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) 📗

across her face, plain to Horace even o'er the distance what lay between them. The animal crept away toward where the brush hid the three faceless things and the woman's hands reached out, graspin' at the empty air. Her head turned this way and that, not settlin' on anythin'. Seein' her do so made the ol' sailor realize the truth o' her: she couldn't see.

He took another step, then a second. More sweat ran from his brow, but he weren't so worried about the furry creature becomin' aware o' him anymore. The beast seemed more concerned with the more realistic threat posed by the three faceless things.

The animal coiled itself, thick muscles bunchin' under its fur. It looked ready to launch itself toward the near thicket what hid the stalkers when they leapt out, movin' way quicker'n Horace'd ever have thought possible.

The beast sprang forward to meet them in mid-air, a half-growl, half-roar comin' outta its mouth. The woman screamed, suddenly aware somethin'd gone very wrong but not havin' any idea what it might be, or where around her, or how bad. Horace's heart sped in fear for her, again without knowin' why such a thing should be the case.

His feet picked up the pace, carryin' him toward her as the faceless three clashed with the creature of tooth and claw. The beast roared and thrashed, its cacophony shakin' saplin's and rattlin' foliage. The pasty things made not the slightest noise other'n their limbs whisperin' through the air and their taloned fingers rippin' through fur and flesh.

Horace concentrated on the woman, doin' his best to keep his attention away from the fight. Leaves and branches smacked at his face, plucked at his sleeves. Creepers caught at his boots, but he pulled himself free without breakin' stride. Amongst the usual foresty odors o' wood and moss, another scent crept its way into his nostrils, a coppery aroma what threatened to make him gag.

The stink o' blood.

He dared a glance to his right toward the clash o' furry beast and the pale o' skin and immediately wished he hadn't.

The creature what'd been leadin' the woman snapped the air with powerful jaws, swung massive paws what ended in sharp claws, but its efforts did it no good. The three faceless things darted in and out, stabbin', slicin', rendin', and movin' too quick for the poor animal to catch them. A pale skinned thing avoided one of the beast's strikes with a deftness what seemed impossible for a bein' without eyes, and made its way onto the furry back. It sank talons deep into the mighty animal's neck, reached its other hand around in front, avoidin' the gnashin' teeth.

With a flick o' its wrist, its sharp nails slit the creature's throat.

"Fuck me dead."

Horace bit his tongue and pivoted away, regrettin' the curse squeezin' its way outta his lips.

Not many strides remained between him and the woman, so he redirected his attention to her. She'd turned her head toward him, hearin' him crashin' through the brush even o'er the beast's angry roars what had now become strangled, gurglin' cries. She raised her hands in front of her face, cowered from him and the sight o' it squeezed Horace's heart. Other'n Dunal, he couldn't think o' any time he'd purposely hurt anyone, and he wished he could go back and undo what he'd done to the simple shiphand.

The ol' sailor slowed, found himself outta breath.

"I—" He stopped tryin' to speak, struggled air into his lungs and out, attempted it again. "I ain't gonna hurt you."

He held his hands out in front of himself, showin' her his empty palms before rememberin' weren't no point; if he wielded a trident right in her face, she wouldnt've known any better.

She scuffled away from him, her feet tanglin' and throwin' her to the ground. He pulled up short o' where she lay, not wantin' to make it any worse. She didn't say nothin' and, in noticin' she weren't makin' any sound, he realized there weren't many other noises, either.

He turned himself around, movin' slow as though doin' so might make seein' what'd happened easier. It didn't.

The furry beast lay on the ground, chest heavin' and the occasional breathy huff gettin' expelled through its nose, the fight gone outta it. And most of its blood, too. The three faceless things lit into it, tearin' away chunks o' fur and flesh, rubbin' the warm and bloody bits against their skin-covered maws. Seein' the ferocity with which they'd dispatched the huge predator made Horace curse himself for not runnin' the other direction.

But somethin' made him come this way against his will. Somethin' about the blind woman drew him; not sure what, but ev'ry bit o' his mind and body screamed at him about her importance.

Behind him, a noise escaped her. Not more'n a peep, probably a sound she didn't intend to make, judgin' by the size o' it. He almost pivoted to look back, but it turned out he weren't the only one what heard her.

The nearest of the faceless raised its head, stood, and took a step toward them.

XXXVI  Rilum – Now

Hunger. Always the hunger.

The sharp-tooth hadn't scented them. After so much time hunting together, he no longer needed to give the others direction. They knew how to disguise their smells for the hunt, how to determine the wind's orientation and approach from the correct path. They moved in silence, creeping toward their prey, the semicircle they formed around it tightening with each step they took.

The sharp-tooth's head jerked out of the log in which it had buried its snout to feast on the grubs within. Once-was-Rilum had fed on the same insects ages past, dissatisfying as they were, but he'd since become an expert hunter. He'd taught his companions the same skills, and all but forgotten the bitterness of the wriggling white things.

The beast