by Travis Peck
Move! Move! Move! he shouted in his mind. The creature raised a gore-streaked, pale hand toward him. Ifo noticed the elongated nails, nearly claws, extending from its fingertips. He noticed the increase in hair growth on the hand and saw that it also covered the whole body; it wasn’t fur covered, but it was certainly similar to a more hirsute looking human. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. He heard nothing but the rush of blood through his ears. Blood coursed through his muscles, but they remained unwilling, or unable, to respond to his mind’s desperate pleas for action. He could not bear the shame of this moment. An assassin meeting his end without being able to raise a finger to defend himself? Shameful, indeed.
The creature should have struck by now. He dared to open his eyes. The ravinor was lying on its back; a spear had pierced its side and must have hit vital organs as it could do no more than thrash pitifully on the ground. Ifo looked up and saw Arin running toward him, shouting and waving his arms, but he still could not hear anything. Finally, all at once, he could move again.
He fell to the ground and vomited. His body shook from the adrenaline that his muscles had refused to put to any use. His hearing returned, and he was surprised that Arin was still yelling and waving madly at him as he pointed to the edge of the clearing where the ravinor had first emerged.
Ifo’s mind cleared, and he finally looked to see what his companion was gesturing toward. He counted the figures quickly. Eight more ravinors were congregating on the border between the forest and the cabin’s clearing.
Ifo gave a roar and charged. Never in his life had he been so afraid that he would not be able to move. Never in his life had he been so relieved that he could. He heard Trevan cursing as he retrieved the spear from the ravinor he had killed to save Ifo’s life. The rage had hold of Ifo now. As uncharacteristic for him as his cravenness had been, so too was the fury that he now experienced. An assassin was trained to be deadly, but deadly while in a state of calm. Cool and controlled. He roared again as his body trembled with anger and shame at his earlier display. He pulled the knife just as he reached the first ravinor.
Ifo’s arm snapped back, and then surged forward. The exquisitely sharp blade nearly sheared through the creature’s neck as a fount of blood gushed out from the gaping gash the steel had left in its wake. He was already beyond the ravinor when he heard it fall to the ground.
The next creature slammed into him, but Ifo managed to swing his arms around the ravinor’s neck. Then he twisted. The limp form fell from his arms. The third ravinor tried to grab him. But as it did so, he stiffened his left arm just below the ravinor’s chin, fending it off as he plunged his longknife into its heart with three lightning fast strikes. This ravinor, too, dropped at his feet.
He moved by long-ingrained instinct into his next adversary. He kicked at the ravinor’s knee, and it went down as its leg could no longer support its weight on the ruined joint. Ifo leapt on its back and punched the longknife down into the base of its skull. It shuddered. Then it was still.
One more faced him now, and he could see into its eyes. There was no fear there, even having just witnessed four of its coven cut down by the man bearing down on it. Its black eyes merely observed what was before it. It had no spirit, and certainly no knowledge of the righteous, inexorable anger that filled its adversary. Nothing. The hares he had shot had shown more life than these ravinors had. They seemed to Ifo to be unlike any other creature that walked the earth. Ifo knew then that he hated them. He loathed them with every fiber of his being. He charged the fifth ravinor. Ifo feinted to the left, and then he stabbed with the longknife, embedding it up to the hilt in the once-human’s temple. He wrested the longknife from its head, and the ravinor collapsed to the ground.
There should be three more, he thought. He turned back around and saw Arin swinging about with what remained of his spear. The point, along with a yard of the spear-shaft, was jutting out from a fallen ravinor’s chest. The two ravinors harrying him decided to spread out. Arin flailed with the broken haft, keeping the two at bay, but only just.
Ifo could see that the lumberman would not last long. He sprinted toward his companion. Arin must have realized that his time was running out because he made a bold thrust at one of his attackers. The ragged break, which now served as the point of Arin’s spear, gored one of them through, deep in its belly. The other ravinor saw an opening in the human’s defenses and chose that moment to lunge.
Ifo shouted and threw his longknife. Twenty yards away was a tough throw, especially while sprinting. The longknife flashed end over end until it stopped abruptly with a dull thunk as it pierced the creature’s brain through its left eye socket. It folded to the ground. Ifo fell to his knees, taking in ragged gulps of air. His body was drenched with sweat and blood. He looked up and saw that Arin was similarly disposed.
He looked around the clearing and didn’t see any more ravinors around. They were safe. Then he remembered all the blood covering his hands and forearms. If he had the merest scratch anywhere on his body, he was done for. Terrified, he ran for the water barrel by the horses and upended half the contents over his head. He tore off his shirt and began scrubbing away at the infectious blood. He felt, more than saw, Trevan crash to the ground next to him, still gasping for air.
“Cut?” Arin asked in a pant, unable to use more precious air for another word.
“I don’t think so.” Ifo was astounded. He was not entirely sure that it was possible that he had fought through such a flurry of flashing blade and scouring claws without a scratch on him. He felt a wave of relief, tempered by a large portion of disbelief.
“You?” Ifo asked.
