by Travis Peck
“We don’t want to cause panic, but everyone should be warned that the ravinors no longer fear daylight. That is the most crucial warning. The other discoveries: the newborn, the two strange ravinors—these might be best to hold back from the general populace. Knowledge that ravinor attacks are no longer deterred during daylight will cause enough hysteria; no need to overburden the people with the information that the ravinors are possibly evolving,” Mon Lyzink said, concluding his recommendation.
“Do not repeat this to anyone, but that is why I am in the area—not these new developments, of course—but because of the sudden increase in ravinor attacks across the empire. I am touring this province and shall recommend to the queen what our course of action ought to be. Is there no way that you would accompany me back to Styr for my report?” the legate asked.
Mon Lyzink shook his head. “I wish I could, but it wouldn’t be wise to send my apprentice alone to chase after these new ravinors. Even with the two of us, this venture is extremely dangerous, and if it weren’t so important we would not be going at all. It is vital to the empire that we find out more about these new ravinors. We must determine whether they are a mutation or a new sub-species of an evolving race.”
Legate Shavoli nodded in agreement. Mon Lyzink then asked questions of his own in his impassioned-scholar’s voice. “All across the empire? Any attacks in daylight? Any new ravinors spotted?” he said in a flurry; his words came out faster as he grew more intense.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” the dame answered, waving away his concern. “Things are not so bad as that. This is preliminary, but it is certainly cause for concern. Coupled with what you have just told me, though, I am beginning to share your dread. We may be looking at the Fourth Ravinor War in the making.”
The conversation at the table died with that. Each person took a long drink of their respective refreshment and sat silently for a few moments as they imagined the worst.
At last the legate said, “Oh. I nearly forgot. If you are injured, Martel, I have a healer with me that I could send your way.”
“Thank you, Legate, that would be most kind. We have a journey before us, and I would feel much better about it if I knew my ankle was mending properly.”
“Finnrick, do you mind fetching Yurlo?”
Finnrick left his satchel and the other writing accoutrements on the table and went in search of the healer.
“I wanted some privacy for this next portion. I trust Finnrick, but he has a weak constitution and does not handle the prospect of danger very well,” Dame Shavoli admitted. “The truth is a little more dire than I have described. Reports of villages and small towns being wiped out with little or no sign have started to make their way to Styr.
“General Aelpheus is raising another ten legions as we speak, though I do not believe there is a particular area or target in mind for his forces to attack. The other legates and I are each responsible for scouting out our respective provinces in order to identify such potential targets for the new legions.” The legate took one long draw from her wineglass and continued, “I have one legion at my disposal. I am sure I can spare you one cohort to assist you, if you would like? They could be here in two days, or perhaps a little sooner.”
“I thank you, Legate, but we must leave by tomorrow morning. If those tracks are washed away by any rain we will have lost our only chance,” Mon Lyzink explained. “And it is easier for two men to hide than for a cohort.”
“I understand, but would you at least acquiesce to some additional patrols in the area?”
“That would not interfere with our plans, but tell them to only engage if they come across a flock. Any group of ravinors with fewer than five creatures should be left alone unless they are directly endangering citizens.”
“I think we can work with that,” the legate said as Finnrick and the healer returned. Yurlo the healer was obviously a foreigner; his robe was immaculate and brightly colored. To Martel’s eyes, the loose-fitting clothing seemed odd; it was draped and folded in such a way that allowed for freedom of movement, but he wondered how it all didn’t fall off. Martel thought that it did look rather comfortable, though, but there were no belts or buckles keeping it together that he could see.
Dame Shavoli made yet another round of introductions, then Martel and Yurlo split away from the trio so that he could check out the injury without disturbing the others.
Martel and the healer sat down at a table in the center of the common room, giving Yurlo ample space to work. The foreigner pulled up a chair for Martel to prop his injured ankle on for closer examination.
