Ravinor

by Travis Peck

  Garet swore again then quickly formulated a plan. He hoped his sergeant understood what he was trying to do. Especially since Crallick would be in the most dangerous position for the first part. Unfortunately, he saw no other way to get the Ayersons safely behind the wall.

  Crallick was nearly to the sentinel trees now, and the two war mastiffs were anxiously awaiting the return of their pack leader, but they were well disciplined and didn’t move from their position.

  Garet gave a sharp whistle and pointed back to the ravinors. Crallick slowed and turned his mount. Garet couldn’t hear what he said to the mastiffs but they obeyed as if it were one of his own commands. Attack. The mastiffs bunched up momentarily, as if conferring their plan of attack, then spread out again as they closed on the ravinor coven. Garet could tell, even from this distance, that Aelpheus had reached his limit of running from the enemy and was anxious to make the ravinors feel his wrath. Tyrant and Amalia were equally excited to finally do something other than bark at the intruders.

  War mastiffs were trained to attack ravinors by harassing a coven’s flanks. Quick strikes along the fringe, and then darting out again, was the most effective strategy. Ravinors were easily discomfited, and with the three dogs, each weighing over twenty stone apiece, striking at them with their powerful jaws and swiping with their large paws, it should certainly have that impact. Garet hoped that would be enough of a distraction to slow down the coven and allow the Ayersons and Crallick to make it back to the gate in time. It would be close.

  Crallick shot past the desperate Ayersons, waving over his shoulder, trying to indicate to them that they must keep going toward the fortified house. As he veered off to the right side of the surging coven, Tyrant followed the former sergeant. Aelpheus and Amalia swung around to the other side. Most of the ravinors had kept their focus on the three overtaxed horses carrying their desired meals and had failed to notice the danger approaching on their periphery.

  Garet held his breath as he watched the attack unfold. He saw Crallick charge; his longsword hacked to his left as targets presented themselves. At least a few of the creatures were badly maimed as the horseman galloped past, always staying out of reach. Tyrant followed behind and dispatched two of the wounded ravinors with quick, but powerful, bites to the throat of each one, crushing their windpipes with savage efficiency. Aelpheus and Amalia were even more devastating. Garet knew that Aelpheus was angry that ravinors had dared to step on his territory and threaten his master and his pack. The giant mastiff, weighing close to thirty stone, used his great strength to vault through the air at his foes, ripping out throats and tearing hamstrings. Amalia finished them off after Aelpheus vented his rage.

  The Ayersons finally reached the gate, their horses blown. Garet didn’t know if any of the old mounts would survive the exertion.

  “Get the children inside and come back out and grab a weapon!” Garet ordered, not wasting any time. His sergeant and the mastiffs were still in immediate danger, as they all were, unless the gate could be closed.

  The ravinors were at the towering sentinels now; Crallick and the mastiffs had slowed them down, and they weren’t moving nearly as fast as they had been. The three made one final pass from behind the ravinors, though, this time their only goal was to race by as fast as possible. They succeeded and were up the pathway, unscathed.

  The ravinors were only fifty yards behind them. Just as they passed the pyre, Garet signaled to Barsus to let loose his fire-arrow. His son set the cloth-wrapped arrowhead alight, then he fired it into the woodpile. A great whoosh erupted from the stack of oil-soaked wood. As Garet had hoped, the ravinors recoiled from the sudden gout of flame that burst directly in front of them, and they cringed away for a few precious moments. Crallick and the three mastiffs barreled through the gate. His old sergeant vaulted from his mount once he was inside the walls and dashed into position to help the Ayersons’ patriarch swing the gate closed.

  Garet stood, exposed behind the still-open gate, with his sword raised and shield at the ready. Facing the enemy, he held fast in front of the closing gate. Aelpheus, Tyrant, and Amalia were arrayed at his side; all of their eyes were locked on the narrowing gap.

