Ravinor

by Travis Peck

  “We’ll worry about this later. We have to keep a close watch on them this time and patrol all along the wall to make sure they’re not up to something. We’ll treat them like humans for now. Hopefully this encirclement is the only anomalous behavior,” Garet finished saying, his mind racing. How I wish we had more arrows… No sense wishing for something that could not be. They certainly wouldn’t be able to kill them all from a safe distance now. If each and every one of their arrows flew true and were fatal, they would still be facing nearly one hundred ravinors.

  Garet’s eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the besieging force. He could have sworn one of the ravinors was hanging back from the rest, staring at the wall much like he had been studying the ravinors. When their gaze had met, brief as it was, he was certain that he had seen intelligence in those black eyes.

  “Did you—” Garet nearly asked. “Never mind.” Not sure what he believed he had seen—if anything—he shrugged his suspicion away. It was too late in any case. Studying all the creatures in his view, he did not see any particular ravinor that stood out from the rest.

  “We’ll start a watch now on the wall. One person stays here by the gate while the other walks the perimeter.”

  Crallick and Barsus both nodded in agreement. The sergeant knew full well that the ravinors were acting strangely; his son, however, was just beginning to understand how out of character the ravinors were being from his much more limited exposure to them.

  “Three watches. I want one of us on each. Start after dinner. Crallick and I will keep an eye on them for now. Barsus, tell your mother the plan and get the horn while you’re at it.”

  Garet owned an old bull horn that would work perfectly for raising the alarm if necessary. Barsus climbed down the wall with his orders.

  The two soldiers looked out from the wall as the sun fully set. The moon was still waxing full and bright; they wouldn’t have to burn torches to keep watch during the night. There was a hint of chill that raised goosebumps on Garet’s arms.

  “If they stay like this,” Crallick gestured at the ravinors encircling them, “we can charge out if we have to.”

  “In a few days, when the horses are rested. But I’m not certain that this lot will be as accommodating as the last coven.”

  As he finished speaking, the two men heard an odd grunt from beyond the wall. In answer, the ravinors congregated near the gate, but not all of them.

  “Taker be damned!” Crallick muttered vehemently under his breath.

  That had clearly been a command. Garet noticed that not all of the ravinors were in his field of view.

  “They left a watch of their own…” Garet realized. He also noticed that the creatures were not all crowding the gate. These covens, though amassed, were staying back away from the wall and gate. They were still within bow-shot certainly, but much farther out. This time around, there would be no easy bow work from the wall.

  Escape through the gate was now unlikely to succeed with the majority of the ravinors watching the opening. Sneaking over the wall and making a dash for it without horses might work for a few candles, but then they would soon be overtaken. Hoisting the mastiffs over the wall would ruin any chance they had of getting out undetected, and without the element of surprise—and the vital presence of their war mastiffs—they had no chance of success that way.

  “We have to find the ravinor leading them. The others seem to be normal but one of them is giving commands. A smart ravinor?” Garet mused aloud. How and why there was a reasoning ravinor at his gates was a question for Mon Lyzink. All Garet knew for certain was that they were quickly running out of options.

  “After you make your circuit along the wall, go down and get everyone’s gear laid out to grab at a moment’s notice. I have a feeling we’re in for a long night.” Crallick saluted and neither man paid it any heed; they both had larger and more pressing matters to concern them as they fell back into their old familiar roles.

  As Crallick went off to make sure there was nothing going on away from the gate, Garet scanned the enemy. They looked outwardly like any coven he had seen, albeit three of them together. Half-rotted clothing hung off their soiled and emaciated bodies; their eyes were typical as well, lifeless coals, but he now knew he had seen intelligence in at least one pair of ravinor eyes. His immediate concern was for the safety of everyone within his walls, but he could not help but to think of the enormity of this development. Intelligent ravinors leading covens—it did not bode well for the human race.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MARTEL IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED THAT last pitcher of ale. He woke with a head being pounded on by a thousand hammers. At least, that was how it felt. He nearly fell over as he was relieving himself, both from the effects of overindulging last night coupled with the unfamiliar cast on his ankle. When he was done, he shuffled over to the washbasin and took several moments to douse and scrub at his face with the cool water. That helped a little, he thought as he put on his clothes. What he really needed was a large breakfast and another day of more sleep. But he would not be getting the latter. A light knock on the door made him groan inwardly.

