by Travis Peck
“I know,” Martel affirmed. “At least it will make it easier to find the hoof prints. I never thought that we’d be tracking mounted ravinors.”
Mon Lyzink laughed. “Quite right. Quite right.” His mentor’s affable demeanor started to wear down Martel’s misery—being off his feet certainly helped too.
“After I start the fire and leave some wood for you, I’ll get us some food. I noticed a patch of stonebeans growing close by that should serve us well,” the scholar said.
“Thank the Giver! I’m starving!” Martel was cheered by the newfound prospect of a full belly for the night. The anticipation fought away the last vestiges of his foul mood. The pain was still there, but it seemed more manageable now.
True to his word, Mon Lyzink returned from his foraging after seeing to the fire. He emptied the contents of his cloak onto the dry ground of their shelter. A dozen large and ripe stonebeans piled up high before him. He also had brought two perfect roasting sticks that they each could use to cook the filling legumes. Stonebeans were easy to prepare; one only had to pare off the outer skin and set it to roasting over a cook-fire.
Mon Lyzink went out again and gathered some water from a nearby stream. Both of their waterskins had been lost during the onset of their troubles, but his mentor was able to find some waterweed pods that would serve as a temporary replacement. Each pod, when emptied of its inedible contents, became a water-tight vessel. Martel was pleased he would not have to make the short trip to the stream to collect his own water. After only two trips by his mentor, they had plenty of water to last the night and enough to get them started in the morning.
It was probably due to the fact that he had not had a bite to eat in nearly two days, but Martel had never remembered anything tasting so good as the first stonebean that he had just gulped down. Their conversation started up once more after each man was able to put a dent in his hunger. With their immediate needs seen to, and with the knowledge that they had more stonebeans roasting over the fire, they were able to think analytically about what they had discovered.
“So, clearly sunlight is no longer an impediment to a ravinor,” his mentor said. “And now we have possibly three different permutations of the species occurring.”
Martel nodded as he chewed a large bite of his second stonebean. “I wonder, with the number of ravinors out there, why we haven’t seen these new phenomena before? Doesn’t it strike you as odd that after the four centuries of recorded ravinor existence, that we are only now witnessing a successful birth?”
“Is it only now happening, or has it been happening for a long time but hidden from human eyes?” Mon Lyzink said. This was typically their process, no idea was too outlandish to be thrown into the conversation; any idea could potentially be correct, or if nothing else, it might lead to another idea.
“A leader ravinor and this ravinor lord showing up the same time as three flocks are convening for the first successful birth witnessed by humans… I’d say that, statistically speaking, it has been happening for a long time. How old did the leader appear to you? And the prince?” Martel asked.
“I agree. I think the leader was a mature ravinor, ten or so years after turning, if I had to guess. The ravinor prince? I’d say he looked like a man in his late twenties.”
“That is my point,” Martel said, then he continued to follow his line of thought. “The ravinor prince was born maybe twenty or thirty years ago, so it is reasonable to assume that these live births have been happening since that time, at least. I suppose it is feasible that no human has ever witnessed these more intelligent ravinors and lived to tell about it. I think that the newborn will grow up to be like the prince.”
“We must find their trail again!” Mon Lyzink reiterated, knowing that they were not going to find any answers here in their shelter.
Martel appreciated the importance of this discovery and believed that finding out where the prince was going would answer their other questions. Or at least, he hoped that would be the case. He could not stifle the persistent tickle in the back of his mind that screamed at urgency. Something momentous was happening, and he and Mon Lyzink had to find out more about it. Martel felt that the fate of his species depended on it.
He finished off the last of the stonebeans in silence. His mentor was equally reticent now. The scholar’s internal debate must have been intense to quiet the man. He could not be sure, but he thought that his master felt the same urgency to set out on their new mission as he did.