  A half-dozen brave ravinors ignored the fire and squeezed past the gate before it slammed shut. Crallick and the Ayerson man heaved the crossbar into place, then they raced to pile up whatever they could against the gate to ensure it could not be forced inward. Barsus had stayed up on the wall with his bow and fired a quick shot at one of the six intruders. Garet saw the arrow strike home in one creature’s chest, and it went down in a heap; it shuddered once, and then was still.

  Then they were upon him. Garet kept his shield up, and the creatures slammed against it. Their long, dirty, filth-encrusted nails grasped around the edges, seeking for his flesh. Garet thanked the Giver, yet again, that he had all his old armor on. A scratch or bite from a ravinor was all it took, and in a few days, you would either be dead or join their ranks.

  Time was at a standstill as his heart pounded; his trained body was now firmly committed to survival. Precise and controlled slashes from his longsword cut into flesh, muscle, and vital organs. He saw flashes of tawny ire from the corners of his eyes as his mastiffs joined the fray. Luckily, dogs were blessed in that they could be savaged by a ravinor and not turn into one. Animals were lucky in that.

  Between Garet, the mastiffs, and Barsus’s harassing arrows, there were only two surviving ravinors of the half-dozen that had made it inside the walls. Much like the people they had been before, ravinors were all different. If the infected had been a strong human, then he or she would be a strong ravinor—and ravinors were already stronger than a human. Unfortunately for him, the last two must have been exceptionally strong men.

  Garet deflected the lunge from the nearest one and managed to connect with a fierce blow. It was such a powerful swing that the blade cut deeply into the bone. The ravinor recoiled away from the strike, wrenching the longsword from Garet’s hand. Garet swore as the ravinor simply tugged the embedded sword out of its shoulder. It yelled out in pain and rage, then tossed the weapon aside. He noticed that the other ravinor was being set upon by the three mastiffs, but he could not rejoice yet, he still had one pressing concern.

  The abnormally powerful ravinor charged at him again, bellowing as it rushed him. Garet braced himself yet still lost his balance from the force of the charge. The ravinor grasped the shield with both hands, inadvertently giving Garet the leverage he needed to stay on his feet. His relief was short-lived as his attacker gave a stunningly powerful tug on the shield, and it ripped out of his hands.

  Garet unsheathed his shortsword at his side. The chances of him being bitten or scratched, or even coming into contact with ravinor blood on an open cut or abrasion, were much higher now without his shield and longsword to keep the tainted creature as far away as possible.

  Once more, the ravinor charged. Two arrows slammed into it. One full-sized arrow pierced its right thigh; the broadhead ripped out of the other side. Another, smaller arrow, struck the creature in the stomach. The two projectiles made the ravinor stumble, and Garet quickly took advantage. The creature fell into him, and he had just enough time to raise his shortsword and hold on for dear life. The weight and momentum of the stumbling ravinor drove the shortsword deep under its chin, killing it instantly. Garet jerked his hands off the hilt and jumped back out of the way from the blood that ran down the groove along the center of the blade. He had chain gloves on but still did not dare risk any direct contact with the creature’s tainted blood.

  Garet could scarcely hear above the blood that rushed through his ears and his deep gasps for air. His training took over, allowing him to take in his surroundings now that his immediate survival was assured. The gate was closed—he vaguely remembered that happening—the heavily laden cart was wedged tightly in front of it, along with various random pieces of unused furnishings and barrels filled to the brim with odds and ends to give them more weight.

&n
bsp; The former captain’s eyes first sought out his eldest, Barsus, still on the wall next to the gate, firing arrow after arrow into the writhing mass of hungry and agitated ravinors. Next to the gate, Crallick and the Ayerson man, he believed his name was Rogair, stood on guard, waiting for any sign that the ravinors might gain an entry. Looking back to the house, Garet gave his youngest son a wave of acknowledgment for his timely assistance in dispatching the last ravinor and, quite likely, saving his life. He could see the grin from his youngest son from here, and he was even more proud when Osbar kept on firing arrows from the roof.

