Ravinor
Page 36
“No.”
“No? No?” the ravinor repeated, then laughed. “Very well. That is off the table now, as your kind would say. What do you expect to happen here, boy? You can’t stay like this forever.”
Martel was well aware. Time favored the ravinors. Even if they held out in such a stand-off, when his fever came—as it would—and he was incapacitated, Mon Lyzink would make the deal to save the Rhyllian at least.
The ravinor stood silent as she waited for Martel to respond. When it was clear the youth was not going to counter, she spoke, “I thought you humans could see reason, but it seems you leave me no choice in the matter. If you have no regard for your own lives, or that of your companions, what of the nearby village folk? Glennin, I do believe it is called. Such a poorly defended place. I wonder if they know how they are to be sacrificed by the actions of one foolish young man who is in over his head?”
Martel’s calm evaporated. But then he considered. The legate was in the area with her legion, but only two centuries were needed to defend the village and defeat this group of ravinors before him.
The Styric-speaking ravinor must have guessed what he was thinking.
“The legion can be directed elsewhere. A few sightings of flocks a few days’ ride from the village should serve to draw them out. And this is not all of us,” she said with a dismissive wave around the plateau.
Martel’s heart sank. He believed her.
“So, here is what will happen, young man,” the spokeswoman ravinor said, sensing his weakness. “You will let the two trueborns go, unharmed, and we shall take all three of you prisoner. In exchange for this, we shall spare the village of Glennin. You have my word on that.”
Looking to his companions, they both gave him begrudging nods of acceptance. Though they were willing to risk their own lives, it would defeat their purpose to strive for knowledge that might save lives, only to let a village of those they would save, lose their own.
“We accept,” Martel said, utterly deflated. He had failed. Mon Lyzink let go of the reins of the horse, and the mother awkwardly dismounted and scampered over to the safety of her brethren, who quickly surrounded her. Yurlo eased the pressure of his hold on the trueborn. The one they had thought of as a prince, jerked his arm away and regained his feet. Staring malevolently at his once-captor, the trueborn barked orders to the ravinors, clearly indicating his desire for revenge.
The ravinor female that had spoken with them raised her hand and blurted out a series of words in an even more complex language to the trueborn. This tongue seemed distinctly more complicated and nuanced than what was spoken between the trueborn and the leader. The trueborn was livid, but relented, bowing his head. He stalked off angrily, shoving his way through the ring of ravinors. The female switched to the simple language of vocalizations and communicated her orders to the leader ravinor, who then grunted and pushed and prodded at his subordinates.
“You will not be harmed. You three are for the queen,” she said and moved back from the several dozen creatures closing in on their new human prisoners.
Martel and Mon Lyzink dismounted to join the islander. Each man was held by two ravinors and surrounded by a handful more. They did not bother to take away their belt knives. The leader approached them with a length of rope he had taken from their own saddlebags and began to tie the hands of each captive, keeping both hands secured together at the wrist, and then binding them tightly.
Martel’s mind had already begun to observe the subjects. He was trained to do so, and he was still curious, despite his circumstances. Near as he could tell, the ravinors seemed to have developed several forms of communication amongst themselves. One language, what he was thinking of as the high language, was used between the trueborn and the spokeswoman and sounded like any fully developed human language.
The next, was the language of complicated, more intricate vocalizations that the trueborns used to communicate with the leader ravinor. The third language, what Martel thought of as the low language, was used by the leader when giving orders to the normal ravinors. The spokeswoman obviously had overall command, but the adult trueborn that Yurlo had captured was ranked higher than the rest. The leader, who Martel guessed was more like that of a sergeant, in military terms, could communicate with his troops in a basic way, but he could also understand orders from his officer, or nobleman, or whatever rank or title was the ravinor equivalent.
Thus far, he would classify three social rankings within the ravinor hierarchy—four, if you counted this queen the spokeswoman had mentioned. The queen, these trueborns, the sergeants or overseers, and the peons. But was the difference in rank between the spokeswoman and the trueborn purely a social difference? Or was it a physical inequity between the two trueborns that translated into the spokeswoman having an ingrained hierarchical dominance over the other? And what of the sergeant? Was he simply a smart peon, and therefore able to lead the others? Or was it something that could be taught? Or was this yet another sub-species?
He knew from his studies that language took decades, if not centuries, to develop. When did this start? And how was it that they were only now discovering its existence? He suspected that ravinor intelligence had been kept secret during the ravinor wars, but why sacrifice so many ravinors when they could have been saved by using even rudimentary tactics and strategy?
The three captives were led out to the east as their ravinor guards formed up around them. A length of rope tied to each man’s bound wrist was used as a leash to pull the prisoners along behind them. Looking back, Martel saw the spokeswoman and the trueborn mounted on their old mounts, saddlebags and supplies unmolested to this point. Apparently, neither the sergeant, nor the mother, wished to ride again, as they both remained afoot. They all set out at an easy pace down the gently sloping hill, but he could see the foothills rise again as they grew into the mountain ahead.
Their destination was unknown to the captives, but Martel knew it was in the same mountain range where they had suspected the trueborns to be heading. From his current position, he could see leagues to the east. The hill they were descending from became a valley; there was an unbroken stretch of lustrous green fields for several leagues, until the mountain range climbed high into the sky. There were no forests or glades between them and the mountain; no place for the ravinors to hide. Martel reminded himself once more that the lack of forests and hideouts during the day no longer mattered to these ravinors.