Anxious to get this night over with so they could make an early start the next morning, Martel struggled to stand up and hobbled outside of the shelter to relieve himself before retiring for the night. Once that painful process was completed, he lingered briefly outside. The night was quiet but not eerily so. He heard the calls of various night creatures about on their usual task of collecting food. Insects buzzed and chirped their own nocturnal rhythms as the world continued on, unconcerned with the sense of impending doom that Martel could not shake.
“You should turn in, Martel,” Mon Lyzink said, startling him.
“I must have lost track of time,” Martel answered and hobbled his way back to the silverwood.
“It happens to the best of us, lad; probably more than most, too.” Mon Lyzink grinned. He was aware of how easily he could immerse himself in some idea to the complete exclusion of all else.
“An early start?” Martel asked, though he knew the answer. He didn’t think that he could tolerate not using all available light to travel by.
Mon Lyzink nodded, and they both returned to the shelter.
The two men prepared for bed, such as it was, with no blankets, cloaks, or bed rolls. Martel was confident that he wouldn’t sleep much despite his exhaustion.
Martel closed his eyes, but sleep came hard.
***
Martel woke from a horrible night’s rest. The little he had managed to sleep had been plagued by nightmares of ravinors ravaging the countryside in droves. They swept aside all the armed might of the empire as if it were nothing; thousands of these princes, mounted and deadly, led well-organized and well-trained ravinor soldiers to crush towns and cities. As if there isn’t enough on my mind.
He saw the sky brightening from beneath the draping branches of the silverwood. Mon Lyzink was stirring, so Martel braced himself and strained back up to his feet—his one uninjured foot, that is, and his crutch. He ducked as best he could underneath the branches and walked a short distance away to see to nature’s call. The day looked to be a clear one. A doubly fortunate boon for them, not only for today’s travel, but it also increased their chances of finding a clear trail to follow the prince by when they returned with their mounts.
His mentor came out and took care of his own needs as well. “I’ll go get us more water and grab some more stonebeans. Then we should be off,” he said after he had finished lacing up his breeches. “With this weather we might just be able to make it to a village or town where we can get some mounts.”
“I hope so,” Martel said, and he desperately meant it. It would be best if they found a village and re-outfitted there, that way they would have a better chance picking up the trail, rather than going all the way back to the tower.
A quarter candle had passed and they were ready to set out. Mon Lyzink had found a solid walking stick while he had been collecting more water and stonebeans. Martel’s crutch was still in adequate condition, but he wrapped up some small needle-bearing branches from the silverwood to act as a cushion for his armpit, which had badly chafed the day before. The pain from his ankle must have overshadowed it. It felt a little better, or maybe he was just becoming used to it. Either way, he was determined to keep a good pace. The sooner they found a village or farmstead, the sooner they could resupply and return to begin their search in earnest.
Once again, Mon Lyzink led the way. They still traveled in the direction of his tower but where they thought it most likely to run into some hamlet or village along the way. Martel gritted his teet
h and followed.
The terrain passed by unchanged but for a slight decline in altitude. The trail they were following was in good repair which meant that it was being kept up; a promising sign of people in the area. Small game was plentiful too. Another good sign that there were no ravinors nearby. Martel wished that he had a sling to bring down a rabbit, or one of the many squirrels chattering at them from the trees, but he quickly dismissed the urge. They could not waste a moment. The stonebeans from last night would have to do. At least he knew that if they failed to find some semblance of civilization by sunset, he would still have a full belly. Full-ish anyway.
The two men continued to follow the trail. Martel was not quite able to keep up with his mentor, but he was moving more ably than he had been yesterday. They happened by a small clear-running stream and took the opportunity to refill their dwindling water supply, but they didn’t delay long enough for a real rest.
By midday, the forest had thinned out and opened up into a small valley. The increased visibility allowed them to make out a cluster of buildings and some farms and ranches that occupied most of the valley floor. Martel saw more than a dozen horses trotting about in one of the enclosed pastures. He hoped the owner would be amenable to selling a few of them. He also hoped the village tradesmen would take credit. Bereft of their possessions, they had neither currency nor goods with which to trade.
