by Travis Peck
Of course, the dream queen tells me she is real; of course, she knows my name…it proves nothing, Lerius tried to convince himself. The queen gave a knowing smile and vaulted down amongst her adoring subjects. The ravinors acted like love-sick puppies around her. They cowered and fawned at her feet as her mere presence parted the mass of ravinors before her.
The queen turned back to him and said, “Pity. Those that make it this far prove to have great potential as one of mine. Fare you well, Lerius—however unlikely that may be.” She laughed and turned her back on him for the last time as she strode away. The ravinors closed ranks behind her as she passed through them.
Once she was gone, every ravinor within eye-shot stared up at him hungrily. He could tell he was no longer under the queen’s protection. Now would be a good time to wake up then…
There was the briefest of lulls, and then they charged. The first one leapt onto the platform, and Lerius swung as hard as he could and hit the ravinor full in the face, breaking its nose in a gout of blood. But his small victory was fleeting. The platform was full of ravinors now, as many as could fit, and he was in the middle of them, flailing about wildly. He could not keep up the desperate struggle for more than a few moments, and then he knew he would be swarmed under. A ravinor jumped on his back. And then another; then one more. Lerius’s legs buckled under all the weight, and he fell to the cool surface of the platform.
He could feel more ravinors pressing in around him. So far, none had attempted to bite him. They were just pawing at him, trying to get him to the ground. He could scarcely draw a breath under all the weight. His vision narrowed down to a tunnel as he was unable to get any air into his lungs. Lerius could have sworn he had just heard his name, not that of the angel again, but rather from mortal lips. But all he saw through his rapidly worsening vision were the snapping maws of ravinors. Then he felt one of them bite down hard on his arm and he screamed in pain.
Chapter Three
THE MOMENT IFO’S FOOT landed on the wood-planked wharf in the town of Wesin, he offered genuine thanks to the Giver. He was far from being a pious man, but after the seven-day ocean voyage that saw him either at the rail in the midst of a debilitating bout of seasickness, or being tossed about on his bunk in his tiny cabin that was no larger than a coffin, he felt compelled to show his gratitude, whether or not there had been any real help from on high.
Ocean travel—aside from the damned seasickness—was far from his favorite mode of travel. Ifo was a loner. He worked alone, and he lived alone; he preferred it that way. So being crammed into what amounted to be nothing more than a floating barracks had not been a pleasant experience. Dreams, or rather nightmares, of the first time he had sailed on the ocean had plagued him each night and during those frequent times he was too fatigued and weak from the seasickness to get out of his bunk. This had been only his second time on the ocean for longer than a few candles’ time in four decades—he hoped the pattern would hold true so that he would only have to face the sea again in another twenty years.
One of the sailors tossed down Ifo’s heavy travel bag, and he caught it with a grunt. He waved his thanks, and with that, he breathed one more grateful sigh to be off the cursed ship, and soon he would be away from the damnable water as well. He had never been to this town before. Wesin, like most coastal cities the world over, was dominated by a dock along its shoreline. Ten substantial wharves extended out from the shore of the harbor. There were at least twenty large ships moored along the piers, either loading or unloading, along with a myriad of fishing boats, either single-masted sloops or simple row boats, busily emptying their nets at the fishmonger’s alcove.
The shipyard had four keels laid down; the base structures of soon-to-be seagoing vessels were being swarmed over by scores of workers like scavengers over a whale carcass. Warehouses abounded on the waterfront. Each massive and plain utilitarian building was attached to another, much smaller, building. The smaller building would be bedecked with painstakingly carved woodwork and boasted masterfully designed lacquered signs that proclaimed which trading company owned each warehouse.
Wesin had a busy port, and it looked like a city on the cusp of prosperity. Nearly half the structures on the waterfront were wrapped in scaffolding as masons prepared to either facade, or replace, the old wooden buildings with stone. They must be doing well here, Ifo mused. And there was no reason they shouldn’t be. As part of the Styric Empire, every corner of the world was open to them, at least as far as trade was concerned. The empire was made up of five neighboring kingdoms: Merovia, Kharisk, Nyssa, and Nøm-Ün; all were beholden to the central kingdom of Styr, that also boasted the largest city in the world as its capital by the same name. Styr had known peace for a decade as its neighboring empires and kingdoms now preferred commerce over conquest.
