by Travis Peck
Martel agreed, and he and Yurlo began to search for a campsite. He didn’t want to be too far out in the open, so he led them a stone’s throw into the forest to get some needed cover. The weather would not be a factor tonight, but he wanted to hide their fire. No sense in starting a fire at the edge of the forest where ravinors could see them from a great distance away. Once again, they were lucky enough to find a stream only a short walk away. After a full day in the saddle, his ankle begged to be elevated. The cast is holding up nicely, he thought as he used the crutch to hobble around their new campsite.
Yurlo went to collect their horses and get them settled in for the night. Martel stayed near camp to gather some tinder for a fire. After he found enough dry material, he scraped out a shallow bowl in the dirt with his crutch and laid out the dried twigs and grasses in the depression. Next, he formed a bundle of the remaining tinder and took out his flint. With only a few strikes, a glowing ember could be seen in the bundle of dried grass he had in his hands. He blew gently at first. The tiny red ember glowed brightly, and then the bundle was suddenly aflame. Laying it down gently into the bowl he had dug out, he carefully added the larger twigs he had gathered to the growing flame, still mindful not to add too much lest he snuff out the fire.
Moments later, he had a crackling fire started. He had to scramble to find some large branches to keep the fire growing while he collected more to last them through the night. He remembered how difficult starting a fire had been when he had first begun apprenticing under Mon Lyzink. The first few days into his first expedition, Mon Lyzink had started a fire for himself while Martel struggled to set flame to his own off to the side of the camp. His master, of course, used it as a teaching session and would answer questions his apprentice would ask of him, but he refused to show him how to do it. He wanted Martel to learn on his own, and in the end, the apprentice was successful. Because of those lessons, he was now a proficient fire-starter and was confident he could light one in nearly any unfavorable weather.
Yurlo returned with the horses to the new camp after he had taken them by the stream to water and brush them down. The flames were high and bright upon his arrival. Martel greeted him and Yurlo smiled back. “I love horses,” the Rhyllian proclaimed happily. “We have few on islands but only for hauling, none trained for riding.”
“I wondered how you learned to ride so well,” Martel said as he did his best to help Yurlo with all the saddlebags and gear.
“Legate insist I learn. We travel much, yes? She did not want to wait. So, I ride all the time, and now I am best Rhyllian horseman ever!” Yurlo was clearly proud of his accomplishment.
Martel laughed. “I’m sure you are the best…out of three or four?”
“There are five of us! And I am best!”
They continued to laugh as they rifled through the saddlebags, looking for some food for dinner. Martel knew that Mon Lyzink had ordered everything they needed, but he preferred knowing exactly what they had and how it was all packed. After searching through a few saddlebags, he finally found some bread and cheese. Along with the sausage that Yurlo found, they had the makings of a filling dinner.
Tonight’s dinner would be quick and easy. They hardly needed it after their large dinner the night before and their even more generous breakfast. Seeing as there was little to prepare, Martel thought he would make some kof. Luckily, he had noticed where the kettle had been stowed during the food search so was able to locate it quickly. He filled it up from a full waterskin on hand—no sense going to the stream for more until the morning—and set it to brew over the fire.
By the time Mon Lyzink returned to camp, the horses were all secured to a picket line, groomed, checked over, and munching contentedly from their feedbags. Martel offered Mon Lyzink a cup of kof that was still hot. His mentor accepted it gratefully and stretched out his legs. He gave a loud sigh as he sat down on a log that was positioned comfortably by the fire.
“The tracks keep going along as they have been, but we’ll have to go slower tomorrow as the ground becomes harder and more difficult to find tracks in. If we didn’t have horses, I don’t think the trail would have remained for us to follow—thank the Giver. I’d say that we’re a day behind them.” Mon Lyzink finished making his report to the others.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Martel asked as he sipped the hot brew from his mug.
