Ravinor

by Travis Peck

  We were able to take the soon-to-be-turned man to an abandoned house at the end of the lane. The vacant house was just down the main thoroughfare and within sight of the inn where the meat cart was sitting with its enticing cargo. Once again, we had the permission of the local authorities. We also had the assistance of two guardsmen armed with bows. One guard was positioned on each side of the street, able to cover any possible route the ravinor might take should it try to leave town.

  The new ravinor, having made its egress from the abandoned house, turned to look right at the wagon full of meat that it had used to transport goods during its human life. Then it turned to look in the other direction down the road. The forest must have beckoned. The ravinor ran down the road and out of town; the meat-packed conveyance that the man had transported for seventeen years was forgotten in its wake.

  The study of these two cases are more than sufficient to suggest that ravinors do not remember their previous lives; or at the least, that they do not recall details in any meaningful way. But the next experiment was informative in another capacity. The first two cases dealt with the ravinor’s most sacred concern—procuring meat. I have selected the third case because it has nothing to do with any use of a ravinor’s old human memory about the availability of fresh and easily accessible provender.

  This case involved a guardsman who was infected while defending a town from a ravinor assault. He was the lone casualty. This particular guardsman was also assigned to a long neglected repair of the city wall. In one part of the wall—for whatever cause I shall leave to the engineers!–the ground had begun to sink underneath, and the wall was crumbling away atop it. The result was a hole in the wall roughly one arm’s span wide, which was easily large enough to accommodate a motivated ravinor seeking to breach the wall to reach the township’s citizens.

  The wall, at our behest, and again with the local authorities’ blessing, was left in disrepair. We did, however, by using some gray curtain, stones, and some timber bracing, manage to “repair” the wall in appearance only. Perhaps not enough to fool a human, but it was certainly enough to avoid detection by a ravinor. And certainly not enough to fool a ravinor who had retained any of its old human life’s memories regarding such a lapse in the town wall’s defensive cohesion.

  For this experiment, we needed to cart the soon-to-be-turned fellow out fifty yards from the gate. We unhitched the horse and brought it back to town; its scent should draw the newly awakened ravinor to seek entrance to the town. We watched from the town wall with a few archers who were ready to dispatch the creature if it went off into the woods, or if it gained entry through the illusory repaired section of wall.

  The former guardsman turned and began to follow the scent of the horse to the town gate. It was closed and barred, of course, and the ravinor proceeded to walk back and forth in front of the gate for nearly a candle. It abruptly began to race along the perimeter in the direction toward the disguised portion of the wall. For our part, we were standing on top of the wall a good distance away from, but with a clear sight of, the breach. We did not want to inadvertently encourage the ravinor to pay any special attention to that part of the wall. We wanted it to rely on its human memory to achieve the breach.

  The ravinor ran past us, and also past the breach. It was none the wiser to the existence of the damaged area. The poor creature ran around the city wall twenty-seven times—my apprentice figured the distance to be just over five leagues—without expressing any interest in any one section of it, least of all the disguised breach. On its twenty-eighth lap, the archers were obliged to put the ravinor down.

  Chapter Four

  MARTEL DOVE HEADLONG INTO a shallow ditch and scrambled underneath the thick stand of tree roots and brambles that thrived alongside it. The thorns scratched his arms and pierced his clothing, but he failed to take notice. His attention was fixed on his back-trail and what was following him. He attempted to hold his breath but had little success; his heart raced and his lungs burned from the chase.

  The young man strained to hear above the pounding of blood in his ears and the torrent of rain falling around him. His pursuer had to be close. It was fast, but so was Martel. He only hoped that the creature would not be able to track him through the heavy rain. Martel thanked the Giver for the raging storm, the hard-driving rain, and the obscured full moon. He squirmed farther into the undergrowth. The mud coated him even as it tried to hold him fast. He froze. He swore he had just heard—

  Crack.

  And another. That was definitely a branch snapping. That wasn’t the storm making that noise. He couldn’t move. Terror locked his muscles tight. His breath was a shallow pant; he knew he wasn’t getting enough air, but to be discovered now would lead to a much worse fate. Martel could make out the creature that had been stalking him. A ravinor. A young one, too. This one must have turned recently, for it still wore breeches that were ripped and filthy, but much better than mature ravinors he had seen. Its tunic, however, was more rag than an article of clothing. It had once been a man; middle-aged, he judged by the balding head and slight paunch. Its remaining ring of hair was beginning to grow long and lanky over its ears and down its neck. Dirt, grease, and grime pasted the strands of hair to its face and neck. The nails were short for a ravinor, not surprising considering its youth. A mature ravinor would have fingers like a human, but their nails were elongated and hardened to the point that they resembled claws. Their canines would also grow more prominent, and their body hair grew thicker too. Some speculated that ravinors see and hear better than humans, but there was no speculation as to their greater strength, that had been well documented over the centuries since ravinors first made their appearance on the continent.