  Aelpheus, Tyrant, and Amalia were panting heavily, their muzzles bloody and chests heaving from the fight. Garet was glad to see them all relatively unscathed, with the exception of a long gash along Tyrant’s right haunch. Aside from Tyrant’s wound, they looked none the worse for wear, and even the slightly smaller male mastiff, despite his injury, did not seem to be troubled by it.

  Garet retrieved his longsword from the ground where the last ravinor had thrown it aside. He left the shortsword where it was; it was as much of a risk to use the soiled weapon than it was to fight the ravinor in the first place. He could hear the scratching and groans from the other side of the wall. So far there had been no reaction from the ravinors other than frustration and the venting of their collective disappointment.

  Before doing anything else, Garet walked to the water barrel, tossed off his helm and upended the small wooden bucket over his head. The cool water was a boon from the Giver. Even though there had only been a few moments of fighting, he was breathing heavily and was roasting under his armor.

  As Garet leaned on the barrel, cooling down, Crallick approached. The former captain and sergeant shared a knowing look. It said that they had survived once more. But Crallick had more to say.

  “We crossed the tracks of at least one other coven in the area, and it couldn’t have been the same ravinors that are here. Two or three days old, but they led from up by the Ayersons’ property down to the southwest toward Haelle.”

  Garet did not respond for a few moments. He had occasionally seen more than one coven in any given area before. The ravinors were somewhat territorial, but a few covens could coexist in a large enough area. What was more troubling was their presence around his home, aside from the obvious danger to his family. It was an odd location for ravinors to occupy. This area was far away from populated areas and had few sunless places to hide out during the day.

  “No one said anything when I was in Haelle,” Garet mused aloud. “Though, that was a few weeks past.” He filled another bucketful of water while he spoke.

  “We’ll worry about this later.” Garet’s mind snapped back to the current situation. There was a coven of ravinors at his gates. Now a few short of a coven. He rinsed off his shield and sword, and the dangerous blood soaked into the soil. It would be safe again after a good rain.

  The gate was holding, and it did not look like the creatures were attempting to push through it just yet. He walked over and gave a quick greeting to Rogair, who thanked him for thinking of them and giving them refuge.

  Garet sheathed his sword and set his shield down at the base of the wall. Then he grabbed his bow and quiver and quickly ascended the ladder to the catwalk that spanned the entirety of the wall. Before surveying what the ravinors were up to, he gave his son an appreciative squeeze on his shoulder and said, “That was a fine shot.”

  Barsus nodded and smiled, then said, “Osbar helped, too.”

  Garet laughed knowing how much his youngest boy’s help would mean to him. “That he did, and I am grateful for it.”

  Seeing another potential meal on the wall above them, the ravinors let out howls and snarls of fury. One jumped up reaching for him, but it fell well short. The wall was at least twice the height of a man, and a tall man at that. After a quick glance, Garet guessed there were about thirty-five of them left. Barsus had been busy.

  It was not particularly challenging to shoot them from only a few yards away, and it didn’t help the creatures any that they were not intelligent enough to seek cover or move away from the gate. But Garet was more than fine with all that. There was now a pile of dead ravinors forming at the base of the wall. Garet was hoping that the once-humans would be busy devouring their fallen brethren, but they must have had full stomachs to pass up on that temptation. Garet hoped that he hadn’t known any of the unlucky folks who filled those bellies.

  The father and son began loosing arrows, and each shot struck home from such a close distance, which was all to the good since Garet knew that their supply of arrows was uncomfortably finite. After all, he hadn’t been expecting a siege by ravinors, or any siege for that matter. Garet tried to aim for the tallest figures first but was beginning to worry that the pile of bodies might be used as a jumping point to reach the top of the wall. That was why he had hoped they would eat their dead immediately.

  In less than a candle of firing into the mass of ravinors before the gate, both of them had run out of arrows. The ravinor coven was greatly reduced, but there were still twenty left standing. Now that they could no longer wreak havoc from above, they would have to go down into harm’s way and risk death, or worse—infection—while dispatching any more of them. Garet was confident that the gate would remain intact now that there were fewer attackers that could press against it. And he had no doubts whatsoever that the wall would hold. He considered his options. No more arrows. But, at least, the ravinors cannot get in. Conversely, we cannot get out. They had a reasonable amount of supplies stored away and a deep well. But the foodstuffs would be divided between a few more mouths which would shorten the length of time that they could stay behind their walls.

