by Travis Peck
Spurred on by a sudden idea, Garet nocked an arrow and fired at one of the closest ravinors. It fell lifeless to the ground as the ash arrow penetrated the top of its skull. Its neighbors immediately detected the fresh blood and fell on their fallen brethren with gnashing teeth and rending claws. A short bark-like sound came from the largest group of ravinors a hundred yards distant and straight out in front of the gate. The ravinors obeyed, and a few of them dragged their meal back toward the group. The creatures devoured their comrade in moments.
“No chance of getting them all together at the wall where we can set fire to them,” Garet said, disappointed that his suspicion had been proven correct. He was surprised with how disciplined the ravinors were. Most of the tactics employed against them during the three previous ravinor wars were derived to use their natural behavior against them. Such tactics apparently would not avail the defenders much in this case.
“Myrna. Hop down and get the pitchfork. It’s just inside the door.” His wife hurried down the ladder to retrieve the makeshift polearm. If only we had thought to bring some pikes and halberds when we retired, he wished. Of course, they had not expected to be attacked by four covens of ravinors over a matter of a few days. The first coven had been shock enough.
Myrna passed up the pitchfork to Garet, and then climbed back up to the catwalk. Garet leaned out over the wall and managed to dispatch two ravinors with quick strikes before another command came from beyond, and the remaining attackers retreated back to the main group, dragging along two more fresh meals.
“We need to make weapons with longer reach,” Garet said. “Crallick and I will get started on that. You two finish up your watch,” he ordered and relinquished the pitchfork back to his wife. Giving them both an encouraging squeeze on their shoulders, he and his sergeant descended from the wall.
The Ayersons were waiting at the gate, outfitted with whatever could be found from around the farmstead to provide some protection against a ravinor. Old leather aprons and gloves were rounded out with odds and ends that Garet and Crallick had accumulated over the years. Rogair had the front half of an old breastplate tied to an iron baking sheet that protected his back and chest. Garet waved the Ayersons to stand down. They woodenly obeyed; it had been a long night, and they weren’t used to sleeping in watches. Of course, he and Crallick had long become used to sleeping through the entire night as well. They were out of practice, but managing.
Ransacking the barn, the two men found another pitchfork with only one of the tines intact, not useful for farming, but perfect for stabbing down at any ravinors at the base of the wall. Garet found a long, iron rod he had used to break up the ground when he had dug out the well, and Crallick found several spare ash-wood handles that they could alter by attaching a knife or hatchet to the end. Most important, each of them now had a long-handled weapon capable of reaching the ravinors from atop the wall. Now, if the creatures continued to attack as they had been, the defenders would be able to safely kill a handful during each assault.
Since he had the next watch, and was unlikely to be able to sleep before it, Garet shooed Crallick back to bed while he worked on securing two hatchets and a long knife to the three spare handles. He completed them two candles before his watch began. Bringing them over to the foot of the ladder, he placed them in an empty barrel where the defenders could grab them on their way up the wall.
Once satisfied with their new weapons, Garet checked on how the watch was progressing. He was pleased to see Barsus on the south side of the wall making his circuit. He looked alert with his bow in hand and an arrow resting between his fingers and the string, ready to fire. His wife was staring out at the ravinors from her position over the gate. She was clutching the horn tightly in one hand and the pitchfork in the other. Turning her head from her vigil, Myrna smiled at him.
“Is my watch over?” she asked.
Garet was proud of her. Despite her exhaustion she was still pulling her own weight as a defender. He couldn’t help but feel guilty that his family was in this position because of him. They would have been safer if he hadn’t retired and brought them out this far from Styr. But who would have thought that four covens of ravinors would be out in this area where sightings were rare. It was one of the reasons he had liked this location.
Smiling up at Myrna, he said, “Come on down. I’m a little early, but Barsus and I can finish up here. You could use the sleep.” It was a testament to how tired she really was when she did not argue that she was fine.