  It was partly due to that speculation that led to Martel cringing in the mud—hiding and praying not to be spotted or heard. He was studying with the foremost ravinor scholar, Herris Mon Lyzink. Martel thought he was the luckiest person in the world, though this evening certainly dampened his enthusiasm. His parents were beside themselves that their only son was apprenticed to the famous pedagogue. Martel had left home nearly five years ago and had been immersed into the scholarly realm from the beginning. He had learned more in the first week of studying with Mon Lyzink than in his eighteen years prior. Martel’s lessons had become much more specific and interesting as an apprentice, but it was the experiments and field work that he loved the most.

  Of course, it was just such an experiment that had caused him to be in his current predicament.

  Mon Lyzink and Martel had loaded up a wagon with the tools of their trade: beakers, pipettes, syringes, measuring apparatuses, assorted compounds, and the like; along with several gold’s worth of parchment and ink with which to painstakingly record their observations and findings. A few days out from Mon Lyzink’s tower, they had been closing with their quarry. A flock of ravinors had been seen in the area, so the two had made a direct course to head them off before they made it into the densest part of the forest—where even the unflappable Mon Lyzink thought better of venturing.

  A trap had been set, and they had captured one ravinor. The next day, they caught another. They had stayed two more weeks, and each day, they were able to capture another one. After hiring a few reluctant locals and procuring themselves another wagon, an old magistrate’s gaol transport with bars already in place, they headed back to their main camp. The trip had gone well the first day. The second day, the Taker himself had decided to piss down on their heads from on high—a common expression in Styr denoting horrible luck.

  The ravinor-hauling wagon had broken its axle. The ill-tempered creatures, understandably angry about their loss of freedom and their lack of a human diet—rather, their lack of a diet of human flesh—promptly used their combined mass to tip the wagon onto its side. The weight of the wagon landing on its bars snapped it apart like dry kindling, and the ravinors squirmed out to freedom. And that was that. Martel and his master were the only ones left.

  For the past week, the
y had been trying to neutralize the escaped ravinors. It was a shame they had to kill perfectly fine specimens, but with no more locals to help, and no more wagon to carry their subjects, this expedition had become a disaster. They had killed twelve of them, leaving only two more at-large—assuming no other ravinor flocks in the area intervened. Ravinors were selective in allowing other ravinors to join their flock, but if these two were accepted into a new flock, it would be much more dangerous for the two scholars. How they determined which ravinor could join into an existing flock was one such behavior they were studying, and if they discovered some insight into the topic, perhaps this trip wouldn’t be a complete loss.

  But, at the present moment, all of that could not be further from Martel’s mind. Over the last five years, he had definitely gained experience dealing with ravinors. He dealt with them on a daily basis. Any day, he could be bitten, or scratched, or somehow infected; then, more than likely, turned. Unfortunately, here and now, with visibility being so poor, coupled with the darkness and rain, the ravinor had every advantage other than intelligence. On top of that, he had lost his knife and cudgel during the flight after they had spotted another flock. It was quite uncharacteristic of the creatures to occupy such a small area together and quite dangerous for any humans and wildlife who happened to be in the vicinity.

  The rain did work in his favor in one regard at least; it should dampen his scent, decreasing the ravinor’s ability to track him to more like that of a human. Martel had not been in the bush for so long that a human could smell him from any distance. Close up, maybe. Probably.

  Martel dared to glance up. The ravinor was close. Just on the other side of the brambles. Martel grabbed the largest rock within reach, only the size of his fist and not particularly sharp, but it was something at least. Bashing a ravinor to death with a rock was not an attractive survival option. The risk of getting infected in such a close and bloody encounter was astronomically high.

  The ravinor’s foot was only an arm’s length from his head now. Martel braced himself. He was not terribly large, and his muscles were stringy and wiry, much better for endurance than brute strength. Of course, outrunning a ravinor was a near impossibility; brute strength was the more desired attribute for this situation.

  No, not yet. Martel heeded his own counsel. Taking deep breaths, Martel tried to ease out from under the brambles that crowded him ever deeper into the small depression. The rain suddenly stopped.

  Shit! Martel shouted silently in his mind. The ravinor let out a grunt, and Martel knew he had been spotted. Still grasping the rock, he shot to his feet and bolted. His pursuer made excited noises—a mix between a bark and a deranged, maniacal laugh. The hedge of brambles ran continuously along the edge of the small ditch for one hundred yards or so, creating an impenetrable barrier—or so Martel was hoping. The ravinor might be able to get through, but it would take time to push its way past the densely intertwined branches and roots. It loped along on the other side, staring with the ever-present and all-consuming hunger that seemed to torment every ravinor’s soul. That is, if it still possessed one any longer.

  Ravinors were both like and unlike beasts. There was a certain naturalistic aura, or energy, that surrounded animals in the wild. They were different from mankind, but there was still that deep-rooted kinship between man and beast and nature. The ravinor was a creature that seemed to lack such an aura. They seemed creatures with no depth or feeling, and they seemed driven by an insatiable hunger that led to their bastardized name. Ravenous. Ravinor.