“Take off boot and roll up breech leg, please,” Yurlo said. When the healer spoke, he revealed a clipped accent that Martel could not place. The man was short and had a dark complexion; his head was cleanly shaven, and he had a series of light scars on his cheeks and forehead in precise geometric patterns the likes of which Martel had never seen before.
“Ah, you notice Shrelavi, yes?” Yurlo asked, gesturing to the scars that Martel had been staring at none-too-subtly.
“Yes—sorry. I’ve never seen anything like those before. It is a ritual of some sort?” Martel asked, his natural curiosity overcoming his politeness at what might be an offensive topic.
“Indeed. Each set,” Yurlo answered, pointing at all three series of scars in turn, “represent mastery of one of four body essences. Mind, body, spirit, and…eh…your language has no word for this…aura—perhaps?” the foreign healer struggled to explain. “After I learn each, my master cut—swwt swwt swwt,” Yurlo said, mimicking a cutting motion over each scar set, “and I begin study next essence.”
“Interesting,” Martel said. “All four must be in harmony?”
“Ha, yes!” Yurlo answered with a large smile, his eyes becoming slits as he laughed. “You understand! It is hard to explain anything in Styric, yes? I speak okay, but no great. You study as well, yes, but not body essences?”
“I understand a little of the body essences,” Martel answered, enjoying the conversation, “but I study ravinors with my master.” He pointing over to Mon Lyzink.
“Ah, I can tell he is master. My master look same. But not as large. He still have…beard, yes? I think they believe they are most smart when they…” Yurlo rubbed at his chin, assuming an air of erudite superiority.
Martel laughed deeply enough that he could see the legate and the two men at the other table stop to look over at the commotion. He continued to laugh. Yurlo joined in and gave him a slap on his shoulder. Both men rubbed at their own chins as they mocked their respective masters.
“Ravinors, yes?” Yurlo inquired as the laughter wore off. “I have seen some here. Strange creature, have only two essences, I think. Body and aura. No mind, no spirit.”
Martel nodded and said, “They are not in harmony are they?”
“See! Yes, you understand fine!” Yurlo said. Turning back to the matter at hand he added, “How long?”
“Almost two days.”
Yurlo gently probed at the injured ankle, pressing here and there. Martel grunted at a particularly sore area. “Ah, broken. But will heal. I will splint to make sure.” Yurlo reached into his satchel and pulled out various materials and set them on the table before them. He then walked to the bar and returned with a pitcher of water and a few clean cloths. The foreign healer scrubbed down Martel’s foot and ankle thoroughly, then he unrolled what looked to be a gauze-like material and let it splash into the pitcher to soak. Next he began to form some sort of bracing from small pieces of a wood that Martel did not recognize.
“This abamin root. Perfect for splint. I make brace around ankle, yes? Then wrap boma around it. It hardens and so can protect and immobilize,” Yurlo finished explaining as he deftly weaved the strange root.
In less than a candle, the brace was on his foot and the boma was drying. Yurlo left to wash his hands and came back with two ales. “I love Styric drinks, yes?” he said as he set one down for Martel and took a sip of his own.
“East of Styr. Far away east, yes? Place called Rhyllia. You know?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never met anyone from there before, and I don’t know much about it.” He recalled an accounting of an early contact with the isle peoples. The man who had written it had been keenly interested in observing the islanders’ unusual eyes that were more slanted than the roundish eyes of the majority of the people native to Styr. Yurlo certainly had eyes that matched that description.
“Rhyllia is made of islands, yes? Many islands close together but not…attached.” Yurlo gestured, and as he did so, he revealed more scars upon the back of his hands.
Martel noticed and asked, “More Shrev—al—?” The apprentice knew he had mangled the word.
“Shrelavi. And yes, these shrelavi, but not for healing they for…other.”
Yurlo was vague and Martel could tell he did not want to talk more about it, so he changed the subject. “When did you come here?”
“I been here five years. Came on ship legate owns and go work for her, yes?”
“It doesn’t seem like one person would need a healer all to herself?”
