by Travis Peck
“No,” Crallick answered immediately. “Well, they didn’t before,” he amended. “Garet thinks that they are being led by a ravinor who is much smarter than usual. I tried to get him, but I only managed to wound him.”
The two sat in silence. Crallick was feeling uncertain about this new behavior from an old enemy, and wondering what else might change about the creatures. While he sat anxiously musing, Myrna stared at her husband, holding one of his large, limp hands in both of hers.
After a candle, Crallick forced himself to get up. It felt like every muscle in his body was protesting not taking a rest. But, with Garet out of action, it was up to him to see to the defenses.
“No more watches for you until Garet is back on his feet,” Crallick said, though it would have been nearly impossible for him to make Myrna leave her husband’s side.
She nodded but didn’t look up.
Osbar and Shiya rushed to him as he shut the door quietly behind him.
“He’s still sleeping,” he told them. “The more sleep he gets, the sooner he will wake up.” Crallick hoped that was true.
“I need you two to feed the mastiffs, okay?” he asked. “Take the Ayersons with you, too.” Keeping busy was the best way to take your mind off of things; it was no different with soldiers or children. The four children ran out of the house, at least outwardly unconcerned about their situation. The two Ayerson children showed some trepidation at the prospect of feeding three pony-sized war mastiffs.
Crallick exited the house behind them at a much slower pace. The two adult Ayersons were staring into the distance where the ravinors were still amassed. Barsus was making circuits of the wall; from the way he was moving, he could tell that the young man was tense. Climbing up the ladder, his legs screamed in protest, making him pay for how he had vaulted up it after he had seen Garet jump off the wall.
“They haven’t moved,” Rogair said as Crallick came to join him. The three covens seemed a bit agitated, he thought. He hoped it had to do with their injured leader. The worse off that ravinor was, the better the defenders’ chances became.
“Good. Myrna was hit by a thrown rock,” Crallick said, informing the Ayersons and an anxious Barsus, who had joined them after finishing his rounds. “So, everyone wear a helm when you’re on watch. Garet and I have two shields that we can share as we come up for duty, and I’m sure we can put some boards together with a strap if we need more. We only have to repel rocks, so it doesn’t have to be perfect.”
“Barsus. He’s still out. Your mother will be watching him. You can get some rest, or if you want, you can clean up your father’s gear.”
Crallick would be surprised if Garet’s eldest would be able to sleep at all. Worry had a way of grabbing hold of one’s mind when otherwise unoccupied. He would not even attempt to sleep this day. Barsus was of like mind and descended the ladder and started in on making a pile of the tainted armor and weapons his father had used.
“You two hold tight for a little longer,” he told the Ayersons. “I will bring up two helms and the shields, then you can tend to your young ones and try to get some sleep. I will take the rest of your watch and the next one too.”
The two did not object but rather looked relieved. This, after all, was not the normal life of a farmer.
Crallick left them and went to collect the gear. Laughter from the children filled the courtyard as they flung themselves onto Amalia and Tyrant’s backs. Feeding had apparently turned into playtime. He was happy to see it. Aelpheus wasn’t in a playful mood and was sitting in front of the door, knowing that his master was inside and hurt, and not about to let any more harm come to him while he was recovering.
The retired sergeant gathered up the helms and shields and walked back to the ladder. Throwing the items up to Rogair, he then went up the ladder to begin his double watch. The two Ayersons were down quickly, and the watch was his. He strapped on his old helm and propped up his shield against the wall in case he needed it. With day breaking over their stronghold, he was not worried about the ravinors sneaking up on him without his knowledge.
The ravinors remained at a safe distance. Their dead from the last assault had nearly been entirely consumed by this time. The leader was still giving orders as Crallick could see the others were taking turns feeding—something that he knew was against their nature. He hoped Garet would wake soon with no ill effects, and then they could start to devise a plan to deal with this troublesome ravinor leader. If they were unable to get to him, Crallick wondered how long they would be able to hold out.