“Hard to say. We are probably a week away from the coast that’s off to the northeast, and going anywhere to the east would take them weeks and weeks to find a likely ravinor haunt. If they trace the edge of the forest that runs to the north, then they will reach the end of it within a day. That route is probably out of the question. As I recall, there are some steep hills that run east to west where the forest ends. That is where I think they’re bound. Perhaps they have a bolthole in those hills,” Mon Lyzink guessed.
“They don’t like the—ocean—yes?” Yurlo asked, pausing briefly to seek out the Styric word. He seemed dubious that the ravinors had some sort of aversion to water.
“I don’t think it matters to them, but they have no way to get food there, other than from human settlements. I don’t believe that they’ve started fishing yet,” the scholar said, only half-joking. “Maybe in the right area with a nice cave carved out by the ocean—that might serve them as an adequate sanctuary. But a ravinor on horseback with a young ravinor babe and its mother might go anywhere. We can’t assume we know what they are likely to do, and we certainly can’t assume we will understand why they choose any particular course of action.”
Yurlo raised an eyebrow. Martel shared a look with his mentor who nodded at him in assent.
“Now that you are with us, Yurlo, we should tell you the whole story.” Martel recounted Mon Lyzink’s observations and what they had told the legate, and also how she had given them her oath that she would not disclose the sensitive information to the citizens of the empire.
Yurlo listened intently. Martel knew that the foreigner was a curious fellow—even during the short time he had known the islander, he could see that. When he had finished revealing all their new discoveries, the healer sat in silence for a moment.
“Now that you have told me all, I must do same, yes?” Yurlo said, surprising the two Styrics.
Martel did not know what to expect, and from his mentor’s single raised eyebrow, Martel saw that he did not know, either.
They waited while Yurlo paused to formulate his thoughts in a tongue that was not his native one.
“It is not complete truth that legate hire me from my old master, though she not know it,” the foreigner explained. “My master send me here to study ravinors. The legate travels much, and so we—my master and I—think it best to witness ravinor attacks and learn about them. We see many, but always after attack. Legate is important person. She is kept safe with guards, so we do not have…face to face…with ravinor, yes?
“After a few years of this, I know I need more knowledge of them and think that I must find famous scholar Mon Lyzink. Because legate has been fair to me, I did not want to leave rudely so I wait until opportunity comes. I send many letters asking to see you but only get reply that you are out in field. So, when legate tell me we go to this area by your tower, I think this is my chance, yes? And it was!”
“Well,” Mon Lyzink said, defending himself, “as to that, my secretary handles the letters and brings me what she thinks is most important; seeing as I already have one apprentice, I don’t think she took you too seriously, my friend. And for the last few years, we have been busy out in the field. That is true, as she said. When I finally make it back for a few days, I can’t even read all the correspondence that I received while I was gone.” Mon Lyzink apologized to the islander.
Yurlo was not yet done, “Ah yes, that is what I think happened. But I have not told you why my master send me, yes? I was sent because, five year ago, ravinors found in Rhyllia for first time,” Yurlo revealed, leaving both Styrics with mouths agape in surprise. Their jaws c
ollectively dropped farther when he rolled up one of his unusually wide sleeves, revealing the telltale scar that was plainly a ravinor-made wound—Martel doubted that the scar was from a human’s teeth marks. “I get bit by one, and after few days, I recover. At time, I think nothing wrong with that, but now I learn how rare? it is to survive bite of ravinor.”
“You were lucky,” Martel managed to say through his shock. “Only one amongst a few thousand survive the infection.”
Mon Lyzink leaned forward, his mug of kof forgotten in his hand, and asked, “Five years, you say? How many were there? Was this an infection from a group of sailors from Styr who were not quarantined?” His master shot out questions as fast as his mind could create them and his mouth could utter them.
Yurlo nodded emphatically. “Yes. Five year. There were a dozen of them, no more. Least not that I know. There not even Styric ship in harbor when attack come, yes?” Yurlo answered.
Neither scholar was able to speak as their minds were sent reeling by the Rhyllian’s tale.
“How long does it take to reach your island from the closest shore of Styr?” Martel asked.