“Ha, yes. It is not…exciting…most days. But I have seen much of your empire. So much land, not like my home. There, it is all people in small spaces. Here each person has much space!” he said, spreading his arms wide. “You and famous master study ravinors, yes? Tell me. How did they begin to be?”
“We really don’t know,” Martel answered truthfully. “All we know is that the ravinors seemed to originate on this continent, over one hundred years before Styr became an empire. My master thinks that they first appeared almost four hundred years ago. No one knows how or why, or exactly where they originated from.” Martel had pondered these questions since before his apprenticeship with Mon Lyzink had begun, and he knew that his master had been searching for many more years.
“There are many theories, of course,” Martel said, continuing to explain. “Some scholars believe that ravinors were reclusive creatures that hid out in caves as much as they could. As their population grew, they were forced to venture out more, and that is when we first encountered them. Another theory is that they actually came from another land that has yet to be discovered. I think that one is rubbish.
“I believe the theory that might be closest to the truth is that ravinors came to be because of a mutation within us that eventually began to propagate itself through infecting other humans. Thus, over time, a new species emerged. But how did that happen? The fact that humans can become ravinors suggest that there is a close linkage between our species, but we may never know the origin,” he finished speaking. Yurlo had been paying close attention to every word.
“So how you hurt your ankle?” the foreign healer asked.
Martel explained what had happened initially, but he did not go into detail about the birth or the two new sub-species that Mon Lyzink had discovered.
“Have you ever been…infected?” Yurlo asked, taking a moment to find the correct word in Styric.
“I haven’t—thank the Giver—but my master has,” Martel answered after finishing off his pint. “It happened when he was just a boy. He hasn’t told me the specifics, only that he had been infected.” When Martel had first been apprenticed to study under Mon Lyzink, he had asked countless times, but his mentor had always been close-lipped about the details, which was unlike the affable and easygoing man that he had come to know. It must have been terrible, he thought.
Yurlo did not press the issue, for which Martel was glad. He was enjoying this conversation after months with only Mon Lyzink and his scholarly mumblings. He was also enjoying the ale, possibly a little too much with their early start tomorrow, but it definitely made his ankle feel better. The drinks and the strange cast on his ankle made Martel more optimistic about his ability to travel by horseback during their journey.
The Rhyllian excused himself to get one more pitcher for the two men. Martel was only too glad to let him. He didn’t want to try walking with the odd cast on his ankle quite yet. He looked over and saw Mon Lyzink and the legate still in deep discussion. Finnrick furiously scribbled on his parchment, the quill jumping to and fro as if it were still attached to the bird it came from.
Mon Lyzink noticed Martel glancing over and signaled that they should retire soon. Just as he responded with an affirmative, Yurlo arrived at the table with a pitcher of ale with a full, frothy head. Giving a sheepish grin, Martel shrugged but indicated that this would be the last one. Martel saw his master laugh and shake his head at his apprentice’s questionable choice. The legate gave him a look that spoke of prudish disapproval; a look he had seen on his own grandmother’s face countless times as a lad.
“Ha. You in trouble now, yes?” Yurlo said, having noticed the exchange of looks. “My master look the same way at me for the first ten years I study! But my master is far, far away, so…another drink!” he said with a laugh, and Martel joined in the merriment. It was impossible to let the Rhyllian’s good spirits go unanswered.
“This has to be the last one, though… Then I have to go get some sleep. My master and I will be up before dawn getting ready,” Martel said, informing the enthusiastically drinking Yurlo. Yurlo nodded in reply, too busy drinking to voice his agreement.
Martel and Yurlo continued chatting about nothing of consequence. They just enjoyed their evening, and there was no more talk of ravinors to darken their celebratory mood. Yurlo proved to be an entertaining fellow, and if he was the measure of a Rhyllian citizen then Martel would have to go there one day. After hearing dozens of humorous stories about Yurlo’s various masters over the years, he would also like to meet them too.