  Animals of the wild experienced hunger, and men did too, of course, but they also possessed other concerns. Survival and procreation were the most instinctual, but also those of love, family, and happiness. Ravinors did not seem to have any of these basic life qualities. They were only hungry. Or at least that is how they appeared. Martel had, during his time observing them, come to believe that there was something more to the creatures. Not more human-like qualities and concerns, but rather less. Martel felt ravinors were more foreign and alien compared to any other organism that walked, crawled, or slithered across the land.

  The ravinor chasing him certainly did not seem to be exhibiting any redeeming qualities as it stalked him beyond the hedgerow. Martel could not find fault in its focus though. Branches slapped the ravinor across the face, but its eyes never left its prey.

  Martel noticed the ground becoming more rocky now. This was doubly unfortunate for him because the living barrier between survival and death would not grow as thick, and the rocks were slick with rain. As the thought came to him, his foot slipped out from under him and he went sprawling. A pain in his right ankle made him cry out. The ravinor could not contain itself after that. Seeing its wounded, would-be prey lying helpless on the ground tried the creature’s patience. It began to push itself through the brambles, frenzied, heedless of the scratches and cuts it was receiving. On all fours now, the ravinor frantically pushed its body deeper and deeper into the undergrowth; its quarry was nearly within reach.

  Martel was panicking now. His ankle was broken, or sprained at least, and the ravinor was close. He only had moments before it escaped the barrier that separated them. He had to get up. Now. Martel yelled out in pain as he got to his feet and sprinted ahead. The brambles began clearing out. Luckily for him, the ravinor had lost patience and got itself mired within the dense vegetation. It could have simply ran on for a few more yards, and it would have seen the barrier thin, providing a clear path back to its meal. The thing was still struggling to get through, undecided whether it should press on or just back up out of the brambles. This hesitation gave Martel precious time to get as much ground between them as possible.

  His ankle was throbbing in pain. Martel had to stop looking back to see whether or not the ravinor had cleared the thick barrier. He could only focus on pushing himself forward through the pain. The ground changed from rocky footing back to mud. The small shift of his foot when it slipped with each step sent stabs of agony shooting up his right leg.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Martel heard the footfalls behind him. They were close, and he didn’t know how much farther he could go. He had lost his only weapon, the rock he had when he had hurt his ankle, so he had no means of defending himself—no matter how ineffectual it would have been. An especially large pine stood a few hundred spans ahead. He would make his stand there, such as it would be. He hoped he could grab a fallen branch, or some other miracle weapon, before he turned to meet his pursuer.

  Martel grunted in pain each time his right foot hit the ground. His agony then excited the pursuing ravinor, who matched each grunt with one of its own frenzied bark-laughs. He was a blink away from the tree when he saw a figure on the other side. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but sure enough, he could see the base of a cloak peeking out from the other side of the large tree trunk.

  “Martel! Get down!” his mentor’s voice rang out.

  Martel obeyed the command as he reached the tree, sliding on his back the last few yards beyond the tree through the slick mud. The ravinor let out a yelp of excitement at its forthcoming meal. As the ravinor readied itself to pounce, an ashen staff flashed from behind the tree. The creature was running at full speed, and the staff was swung with great velocity.

  Martel heard the crack of the staff as it hit the ravinor’s skull. It sounded like a melon bursting against stone. The ravinor dropped to the ground at Martel’s feet, limp and lifeless. He realized he was holding his breath and released it with a gasp.

  Mon Lyzink stepped from behind the tree, hefting his now broken staff; a large grin peeked through his bushy, gray-speckled beard. Not so bushy after all the rain they’d had—his mentor looked like he had a half-drowned lapdog clutching at his face. Martel remained flat on his back in the mud taking in deep gulps of air.

  “That went perfectly!” his master said in his ever-cheerful voice. “You have to admire their determination, don’t you, lad! Truly fascinating creatures. A shame, though,
to waste one…” Martel’s mentor failed to finish his thought; a frequent occurrence.

  “Yes. It’s a damn shame, master,” Martel said with a tone that was, as usual, lost on its target.

  “Truly. But don’t worry, we all make mistakes.”

  Martel stared at Mon Lyzink, dumbfounded. This is too much even for him.

  Mon Lyzink suddenly guffawed, looking at his student with tears of mirth forming in his eyes. “Oh my boy, you are too serious. You can’t lose sight of the humor in life.”

  “Humor?” Martel said, a touch more hysteric than he would have liked. “I was almost eaten by a ravinor!”

  At this, Mon Lyzink laughed even harder. His jovial mentor had to lean on the tree to steady himself. The staff in his hand still had a clump of skull and hair attached to the end, dripping bright scarlet blood. Martel couldn’t help but to grin a little. No situation was too grim for Mon Lyzink to ignore a joke that he could make—usually at Martel’s expense.

  Once Martel had sufficiently slowed his heart to merely a gallop, he stood to his feet, mindful to keep the weight off his bad ankle. Seeing his apprentice’s injury, Mon Lyzink dashed his staff against the tree trunk, breaking it. He picked up one of the pieces and broke it against the tree again. Taking the two roughly equal lengths, Mon Lyzink set one piece on either side of Martel’s ankle. He then ripped off several strips of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and lashed them around the broken pieces of staff and his student’s ankle, which effectively made a brace, albeit a temporary one.