“If good wind? Ehhh. Three weeks and few days.”
“If ravinors came by ship, then that ship would have been carrying a human that must have been turned for at least two weeks… There is no way any ship captain would countenance having such a creature aboard—if only because of the stringent quarantine laws placed on all Styric ships,” Martel said, musing aloud. “Maybe if they were smuggled in? But why?”
Yurlo nodded his head. “There many secret coves and harbors on Rhyllia. Smuggler have no trouble with that.”
Mon Lyzink was silent as he mulled over all the possibilities. Martel’s own thoughts were racing. If a ravinor could ride a horse and command its fellows, was it so absurd to think that they might have learned how to pilot a sea-going vessel? But what did they gain by such an action? Why would they even care what was happening so far away, and if they did care so much, why send only a dozen? Even more disturbing was the idea that a human could be behind such an action.
Humans fighting other humans was an inescapable fact of the world—as history had shown and the future would continue to prove—but no matter the reason for hostilities between them, the ravinors were always considered a common enemy. At the height of the war to bring Nøm-Ün into the Styric fold, nearly fifty years ago, the two opposing forces had always called for a temporary truce if ravinors were about. The two warring sides had even gone so far as to attack flocks in the area to save the lives of their own human enemies. It was an unspoken rule of humanity. Martel prayed to the Giver that no human would ever stoop so low as to side with ravinors over their own kind.
Martel did not know which of the possibilities he had arrived at was more far-fetched, but he could not yet think of any alternatives. He hoped his master had a more plausible theory.
Mon Lyzink finally asked, “How many of your people were killed and infected? And have there been other outbreaks since that attack?”
Yurlo considered for a moment, and then he answered. “Only at isaluera, you would call it a university. Some masters killed in attack. Me and six others were wounded and infected. The staff knew to keep infected quarantined in single room. Only I survive. But no infections reported since…at least since I go, yes?” The Rhyllian’s demeanor was somber with the weight of recollecting such tragedy.
“Is the—isaluera—this university, located directly on the beach, or is it inland?” his master asked.
“Inland. Three or four hundred yards.”
“So, a group of a dozen ravinors landed on a specific island in Rhyllia—out of hundreds to choose from—and attacked the university that was located inland, and so; therefore, it could not have been the first inhabited place the ravinors would encounter from the shore, correct?” Mon Lyzink continued once Yurlo confirmed it was as he had said. “Is your island the westernmost island of Rhyllia?”
“No. Is a few islands to east.”
“So a ship sailing from Styr could not reach your island without first passing by others?”
“Yes, and that island impossible to see from most west island.” Yurlo’s eyebrows pinched in realization as to what the scholar was driving at.
“I cannot possibly imagine why those ravinors did what they did, or even how they did it, but I would have to say that the university was their target, wouldn’t you agree?”
Yurlo and Martel exchanged a look; the mutual shock was plain on their faces. The Rhyllian was nodding to himself, but Martel read from his body language that the healer was surprised he hadn’t considered the situation before as Mon Lyzink had presented it. Frankly, it had taken Martel a while to catch on to what his mentor was thinking, too.
A half-candle went by as the three men sat staring into their fire before Mon Lyzink broke the trance, “Who’s hungry?”
Martel laughed, appreciating Mon Lyzink’s attempt to change the subject. He immediately regretted it as he felt guilty thinking about how much more personal the topic had been for the Rhyllian. He was relieved to see the foreigner break out with a small grin.
“Yes. Plenty of time to dwell on such thoughts later, yes? To help us sleep, eh?” Yurlo said, joking.
With that, the somber tone was broken, and Martel passed around the bread and cheese and gave each man a roasting stick to cook the sausages. His master and the Rhyllian both accepted more kof as well.
“This good kof,” Yurlo admitted between bites of bread. “Rhyllian kof taste like hindquarters of dead cresuna—you would call pig, I think?”
“Then we’re glad we don’t have any of that here, and remind me if I ever make it to your islands, not to order any kof!” Mon Lyzink said and roared with laughter, heedless of the bread and cheese crumbs that spilled onto his bushy beard from his mirth.