Myrna nodded and turned to come down the ladder. Garet saw a blur streak toward his wife. She cried out in pain as she dropped her weapon and the horn, then she clutched at her head. She fell back against the wall. Garet’s heart froze in his chest as she toppled over it.
“Myrna!” he shouted as he vaulted up the ladder and onto the wall. “Barsus!” he bellowed for his son as he frantically looked below. She was lying crumpled at the base of the wall with one of her legs awkwardly pinned underneath her body. Garet could see an ugly red gash on her temple too. She was not moving. There were a half-dozen ravinors racing toward her. There was no time to think. He jumped off the wall. His knees protested the impact, but he was able to roll to avoid the brunt of the shock. Garet came up with his sword drawn. Stepping a few yards in front of his stricken wife, he forgot about everything else. He focused on the six creatures bearing down on him. He didn’t stand still to take the full charge.
Springing to meet them, his longsword slashed right to left; the swing sheared off an arm from one ravinor and a hand from another. Thankfully, the intelligent ravinor was not with this group, or he and Myrna would have been finished. The ravinors stayed in front of him, trying to grab at him as he swung wide slashes to keep them back. Another lost an arm, and he saw one more go down with its entrails spilling out, the bright red blood eerily beautiful against the green of the grass. Garet’s last swing was a trifle too wide, and the remaining ravinors pressed in closer in its wake. He roared as their claws scraped against his armor.
Garet felt a surge of strength as he thought of his defenseless wife lying helpless behind him. He grabbed one of them by the throat with a gauntlet-protected hand and crushed its windpipe, its black eyes wide with fright as it could no longer breathe. He yanked the suffocating ravinor toward the others and they all went down in a heap. The delay gave him enough time to ready his sword and glance up. The three ravinors were not in good shape; one of them had no left arm, and the other two were missing fingers and barely able to stand with deep cuts lacerating their legs. But looking past the three wounded creatures nearly unmanned him. The rest of the ravinors were running toward him; a hundred yards had never seemed so close.
Garet finished off the three with lightning fast stabs. The wounded creatures were not able to do much to defend themselves. Turning back toward Myrna, he had a moment of hope. She must have regained consciousness as she was now trying to secure a rope around her that had been thrown down by the others from atop the wall. She was having trouble even getting it around herself; clearly she did not have her wits about her yet. Garet rushed over to his wife and quickly tied the rope around her. She was hauled up immediately.
Myrna’s safety took an immense pressure off him, and he turned to face his end, content at least in the fact that his wife would not end up being torn to pieces by these cursed creatures. His time, on the other hand, was spent. He would not allow the anguish and grief of leaving his family rule him. Garet gave one last defiant cry as the first of the ravinors launched themselves at him. Laying about with his longsword in reckless, arcing swings, it cut a bloody swath through the unarmored ravinors. But with so many of them crowding in, it was impossible for him to keep up with the brazen display of swordsmanship.
In moments, the velocity of his swings were slowed down by the weight of dozens of ravinors bunched together. His sword was yanked out of his hands. Garet felt something fall across his shoulders, and he was jerked violently backwards. Then he struck something hard.
Light flashed in his eyes. Abruptly his vision was gone, and he lost all awareness.
***
Crallick burst out of the house before he even knew what had awoken him. Still not certain what he had heard, he looked up just in time to see his captain jump off the wall.
“Garet!” His yell failed to bring his captain back up to safety.
He saw Barsus running toward the gate. Even at this distance, he could see the young man’s face was as starkly pale as his own must have been. With a constant stream of cursing spewing from his mouth, Crallick shot into the barn. He quickly found a coil of rope and set off toward the ladder at the gate. He was up the ladder in one step. His blood turned to ice as he saw the scene below. Myrna was in a heap—out cold. Garet was hacking apart a small group of ravinors. Crallick had rarely seen his old captain fight with such reckless abandon. He was renowned for keeping calm and cold in a battle. This was not such a fight. Crallick knew his friend was going berserk. And with his wife lying behind him, it was clear why.
