by Travis Peck
The Rhyllian deftly parried a series of rapid strikes by the ravinor’s deadly claws, blocking them away again and again. The contest was a blur that the eye could scarcely detect. Both combatants were fast. Martel and his mentor would have been dead in moments if not for the healer’s bold gambit.
Martel limped over to check on his master; he could do nothing to help Yurlo. His master was still groggy. Concussion, Martel guessed as he checked for any injury that could have been infected. Then he stopped himself. Mon Lyzink could not be infected because he had already survived it. He was now immune to the ravinor curse. As was Yurlo.
Having reassured himself of his master’s condition, Martel’s attention turned back to Yurlo and the ravinor. Yurlo had the ravinor on his heels with a stunning barrage of fast strikes and equally quick, agile deflections. The prince was getting frustrated. Suddenly, Yurlo vaulted and spun in the air, kicking out his leg as he twirled in midair. The kick smashed into the creature’s head, sending the prince reeling away and holding onto his temple in great pain. Yurlo landed smoothly on the balls of his feet, instantly ready. His opponent regained his feet shakily, braced himself, and then turned back up the hill and bolted to where the other ravinors stood, still grabbing at his head and struggling to run smoothly. The Rhyllian made a motion as if to give chase, but seeing how far the prince had advanced up the hill, wisely changed his mind and looked to his companions.
Martel and Mon Lyzink both had the same dumbfounded expressions on their faces; one from a concussion; the other from shock at the feat he had seen the unassuming foreign healer accomplish.
Yurlo approached the two Styric scholars.
“What—?” Martel could not finish the question.
“I learn more than healing, yes?” Yurlo said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders.
“I would say so,” Martel replied. He could now guess at the meaning of the scars located on the islander’s wrists and ankles.
“I not always want to become a healer.” Martel was surprised how Yurlo was able to speak normally after the exertion of his fight with the prince. He was hardly out of breathe. “My family and wife had desired that. When I was younger, I—research—another field of study.”
Martel nodded dumbly—not certain what, if anything, he could say. He had just received quite a shock. A new kind of ravinor had attacked him and forced him out of his saddle only to be saved by his newfound comrade from Rhyllia. “I should have guessed that your learning scars meant more than just healing.”
“Learning scars… Exactly! It is literal translation of shrelavi into Styric, yes?” he said, pleased by the insight shown by the Styric apprentice.
“You must be an excellent healer if you gave up doing that,” Martel said. His attention turned back to his master now that the immediate threat had been dealt with.
Mon Lyzink seemed to be coming back to reality. He shook his head a few times and stood up, gently cradling his aching head. Judging from how his master had hit the ground when the ravinor had tossed him, Martel thought his old mentor was lucky just to be breathing. All of a sudden his master froze, staring at Martel’s right forearm.
Martel’s face grew pale, and he swooned at the sudden dizziness that weakened him as he found what his master had seen. His sleeve was torn; there was a ragged cut through the cloth. Dark red blood had begun to saturate through the fabric along its edges. He felt his breath leave him, and his vision narrowed as he struggled to remain conscious. He had been scratched by a ravinor. Martel could not believe it. I’ve been infected. There was no mistaking the angry red wound on his flesh, nor his comrades’ reaction when they saw it. He was doomed. He was in the presence of two survivors… Two out of the untold thousands of others who were infected and then fell to the ravinor curse.
Martel fell to his knees, though he had not consciously attempted such a movement. His body trembled, and he knew he was going into shock. I am done for, Martel thought. He had been scratched by a ravinor; his life was forfeit unless he was very lucky. One in several thousand survived such an infection, and he was already in the presence of two survivors. There was no chance he would be a third, he admitted realistically to himself.
His two concerned comrades helped him up after he regained his composure. All three stood, silent and unmoving for a moment as they all comprehended the same outcome. None of them spoke. There was no fate so terrible as being infected by a ravinor. Cursed to be infected, and eventually turned, to become one of Styr’s most maligned creatures.
“Are they running off then?” Martel asked his companions, trying to ignore the heavy weight of his bleak future falling over the group like a funeral shroud.
Yurlo’s and Mon Lyzink’s gazes shifted from Martel to up the hill toward the fleeing ravinor prince and his charges. Sure enough, he saw the mother still astride the horse; her babe was held closely in her arms just as any human mother would hold her own progeny. As soon as the ravinor prince reached the others, he started to bellow forth a wrenching cry. Each time the noise ended, the ravinor would face a different direction and let another cry burst forth. Martel realized that the ravinor was sending out his call corresponding to the four cardinal compass points. The prince was calling for help.
The others seemed to reach the same conclusion.
“Should we chase them, or should we get out of here?” Mon Lyzink asked.
Martel and Yurlo looked at each other uncertainly. Where would they go? Martel had no idea which option to take, but of course, he had his own pressing concern that was threatening to overwhelm him. His short twenty-two years were coming to an abrupt end—at least as a human—and yet, all he could contemplate was discovering more about the newborn and the strange ravinor prince.
