by Travis Peck
After all the things he had done in his life, and that had been done to him, Ifo was only afraid of one thing on dry land: Ravinors.
Ifo was tempted to go with a caravan to Styr this time. He didn’t ever want to be face to face with those things if he could help it. But on a contract? No, I must travel alone. He didn’t know why he was so worried this time, but there was nothing for it. Perhaps he would ask around tomorrow and learn that there had been no sightings in the vicinity and that the road to the capital was clear of the foul creatures.
He realized the water had grown cold as his mind had drifted away. He got out of the tub and toweled off. He felt much better. He was clean now and would have a nice meal soon. Thoughts of ravinors and questions of the future faded to the back of his mind as he made his way to his room.
Ifo scanned the room and nothing seemed amiss. Before he went down to dinner, he would add a few fine hairs and feathers around the room in places of likely ingress; if they were disturbed, it would tell him if anyone had been trespassing. He donned his clean clothes and studied himself in the mirror. The black skin of his face was perhaps more wrinkled at the corner of his eyes than it had been. Before he had shaved, a few scattered gray hairs had been visible about his head. The stubble on his face had even more gray patches, but, when he was cleanly shaven, he thought he looked ten years younger than his two-score years. However, his deep purple eyes looked much older—at least to him. They seemed to look more haunted each year that passed.
Deeming himself to be adequately presentable, he left his room to go down to the common room. He only carried his two boot knives and the one that hung down from his neck to the small of his back. The Royal Stallion did not look to be the sort of establishment that had nightly brawls, so he had selected a more subtle armament.
The common room was more crowded than when he had first arrived, but he did not see anyone with food in front of them yet, so sating his hunger would have to wait for the dinner to finish cooking. A few pints of ale would not go amiss as he waited, or perhaps some of that fine Styric wine the proprietor had mentioned.
A few tables stood open, but Ifo chose to sit at the bar. One couple, a middle-aged man and woman, briefly nodded at him in greeting and carried on with their quiet conversation. Two chairs down from where Ifo was about to sit, a man got up with his half-full glass and moved to a table as soon as his eyes took in Ifo’s dark skin. An older gentleman who occupied the seat next to him was immersed in a book and gave an absent-minded greeting as Ifo settled onto his seat.
The man overseeing the bar walked over whilst cleaning a glass with a clean rag. He was younger than Ifo and had the look of Mistress Isel. Her son, Ifo guessed.
“Good day, Master…?” The barkeep quested for Ifo’s name.
“Arlis. Roland Arlis,” Ifo said.
The barkeep nodded and asked, “What will it be, Master Arlis? We just got in a keg of lager from Merovia, and we have a nice cask of Styric stout. And, of course, we also have some local brews. Or wine if you prefer?”
“How about a Merovian,” Ifo ordered as he tossed down a silver bit onto the bar. “When will dinner be ready? I’ve just come from a ship, and I’m quite hungry.”
“One Merovian it is. And dinner should be ready in a candle, no later.”
Ifo’s stomach growled in protest, but now that he knew it would not be too long, he could relax with a drink.
His lager arrived with a nice head of foam on it. Ifo took a deep pull and sighed with contentment.
The man reading his book must have heard. “Been a while?”
Ifo smiled in response, then said, “A few months since I had a Merovian… I sailed from Olisk and just arrived today.”
“Olisk? I was there a few years back, and I remember quite clearly that I was unable to procure a pint there myself,” the man said. Then he called out, “Jof! A Merovian for me as well!”
Jof, the barkeep, nodded, and poured out another glass of the lager and brought it over.
When it arrived the man clinked his pint glass with Ifo’s. “Arin Trevan. Nice to meet another Merovian lager admirer.”
“Roland Arlis. Nice to meet you, Arin.” The two shook hands. Arin was older than him by ten years or more, but was still fit. Ifo could tell that the man was bursting with energy, and though he usually did not encourage such amiable interactions during a contract, he could not help but like Trevan.