“Myrna!”
“Mother!”
He and Barsus shouted down at her, desperately trying to draw the limp form into wakefulness. Crallick didn’t waste any more time. He secured one end of the rope to a post holding up the walkway and tossed the other end down to Myrna. He felt more than heard the two Ayersons clambering up the ladder behind him.
Thank the Giver! Crallick thought, as Myrna began to stir. It took a few precious moments for her to realize her situation, and she started to fumble with the rope, trying frantically to get it around herself. The sergeant was relieved for Myrna’s clouded thinking. For if she knew what was coming, she would have frozen up. He did not think she noticed that Garet was down there with her finishing off the closest handful of ravinors. If she knew he was with her, Crallick did not think she would consent to abandon her husband beyond the wall.
Crallick saw Garet race back to Myrna and wrap the rope around her. He knew that there was not enough time to haul her up and still be able to toss the rope back down to Garet. He knew that Garet understood that as well. He and Barsus quickly heaved Myrna up to the top of the wall. She ripped the rope off herself as she was finally starting to come to. His heart nearly broke as Myrna gave a terror-stricken scream as three covens descended upon her husband—and his oldest comrade.
The veteran soldier grabbed the rope and made a loop in it and shot it back out. The loop landed a pace short of Garet. Swearing, he hauled the rope back in; his hands already burned from the friction. He knew that this was his last chance—Garet’s last chance. Not daring to take any more time to aim the throw, he heaved the loop over the wall. He saw Garet’s sword bind up in a ravinor, and his captain lost his grip on the hilt as the loop sailed through the air. His breath stuck in his throat as the loop miraculously landed around Garet’s neck and shoulder.
“Pull!” Crallick heaved on the rope and felt the others behind him doing the same. His captain shot backward toward the wall and crashed against the stone with the applied force of everyone pulling at once. Grimacing at the impact, but elated they had him, Crallick and the others pulled Garet up and over the wall to safety.
Garet was out cold and covered in blood—hopefully not his own. Crallick shouted at Myrna not to touch him. She ignored him and clung to her husband while still wearing the leather gloves that the defenders wore on watch.
“Get some water up here and wash him off!” Crallick ordered. Barsus obeyed and leapt from the wall to the ground, not wanting to waste time with the ladder.
Crallick was overjoyed that they had saved his old friend from immediate death at the hands of their besiegers, but he could not stop the rage welling up inside him. Seeing Garet covered in ravinor blood meant the chance of infection was high.
The ravinors were shocked at the sudden removal of their quarry and did not quite know what to do. A few fell upon their dead comrades and began to rip away at the still-warm flesh. Crallick snatched up a bow and nocked an arrow, and he prayed to the Giver that the ravinor leader would reveal himself during the commotion.
Sure enough, the sergeant heard a guttural command coming from the rear of the milling creatures. This close now, and with the brightening early dawn sky, Crallick had no trouble picking out which one of the damnable ravinors was leading the others.
Crallick had never seen such a ravinor before. Unlike his less-intelligent brethren, this ravinor looked healthy and relatively clean. Clearly defined muscles contrasted with the others’ scrawny and emaciated appearance. His skin complexion was more like that of a human and not as sickly pale as was typical. His claws were shockingly clean, and though the ravinor had light patches of hair over his body, it looked more natural than it did on the others. Most astonishing was the creature’s clothing. He had on breeches that were well-worn, but mended, and it was also wearing two mismatched boots. A small detail but an important one.
Ravinors often turned wearing some articles of clothing, and those tended to become torn and tattered and would eventually rot off the uncaring creatures. This ravinor had scavenged boots. A typical ravinor could certainly have a pair of boots on, but they never sought out new boots when their old ones were too damaged to continue to wear. Judging from everything he had seen, and considering how these three covens had behaved, Crallick didn’t think it a stretch to believe that this one had repaired his breeches and found replacement footwear—likely from one of their victims in Haelle.
