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) 📗

of humor, warmth, or happiness. He leaned closer and, now Gihl had his air again, he smelled the man's sour breath when he spoke. "Tell you what: I'll pass the message along for you."

A lancet of hope poked through Gihl's fear. "So I can go home?"

The terrible smile broadened, an expression worse than the hateful sneer.

"Oh, you'll be going back where you came from."

The first blow from the big man's clenched fist sent flashes of light exploding across Gihl's vision, as if the stars in the sky sprang to life all at once. The second broke his jaw, the bright pinpricks forced away by the pain. With the third punch, he tasted blood on his tongue, then filling his cheeks and spilling from his lips. When the fourth struck, he barely noticed it through the agony consuming him; he only hoped for consciousness to leave him. He tried to move his mouth, to beg for mercy, but had no idea if he met with any success. The world grew dim, leaving him with the vague impression of the fellow's face, his horse's front leg, and then a different visage loomed over him.

A cowl concealed the figure's features. Long fingers reached out from loose sleeves and peeled the hood back to reveal a smooth pate so white it might have glowed. The dark eyes stared at him, a smile on the lips much more gentle than the one worn by the fellow who beat him. The robed figure raised his arms, stretched his hands to Gihl's face, laid his fingers on the side of his head. For an instant, the pain from the beating subsided, and Gihl thought his life saved.

Until the burning began.

The long appendages seared themselves into his flesh, sinking through his skin and into the bone beneath, pressing their way toward his brain. Agony expanded in his skull, pushing outward, bulging his eyes and popping his ears.

Gihl screamed.

***

Dansil stood back, panting from the exertion of smashing his fist into the rider's face. He drew his arm across his forehead, wiping off what might have been rain, sweat, or blood. When he'd caught his breath, he stepped away from the fellow; he still felt the pain from the stab wound given him by Stirk, but not the debilitating kind he'd experienced at Ikkundana. He watched the robed healer crouch over the fallen man, lay his hands on him. The queen's guard turned his back instead of watching what he knew came next, flexing his left hand now missing two fingers he'd possessed the day before. He reached up, grasped the saddle's pommel, and put one foot in a stirrup. Before he climbed on, fingers gripped his ankle.

He jerked his head, at first thinking it might be the healer laying hands upon him, but found Stirk holding his leg. The legless man teetered but stayed upright.

"Where do you think you're goin'?"

"The healer's method of travel don't sit well with my insides. I'll be taking the horse from here."

"But you don't—"

Dansil shook free of Stirk's grip and the one-limbed fellow toppled over into the mud with a splash that brought a smile to his lips. He threw one leg over the horse's back and guided the nag to turn toward the Green, uncaring if he should trample Stirk or the healer. He set his heel to horse flesh, and the steed bounded forward as its former rider began to scream. Dansil thanked whatever god might bother to listen to him he was getting away from them, though he knew he'd never really get away.

Never again in his life.

XXVIII  Rilum – Long Ago

The water reeked of salt.

It attracted Rilum from a distance, drawing him through the forest of trees and brush to a rocky shore. He picked his way over stones the size of his head and around boulders too big for him to scale. The air turned cold again and his short breaths boiled out his mouth in rolling white mist, but not so colorless as the flesh on his hands and fingers. He supposed the breathy fog suggested he should notice the chill, but he did not.

When he reached the edge of the water, he stood watching as waves rolled across the smaller stones with a hiss to gather about the soles of his boots. At some point, he'd worn holes in them, and the sea touched his feet. He leaned forward, scooped water into his pasty palm, and raised his hand to his mouth.

The salt stung his tongue and set his mind reeling, though he didn't know why. He sensed he should remember this flavor, this scent; nothing came to him to explain why. It did not satiate his hunger, nor did it make him want to imbibe more of the briny fluid. He wiped his hand on the front of his pants and spat into the wash at his feet, his thick and sticky saliva floating atop the rolling waves like a thing swimming for its life.

Rilum turned and left the wad of phlegm behind, continuing along the shore at the edge of the water, his soles squelching inside his soaked boots. He'd gone fewer than ten paces when he realized he wasn't alone.

Normally, his nose warned him when other creatures lurked near, but the stink of salt in his nostrils and throat clogged his sense until he raised his gaze and saw them standing farther along the shore, staring at him.

They stood on two legs like him, had two arms as he did. Hair on their heads, clothes on their bodies. Their shoulders hunched and their eyes opened wide as they watched him. He stopped, a spark igniting in his chest.

They look like me.

Not exactly; their skin wasn't white, their hair wasn't patchy, he suspected they'd have all their teeth. But his flesh had once been pink, his hair