***
Martel was vaguely aware of his surroundings as he suddenly began to relive moments from his life. The first memory that came to him was from his childhood. He had grown up in the kingdom of Kharisk, where, for so many years, he had been innocently unaware of the ravinors’ existence throughout the empire. It had been a happy childhood. He had spent his time playing with his friends, unconcerned about his future. He could distinctly remember the day that he had seen his first ravinor, and it would change his life forever. It had been an unexpected encounter.
His family had taken a trip to the empire’s capital, Styr. One part business; the other part holiday. He and his father had been going out to see a potential customer in the village of West Insimount, a half-day’s ride from the capital. Martel’s father was an accomplished scribe whose services were sought after across the empire for his steady and accurate hand. He had accompanied his father on this trip to see what a life spent scribing would be like—the profession that he had always assumed he would pursue after reaching adulthood.
The day had started out pleasantly enough, and no reason why it shouldn’t have. His mother had filled a basket with a sumptuous luncheon for them to enjoy on their day-trip to the outskirts of Styr. It had been quite a treat for the young Khariskian to visit the capital, albeit with his parents. Of course, it would have been marvelous if he could have gone unchaperoned with his friends to the bustling metropolis. But he gladly accepted any chance, even accompanied by his parents, to visit the prestigious city that was the undisputed heart of the empire.
Their journey had been pleasant until, a candle after midday, they had come upon a forest. Just outside that stretch of woodland, the young Martel had seen a ragged and partially unclothed figure resting amid the old-growth oaks that edged the forest. He nearly called out to the figure, assuming he was in need of assistance. Instead, he held his tongue, but he did point out the stranger to his father as their wagon slowly trundled onward.
His father had abruptly turned their conveyance around, tight-lipped and pale-faced. The young Martel was unaccustomed to his father worrying over anything—other than fretting over an errant ink stain or a poorly sharpened writing quill. Surely a poor, down-on-his-luck citizen was no cause for alarm. The figu
re finally noticed them as they reversed course. His demeanor perked up considerably. Now rigid and alert, the figure was plainly behaving quite peculiarly after noticing their wagon.
Ravinor. The pieces fell together at last for the young man. His father snapped at the reins, sending the wagon jolting along at the most dangerous speed that the yoked oxen could manage. They must have sensed their peril as they did not balk at the extra effort required of them. Panic rose within him when he saw the creature lurch to its feet to follow them. It was favoring its leg, which was apparently injured, or it would have caught up with them in no time. As it was, the ravinor began to hobble along after them.
Martel wondered, years separated from that terrifying moment, what a hardened Ravinor War veteran would have made of their predicament. Observing a lone and injured ravinor hobbling after a slowly moving wagon with two frightened scribes aboard—no doubt he would have found it to be a laughable scene. But they had never encountered such a creature before in the flesh, neither of them, so Martel had thought that some bungling about was understandable, if not boldly done. The veteran would have casually faced off with the creature and dispatched it with the deadly efficacy honed by experience. The amateurs, instead, sought to outrun—outwalk—the ravinor.
The chase lasted nearly a candle. By that time, both he and his timid father were preparing themselves to go on the offensive with plans of wielding a shovel that had been forgotten in the back of the wagon they had rented in their home village in Kharisk. Both of them stared anxiously back as the ravinor continued its fruitless pursuit; the hobbled creature’s pace precisely matched that of the wagon it chased. It was time. His father had steeled his nerves to use the shovel to put the creature out of its misery and allow them to make their appointment. As he was preparing to step down from the wagon to rid themselves of their pursuer, a squad of patrolling soldiers rode into view from the west.
Martel and his father were much relieved by the timely appearance of the soldiers. The leader of the squad saw their predicament at once and casually directed his mount toward the creature. The ravinor neared the wagon—his father had slowed up when the soldiers came into view—but, oddly, it did not react to the presence of the soldiers. Martel was entranced by the inhuman behavior that the creature displayed. Its eyes could be seen from the wagon now, black pools of alien intent, absent of any normal spark of life or spirit that could be seen in any other creature.
It was then that Martel first realized that he knew nothing about ravinors. It was not only the strangeness of the creature that had awakened his desire to find out more about them. It was also because of the questions that came to mind when he observed a species that was so vastly different from humans despite obviously being derived from humanity. How does this happen? What happens to a person that makes them become like this? he wondered. At that moment, he knew that his father, and even the squad leader, would fail to answer his questions adequately. He knew he had found his calling, and it was not for him to perform the tedious copying and rewriting of endless reams of miniscule letters and numbers. He was going to study ravinors.
Chapter Twenty
ASIDE FROM THE RAINY night where Ifo and Arin had been forced to shelter beneath a silverwood tree, the next two days had been sunny and warm—a last taste of pleasant weather. Fall was beginning to show itself, and its arrival would be heralded by dark rain clouds that would dominate the sky for two seasons. Their days of enjoyable weather were numbered.
The two travelers had made good time and arrived at the Nyad River a few candles before sunset. The river was high and flowing swiftly. Ifo was thankful that it hadn’t rained more or they would have been forced to follow the river north for three or four more days to find a suitable crossing. Fording the river at this location would prove to be difficult but much better than delaying his mission. It was worth the risk for Ifo, and Arin seemed as anxious to reach Styr as he was, so they agreed to cross at dawn.