  “Go ahead and get down,” Garet commanded Barsus. “Ask if your mother and Mistress Ayerson would get some food prepared and some kof brewing. This will be a long night.” Barsus went down the ladder and put his bow down, leaning it against the wall. He grabbed his father’s shield and a long spear and tossed them one at a time to him up on the wall. His son hesitated before leaving. Garet knew what was troubling him and said, “Don’t worry lad, I’ll call if I need help.”

  Barsus nodded and stopped by the water barrel to quench his thirst before he went inside the main house.

  Garet noticed the ravinors were finally taking an interest in their fallen comrades. They began to feast upon the dead bodies outside his walls.

  Chapter Seven

  “SO, THIS RAVINOR…PRINCE? He left with the babe and mother on a horse?” Martel asked, dumbfounded. His mentor nodded in answer. “Where do you suppose they’re going?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it. Is there a location where all the ravinor newborns are brought to? We have never seen a ravinor birth out in the field that didn’t result in a stillbirth. Will this babe prove to be like the majority of ravinors or will it take after the ravinor sergeant or prince? The prince took the mother along, so the babe must require her breast milk. And this language? The sunlight? The—” Mon Lyzink quieted as his apprentice could almost see the wheels turning inside his mentor’s mind. His own mind was reeling from all this new information too, but he had been studying the creatures for far less time than his master.

  “We have to track the prince down, don’t we?” Martel asked. He knew Mon Lyzink would want to, but they really should get back to the tower to replenish their gear and supplies first. And send out warnings throughout the empire of what they had observed.

  “Yes. We should certainly try to track down that one. And find the newborn. How is your ankle?”

  “The same, but I can make it back with the crutch. Then, we’ll have to get some mounts. I should be able to ride fine, and by the time we catch up perhaps it will have improved,” Martel said. He was not looking forward to hobbling back to the tower; it was a journey that would certainly last a few days.

  “Well, we are wasting daylight,” Mon Lyzink said, clapping his hands as he stood up. He gave Martel some help getting to his feet and se
t off to the southeast.

  Martel swore under his breath. I should’ve said that we could leave in the morning. But it was too late now. His mentor would not stop with a goal in front of him. It’s going to be a rough few days. He could hear his master muttering to himself up ahead and knew that, short of throwing a rock at him, the theorizing scholar would not be looking to see if he was following until sundown.

  The rest of the day dragged on for Martel, who lagged fifty yards behind Mon Lyzink. With no one to talk to, there was nothing to distract him from the constant pain pulsing out from his ankle. Even though the crutch kept the weight off it, the motion and small impact of each stride would send the ankle throbbing anew.

  The sky became overcast as they continued on as southeasterly as the terrain would allow. The ground was drying so it was easier footing now, but he had to be careful each time he put weight on the crutch so it wouldn’t slip out from under him. It had only happened once so far, and despite the presence of three flocks in the area, he had failed to stop the shriek of agony that escaped his lips as he fell. Even Mon Lyzink took notice of that and had turned back to check on him and helped him back up to his feet.

  It seemed like the day would never end, but at last he saw his mentor veer off the trail they had been following and duck under the branches of another silverwood. Though it was not raining yet, Martel was grateful that they had a nice shelter. Silverwoods were a traveler’s best friend; its multitude of layered needles and its great number of branches kept the space around its trunk bone-dry even in the heaviest downpours.

  “Take a seat, lad,” Mon Lyzink greeted him as he swept the branches back to enter the sheltered space.

  “Gladly.” Martel sighed as he sat down. His mentor already had a rock in place for him to use to keep his ankle elevated. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry to push you so hard today, but we have to do this as quickly as possible. We cannot lose those tracks.”