“No. That’s why I recommend the spear,” Arin answered, his affable demeanor already shining through. “But I would be more than cut if you hadn’t shown up when you did,” he added in a more serious tone.
“We’re even. If you hadn’t thrown that spear, I would have been finished.”
“I thought you were finished when you charged at them,” Trevan said. From the disbelief on the man’s face, Ifo knew that his secret was out.
“I don’t know what happened,” he confessed. “I’ve never frozen up like that before. And I’ve been in danger many times.”
Arin nodded. “I froze up my first time meeting a ravinor, too. Something about them… To the Taker with their thrice-damned empty black eyes!” He spat on the ground. After hesitating a few moments, he asked, “You’re not a merchant’s agent are you?”
If Ifo had only just met Arin Trevan, that question would have resulted in his companion’s immediate death. The man had saved his life, however, and he still did not know his real name, nor exactly what his profession was. But he was quite sure that Arin would have a short list of possibilities. As surprising as it was, Ifo liked and trusted Arin, for all that they had only been acquainted for a few days—an exceedingly rare circumstance for an assassin to find himself in.
“No. I am not.” Ifo watched Arin nod to himself, and then the lumberman got up and began to soothe the badly spooked horses.
“You’ve fought them before?” Ifo asked, vaguely gesturing toward the corpses of ravinors strewn about the clearing.
“I have. Years ago, now. During the Third Ravinor War.”
It was one of the few times that Ifo did not detect an undertone of cheerfulness from the man. Arin stopped speaking briefly as he thought about the past. His hands were still patting one of the frightened mounts who nuzzled at him, grateful for the comfort. Ifo was about to break the silence, but then Arin spoke again. “I don’t know what you do, Roland,” Arin said, using Ifo’s assumed name with a hint of uncertainty as to its validity. “But I’m sure I could guess. The truth is, bless the Giver, you saved me today, and we both made it through this together. I will understand if you want to go the rest of the way alone. I’d say you’ve got your fear of ravinors under control, and you can take of yourself…and then some.” Arin’s eyes flitted over to the bodies that Ifo had left in the wake of hi
s mad charge.
“You saved my life too. And, if it’s all the same to you, I would be honored for your continued company to Styr. But, if you would rather go it alone I understand, and I won’t interfere,” Ifo said, knowing that his old mentor was rolling in his grave at this breach of his training. Maybe he was just feeling reckless after his survival, unbalanced by that heady feeling of vanquishing one’s foes. Whatever the reason for it, he said, “My name is Ifo.”
Arin chuckled. “My name is still Arin Trevan. And I would not at all be opposed if you would continue to accompany me on the journey to Styr.”
Ifo was elated. Aside from two other people in all the world, no one else still breathing knew what he did for a living. Now there are three. It had been ingrained in him long ago, even as early as the terrible voyage to the Styric Empire, not to trust anyone. It was an odd feeling, but Ifo felt that it was right to tell Arin the truth, and it felt surprisingly good to have done so.
Ifo stood up and threw his ruined shirt to the ground. He walked over to Arin and clapped him on the back. Trevan returned the clap with one of his own to Ifo’s shoulder. With a genuine smile on his face, he said, “Well met, Ifo!”
He returned the grin while he assisted calming down the horses. The four mounts seemed much more steady now that the excitement was over and no threat remained. “You were right. The horses knew.”
Arin nodded. “The problem is when something else spooks them. I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve woken up to excited horses, ready for a ravinor coven to come bearing down on me, and then find out it was a little fox, or an elm snake, or something equally harmless. But, on the other hand, they have always managed to warn me when ravinors are about.”
The horses were now behaving normally, but for the odd eye roll and quiet snort each time they smelled the ravinor blood.
“We need to burn these,” Arin told Ifo, gesturing to the ravinor dead. It was unknown when a ravinor became safe to handle after its death, so it was common practice to burn their bodies as a precaution. Or so Trevan informed him. “I think there are some gloves in the cabin. You shouldn’t touch them with your bare hands, even after they’re dead.”
Arin strode back to the cabin while Ifo checked himself over for the tenth time. No scratches, no cuts. He had been lucky. Ifo knew that nine times out of ten while fighting with knives, that both combatants would get cut; sometimes from your opponent’s blade, but, more often than not, a small cut from your own weapon would be the result. If that happened fighting against ravinors, it would be a death sentence.
Ifo needed to add some kind of hand and forearm protection to his kit if he were going to be traveling through ravinor territory again. A vambrace, or perhaps a gauntlet, might serve. The gauntlets would need to be modified. He would need to remove the fingers from it because that much steel would hamper his grip on his knives. The wrists must also be altered from hard steel to a chain-mesh portion that would still allow him freedom of movement—crucial for knife-fighting. I will have to think on it. A pike or spear would also be useful, but neither of which are a particularly subtle weapon to carry around. A staff might serve, used ostensibly as a walking stick. And a bow would be nice; it was faster to reload by far than his crossbow, and many travelers carried them between towns, so it wouldn’t attract attention. When Arin returned with the gloves, Ifo offered to see to the bodies while Trevan built a pyre for their disposal.