“A pleasure, Roland! I’m in lumber. Here on business. How about yourself?” Trevan spoke quickly and with great enthusiasm.
“The same,” Ifo answered. “Here on business, that is. I’m an agent of a clothier based out of Styr,” he said. He felt bad for the necessary prevarication, but it was important that he not reveal too much.
“Headed home then?”
“Indeed, it will be good to get back. I’ve been gone far too long,” Ifo explained, this time without the need for a lie. “And yourself?”
“The same. Returning to Styr.”
The two clinked glasses again as they both said, “To Styr!”
They were both grinning now and their glasses were empty. Ifo ordered another round. “So, what were you reading?” he asked, gesturing at the leather-bound book.
“Ah, that.” Trevan took a sip of his lager and answered, “It’s really quite fascinating. It’s about ravinors. Mon Lyzink’s first publication on the subject.”
Ifo’s interest was piqued. “Do you know a lot about them?”
“I do. Not as much as Mon Lyzink, of course, but I’m in the lumber trade, and as it happens, we have to have some knowledge of the creatures as our woodsmen and lumberjacks encounter them from time to time. In fact, that is what brought me to Wesin. One of the lumber camps failed to deliver on time, and no word had been heard from them for nearly two months. I hired a guide and a few guardsmen and found the camp deserted. Not a soul around… There had been sign of—struggle.” Trevan’s demeanor grew solemn, and Ifo found himself leaning closer, attention rapt. “A dozen good men, gone. Or mostly gone. We found two bodies. It looked like scavengers had cleaned their bones, but we all knew better. It was the work of ravinors.”
“That’s terrible,” Ifo said in a hushed voice, and he meant it. Meeting one’s demise at the hands—and teeth—of those creatures was a ghastly thought; but becoming one? That was even more horrific. “So there are ravinors in the area then. Is that common?” Ifo asked, growing more concerned over what should have been a simple journey to Styr.
“Oh, it didn’t used to be common. And truth be told, this is the only time I have ever lost a camp to them. But some of my fellows in the trade have lost camps this year too. All our camps are scattered between here and Styr. It used to be that some of our workers would see a stray ravinor or two, or perhaps a small coven at most. Now it seems their numbers are growing, or at least, they’re growing bolder.”
“I witnessed a night raid in Olisk,” Ifo said. “First one I’d ever seen.”
Trevan nodded, “The northern regions—and the far south—seem to have fewer ravinors than the rest of the continent. Mon Lyzink suggests that it’s due to the population distribution of the empire. The north, on average, is much more sparsely peopled. There are big cities and such as you know, but the vast majority of the northern regions of the empire consists of towns and small villages, with widely scattered farms and holdings interspersed throughout. Here in the west, there are certainly small towns but they are much closer together than in the north, but still separated enough to give the ravinors safe places to hide in. I think the area between here and Styr is one of the most heavily forested areas in the empire. Perfect for ravinors to travel through in between raids.
“Farther south, when you get into Merovia, the land is old and well-settled, so the sightings of ravinors are less frequent. Ravinors, in my experience, and Mon Lyzink’s findings agree, thrive on the fringe of civilization. Far enough away from the largest cities that boast strong defenses and well-trained soldiers, yet close e
nough to the myriad smaller villages and towns where they have a much better chance of survival after procuring a meal. But, as you know, it only takes one ravinor to cause an outbreak—then it’s the Taker’s harvest.”
“The Giver protect us,” Ifo muttered. He had usually reserved prayers for ocean voyages, but now he found it might be helpful in dealing with ravinors too. Just in case.
Trevan nodded once more. “You mentioned you were going to Styr. Well, I am going there myself. What would you say to us traveling together? I have extra horses if you need one, and I plan on making the trek as fast as I can.”
“That sounds good to me. I normally don’t worry much about traveling alone, but with these cursed ravinors about, I would be glad of the company.” Ifo never traveled with others. Especially with someone going to where a contract was to be fulfilled. But Styr is a metropolis, and it’s unlikely that Trevan knows my target or that our paths will ever cross again after we arrive. And with ravinors about—it’s worth it, Ifo thought.
