by Travis Peck
The victims had to, at least vaguely, remember that they had been attacked and infected by a ravinor. Perhaps it had been a loved one who had unexpectedly attacked them. Someone they had known for their whole lives; someone they trusted. The once-human they had known must have set upon them; biting, scratching, and clawing at them and dooming them to fight for their souls in the ravinor dream.
Moira knew them as soon as she saw them, though, she had never met them before. Margrit, the blacksmith’s wife. She was the mother of two children, Adin and Jerys, six and eight years old, and she strolled calmly as could be expected in this strange place. Henrik, the head of the village council, sixty years old; his wife had passed on years before, and both of their daughters had grown up and moved to Styr nearly four decades prior. Pel was a young farmer who wasn’t normally in Deepbrooke, but he had been carting a crop of potatoes to the village to sell and would likely never return to his new wife, Lina.
The names came to her one after the other, on and on. For each person, she received a small flash of insight into their old lives. Perhaps one of them would make it back to their old life, having escaped from the ravinor dream. But, perhaps not. Moira felt the tears form in her eyes but stifled them. She knew, though, that once she had normal dreams again back in her room at the manor, the tears would come then. They would run down her cheeks and soak her pillow.
She felt despair when she witnessed Hynil, the village’s hopeless drunk, cry out and fall to his knees. When he stood up again, he had the black soulless eyes of a ravinor. He flashed out of the field. Gone in more ways than one. Even though she didn’t possess a body in this place, her normal field of vision from her afflicted eye still saw things differently. From it, she saw a black empty splotch appear, replacing the faint, white glow where Hynil had been before he had vanished. Five more black splotches replaced the white auras that had shone where people had been turned. Her left eye still saw the figures normally. It saw the black eyes appear, and then their bodies blinked away. Their only memorial would be a brief entry, scrawled in her small print, in her hidden journal that she dared not let anyone read.
Moira had noticed over the years that the people who made it to the corridor from the field tended to show up more brightly to her afflicted eye. The ones who made it to the queen’s room, and then the square beyond, glared the most brilliant white. Of all the figures before her, only two displayed such an aura. More and more humans disappeared from the fields. As soon as the last one had gone, the scene changed beneath her to the dreaded hallway.
She knew from experience that only one person at a time braved the corridor, yet she seemed to witness them all at once as if there were as many instances of her as there were victims. Moira knew that logic and the ravinor dream did not necessarily coincide.
Time went by. She had no way of knowing how long it had been, but as each person began to walk down the hallway, the Shadowman appeared behind them. The shadowy figure dominated the corridor; his head nearly touched the ceiling. His shoulders were set twice as wide as a man’s would be, and each arm had just enough room for the Shadowman to swing them as he gave chase. The man seemed solid but indistinct at the same time, if man he was.
Moira supposed that he was a ravinor, but one that did not fit the mold of any that she had seen in the dream before. Black, smoky tendrils coiled about his appendages, or where they seemed to be, giving the specter the look of solidity. Light appeared to struggle for its existence against the figure as the Shadowman drew it within the onyx abyss that was his cowled face—featureless, as befitted such pitch blackness. As the terrible creature pursued each soul, the corridor, along with the light, appeared to cease to exist behind it. The void left in his wake was nearly as frightening as the Shadowman was to his fleeing prey.
Moira loathed the Shadowman even more than the queen. He seemed to revel in the chase, driving the humans ever deeper into the corridor. His roar propelled some of the men and women onward faster; others simply collapsed at the soul-rending sound of pure evil that their pursuer exuded. Those that fell did not rise again, and Moira knew they were lost to humanity.
She knew that the queen was evil, or, at least, that was what she arrived at from her own human perception. Their was no denying that the queen loved her children, if that was what the creatures were to her. That much Moira could discern from the limited amount of time she beheld the terrible monarch of the ravinors. But the Shadowman seemed to hold little regard for any before him. Whether it was a human running for his or her soul, or the turned ravinor who seemed to look on the Shadowman before it vanished from the dream with just as much fear as it had displayed while still part of the human race; all beings seemed to fear the Shadowman.
More often than not, the Shadowman contented himself by only chasing the hapless victims and herding them on toward the queen’s room. He matched the pace of his prey, never closing the distance beyond a certain point, allowing panic to set in, along with the knowledge that they could not escape him.
Only ten people made it beyond the corridor to the dubious refuge of the only door out of the myriad of possibilities that could be opened. Six men and four women. All of them exhaled a sigh of relief when they slammed the door shut behind them, bolting it from within. No sounds of pursuit followed them. She could tell that they still knew something was wrong in this strange dream. They all gave the Giver thanks that the terrible shade hounding their steps had finally given up.
It was the queen’s turn now. Those who had made it this far had the brightest auras of all the infected from Deepbrooke. Moira knew from long experience that the two from this group who boasted the most resplendent white light shining from them would make it to the square. From there, it was a flip of the coin as to the outcome.