He shuddered to think of the implications of what they were seeing here for the future of humanity. The reason they had won the first three ravinor wars was due to their foe’s lack of employing any useful strategy or tactics. If they now possessed such abilities, humanity was in grave danger. Crallick felt the need to warn General Aelpheus and Queen Amalia of what was happening here. He hoped that this was the only such occurrence throughout the empire, but he had a deep fear that it was not. If there were four covens all the way out here, he dreaded that the rest of Styr was being overrun with a disciplined and reasoning ravinor horde.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARTEL SHOOK HIS HEAD to bring his mind back to the present. Mon Lyzink and Yurlo were looking at him with eyes full of pity. They both tried to give encouragement, but he knew statistics and probabilities as well as anyone. He knew that the odds of three survivors together out of a thousand would be rare; three out of three—impossible. He had drawn the short straw this day, and that was the Taker’s truth to be sure. I still have a day before the fever renders me unconscious, Martel thought dispassionately; his scholarly mind did its best to adapt to his new future—or lack thereof.
“If there are any ravinors in the area, I’m sure they heard that,” Martel predicted. The prince’s cries for assistance would carry for leagues from the high vantage point and his strong voice. He focused on trying to get back to the immediate concerns of the group, instead of dwelling on what would be happening to him soon. Easier said than done. “They know we are following them now. Do you think they will lead us back to their lair? I doubt it. More likely they will lure us into a trap.”
As he finished speaking, answering calls echoed from all around them. Martel spun around, trying to get a fix on where the calls were coming from, but the sound reflected against the nearby rocks, making it impossible to tell.
“I guess that answers that question,” Mon Lyzink said. “We should high-tail it back to the legate and see if we can take her up on her offer to use her troops. The prince knows we are here, and this is no longer the time for stealth. Now is the time for soldiers.” His master begrudgingly admitted defeat on this expedition. With more ravinors answering the prince’s cry to defend him and the newborn, none of the men believed they had any chance to continue on as they had been. They would have to regroup.
Besides, Martel was going to be incapacitated with a fever in a day or two, hopefully enough to get back to the village where the others could seek aid from the legate and carry on. It was hard not to dwell on his infection; hard to accept the fact that he was already dead—he would not become a ravinor. He would not recover, but at least he could make sure he was dispatched properly back at the village.
More cries answered the prince, this time Martel could see them. Far back the way they had come from, he could make out tiny, indistinct blurs. A lot of them. Coming closer—fast.
“No chance for the legate’s troops now,” his master declared. ”After the prince then. Perhaps we can capture him and the newborn for safe passage. Yurlo?”
Yurlo nodded at the unspoken question whether or not he could best the prince again, but he seemed worried. Martel felt worthless, not only was he infected now, but he was not a fighter like the Rhyllian. He could make do against a few normal ravinors, but against the prince, he was lucky he hadn’t been killed in the first breath of their meeting. His master was no better in a fight, especially now that he had been concusse
d, and it appeared it was all he could do to get back on his saddle.
No sense waiting then. Martel remounted, grimacing at the pain in his ribs and ankle. He would not have to deal with that much longer, he knew. Yurlo vaulted onto the saddle, the only uninjured member of their trio, though he had been in battle with the abnormally strong and fast ravinor prince.
The men spurred their horses up the hill after the ravinor prince. The trio had increased the distance separating them while the humans had been deciding what to do. Looking back, Martel could see at least four flocks streaming up the trail below. From his vantage point he could see that it would be a race for them to capture the prince and the newborn before the ravinors trailing behind caught up to them.
Snapping the reins and digging in with his heels, Martel urged all possible speed from his mount. He briefly considered cutting the lead from the packhorse, but the others in the group still had a chance of making it through this and would need those supplies. Unlike me. The packhorse was heavily laden but could see the approaching ravinors as well as Martel, so the beast of burden galloped as hard as it was able. It might be better to cut the horse loose. A large meal might serve to distract the pursuing ravinors when they got closer, Martel thought coldly, but then dismissed the idea.