Ifo agreed and actually felt much relieved. He could take care of himself—and then some—in the cities, and almost everywhere else, but not against ravinors. Maybe if he had grown up dealing with them, but he had not; he had been raised in the largest city in the world where the creatures did not dare to trespass.
“Excellent!” Trevan clapped him on the shoulder. “Another pair of eyes should make the journey much safer.”
“Dinner is ready, gentlemen,” Jof said as he brought two large platters from the kitchen.
Ifo’s mouth watered. The platter was heaped with food. A generously sized lobster, and an equally large crab, dominated most of the dish. The crustaceans were surrounded by potatoes. Garlic cloves and a just melting pat of butter covered the steaming tubers. A freshly baked slice of stonebread filled his nostrils with its distinctive and nostalgic aroma. Ifo, with all the dignity he could muster, forced himself to eat at a more stately pace than what his stomach preferred. It was delicious. He had forgotten about Trevan, and ravinors and contracts, and just enjoyed the meal. Ifo came back to the present once he had polished off the lobster, half the crab and most of the potatoes.
Trevan grinned, “Hungry, eh?”
Ifo laughed. “I never eat well on ocean voyages,” he explained before taking a large bite of stonebread.
“Well, if you eat that much all the time we’ll have to get a wagon!” Trevan laughed and gestured to his own nearly full platter.
“Don’t worry friend, this meal will set me to rights. I usually manage to travel light.”
Trevan chuckled again, and the two fell into a companionable silence as they ate. Ifo ordered one more round of drinks.
The two finished their meals, and both of them were feeling full and content. While letting their food digest, they nursed their final pints of the night. A small group of musicians were playing a tune as the other guests became more lively after they had finished their own meals. Ifo felt his eyes grow heavy. Sleeping while seasick left much to be desired, and he had some catching up to do.
“Shall we meet to break our fast tomorrow morning at sun up?” Ifo asked.
“That will work. Have a good night. You look like you could use some rest,” Trevan said. He gave Ifo a clap on the shoulder. “I will seek my bed soon myself.”
Ifo put a few silver bits on the table to pay for his meal and drinks and stood up. As he walked out of the common room, he heard the music become more jubilant and the crowd louder as the food and drink continued to flow. Nothing like it would have been down at the waterfront, he thought, pleased with his decision to seek out a quiet inn. The walls between rooms were thicker here, and the patrons much more subdued. Ifo was pleased that he had decided to come to the Royal Stallion. Even more fortunate, was meeting Trevan. He was embarrassed about how uneasy and anxious he had felt about the prospect of journeying alone with the risk of encountering ravinors. He was an assassin, for the love of the Giver, and he was expected to have no fear. A ravinor could not possibly match his skill, yet Ifo would rather face down a squad of fully armored guardsmen than a lone ravinor.
He reached his room and entered. Checking a fine thread he had wound around the entry, he noticed it was still intact. Another thread circled the foot of the bed where most of his gear was, also undisturbed. The window had not been breached during his absence, though with no balcony it would have been unlikely. After confirming the sanctity of his room, Ifo lit several candles, brightening the room with their warm glow.
Sitting down on the bench, he began to inspect his kit more carefully than his initial perusal. He sharpened each knife, inspected for nicks, and then oiled every weapon much more lightly then he had before. Over land the oil would attract dust that could gum up and cause the weapon in question to stick in its sheath; a potentially fatal mistake. Ifo let his mind rest as he continued to see to his gear. Automatic movements completed chores he could have performed blindfolded—and had.
Nearly two candles had passed by the time he slid the crossbow back into its case. Looking out through the window, Ifo saw that the full moon was high in the clear night’s sky. It was getting late. He could hear the music winding down in the common room as guests sought out their rooms for the night, while the locals who frequented the Royal Stallion sought their own beds at home.