Ifo’s employer had contracted him for a job in Styr, and he was grateful to be going back to the city where he had grown up. He had left the town of Olisk, in the northwestern kingdom of Nøm-Ün, and had booked passage aboard the first ship destined for Wesin, which was about halfway down the coast of Nyssa. From here, he had another seven-day trek to Styr, though this was across blissful land that did not incessantly shift and heave under one’s feet.
Ifo was glad he was not doing the job in Wesin. As prosperous as the port city appeared, it was by no means as cosmopolitan and accepting as Styr was of his black skin and deep purple eyes that marked him as a foreigner, at least by birth. He was not a native to Styr, or the Styric Empire for that matter. He had come from the lands far to the west. Abin-Lin. He had been too young to remember his homeland so he had adopted Styr as his own.
Ifo’s booted footfalls echoed off the wooden pier with hollow thuds as he and many other passengers, sailors, and merchants disembarked. Wagons and carts streamed to and from the ships; small cranes hoisted cargo of every variety. Groups of sailors anxious for a night of carousing after a long voyage unerringly migrated to the nearest inns, taprooms, and brothels, where they would soon—quite willingly—be parted from their hard-earned coin. Ifo did not follow the sailors to the closest establishments. After the confined spaces of his cabin and the ship, the last thing he wanted was to be in an inn packed shoulder to shoulder with raucous sailors. His employer always paid him well and had given him more than enough coin to seek out one of the more quiet and respectable inns of Wesin.
A few hundred paces inland the noise from the dockside quieted, though there were just as many people out on the streets. The cobbled avenue leading up from the pier opened up into a large market square where shops lined the perimeter. In the open area in the center of the square, there were a jumble of carts and wagons where tradesmen were hawking their wares. In the precise center of the square there stood a simple wooden platform where some singers and musicians were playing a lively tune that filled the open market air. Jugglers, mimes, and other performers strutted through the crowd as they demonstrated their respective skills. Each entertainer had their own following of excited children trailing after them, laughing and screaming in delight. The sky was cloudy, but it was not cold yet. Fall was on its way but not for a few more weeks, so there was no threat of bad weather to spoil the market’s festive atmosphere—at least for this day.
Ifo smiled to himself as he saw all the merriment. The market scene certainly reminded him of similar times in Styr during his youth, but he chose to walk around the perimeter of the square where it was less crowded and more sedate. Four broad boulevards connected to the square at each cardinal point; he picked the one leading to the east and hoped that it led to a likely inn.
As soon as the market square was behind him, the crowds thinned to a trickle, and Ifo appreciated the quiet that now surrounded him. There were still shops on either side of the street, but they were more refined, clearly appealing to the upper echelons of Wesin’s populace. In between the shops were the homes of artisans and the more successful merchants; a few cafes and restaurants were sprinkled about within the prosperous quarter.
After another block, Ifo finally spotted a sign swinging from a post above an open door. Music, and the aroma of something delicious being cooked, wafted out onto the street. The sign was well painted; it depicted a black stallion rearing up on its hind legs with its front legs raised high before it. Ifo thought it looked promising, and if nothing else, he might find directions to another inn.
In the entryway, a large doorman sat in a chair reading a book. He glanced up and stiffened slightly at the sight of the newcomer, but he did not move to keep Ifo from entering. Grudging acceptance. The common room of this inn was much smaller than those on the waterfront, but it was nicely furnished and kept spotless. The room was not crowded, but the inn was doing a brisk business. Serving girls bustled between the kitchens and the tables. At this inn there was none of the pinching or groping by patrons that one would see at the waterfront and other ill-reputed establishments. A stately gray-haired woman walked up to him. She had the same depiction of the stallion embroidered on her high-necked dress above her heart.