The horses strained to run as fast as they could, their muscles contracting and extending at a ferocious pace. Galloping uphill was a certain way to run down your horses, but they had little choice. The hill began to level out in the distance as it plateaued at the summit. If they could make it that far, their horses would be able to go a little longer on the flat ground. If they could make it that far.
Martel saw their targets up ahead, growing ever larger as they closed. The mother ravinor and her newborn were not skilled riders, and if the prince hadn’t been leading the horse, it would have bucked the two ravinors off in no time. They were gaining on the prince and should catch up to them as they crested the top of the hill.
Yurlo pressed his mount ahead of the others as they drew closer so he could attempt the capture. In moments, the exhausted horses stormed over the last rise to the flat top of the hill. The prince was standing in between the humans and his charges.
Martel’s hopes surged, but even if Yurlo could capture the prince, there was no guarantee that the hostage would gain them an iota of safety. This was the Taker’s throw. Martel knew that particular toss of the die was either an immediate victory, or a crushing and costly defeat. All too apt for their situation.
Barks sounded from behind him. The ravinors were only two hundred yards behind. Yurlo would have to get the prince under control quickly if they were to have any chance at all.
Knowing that the Rhyllian was an incredible fighter, Martel was still shocked to see the small foreigner leap from his saddle, launching himself toward the prince. Yurlo tucked and rolled as he hit the ground. The maneuver dissipated the force of the impact so he didn’t injure himself. He rolled back up to his feet in a fluid motion. The Rhyllian and the prince met in battle once more. Martel had assumed the healer had been giving it his all before. He was wrong. In fewer than five heartbeats, the prince screamed in anguish as Yurlo had him in a hold that completely immobilized the futilely struggling ravinor.
Martel and Mon Lyzink did not waste any time, and spurred their mounts toward the newborn and its mother. His master grabbed the reins as the mother ravinor clutched her baby protectively against her chest. Baring her teeth at Mon Lyzink, the mother was about to dismount, but after a sharp grunt from the prince, she kept her saddle.
Martel flanked the ravinors’ horse while Mon Lyzink held tightly onto the reins. He did not have to worry about infection from the mother as he was immune, and it seemed that she would not risk harm to her infant in any case. The apprentice, waxing bittersweet, thought about the incredible knowledge his master could extract from these hostages if they succeeded. That was his biggest regret. He had been driven by a thirst to learn all he could about ravinors since that day so long ago in the wagon with his father, and it wasn’t regret at how he had lived his life that he was experiencing, but rather regret of what he was so close to learning that caused him the most pain.
Yurlo remained on his feet, keeping the prince from breaking his hold. The Rhyllian stood in the center of the hundred-yard plateau, facing down the trail where two hundred ravinors raced toward him, howling and grunting angrily. Martel had never heard such rage from the creatures before, and it gave him hope that this hostage idea might actually work. If the ravinors could experience such emotion from seeing their prince and newborn in peril, perhaps they would stay their hand for their superior’s continued existence. Or so Martel hoped.
The ravinors streamed around the humans and their ravinor hostages, encircling them completely. Martel was surprised at his calm. It was amazing what terrors the mind could ignore after receiving knowledge of certain death. The horses all clustered together; wide terror-stricken eyes darted frantically around as they beheld the bloodthirsty creatures that surrounded them.
The flocks sat poised on the precipice of violence. Not a soul moved a muscle as the humans and ravinors stared hard at one another. One of the ravinors stepped forward and Martel knew that this was the same leader that his master had seen earlier. The prince and the leader exchanged a few words in a language never before spoken in front of humans. At least humans that could walk away from the encounter unscathed and unturned.
A stalemate, Martel thought, not without a sense of relief. But how long would it last? Martel took the moment to study the leader of the four flocks. The ravinor had boots and clothing on. A fully dressed ravinor, though the clothes had obviously been pillaged off a victim’s corpse. Still it was something. The ravinors were changing. Or had already changed. Martel almost welcomed his end. He didn’t know if he had the strength to witness what was coming. Humanity was in for a rude awakening.