Martel only now understood their predicament. Two bedraggled, filthy, and penniless men were not the ideal people moneylenders sought out for business. Mon Lyzink was a renowned scholar, but Martel didn’t know if his fame was widespread enough to secure them a courteous welcome.
A handful of village children, along with their happily barking dogs, raced over to them as they entered the gate-less village square. It was the kind of settlement that abounded within the borders of Styr proper. The main street was cobbled, but worn down, and many of the stones had cracked and never been replaced. Despite the aged and weathered street, the buildings along its length were tidy and well maintained. A light breeze wafted the mouthwatering scent of sweetbreads fresh from the bakery’s ovens out onto the street. The delectable aroma set his stomach to rumbling.
The children’s mother called the excited youngsters away from the two bedraggled strangers; she never took her eyes from the broom as she busily swept the porch of the large building. No sign adorned the establishment, but it was clearly the largest structure around, and as such, was most likely the area’s only inn. The perfect place to inquire about their badly needed resupply.
“Excuse me, madam,” Mon Lyzink addressed the busy woman still sweeping the already spotless porch. “My apprentice and I are in sore need of your services. Might you be able to direct us to your local mayor, magistrate, or head councilman—or whatever title is used here. We would appreciate your taking the time and trouble to point he or she out to us.”
The woman blinked, not expecting such a smooth tongue from the wandering vagabond that she saw before her. In spite of her reservations, she responded politely, “There’s the mayor now.” She pointed to a man walking briskly toward them, a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat sat perched on his head.
“Our thanks, madam,” the scholar said, then flourished a courtly bow that brought a small smile to the woman’s face.
“Sirs!… Sirs!” the mayor called to them. “We have no room for vagabonds here, sirs!”
Martel had seen this fellow’s type before. Self-important and pompous, but equally harmless.
“I have to ask you to keep moving along, sirs!” the mayor continued while straightening his decades-out-of-fashion hat once again.
“Well met, mayor. My name is Herris Mon Lyzink, and this poor injured soul beside me is my apprentice, Martel,” his master introduced them politely.
“Mon Lyzink! Ha! The scholar? I doubt the most famous Styric scholar would be out traipsing about the countryside with no horses or supplies or gold,” the mayor said, scoffing at the preposterous thought.
“I am Herris Mon Lyzink. My tower is located only a few days’ travel to the southeast of this village. We ran into some trouble, my apprentice and I, and now it is most urgent that we resupply as soon as possible.”
“I don’t doubt that you ran into some trouble, judging by the state of your clothes. And everyone knows that the scholar’s tower is nearby. Unless you can offer some sort of proof, I urge you and your “apprentice” to seek succor elsewhere.”
“Mayor! Mayor!” Their conversation was interrupted by an industrious elderly woman furiously walking over to them. Her cane stabbed the ground as she bustled toward them.
“Dame Shavoli?” the mayor stammered. His demeanor was deflated by the approach of the intimidating matriarch.
“Mayor. This is Mon Lyzink. I’ve attended several lectures over the years in the capital, and though he is obviously less than presentable at the moment, he has no doubt been working in the field. Do you expect him to slink through the muck and dirt studying ravinors in formal attire?”
“No dame—certainly not. But—”
“No ‘buts,’ mayor!” Dame Shavoli spoke over the mayor’s rebuttal; he immediately relented.
“Well, if you will vouch for them… Welcome to Glennin. Now, I have important business to attend to. Good day, then.” The mayor abruptly turned and walked away, anxious to be away from the old woman who had just browbeaten him in front of the strangers.
“Dame Shavoli.” Mon Lyzink swept a bow toward the elderly woman. “Thank you for vouching for us.”
“You really are Mon Lyzink aren’t you?” she asked. “I did not lie to the mayor, but I failed to mention that those lectures I attended were more than three decades ago.”
The scholar laughed. “I am really Mon Lyzink, and this is my apprentice, Martel.”