  “Come in,” he mumbled.

  “Good morning!” Mon Lyzink bounded into the room on a wave of energy. One look at Martel and he laughed, slapping his apprentice consolingly on the back. “It’s always the last one that hurts, isn’t it, lad?” He laughed again at Martel’s current disposition. “I guessed that you might be a little whoozy this morning, so I have some breakfast waiting. The legate and I arranged all our supplies and mounts last night, so they should all be ready and waiting when we are done eating.” His master studied Martel’s cast. “That healer did a fine job. That should do nicely. It looks like it will fit a stirrup perfectly.”

  Martel nodded as he scanned the room, looking for anything that he might be forgetting. Then he realized he hadn’t brought a single thing with him. He gestured at his master toward the door, and the two men went through it and down the stairs to break their fast. He was pleased to note that the cast was able to take most of his weight so he only had to lean a little on his crutch. He could walk much better now and only lagged behind Mon Lyzink by a step.

  The aroma of breakfast made his mouth water, and he knew that it would go a long way to restoring himself. Two platters were waiting on the table. Piping hot kof steamed in large mugs, and the vibrant scent sliced through a little of the fog behind Martel’s eyes. A heap of bacon, fresh bread with a large dollop of an unidentified berry jam, some refreshing green melon, and a pile of eggs beckoned to be devoured. He obliged.

  Breakfast passed in silence. Martel wolfed down his food. After clearing off his platter and downing the hot kof, he felt vaguely human again. Mon Lyzink finished only moments after his apprentice. Both scholars were still recovering from their lack of sustenance during their ordeal. And now we are about to embark upon another.

  Despite everything—his injured ankle, his headache, and the danger they had lived through—Martel was excited to get started. This was the most important foray he and his master had ever undertaken. The nature of which could prove, or disprove, a myriad of theories about ravinors. Based on what they had already discovered, the new information that they might soon learn could save countless human lives in the future.

  Mon Lyzink and Martel got up from the table with full bellies and thanked the owner of the inn on their way outside. The legate had been true to her word, and there were four heavily laden mounts with bulging saddlebags waiting for them. More than a dozen ropes lashed down other supplies that they might need but were too bulky to fit inside the bags. Martel was pleased to see the extra supplies; they did not know how long this trek would last and winter would be arriving soon enough. Martel saw waterskins, blankets, lanterns, and bedrolls, along with their specialized equipment that resembled an apothecary. He was impressed with what the legate had provided for them, and it must have shown on his face.

  “Oh, yes, lad!” Mon Lyzink was quite pleased with wh
at he and the legate had agreed to for supplies. “Now we are ready.”

  Martel grinned along with his master as they heard two horses coming down the aged and worn cobbled street. It was the legate and Yurlo. The scholar apprentice was chagrined that Yurlo was looking chipper and bright-eyed this morning. It seemed the Rhyllian handled his ale better than he had.

  “Good morning,” the legate greeted crisply. “I trust everything is here?”

  “Indeed, Dame, and my thanks to you.” Mon Lyzink answered with a bow.

  The dame graciously nodded from horseback. “I have one more favor to ask of you. Will you take this Rhyllian off my hands for me? He has pestered me since we left last night and has spent each waking moment begging for my permission to allow him to accompany you. I can assure you that he is a capable fellow,” the harried legate added.

  Martel smiled widely and looked to his master. Mon Lyzink’s intentions were easier to read this morning with his great beard so nicely cleaned and groomed. “It couldn’t hurt to have a healer with us, and one more pair of eyes would be helpful. But no ale on this trip! I need my apprentice to have his wits about him.” Mon Lyzink furrowed his brows in mock seriousness. Then he said in a more formal tone, “Welcome to our expedition, Yurlo.”

