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) 📗

robed man left his place by the bush and walked a line parallel to theirs, matching their stride. A little farther along, another figure dressed the same emerged and joined the first, then a third. Despite the thin man's reassurance, a fresh sheen of perspiration coated the princess' palms.

The ground sloped upward, preventing her from seeing what lay ahead. The number of men keeping pace with them grew to five, each one identical to the next. None of them turned their cowl-hidden faces toward the group, their steps matching in the measured cadence of a death march.

"Priests," Fellick said, noticing her continued interest in the robe-wearers. "They are priests."

Danya nearly stopped. She'd heard stories of the black priests, her parents encouraging her to dismiss them as fancy, like they did the Goddess, her priestesses, and both kinds of Small Gods. Yet she walked beside the fabled veil separating the kingdom from the home of the Small Gods, her Goddess-follower companion accompanying her as a clutch of black priests stalked them. Did it leave any doubt the stars prepared to fall from the sky?

They crested the short hill, and ahead of them stood another group of robed silhouettes. Two other figures with them didn't match their garb, and a third unmatching shape lay on the ground. As they approached, one man not wearing a black robe raised his hand and started toward them.

"Fellick! Ive!"

Beside her, Ive returned the gesture of greeting. "Ho, Birk. It looks as though we have arrived in time."

Danya attempted to see the other fellow with the group, but the lanky weapons merchant stepped in front of her, blocking him from her view.

"A little too late, I'm afraid. The woman got away. Slipped through the veil."

The Barren Mother.

"But I see you have the princess."

"Aye. And you?"

Birk stopped and moved aside, waving his arm in a grand gesture as he did, a grin on his face so wide, someone else might find it humorous.

"I present to you the man from across the sea."

Danya gaped at the other fellow, halted dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened.

"Teryk?"

She broke into a run.

***

"Tare ick!"

The woman bolted from the others, but no one made any move to stop her. Tall grass bent before her, a trail of broken blades left in her wake. The nameless man tensed, unsure of her intention as she bore down on him. When she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck. He attempted to pull away, but she gripped him tight, pressing herself against him. His head spun, his gut roiled. Who was she?

"Tare ick," she repeated, breathless. "Wareuv yubin? Ayewuz so wureedbowchew. Ayethotchew werded."

She slackened her grip and leaned back, continuing to hang on to him. Now he saw her up close, he realized she was older than the other captive, but much younger than Ailyssa. A young adult, but no more. And the nagging sense of recognition nipped at his thoughts. Did he know her as it appeared she knew him?

She stared at him, eyes glistening on the edge of tears born of relief, love, happiness, judging by her expression. He answered with raised eyebrows and searching gaze, grasping for any clue to identify her and why he should recognize her. It took but an instant for her to recognize his disorientation.

"Tare ick? Izzmeed anyuh."

She released her grip from around his neck, and the man called Birk grabbed her by the arm, pulled her away like a parent with a child. She allowed him, but her gaze stayed locked on the nameless man's features, her hopeful expression melting to concern. The other men and the girl arrived as the line of black robes joined the group. Her eyes remained on him, pleading for him to respond to her, to realize her name, their relationship.

He didn't. He lowered his head, traced the curves of the chain attached to his ankle with his gaze instead of looking at her and disappointing her with his faulty memory. Her eyes stayed upon him but he didn't look up.

The men spoke to each other, their strange language falling on his ears. Through the thump of his heartbeat, he sensed what he might have interpreted as excitement and hope in Birk's words. He chattered more quickly than usual, his voice of a higher pitch as he updated the others on what had happened.

The nameless man pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"Tare ick?"

A chastising tone quieted the woman and then three male voices carried on the conversation, though one of them said little. Feet shuffled in grass and the hard log pressed against his buttocks. Instinct begged him to remove his palms from his face to make sure his life wasn't in danger, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. He became acutely aware of the surrounding noises. Each foreign word bludgeoned him like a club, each trod-upon blade cracked in his ears with the volume and force of a snapping branch. He heard the veil behind him, too. It hummed, crackled as an insect buzzed against it.

Before this, he hadn't noticed the slightest sound emanating from the barrier.

It held an energy he might have guessed at, pulsing and throbbing in the air. It exerted pressure in his ears as though he'd jumped into a lake and dove too deep.

Like when the grate trapped me at the bottom of the river under the castle.

His breath caught in his throat and his body tensed. What river? What castle? He concentrated, searching for the thread of memory finding its way out of the depths of his mind and into his awareness. A vision of running water came to him, an iron grate, struggle and panic. Trapped under the lattice, convinced death awaited him until hands found him, pulled him out.

And the shred of recollection ended.