Martel gave an unpracticed bow. “A pleasure, dame.”
“I suspect you two could do with something to eat—and a bath,” Dame Shavoli said with a slight wrinkle of her nose.
“That would be lovely, dame,” Mon Lyzink replied. “We do, however, also need to secure some credit to resupply, and we will need to obtain four mounts for a journey of the utmost importance.”
“You shall have it. You are lucky I was still in the village today. I was about to return to my estate, but this does certainly seem more interesting. Go to the inn, and they will see to your needs. I will meet with you when you have refreshed yourselves. I will have clothes sent over for you both, as well.” The dame gestured to the woman who had directed them to the mayor. The woman had given up all pretense of sweeping as she had been watching their meeting with the mayor. She startled at being addressed and gave a small bow of her head and hurried inside.
“Until then, Dame Shavoli,” Mon Lyzink said. He and Martel both bowed once more as she left them.
“Well, that was a stroke of luck,” Martel said as he and his master entered the inn.
“Indeed, lad. Indeed. It’s a boon from the Giver—you are a bit ripe!” Mon Lyzink said as he pushed open the door, a small grin peeking out from beneath his matted and gnarled gray beard.
Martel followed along, shaking his head with a smile of his own.
Chapter Eight
“HUSH NOW,” LERIUS HEARD even as he thrashed against the ravinors’ claws and teeth. Then he started to come to. A hand clamped down hard over his mouth, another on his arm. “Hush now,” the voice repeated in a whisper. His eyes searched wildly for the ravinors who had been overwhelming him. But there were none. He finally recognized the face floating over him in the darkness. It was Hossen. His relief was palpable, and his body relaxed immediately. It was a dream! He was soaked in sweat and lying on a straw pallet in a dark room. Faint bars of light streamed through a small vent in the far wall, lighting up his surroundings enough so he could just make out the dust-covered tables and chairs that were stacked around him; spiderwebs drifted slowly between the inverted legs. Sheets covered other pieces of furniture, the protective barriers all liberally coated with
years’ worth of dust.
Hossen slowly took his hand away from the healer’s mouth, once he felt sure he wouldn’t call out. The innkeeper helped Lerius sit up and backed away to give him space. His heart still raced from his vivid and disturbing dream; coupled with the shock of waking from the nightmare, it was no surprise he was confused and disoriented in what must be an attic. His eyes sought out Hossen’s, but the innkeeper had his finger raised to his lips to indicate that he should remain silent.
Now calmed enough to focus on the present, Lerius’s dried-out lips and empty stomach begged for food and water. Hossen must have suspected what he needed. The innkeeper fetched a wooden bucket that was placed under a slowly dripping leak in the roof.
Why are we in the attic? Was his first thought, and his second: I could’ve sworn it was hot and sunny today. He did not utter either question. Hossen handed him a small ladle and set the bucket in front of him so he could easily reach it without getting up from his pallet. After taking several satisfying mouthfuls, Lerius returned the ladle to its place on the rim of the bucket and looked up to ask Hossen a question. The innkeeper, again, gestured for silence.
Lerius obeyed, but he was becoming frustrated with the man. He wanted answers. The last thing he remembered was standing over the ravinor-turned youngster, having just rendered him unconscious. He vaguely remembered something striking him hard, and then he had fallen into his dream. Next, he woke in a dark, dusty attic with no idea of what had happened to him, with an innkeeper who wouldn’t give him any explanation. His answers would come soon enough.
Lerius and Hossen glanced at each other when they heard a scuffling sound from the floor beneath them. Something was grunting and snuffling about as if it were investigating a fresh scent. The sounds were certainly coming from a ravinor.
In the inn? How? Lerius believed they were secure where they were; it looked to him like Hossen was more nervous about alerting the ravinor below of their presence, rather than any fear of an attack. The innkeeper wasn’t lunging for the opening to block the creature, nor did he reach for a weapon to defend himself. Both of which, Lerius hoped, were promising signs, at least for their immediate survival.