  The Rhyllian grinned widely and bowed from the saddle to Mon Lyzink. “Thank you. I most grateful for this!”

  “We shall see if that lasts,” Martel’s master said.

  Yurlo laughed, unconcerned; his enthusiasm was undaunted. He kicked his horse over to Martel and asked innocently, “You not feel well this morning?”

  Martel gave him a rude gesture. Thankfully, Yurlo’s body blocked the legate’s sight of the obscene and dubious salute.

  “Ah, yes. I keep forgetting that Styrics drink like Rhyllian children.” The healer laughed uproariously at his own joke. Mon Lyzink joined in and even Martel found it difficult to keep a straight face.

  “This way you can fix this cast when it falls off after the first rain,” Martel said, prodding the diminutive healer.

  Yurlo gasped in offense. “If it does, is your fault. It as hard as apprentice’s head!” He laughed again.

  “Thank the Giver!” the legate said, raising her arms to the sky. “I am finally free of him!” Despite her pronouncement, she could not hide the trace of a smile on her lips.

  Yurlo jumped off his mount and strode over to his former employer. He gently grabbed her gloved hand and kissed the palm of it. Then he said something in Rhyllian that none of them understood. It was clearly a formal occasion for the foreign healer, and Martel sensed the ceremonial air about the small man. The legate must have picked up on the importance of the ritual and nodded somberly as she squeezed Yurlo’s hand and bid him farewell. Then she wheeled her mount and kicked it into a gallop.

  Yurlo remained standing and watched the legate until she vanished over a hill in the distance. Once she disappeared from view, he bowed his head solemnly for a moment. When he turned, his smile was back and as wide as ever.

  “I shall miss her,” Yurlo explained. “She most formal, but I been with her five years, and she treat me well and with much kindness.”

  The two scholars acknowledged the compliment of the legate, though Martel had only exchanged a few words with her. Still, it seemed that Yurlo had been genuinely touched by his relationship with the legate.

  “Are you both ready to head out?” Mon Lyzink asked, bringing them all back to the task that awaited them.

  Martel nodded, and Yurlo vaulted back onto his mount. The small, spry foreigner seemed surprisingly adept with horses for an islander.

  The three men kicked their heels in and set off at a brisk trot. Each member of the group led a packhorse behind him. They chose a pace that would keep their horses fresh should they encounter any ravinors, but they also had to balance that need against the necessity for speed lest any delay cause them to lose the trail of their true quarry.

  Martel studied the early morning sky, and the day looked promising but for the fall crispness to the air. His headache was no longer the pounding of hammers behind his eyes, merely a dull ache that would likely linger for most of the day. He was over the worst of it but was still a little bitter that the diminutive Rhyllian showed no ill effects from the drink. The islander rode in the middle of their column. Mon Lyzink was in the lead, and Martel trailed at the end.

  Martel noticed that the islander seemed to be comfortable in the saddle, at least comfortable enough to be riding with his head bowed. Is he sleeping? Martel thought in disbelief. He wished he could master that trick, but like as not, he would fall off and hurt his other ankle. The Rhyllian’s head was bent with his chin against his chest, and he swayed with his horse’s motion more loosely than he would have if he were awake. That couldn’t be comfortable. Martel envied him. Even on such an important expedition, travel was often monotonous. It was especially tedious when they were covering the same ground they had traveled the previous day.

  Martel was unable to match the Rhyllian’s horseback-sleeping maneuver, so he tried the next best way to pass the time. He eventually found a rhythm with the steady motion of his horse that allowed his mind to churn over possibilities of what they might discover. His trick was successful, and before he knew it, Mon Lyzink was calling for a halt. By the sun’s height in the sky, it was nearly midday.

  He dismounted gingerly; his legs were stiff from riding since early morning, but his injured ankle seemed a little better than it had been. Mounted travel seemed to agree with his injury. Stretching out his back while awkwardly leaning on his crutch, he glanced around. Their location was a likely halting spot with a nearby stream to water the horses, and themselves, and a few stumps for sitting on while taking a quick bite.