She knew that the queen lured her victims in like a siren, tempting them with her flawless flesh. Moira was young and inexperienced with a man’s lust—or a woman’s—but she knew that such was the queen’s game. She also suspected that the queen was able to show any person what they desired, whether man or woman, not always the physical, either; she gave visions of whatever they coveted most and held that person’s dearest desire in front of them, seducing them to give in to the temptation. Just like the tainted gift of the Taker that it was.
She could not see what they were shown—for those that were shown something other than the queen’s alluring form—but Moira could only ascertain from the looks of unadulterated lust and greed that they were all equally tempted. Just as she predicted, all but one man and one woman resisted the queen in her lair. The dream shifted one last time.
The square was full now. Ravinors amassed; all standing shoulder to shoulder. Their soulless black eyes surprisingly capable of conveying their love and awe for their queen. The unnaturally straight-edged stone cube that rose from the exact center of the square was occupied by three figures. Two poor souls stood stupefied behind the queen on the platform.
Moira took in the two scenes before her of the square. A man in one square, and a woman in an identical square. The two scenes took place simultaneously; each blurred when they did not match perfectly. For her, the two images had another overlay—the view from her afflicted eye. The light from each of the two humans shone brightly, pulsing with life and vigor. She dared to hope that both of them would make it out of the ravinor dream with their souls and humanity still their own. The rest of the square was overlaid in black swirls where each ravinor stood. A sea of black surrounded the platform of stone, like the lapping waves of some vile and loathsome ocean that was tinted—and tainted—by the ravinors’ dark souls.
The ravinors swayed and vocalized in their inhuman way, never taking their collective eyes off their queen. Two strong white lights pulsated beside the ravinors’ sovereign. The queen’s aura shifted between a black as deep as that of the Shadowman, to a brilliant white that outshone the man and woman as if they were merely a guttering candle next to the sun. Then it shifted to a deep, blood red that quivered with powe
r almost like a beating heart. The queen’s aura sickeningly fluctuated between the three colors to the point where, even in her ethereal state, Moira became dizzy and nauseous.
The scenes played out in front of her as they had countless times before. The queen made one final move. She kissed and groped at the man, who had briefly come back to his senses having noticed his shockingly bizarre surroundings. But with the physical contact, the man fell back under the seductive power of the queen. In the other square, the woman was holding the queen’s hand as the mother of ravinors gestured toward the crowd around her. Clearly the woman was seeing a vision before her that was different from the ravinor-choked landscape that surrounded her. Moira saw the glow of pure ecstasy on the woman’s face, and she knew that the woman was lost. And so it was. That scene ended suddenly, snapping out of her view, leaving only the poor beguiled man.
Moira was shocked that he had withstood the queen for this long. It was a shame that such a bright aura the young man possessed should be defiled so by this terrible imposture of beauty. Moira felt white-hot anger well up inside her like she had never before experienced in the ravinor dream. She tried with all her might to help the young healer standing before the queen. She railed against the forces keeping her away from being able to directly influence what she was witnessing. She tried to scream without a mouth, without lungs or flesh, but it was like trying to push a rock without actually being able to touch it. Moira thought her mind would burst from the terrible effort she was exerting. All that she managed was a quiet and insistent whisper: “Lerius!”
Drenched in sweat, Moira jerked awake with the young man’s name still on her lips and tears in her eyes.
Chapter Six
OSBAR SAT AT THE table stuffing his mouth full of whatever he could grab. He was perpetually hungry. Even as a night of danger loomed over them, he still had his appetite. He hoped Uncle Crallick and Aelpheus came back soon. He saw his mother bustling about the kitchen, placing a large pot of water to boil on the fireplace. She was straightening up the kitchen again even though she had gone over it moments before.
His father was sitting down, holding Shiya as he stared out the window. He was busy thinking. Osbar knew that look from his father. Uncle Crallick told him that it was his captain’s face, and not to interrupt his father when he wore it. Osbar could not help but to feel a little jealous of his sister. He had still never seen a ravinor. He heard them but that wasn’t the same. He could tell his father was proud of Shiya, and he was too—a little. She was just a little girl after all, not ten years old like he was.
He was excited but also scared. It was just like the make-believe games he had always played. He had defended the house against hordes of invaders numerous times. But this time it was real. He didn’t think his father would let him do anything. Barsus would be able to. Barsus was old enough. He was never old enough for anything important. He couldn’t go on hunts with Uncle Crallick, Father, and Barsus. He couldn’t gallop the horses either; he could only walk them. Osbar looked over at his brother who was mechanically eating his food. He looked worried. Why is he worried? He would get to help. He would get to do something.
Osbar finished scraping his plate clean and gulped down his water, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. No one reprimanded him. They were too busy in their own minds to worry about what he did. He studied his family. His mother finally took a seat and was speaking quietly to Barsus. Father was still holding Shiya and staring out the window and over the wall surrounding the house.
Everyone was busy. Osbar slid silently out of his chair and walked ever so slowly to avoid causing a creak in any floorboards. Once he was out of the kitchen, he carefully climbed the stairs to the third floor where his and Shiya’s bedroom was located. Osbar ran into the room and grabbed his bow and arrows. He didn’t have a full-sized bow, but he’d hit birds with it before, and from far away too.