When he had finished seeing to his gear, Ifo packed the travel bag back up, leaving one knife to go under his pillow as he slept. Or tried to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, he felt as anxious as he had been for his first contract. The thoughts of ravinors had rattled him, and he was starting to get frustrated with himself for the unprofessional fears he was having. Trevan had seemed concerned with the presence of ravinors, but he had been studying and preparing for an encounter by reading the Mon Lyzink publication—much as Ifo would have familiarized himself with the comings and goings of sentries and guards needed to be bypassed for a contract.
The lumbermill owner seemed to treat the creatures as just another part of business, like bad weather or a wood-eating beetle infestation at one of his lumber camps. To Ifo, they were an unknown equation that he had had no experience with other than witnessing an attack safely behind the walls of Olisk. That night he had seen archers firing with no fear of return fire as they leaned over the walls to get better shots. A quick sortie from a small squad of heavily armored guards easily eliminated the remaining ravinors. Not a single loss of life, or even an infection, had occurred. The archers themselves had seemed untroubled, even the horsemen who actually had direct contact with the creatures were blase about the whole incident. Ifo had been more on edge than any of the men who had actually engaged with the ravinors.
Perhaps it was only a matter of exposure. He hoped that was all. Ifo blew out the candles, stripped off his clothes, and got into bed; as was his habit, he had his longknife grasped in his right hand beneath his pillow that his head rested on.
Nightmares of ravinors filled his restless repose.
Interlude: Part One
Excerpt from: The Ravinor: An Introduction. By Herris Mon Lyzink.
People often ask me if ravinors remember their old lives. To those individuals, I would answer—honestly and earnestly—that I do not know. I would say, rather, that if they do remember, than those memories do not seem to serve the ravinor in any intelligible manner. Several experiments were conducted by my apprentice and I that should serve to illustrate this point.
One such experiment took place three years earlier when first attempting to answer this line of questioning concerning the possibility of a ravinor retaining its human memory. My apprentice and I were going to the site of a ravinor attack which had taken place earlier that day. The unfortunate man who had been bitten was a hunter. He lived in a cabin in the woods with a nearby shack that he used to store his kills as they dried out to await further preparation.
The man’s turning was nigh. We, after receiving permission from the local authorities, placed this man in a barn a quarter-candle’s walk from his cabin
. When he turned we were safely up in the hayloft, observing him. The barn door was purposefully left open; the theory being that once the man turned he would immediately set out for his old hunting shed where meat was ready for the taking. Ravinors availed themselves of any meat, fresh or otherwise, and do not seem to care one whit whether the flesh was from a living creature or from a scavenged carcass.
In any case, the man darted off into the woods toward his old hunting shed. My apprentice and I followed. We were careful to keep our distance in order to observe what the ravinor did, but we also wanted to safeguard against its possible return to the nearby village. At first, I was sure that the ravinor was making its way directly to the shed filled with just over twenty stones of curing meats. But the creature did not go to the aforementioned shed. It walked within one hundred yards of the structure and never once even looked toward it.
Surely a ravinor, well-known for its insatiable appetite, would go to a nearby food source that it had known intimately from its human time. But, alas, the creature did not. The reason the ravinor went in the direction toward the hunting shed, we now believe, was due to the fact that it happened to be off in the same direction as the nearest stretch of forest that could be seen upon its exit from the barn. We followed the creature for three more candles and had traveled a few leagues from its old cabin. It was clear that the ravinor had no intention of going to the hunting shed, so we put it down to eliminate any risk of it spreading the infection.
The second case took place two years ago. Once again, we made our way to the site of a ravinor attack. This time, in a town where a local merchant had been attacked and scratched by a ravinor. The man had killed the creature but was unlucky enough to be nicked by a tainted nail or tooth in the process. He had been a wagoner who happened to deliver meat to the town from a nearby village. It was on his route from the village to the town that he was attacked— not surprising considering he was transporting a cart load of freshly butchered beef. His cart, parked outside the inn he frequented while on this particular route, was still filled with its cargo. We persuaded—by purchasing the contents of the meat shipment—the local authorities to leave the cart where it was for the time being.