Martel vaguely noticed Mon Lyzink and the others take their leave for the night as he and his companion told stories and finished off their last pitcher. He was true to his word, though. Once the ale was gone, he dissuaded Yurlo from fetching another one. He bid goodnight to the Rhyllian and hobbled his way up the stairs to the room he had next door to his master’s. The cast really was remarkable; his ankle didn’t hurt nearly as much as he had feared it would. That could just be all the ale, though, Martel guessed but pushed the thought aside. He would find out for certain early tomorrow morning.
Martel splashed water on his face from the washbasin next to the bed and relieved himself in the chamber pot. After drinking several glasses of water, a method his master swore by to avoid a hangover, he stripped off his clothes and slid into the large and comfortable bed. He gave a sigh. It had been a while since he had slept indoors in a nice bed. He felt himself drifting off to sleep and whole-heartedly embraced the welcoming slumber.
Chapter Thirteen
AS SOON AS THE first ray of light hit their camp, the two men were up and preparing to move on again. Breakfast consisted of bread, cheese, and an apple for each. Ifo fed and watered the horses while Arin repacked the saddlebags and doused the fire. No kof this morning, they did not want to waste the time to brew it.
“Good weather today,” Arin said as he mounted up. Ifo agreed. They were traveling right at the end of summer. Fall was nigh, but so far it seemed like they might make it to Styr before the weather turned. Few things were more miserable than riding for days through a constant downpour.
The two started out at a good pace. They rode through lunch, as they had done the previous day. The deep forest remained dense, but the road began to descend into a valley. The temperature rose a little as they went lower. Ifo removed his cloak as the sun broke through the high clouds just after midday. Arin talked about how most of the journey would be through such terrain. Ifo could see why his companion had his timber operation in the area; trees were bountiful, and to his untrained eye, looked to be healthy. He said as much to Arin.
“You’re right. In fact, we should be getting close to one of the camps I had running here a few years ago. No on
e is there now, but there’s a small cabin we can stay in, or at least there was the last time I was here.”
Ifo was pleased. He liked sleeping beneath the stars, but he felt more secure in a building where he knew exactly where an intrusion might come from. By afternoon, they must have been getting close to the old camp. An occasional tree stump could be seen with axe-marks clearly identifiable even this long after the fact, as opposed to a natural tree fall, or the sign of a woodrat’s large incisors. As they neared the camp, more and more stumps could be seen throughout the area.
“Right where I left it.” Trevan was clearly pleased as he pointed the cabin out to him. Ifo saw the small cabin tucked away in between two large silverwoods. The massive trees gave shade during the summer and sheltered the cabin from the worst of the snow and rain in winter and fall.
Ifo asked why they had not chopped down the silverwoods, for surely they would have fetched a good price.
“Silverwoods are the Taker on saw and axe blades. Hard as stone they are. They can be chopped down—it’s true, but those two are so massive, we’d have to widen the road just to get them out,” Trevan explained. “They are a fine tree, though. While we are here, I’ll look for silverwood cones to see if I can plant some in a place where it would be easier to harvest them. Of course, I won’t live to see them grow to their full height. They take about fifty years before they reach maturity, then they can still live for another hundred or more,” the lumberman said.
Ifo smiled to himself at the man’s enthusiasm and knew that his companion had chosen the right craft for himself. Ifo had not been so lucky in his life to be able to choose his own profession; that had been decided for him years ago, and he had come to terms with it. And what else do I know how to do?
There was a small corral for the horses at the cabin site, so after Ifo brushed them down, he let them in and closed the gate behind them. There was good feed for the horses, too. The grass was tall and green, and the horses looked to be quite at home here. Ifo hauled all the baggage into the cabin while Trevan started a fire in the stove. The cabin had been solidly built, and it had withstood the passage of many seasons, thanks to the silverwoods sheltering it. Not unusual for a lumber camp, they had a nice supply of firewood stacked out on the south side of the cabin. The little they would use for cooking would not put a dent in the stack.