He rushed into his parents’ room, where the balcony entrance was, and went out. He was careful to close the door quietly behind him. Once outside, he hopped up on the railing and pulled himself up onto the overhang. He kept the bow and quiver slung over his shoulders which allowed him to keep his hands free for climbing. He had done this a few times; it was forbidden, but he had only been caught once. Osbar sat down where he could see the path coming up to the house. That was where the ravinors would come from. Settling down to wait, he studied the sky.
Night was coming.
***
The sun had set, and Garet kept a continuous watch next to the unlit pyre. Amalia and Tyrant were sitting on either side of him, keeping their own vigil. So far, neither dog had so much as barked at the night. They would know when the ravinors were coming well before he could see anything. Barsus, bow in hand, sat on the balcony that was attached to his and Myrna’s bedroom. Osbar was on the roof—again—and certain that he was hidden from his father’s gaze. Garet didn’t know if his youngest’s shots would do much good but did not have the heart to make him go inside with Myrna and Shiya after finding him so stoically keeping watch. He was as safe as he could be while up on the roof, and maybe he could do some damage with his training bow.
A candle passed and Garet could feel his body tense. Crallick should have been back by now. The other dogs were a bit edgy with Aelpheus being gone for so long. The air was beginning to cool, the summer sun having set a half-candle ago. A light evening breeze pushed a few clouds across the sky. If it weren’t for the events of the day, and what was coming, it would have been a beautiful late-summer evening. Garet knew from his years of battles and campaigning that the weather, and the world, moved along as usual, and it did not change for momentous events in a human’s life—or a ravinor’s.
Garet was sweating in his armor. It had been ages since he had worn it, and the summer heat was not helping, though he was grateful that it was cooling down. He had seen more than one soldier perish from overheating, and more than a few faint, before a battle had even begun. He walked over to the water barrel and grabbed the battered tin cup hooked to the rim. Taking several draughts of the lukewarm water was better than nothing. It did little to cool him down, but it would keep him from dehydrating in his heavy chain-mail.
Gazing to the northwest, Garet strained to see the figures of Crallick, the Ayersons, and Aelpheus, but there was only the darkening horizon. Standing outside of the tall wall surrounding the house, he continued to scan from his vantage point. Two hundred yards away, at the bottom of the hill, stood the pair of sentinel trees on either side of the path that led up to the house. A simple wooden fence encircled the hill but would only serve to slow the ravinors down. With the path and pyre drawing the ravinors to the gate, Garet was hopeful that the illumination and distraction provided by the flames would give them time to pick off some of the creatures before they reached the gate.
“Guard,” Garet commanded in a firm, yet quiet voice, and the two war mastiffs bounded away down the path where they would stand on alert by the sentinel trees. The former captain had never heard of any other animal that was capable of being trained half so well as a war mastiff. The two hulking dogs would not leave their place by the trees until he gave the command.
“Barsus, come down and get ready at the gate. And tell your mother to be ready. It will happen soon.” Garet had to raise his voice to be heard. While his eldest son obeyed his orders, Garet gazed over their defenses. A small cart was parked next to the gate on the inside of the walls. There were a few barrels filled with anything to increase their weight, and any other spare furniture or scraps of material that could serve to reinforce the thick oaken gate.
Barsus had a shortsword sheathed at his side, and a pitchfork in his hands; a quiver and bow were slung over his shoulder. Garet wished he had more armor for his eldest, but if things went according to plan, Barsus wouldn’t have much direct contact with any ravinors other than pitchfork work from atop the wall. He had taught his son a few basics of swordplay, but he would feel much more comfortable if it didn’t com
e to that.
Garet would be on the ground behind the gate, fully armored with shield and helm, waiting for any breach. He was confident that no ravinor would be able to climb the wall. The gate was the weak point, so that was where he would be.
Time was running out now. It had to be soon, or Crallick wouldn’t be coming back. And without Crallick and Aelpheus, it was likely too late for his own family as well. A breath stuck in his throat as Garet heard Tyrant and Amalia begin to bark. But is it ravinors or the latecomers? Relief washed over him as he saw Crallick galloping his mount. Aelpheus loped alongside as he urged the horse onward. Two old nags and a broken down stud were trying their best to keep up but were falling behind the purebred stallion that bore Crallick.
“Barsus! Get back on the wall! Get ready to light the pyre!” he ordered. Barsus quickly scrambled up the wooden ladder next to the gate on the interior of the wall and whipped the bow from his shoulder and readied an arrow. Two torches burned in iron mounts on either side of the gate which would provide his son with a quick means of lighting the cloth-wrapped tip of the arrow.
“Shit.” Garet muttered the oath as he saw what was in pursuit of his former sergeant and the Ayersons. A full coven of ravinors. A large coven. At least fifty of the creatures were together in a writhing mass, and they were in the grip of a blood lust that would only stop with their own deaths, or a meal of human flesh. They were eating up the distance between themselves and their quarry. Crallick and Aelpheus could make it to the gate and still give him time to shut it, but the Ayersons, mounted on their three aged horses—whose strength were clearly flagging—would be overtaken a few strides short of the safety of his walls.