If the crossing went well, they should make it to the capital by evening of the third day.
By this time, the two men had their evening camp chores running smoothly. Before the sun sank under the horizon, the horses had been seen to, the fire prepared, and a makeshift shelter made to keep the wind coursing along the river’s edge at bay. Dinner was boiling merrily away; Trevan was making a stew out of the last of their venison from a small deer that Ifo had brought down the day before, along with some vegetables they were able to harvest along their route.
Ifo was enjoying his time traveling with good company, and—since the ravinor attack—it had been an uneventful trek. He loved being out in the countryside and was proud that he had been able to kill an animal for food rather than kill a human for gold. It made him yearn for the day when he finally retired. For a man who had spent most of his life in large cities, he found the fresh air particularly rejuvenating.
The stew was delicious, and he complimented Arin on his culinary work.
“Thanks,” Arin said while scraping the bottom of the pot for the last mouthful of savory stew. “This recipe was a favorite of my father’s. He used to cook this for us, my two brothers and I, when we were on the trail or at a camp. I could cook it in my sleep, and it never gets old.”
Ifo agreed whole-heartedly as he spooned in the last bite from his own bowl. Once his bowl was scraped clean, Ifo leaned back and stretched with a sigh. As they let their food settle, Arin regaled him with tales of growing up with his family.
Ifo leaned with his back against the trunk of an evergreen. A full stomach accompanying listening to entertaining stories from Arin’s youth was a good end to his evening. Despite the humorous stories, small and creeping barbs of jealousy snagged at Ifo’s soul as he listened. Every story was about a time that Arin had spent with his family around him. Such memories contrasted from his own childhood.
Ifo’s earliest memory was of a hole. It was not really a hole, but it had been dark, wet, and it stank of filth from all the bodies crammed into the hold of the slave ship. Although, technically, the empire had outlawed the practice, there were enough greedy men and women without morals or compassion who were able to keep the trade alive, albeit secretively. They just had to be more creative about it. Unfortunately for his family, and the other people crushed together in that vile hold, it was all too easy for such scum to falsify the necessary documents and bribe the right custom agents to bring their illicit cargo to market.
Ifo had been quite young then, he guessed around four or five, but he had never known his real age. His mother had died during the voyage when a deadly sickness had burned through the cramped confines. Ibida had been her name. He clearly remembered his father crying out her name as the terrible fever carried her away. His father, Yumi, had survived, as did his two older sisters, Idina and Kaeli. Before their ill-fortune had landed him and his family in a slaver’s hold, they had lived in Abin-Lin.
Abin-Lin was a nation far to the west across a vast ocean from the Styric Empire. Like others in the hold, his father had been taken up in a scheme. The slavers had posed as factors for a variety of Styric traders and craftsmen, all seeking to “recruit” skilled laborers. They had ostensibly hired Ifo’s father to design a new warship for Styr to use against the Zhurakite Sultanate. Yumi was one of the foremost shipbuilders of Abin-Lin so this opportunity seemed fortunate, but not suspiciously so. The trouble was that the enemy of Styr, Zhurak, had been threatening Abin-Lin for decades, and it seemed that the threats were finally going to be carried out. Having heard of an invasion force’s imminent arrival on Abin-Lin soil, Yumi had jumped at the chance to get his family to safety and leave their homeland for the powerful Styric Empire across the ocean.
He had sold off his stake in the shipyard and loaded up his family and brought them to the dock where they had embarked on a sleek and modern ship, one which Yumi had actually designed. But, of course, this fine vessel was not the slave ship that haunted Ifo’s dreams.
After a day of travel, the ship rendezvoused wi
th another ship out at sea. This vessel was hulking and unwieldy. Even with the wind blowing hard across the deck of the swift craft they were on, they could smell the fetid miasma that clung to the less graceful ship. A slaver. The crew and captain of their ship had suddenly revealed their true nature and took up arms against Ifo’s family. His father had been unarmed and was taken completely by surprise. So it was that the slavers not only took all of his family’s gold and all their possessions that they had packed for Styr, they also took them.
Each person in the hold of the slaver had a similar tale. They had only sought to escape the impending attack by the much more powerful nation and had brought all their possessions, along with their families, and had unwittingly handed themselves over to their would-be captors.
Many years later, Ifo had found out that the local government had been in on the scheme. There had been no looming Zhurakite attack on Abin-Lin. The fabricated story had been nothing but lies used by the slavers to bring in flesh for market. Flesh, along with the added bounty of all the captives’ possessions they had packed as they sought to relocate. The slavers had robbed them twice—one crime vastly more heinous than the other.
Ifo felt his jaw clench, as it always did, when he recounted his past. The demise of his family had ultimately resulted in his involuntary enlistment into his profession, and he would never forget that fact.
Arin didn’t notice his comrade seething beside him. Ifo was thankful for that. His history was not something he had ever discussed with anyone but for his old mentor.
Clearing his mind, Ifo brought his attention back to Arin’s tales of a happier childhood. He felt guilty as Trevan laughed uproariously and he had no idea what he was laughing about. He smiled politely at the story but failed to fool his companion that all was well.