“Welcome to the Royal Stallion, sir. Can I help you?” Ifo noticed the woman greeted him politely, but he could tell she was not used to seeing many of his dark-skinned sort here.
He smiled widely and said, “A room for the night, if you please.” He saw her hesitate as she took in his clothing and bulky travel bag. “And a bath… I am fresh off a ship and heading to Styr in the morning.”
The woman smiled politely but was still reserved. The smile became more genuine once Ifo reached for his purse strings and pulled out a gold mark.
Quick as a wink, the coin disappeared from his hand. “And would you be inclined for a meal after your bath, sir? Our chef has a lovely dinner planned tonight with fresh crab and lobster, and we have a wonderful selection of fine wines from Styr to choose from.”
“Excellent. I am most famished,” Ifo said. “Also, I will be breaking my fast tomorrow before I depart.”
“Very good, sir. My name is Isel. My husband and I are the proprietors of the Royal Stallion.”
“My name is Roland Arlis,” Ifo lied. The subterfuge was likely unnecessary, but you could never be too careful in a city you didn’t know, and of course, in his line of work it paid to be careful.
“Well met, Master Arlis. I will have one of the girls show you to your room and to the baths. Please enjoy your stay here, and do not hesitate to ask for anything more that you may require.” With that said, she gave a small bow of her head and moved on, hailing one of the servers.
Ifo smiled courteously to the young lady who gave him a brief curtsy. She showed him to his room. He followed along, anxious to finally put down his travel bag. He was looking forward to the bath and the meal, and even more so to the bed.
“There you are, sir,” the young server said as she handed him the key to his room. “The baths are down the hall on the end. I will have one drawn right away for you, sir. There is a robe in your room and towels as well.”
Ifo tossed her a silver bit, a generous tip, but not overly so.
“Thank you, sir. Please enjoy your stay.” She smiled and gave another quick curtsy as she bustled off to return to her other duties.
He always tipped well. It was something of a science with him. No tip, and the person you shorted would think of you with suspicion. An overly generous tip would attract too much attention; you would be remembered and viewed with interest. A moderate tip was best, not trying too hard to ingratiate oneself or to suggest at impropriety, but enough to show respect to the person being tipped and to the services they performed. Pleasantly forgettable. Or as forgettable as I can be here in Wesin. Ifo was not concerned about being noticed. He had never been here before, much less ever carried out a contract here, but he did not like to leave things to chance. He would do as he had been trained and do his best to remain beneath notice.
Ifo entered his room and locked the door behind him. With a sigh of relief, he tossed the travel bag down on the bench at the foot of the bed. It was a nice room. Much nicer than he had been expecting in a burgeoning coastal town like Wesin. The bed was large and looked to be quite comfortable. The furniture was all hand-crafted with great precision, and the room was immaculate. This will do nicely.
He opened up the travel bag and laid out a clean shirt, breeches, and a light cloak on the bed. He found the robe and towels in a closet and began to strip off his travel-stained clothes. None too soon for a bath, Ifo thought at the pungent smell—and for a shave. He removed his two longknives from his belt, then he unstrapped his shoulder harness that held two more knives along his rib cage. Next, he took off one more knife that dangled from a cord around his neck and rested on his back—sheathed of course; two small daggers strapped to each upper arm added to the growing stack of weaponry. He left the two knives in his boots where they were but decided to take off his boots. Then he removed the knife strapped to his right calf. He piled all the various leather straps, sheaths, and blades onto the bed and threw an extra towel over them to hide them from view if someone came into the room while he was in the baths. He would sharpen and oil them when he returned.
Ifo took out a black-lacquered woodcase from the travel bag and set it on the bed. Opening up the lid, he checked the throwing stars, blowgun, and darts and made sure the stoppers were properly sealing the glass bottles that were filled with various poisons. He left the next case in the bag, opened it, and checked on the small crossbow within; a fresh coat of oil shone from the surfaces of the firing mechanism. Another reason why I hate the ocean. Salt water wreaked havoc on unoiled metals. A shortsword and a stiletto finished out his kit. He left these sheathed after quickly ensuring that they too had a layer of oil after the ocean travel. He wrapped them back up in a spare shirt and set them on the bed. This was his travel kit; he had a small room he let in Styr with much more equipment, discreetly hidden, of course. Ifo smiled. What would the prim Mistress Isel think of all this?