Ifo tore out the remainder of Arin’s spearhead from one of the corpses then dragged the dead ravinor over to where his companion was piling wood. He kept the broken spear with him and used it to prod and poke at each corpse before daring to drag it to the pyre. All of them were dead.
Ifo had never seen one up close before this attack, during which he had been forced to focus on his own survival rather than take the time to study all of them. They were as varied as the people they had once been. One of the corpses had been a woman. An old woman at that, Ifo realized, seeing gray wispy hair and plenty of wrinkles. He certainly hadn’t noticed that detail when she—or it— was attacking him.
All of the ravinor dead were filthy and pale. Some of them had tattered and torn clothing that hung from their bodies, unnoticed and unheeded. A few were stark naked, and Ifo wondered if they had been in such a state when they were first infected, or perhaps they had been turned for long enough that their clothing was torn free or had simply rotted away over time.
Seen from a distance, each body looked like that of a human who had been recently released from a dungeon as they all appeared to be dirty, underfed, and mistreated. But the black eyes staring up at him were anything but human. Each corpse was different. Some had long hardened claws, while others seemed to be in sore need of a nail trim. Some of the bodies looked human but with more body hair than would be considered normal. Others had light downy patches about their bodies.
By the time he had collected all the dead, Arin already had a fire blazing away. Dawn was a candle away at most. There would not be much sleep this night. Ifo was tired, but he knew he would not have been able to go back to bed after what had happened. His stomach rumbled. At least that was normal. “Any stew left?”
Arin laughed through his kerchief that was wrapped around his nose and mouth. “Unfortunately, we finished that off. I say we have a quick bite to eat, and then let’s get far away from here. This pyre might draw in more ravinors if there are others in the area.”
Ifo went into the cabin and changed his clothes. He would throw the breeches and shirt he had been wearing along with the ravinor bodies on the pyre. When he got dressed, he put all of his knife harnesses and other weaponry on over his clothes. There was no point now in hiding them, and it would be faster to access them this way. He could hide them once again if they went through any towns or villages. He gathered their usual lunch fare and took it out so that he and Arin could eat.
The pyre was billowing smoke up and out of the clearing in the pre-dawn light. Ifo could not tell the difference between the smell of ravinor flesh or human flesh when it burned. He supposed it was all the same thing now. Ifo waved Arin over to him. He didn’t want go near that smoke. The two ate quickly and went back to the cabin. They packed their bags with a sense of urgency. Neither of them wanted another encounter with ravinors. The cabin was packed up and left how they had found it—other than the pile of burning ravinor corpses in front of it.
The horses seemed as eager as the two men were to put the stench of burning flesh behind them. Ifo and Trevan set a good pace and both men were alert, constantly scanning their surroundings. Trevan had kept the bow from the cabin, and Ifo was glad that he had. It would be safer to pick them off from a distance.
Two candles away from the cabin and the mounts seemed to be content, which the two travelers took to mean they were safe from any more ravinors for the moment. They stopped by a stream and watered the horses and refilled their own waterskins. Because the horses had been moving at such a fast pace, they gave each one a bag of oats to eat from so that they might gain back their strength after their unexpected ordeal. Ifo patted his two horses and murmured thanks to their watchfulness. He would always travel with a horse from this day on, he vowed to himself.
Once they set out again, and as Trevan had said it would, the terrain became more rocky, and they had to slow down lest they risk one of their mounts coming up lame. Clouds rolled in from the north as they continued traveling to the southeast. The clouds were moving fast, and it looked as if there would be a storm overtaking them soon. Afternoon passed by, and the clouds grew darker and more ominous.
“We need to find a place for the night,” Arin said. The two men had spoken little while they traveled. Their attention was split between keeping a sharp eye out for ravinors and tracking the storm clouds that threatened them overhead. Ifo nodded and they looked for a likely place to stop.
A candle before dark, Arin spotted a large silverwood as big as the two towering over the cabin had been, but this one was an old and
dying specimen with fewer healthy branches. Next to the giant tree was a small niche in a hillside. It was as good a shelter as they were going to find this late. It should keep most of the rain off, but it was a far cry from how they had spent their first two nights since leaving Wesin. This would be an unpleasant night. Neither man thought that risking a fire was worth it so they went without. A ravinor could smell their dinner cooking from leagues away. So, it was more bread and cheese for dinner and some dried venison.
After a hard day’s travel there was something recuperative about having a fire and hot meal before turning in for the night. This night, however, they would not get it. And they were out of the Merovian, or any other beverage, with the exception of water. Without a fire they could not brew any kof, either. Ifo’s newfound enthusiasm for nature was beginning to wane.
Tonight, it was Ifo who handled the camp, and Arin saw to their mounts. The two ate while they spoke in hushed voices about the next day’s travel. Both of the men were tired and sought out their beds immediately after finishing their cold dinner. Just as they settled down to sleep, the clouds broke open and rain poured down. The silverwood did a better job sheltering them than Ifo had thought it would, but both travelers had to sleep curled up as tightly as they could against the base of the trunk to stay dry. The tree was wide enough where both men had plenty of room, but it still wasn’t a natural sleeping arrangement, and they knew it would be a long and uncomfortable night. And so it was.