After they had eaten their dinner, the three men sat and talked around the fire; they heard stories from Yurlo’s homeland mostly, as well as a few from the two Styrics’ younger days. Martel could scarcely keep his eyes open. Probably from the last lingering effects of enjoying his ale too much last night. Yurlo seemed fine, of course, but the younger scholar retired for the evening. He half-listened to the others’ stories as he tried to fall asleep on his bedroll that he had positioned on the other side of the log that he had been been sitting on. The nights were getting colder now but Martel was still warm from the fire, even with the log between him and its warmth. If this were winter, the three travelers would have huddled as close as they dared to the fire without setting their blankets aflame.
Martel drifted off to sleep with the soothing, low-voiced chatter of Mon Lyzink and Yurlo trading stories.
Chapter Seventeen
DURING THE MIDDLE OF the night, Ifo awoke and had to see to nature’s call. Passing by the horses that were still quiet and calm in the corral, he made his way to a likely stump. As he began, the horses stirred. Ifo thought at first that he had startled them, but they quickly grew more agitated. He heard huffing and snorting coming from all four. Ifo finished and quickly laced his breeches up. The mounts were spooked and were starting to stamp and buck in their enclosure. Ifo ran over to them to try to calm them while he tried to find the source of their panic.
Ifo froze. At the edge of the clearing, just a few yards from the dense woods, a figure stood. It was grasping something in its hand that it kept bringing to its mouth. He could make it out now in the moonlight. It was the guts and skin of the two hares they had eaten for supper. This man was eating the offal. Not a man. A ravinor. A sudden chill pervaded his body, and he could scarcely breathe from his fright.
He could not move. Ifo was no longer in control of his body. This had never happened to him before; not on a contract, not whilst training for his profession. Never. This was the first time, and it may well be his last. Ifo felt detached from his own body. He saw the pale figure step out into the clearing. The light of the moon now fell on the creature, and he got his first good look
at it.
The ravinor was naked from the chest up. It had been male; Ifo could tell that at least. The former human had been a large fellow. It was muscular and clearly had worked a physically demanding job. Its skin was pasty where it wasn’t covered in dirt and grime and body hair. Streaks of blood dripped down its chin and onto its chest as it feasted on the carcasses. Its eyes went back and forth between Ifo and the panicking horses. Ifo remained rooted in place. The horses were on the north side of the clearing; the ravinor on the south. Ifo was in the middle. All three parties were nearly equidistant from the cabin.
If he could move, he would make a headlong dash to the cabin where he could wake Trevan and get at his weapons. He did have one longknife tucked into the waistband of his breeches, but he would have preferred something with a longer reach. If I could move. Ifo began to shake, but he was still able to observe everything taking place in front of him. The ravinor tossed down the picked-over hare carcasses and took a few hesitant steps toward the horses.
Ifo felt bad for the animals but could not help to have a surge of hope, however cowardly it felt. The horses were at least able to move and had a better chance of defending themselves against the creature than he did at the moment. All four were nickering loudly and stamping their hooves on the ground, trying to persuade their would-be attacker to go elsewhere.
The ravinor must have decided to oblige. It changed its mind and turned to face Ifo. It was motionless for a moment, and then suddenly charged at him. His heart thudded in his chest. He was able to force out a feeble cry for help but still could not move his trembling limbs. All that he could think about as the ravinor closed the distance was how he would be infected and turned. He cared little for the pain or the likelihood of death at the hands of a ravinor; rather, it was the fear of the infection that was followed by a lifetime spent trapped inside his body while it terrorized humans as it constantly tried to gorge itself on any creature, or any man, woman, or child. Imagining seeing the world through his once-purple eyes, which would soon turn into hunger-crazed and soulless black eyes, terrified him. He quailed from thinking what it would be like to look out from the body that used to be his. Ifo’s dread of his new existence, if existence it could be called, had unmanned him.