihl the chance.

The big man's arm caught him around the waist and yanked him from the saddle. His right foot snagged in the stirrup, wrenching his knee, and he cried out before it pulled free and he hit the ground with a sodden thump. The impact jarred the breath from his lungs and he gasped trying to restore it.

"Where's the one-armed man?"

The big fellow held him by the front of his shirt, the fabric bunched in his fists, and his face hung a hand's-breadth from Gihl's. With no air in his chest, he couldn't respond, so settled for widening his eyes and shaking his head, teeth gritted against the pain in his knee. The stranger shook him once, moved closer.

"Where is he?"

Spittle flew against Gihl's nose and cheeks and he recalled seeing this man vomiting at the roadside moments before. His own gorge rose, a lump in his chest making both breathing and answering the angry fellow more difficult.

Gihl lifted a shaking hand, pointed along the road the direction the master swordsman and his troop had gone. The same way led to his home. He wished he'd heeded his first instinct and abandoned Krin's stupid task the second he'd gotten clear of the tavern and the barkeep's line of sight.

"Toward sunset? The Green?"

Muddy water lapped against Gihl's ear as he nodded.

"Why?"

His lips parted and closed, his throat working to make a sound, but nothing came out. The big man shook him again, jerking him up off the ground, snapping his head forward, then dropping him again. Dirty droplets splashed onto his face.

"Why?"

Gihl opened his mouth again, forced his tongue and gullet to do the things they needed to do to produce sound, and this time they did.

"The princess," he said, the proclamation coming out more gag than actual words.

"They have the princess?"

Gihl shook his head, neck sore from the latest shaking he'd endured. "Weapon merchants. Have her. Taking to Green."

The big man's lips peeled back from his teeth in a sneer dripping with such hatred it made Gihl flinch. His limited future in the grasp of this maniac became clear to him and he deiced he needed to do anything necessary to save himself.

"The king," he gasped. "I'm to inform the king."

"Are you?" The hate-filled expression turned to an ugly smile, one lacking the smallest sliver