All this passed in the briefest of moments as he drew back on the bowstring and released an arrow. The ravinor was no fool and had noticed the arrow being trained on him. Ducking away at the last moment, the arrow burrowed deep into his right shoulder. Crallick cursed. He had been aiming for the heart.
The leader ravinor bellowed in pain, and the other ravinors quickly surrounded him. The covens all bunched up tightly as they retreated out of range from arrow fire. The ravinor dead had also been hauled away to feed the others at a safe distance out of the defender’s arrow-range.
He’ll be easier to find now. Crallick hoped that he would get another chance at the ravinor leader now that he had identified him. Better yet, he hoped an uninfected and recovered Garet would have that chance.
Barsus was pushing the barrel of water up to the walkway on the wall. Rogair heaved it the rest of the way up; water sloshed over the rim as it was jostled into position. Crallick and Barsus upended the barrel over Garet, who was still being cradled by a sobbing Myrna. The water cleared away the worst of the blood, and Crallick tore a sleeve off his tunic and began scrubbing the remnants away. No cuts to the face that he saw.
“More water,” he asked, though all his focus remained trained onto his fallen captain. The veteran sergeant began removing Garet’s armor; first tossing the gore-soaked gauntlets down to the ground. They would need to clean all of it before it could be worn safely again. The breastplate was covered in a multitude of deep claw scores, but none had penetrated. The armor clattered onto the ground below. There was still some blood that remained on his chest that the armor had covered, but it looked to have leaked in from the opening at the neck.
Another barrel rose up to the top of the wall. This time they used it more selectively. After each area was rinsed and examined, Crallick could not believe his captain’s luck. There was not a scratch on the man. At least he would not be turned. But he was still unconscious. He had a bloody patch on the back of his head where it had struck the wall. Thank the Giver that it was the only place that the ravinor blood did not cover. His captain’s shoulder, where Crallick had lassoed him, seemed to be dislocated as well. Taking advantage of Garet’s lack of consciousness, he wrenched the shoulder back into place. A loud pop told him that he was successful, and a small grunt escaped Garet’s lips. A good sign, Crallick thought.
Between the three men, they managed to get Garet off the wall and into the house. Shiya and Osbar both panicked when they saw the limp form of their father being brought into their home. Myrna explained to them that he’d had
a hard knock on the head and not to worry. She held them both in her arms as they struggled with seeing their unconscious father. Crallick hoped that was all it was—just a knock on the head.
Head injuries were unpredictable. He had once seen a man with a skull that had been so badly cracked that his brain was visible. That man made a full recovery after being patched up. Another man had fallen off his horse, almost comically so. He had regained his feet and laughed—seemingly fine. Everyone had been surprised to find the man dead in his bed the next morning.
“What happened, Myrna?” Crallick asked once the children had settled down. They were in the master bedroom and Garet was stretched out on the bed, completely clean now, with no injuries other than the dislocated shoulder and the head wound.
“I saw some of them coming and was about to give the warning signal, but then they all just stopped and stayed there, about fifty yards from the wall. After a few moments, Barsus thought maybe it was a diversion, so he went on his circuit around the wall. They just stood there. Garet came up then with some new weapons for us and was going to take over a little early for his watch. That’s when something struck my head,” Myrna said, her voice wooden with worry.
Crallick cursed himself for not checking Myrna for any injuries. It looked like she had already seen to it. No stitches were necessary, but there was a gash just above her ear and an ugly bruise.
“I’m fine,” she said, waving off further investigation. “I was dazed from whatever had hit me. Then my legs gave out, and that was when I fell over the wall.” She finished her explanation, still plainly sick with worry over her unconscious husband. “I think one of them threw a rock at me—” She paused at the sudden realization and asked, “Do they throw things?”