The leader stood in front of Yurlo and the prince. The prince was obviously communicating to the leader in an apparent ravinor language. This was not the guttural vocalizations his master had detailed with which the prince had used to control the mother ravinor; this was an actual language. It did sound primitive and guttural, but certainly more complex than the language the leader had used to communicate with the normal ravinors.
“Enough.” Martel surprised himself by speaking. It was not his place to do so—if anything, he was the lowest and least important member of their group—but his impending death lent him a certain disregard for previously determined social conventions.
“What do you propose then?” Another figure emerged from the throng of ravinors circling the humans in the center of the plateau. Martel had expected the leader to be the ravinor addressing him. He was wrong. What next? he wondered. He would no longer be surprised by whatever new ravinor species he encountered at this point.
The ravinor, who had just spoken fluent Styric, was dressed as any self-respecting nobleman of the empire would be attired. A black cape swung about the shoulders of the figure. Hard leather armor formed a protective layer about the creature’s upper body. This sounded like a woman, though the armor hid the female’s curves. Black leather breeches and high boots completed the ravinor’s dress. Martel had seen many a Styric noblewoman dressed less smartly and appear more slovenly than this ravinor before him did.
“I propose safe passage for us, in exchange for the life of your prince and the newborn,” Martel said, committed to his leadership during this crisis. It had to be him, the more he considered it. Yurlo’s grasp of Styric left room for possible misinterpretation, and his master was unable to think clearly now; it appeared it was all he could do to keep a steady hand on the reins of the mother ravinor’s horse.
It had to be him. He wondered if it were fate that left him in such a state of mind to help out his comrades. Martel certainly had a unique perspective on things now, and he was clear-headed despite the import of what he was doing. The Styric Empire needed his master alive, and he would do e
verything within his power to see that outcome was a reality. He also knew that they had found a valuable ally in the Rhyllian healer, and he would do his best to safeguard the foreigner.
“Prince?” the ravinor spokeswoman asked, eyebrow raised. Martel could only tell that this creature before him was a ravinor by the characteristic onyx eyes and sharp claws. The ravinor would have been considered quite pretty had she been human. “You do not have a prince. Though, certainly two trueborns are worth keeping safe.”
“Prince or trueborn—it matters not,” Martel said. “Either way, we are at cross purposes. We wish to leave, and you wish these two to live. Is such an accord possible?”
“Possible? Perhaps,” the spokeswoman answered cryptically. “But that,” she said, pointing at his master, “is the scholar, Mon Lyzink. My queen would desire such a prize. Worth the lives of two trueborn? Perhaps.”
Martel was less certain than he had been but tried to keep his reaction guarded. He was determined to give nothing away to this astute and capable stateswoman that would weaken his comrades’ position.
“Give me Mon Lyzink, and you and the islander can go free.”
Martel supposed that was confirmation that ravinors were spreading across the world, if this one recognized someone from Rhyllia. Yurlo did not budge from his position; he gave no sign of paying any regard to the negotiations. He had complete focus on his captive. The young scholar felt pity for the islander. Yurlo had only known them for a handful of days, and now the healer was risking everything alongside them in a foreign land.
“No,” Martel said, staying firm. Although he may only have a few days left to live, he was resolute to not live out those remaining days with the shame of abandoning his master and his new friend.
The ravinor negotiator responded with a derisive snort. “Are you certain, young man? My next proposal will not be so—generous.”
Looking toward his master, Martel was torn. Mon Lyzink was nodding at him somberly to accept the terms, willing to sacrifice himself for the two younger men. If it were just him and his master, he would never have even considered such an arrangement. But Yurlo’s life hung in the balance as well. Mon Lyzink was the foremost ravinor expert in the world; it would be a terrible blow to lose him just when the empire would need his knowledge the most. He looked to the Rhyllian. If the short-statured islander had given him a pleading look, Martel didn’t think he could have stood resolute; but instead, the islander clenched his jaw grimly and gave a decisive shake of his head. Martel had made his decision.