  The other two men gathered water which allowed him to sit down and relax. There were some advantages to his injury. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty that Yurlo was taking up his slack while he was recovering. Serves him right. No hangover…sleeping while riding… They stopped only for enough time to refresh themselves and their mounts, and then they mounted back up and continued on their journey. By this rate, Martel surmised, they should be able to start tracking before dusk.

  The next stretch of travel did not go by nearly as fast now that he and the others had to keep an eye on the trail for rocks and roots that could trip or otherwise injure their horses. The terrain climbed and descended, and climbed again, over the next few candles. The forest grew more dense, and the riders spaced themselves out so that they could avoid the swinging branches that snapped back at them as the rider ahead passed by. The forest canopy was getting thicker by the moment and blocked out the sunlight as they continued on. Martel thought they were getting close to the silverwood tree where he had sheltered at while Mon Lyzink had been observing the three ravinor flocks.

  Sure enough, he spotted the big silverwood off to his left. In less than a candle’s time, the trio should arrive to where his master had described the ravinor birth and where the tracks of their quarry would be found.

  Not long after they had passed the silverwoods, the riders entered the clearing. Martel was struck by the multitude of ravinor tracks that covered nearly every open surface of the glade. Three flocks, indeed. Martel implicitly trusted Mon Lyzink’s count of how many ravinors he had seen, but it was more than a little shocking to actually see the tracks of so many of the creatures. It was even more shocking to think that his master had been up by the rock overlooking all of this. Nerves of silverwood, Martel thought. He was proud of his master’s bravery in his relentless pursuit of knowledge.

  Yurlo and Martel, still on horseback, nudged their mounts over to where Mon Lyzink stooped over the ground, intensely studying the tracks.

  “This is where they were,” the scholar muttered more to himself than to his companions. Then he began to follow the tracks. Martel could see, even while mounted, that the trail led to the east. His mentor must be getting a feel for the tracks. He would be checking for the small detail
s that would indicate their quarry’s tracks when they were not so clear. The angle of the feet, the spacing between strides, all this information would help them later on when the trail took them over less ideal surfaces for tracking.

  “I say we press on,” the scholar recommended, having satisfied himself that he could pick out these specific tracks again.

  Martel and Yurlo waited for Mon Lyzink to mount back up, and then they set out to the east. A quick pace was set while it was still easy to follow the tracks on the soft dirt. Once again, Martel followed the others and Mon Lyzink took the lead. They only had three candles of travel time before they would have to stop to find a place to camp. Martel wasn’t worried that they would catch up with their quarry this evening, and the other flocks were days away, or at least they should be. How things were going now though, he tried not to take anything for granted. He would stay vigilant.

  The trail led them out of the deep forest and skirted along the edge where it was faster to travel. These strange ravinors seemed to be in a hurry. Ravinors typically traveled through forests and only crossed the open grasses when they absolutely must. Of course, the word usually did not seem to apply to ravinor behavior any more; Martel had to keep reminding himself of that unpleasant fact.

  A candle passed, and then another, by the time Mon Lyzink called for a halt. There was still daylight left, so Martel wondered why they had stopped. All three men dismounted this time. Martel gathered all the horses’ reins and tied them up to a few fallen trees that were close by. Mon Lyzink was crouched down, low to the ground, his eyes squinting at the much rockier ground. He crisscrossed the area, peering this way and that, to ensure that he wasn’t missing any clue.

  “It looks like the tracks keep going this way,” the scholar said while he gestured with a wave of his arm. “I think we should stop for the night here. The tracks are getting more difficult to find, and I will need the light to follow them. We’ll start again tomorrow. Perhaps you two can get camp ready and see to the horses and dinner. I’m going to follow these tracks for a little ways. Don’t walk in this area.” Mon Lyzink marked out the area around the ravinors’ tracks that he wanted to remain undisturbed.