He stripped off his clothes and slipped on the robe. Grabbing two towels, he secreted one of the longer belt knives under the fold of the bottom towel. He never went anywhere unarmed. Ifo locked the door behind him and made his way down the hallway to the baths. The room was empty; it was early—only late afternoon. Five copper tubs were positioned in separate stalls. One of the tubs was steaming with hot water. He dropped his things on a small bench next to the tub and eased himself inside. The water was scalding, but it felt like a boon from the Giver. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the sea journey’s foulness seep away from his body. Ifo grabbed a fresh bar of soap that was resting on the rim of the tub and began to scrub. His eyes still closed, Ifo’s hands felt the familiar raised bumps and tracks of scars that criss-crossed his entire body. As he scoured the grime away, each time his hand ran over one of the scars it reminded him of a mistake he had made. There had been numerous missteps.
His profession naturally winnowed out those who had blundered, and he was lucky in the beginning of his career to survive them. Ifo’s old mentor had told him that he would be done learning when he stopped getting more scars. The young Ifo’s eyes had nearly popped out of his head when his teacher had removed his own shirt to reveal just how much “learning” his mentor had done. His master had always been fond of various sayings that mentioned scars and wisdom. ‘When you come across a scarred man, you know that he never made the same mistake twice.’ That was his mentor’s most often repeated adage. Ifo had always suspected that his teacher had been creating those sayings that would favor his mentor, but over the years, and through the collecting of all his own scars, he had found his old teacher’s sayings to be true. ‘When a man stops earning scars, he stops learning, and the man who stops learning in our line of work is soon to be a dead man.’ Another favorite.
Ifo shook his head to clear away the trace of sadness that the memories of his mentor had conjured up. His old trainer had never stopped getting scars and still he had met his end. It was one of the sad truths of this way of life; it was rare for one of his pro
fession to retire, and not through lack of trying. Grudges abounded and were never forgotten. His master had been killed by someone who was hired by the son of a man that his master had killed many years ago—on a contract that he would have turned down had it been offered later in his career.
Using the small mirror next to the tub, Ifo began to shave seven-days’ growth of stubble from his head and face. The water was still pleasantly scalding hot. As the blade slid over his scalp, his mind turned toward his future. Ifo knew that he was closer to the end of his career than to the beginning. In a year—two at most—he would probably have to take on an apprentice. His own master had only been a few years older than Ifo was now when he had first agreed to apprentice a six-year-old youngster named Ifo.
He shook his head once more. This was not the time to dwell on what he would be doing in the years to come. He needed to relax and recuperate from his sea voyage, then he must begin to think about the overland journey to Styr, not spend his time mulling over what has been or what was to come. Correcting his stray thoughts, Ifo began to plan out the rest of the day. He needed to buy a horse and secure provisions for the trip. Ifo also needed to see if he could find some merchant’s guards to ask about ravinor activity in the area. He had heard word of an increasing number of sightings of covens and attacks throughout the empire.
In Olisk, the city he had set out from on his voyage to Wesin, Ifo had witnessed a night raid by a coven of ravinors, what those in the west and central regions of the empire would call a flock. He had seen them from afar before but not for many years, and he had never encountered any of the creatures during his travels, likely because most of his contracts were in large cities that had high walls and trained soldiers that were proof against such attacks.
Something about them gave him chills. Was it only that they had been men once? Is that what bothers me so? Or is it simply the idea that their old human selves were potentially still present and aware deep within the recesses of the ravinor’s mind, but powerless to exert any control over its actions? Ifo shuddered at the disturbing thought. He had heard that in the aftermath of a ravinor raid, the newly turned ravinors would not hesitate to attack their own human kin.