When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods

One. Two. Three.
Seeing the sailor drag himself out of the sea shot a dose of energy back into Teryk's limbs, and the second forty count passed quicker than the first. After completing the final stroke of the set, he looked shoreward again, found it noticeably closer. The recognition encouraged him, brought warmth to his cold and tired body. Feeling it increased his confidence, girded him into believing in his ability to reach his goal.
Forty strokes went by so quickly, he didn't stop, instead continuing to sixty.
When he raised his head the third time, he'd gotten close enough he estimated two more counts of forty before his feet touched bottom. If he held on until he counted to sixty last time, perhaps he'd hold out until eighty the next and finish with this swim. Before returning to the count, he spied Rilum on the beach waving his arms in the air.
At first, it seemed he meant the movement as simple encouragement, like he thought the action might make the prince move more swiftly through the water. He'd have continued thinking this the case if not for the strained expression twisting the sailor's face. Teryk stopped stroking and kicking and, with the near silence of the open sea falling around him, heard Rilum's voice, small and distant.
"Behind you! Hurry!"
A jolt coursed through Teryk and he jerked around in the water, sending a fresh ripple of waves rolling away from him, their momentum negated by larger ones rippling toward him.
A coil of smooth, green flesh slid along the surface of the sea before disappearing back into the depths.
Teryk turned for shore, paddling and thrashing with every scrap of his strength to save his life.

VII  Trenan – In the City
As Trenan suspected, the streets of the City of the Sick lay empty. The quiet became an oppressive force weighing on him as he sat where they'd left him lashed to a wooden chair set against a blank, white wall. He gulped a shallow inhalation, not wanting to draw the air of Ikkundana into his lungs, but each tentative sip of breath proved fresh and clean. He imagined the same wasn't true of the chambers hidden within the surrounding walls. What atrocities might he find should he wander the dim-lit halls? He pictured desiccated bodies wasted away to living skeletons, weeping sores, rheumy eyes, pus and blood and puke. The thought made his stomach roil, gave him and appreciation for being bound outside in the silence.
Are you here hidden among the sick, princess?
The question sent a shiver along his spine. He doubted the possibility of someone hiding amongst the infected—or being held—for any length of time without becoming ill themselves. The red robe worn by Danya suggested Ikkundana may have been her destination, but it proved nothing. Part of him hoped it was because it meant the end of his quest drew near, but he also didn't want her to have to be in this place. Either way, he blamed Dansil for his current predicament. If he hadn't needed to carry the near-lifeless queen's guard, he'd not have ended up here.
He didn't know what they'd done with the man, whether he'd survived or perished. With any luck, he'd met his end. That, too, might complicate his life given the man's threat of revealing his secret. Considering his position tied to a chair with no real clue who his captors were, the master swordsman had more pressing issues, though.
It made sense there'd be people in the city who weren't sick. He harbored no desire for the job himself, but someone needed to take care of the ill and dying. Why have armed soldiers, even if only women? Ikkundana was likely the most impenetrable fortress in existence and filled with those no one wanted to confront; why waste resources protecting those who didn't need protection?
Past midday now and the sun sloped between the walls, shining on Trenan and causing sweat on his brow. A bead of water rolled from his temple and along his cheek; he longed to wipe it away but the knots they'd used to secure him to the chair held firm. Instead of fighting against it, he tilted his head back, resting it against the wall behind him, and let his lids slide closed. The sun's warmth on his face threatened to make him forget his predicament—the rope binding him, the missing prince and princess, the love he could never reveal. If only after closing his eyes he might open them again onto a world where these problems didn't exist, a world where he was home, with his lover at his side, and their children safe. A world without deceit and lies, a world with two arms.
Trenan sighed, opened his eyes, and lowered his chin. The three women standing before him startled him into gasping his air back into his chest.
"How...?"
"Be quiet, swordsman. No one has requested you to speak."
He recognized her as the rider who'd met him and the squad who captured him at the gate, the dark intensity of her eyes unmistakable. She gestured and the other two women moved forward. One placed the point of her pike within a hair's width of his throat while the other crouched and untied the knots binding him to the chair. As they loosened, the blood flow return to his hand and feet. He curled his fingers into a fist and released it, flexing them while being careful not to move his body and risk the pike's tip pricking his flesh. When the ropes were undone, the second woman stepped back and brought her own weapon to bear on him, too. Trenan directed his gaze toward the leader and waited.
"Goddess has brought you to us. It may be part of her plan, but it doesn't mean we must welcome you." She crossed her arms, exhaled. "Stand."
Each of the pikewomen took a step away,