He shuffled along, limping slightly, but thankful that Yurlo’s cast was still holding up. Without it, he doubted if he could walk. He didn’t think the ravinors were interested in keeping him comfortable. Each step jarred his broken ribs, and every few moments, he had to force himself to take in a deep breath despite the pain it caused. He looked over to his companions. He expected to see the defeat he felt echoed on their faces, but both men seemed unaffected, at least outwardly, by their situation. His master seemed almost excited to be able to observe these new ravinors at such a close proximity and without—at least the immediate—fear of death.
Martel had trouble being enthused, though he was keenly interested in what he was seeing. The impending fever was a weight on his shoulders that he could not unburden himself from, and its imminence tainted his every thought.
As the sun set, he wondered if they were going to march throughout the night. Martel realized that the creatures had nothing to fear at night. Humans and other predators avoided them by staying indoors or otherwise hidden. Sure enough, the party continued steadily east despite the growing darkness.
The journey was difficult for Martel; his ankle and ribs were begging for rest, or at least, the cessation of the jostling that each footfall caused or a reprieve from the sharp, jabbing pain he felt each breath. Aside from the physical pain, he was becoming increasingly despondent as his remaining time slipped away. Whenever he slipped out of his engrossment of observing the ravinors, it would all come back to him in a sudden, almost jarring, sensation that threatened to overwhelm him w
ith grief. It didn’t help that the three captives were not allowed to talk to one another as they marched along. An earlier attempt had ended with a sharp tug at Martel’s leash and a furious and indecipherable harangue by the mounted trueborn, who had quickly ridden up to the prisoners during the altercation.
The candles passed by. Time seemed to alternate its flow between agonizingly slow—until he would realize how little of it he had left—and then when his mind was no longer fixated on his fate, time rushed by faster than ever. Martel could do nothing but continue trudging along, overly conscious of every small twinge or ache, thinking each one was a symptom of the fever.
He kept walking onward through the night to their unknown destination. He wondered if he would live to see it through human eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
IN THE MORNING, AFTER visiting a local bathhouse, Ifo felt clean and rejuvenated. His night had been long, but he was anxious to get his day started. The sky was overcast but not threatening rain. Styr was bustling, as always; crowds of visitors and citizens alike poured through the streets going about their business, just as he was.
Today, his business brought him to the First, where his target resided. His target was a legate. One of twelve such people in the empire. He had never assassinated such a high-ranking official before, but he knew from living in Styr for most of his life, that though the legates filled an important position, they were not protected as well as the queen or the four governors were. That was partly due to their offices’ restrictions. Legates only served one term of eight years, and then they were forbidden from settling into the district they had overseen.
One reason why he had never been contracted to eliminate a legate before was that they were seen as being impervious to bribes, coercion, or largess; they did not create the enemies one needed in order to have a contract placed on one’s head. The legate exercised ultimate power in their districts for a short time, and then they had to retire elsewhere. They were selected by the queen and put through a rigorous, and revealing, period of interrogation and investigation that anyone with anything to hide would never subject themselves to.
Ifo could count on one hand the number of legates arrested and executed for corruption and still have most of his fingers leftover. And that number was for the entire history of the position, starting centuries before the continent was completely united. Legates were the ideal government official throughout the empire and were sacrosanct in their standing. Not for Ifo though, and not for his clients who were paying for this particular legate to meet his end.
Ifo could not figure why this legate had to die, but it was not his concern. He knew that whatever the issue was between the client and the target, the next legate would step in with no differences on stance and have access to all the deceased’s information, making the elimination of such a person ineffective, to Ifo’s eyes at least. But his clients were paying well for a legate’s death, so a legate’s death it would be.
So it was that he found himself walking along the streets of the First, where all of the legates resided when they weren’t living in their home districts. Legate Algis, his target, represented the sixth district; which, as far as Ifo knew, was one of the smaller districts in terms of population. The district had a small part of Styr, not the city itself but the empire proper, and a portion of Kharisk within its borders. Districts were meant to be outside of the traditional borders of each member kingdoms’ lands to further ensure impartiality in its appointed legate.
According to the information he had read last night, Legate Algis often strolled through the capital with only one guard; a habit that the official would likely regret in six days’ time. Ifo easily found the legate of sixth district’s home. It served as his offices as well and was built, like nearly all of the other buildings in the First, with its characteristic white styricite columns and cladding.
Ifo was thankful that the home was not in the Khariskian style; the sharp-edged corners would have made any necessary roof work suicidal at best. The First was a draw to many travelers touring the capital, so it was a simple matter to find a seat on a public bench only a stone’s throw from the legate’s temporary home. Just as the information he had received claimed they would, two candles before noon, two figures exited the intricately carved double doors of the home.
The legate was older than Ifo by a good twenty years. He was tall with gray hair and had a aquiline nose that gave him a noble visage. He certainly looked the part of the immutable and righteous legate. He used a fashionable cane that looked to be made of silverwood, the gleam of the polish brought out the grains of the wood quite strikingly. It was not purely a decoration though, he noted the legate had a slight limp. His notes revealed that the official had been in the empire’s legions for one term of service, usually five years, and Ifo guessed that was when he had injured his leg. He would have to assume that the legate was able to defend himself and would have to be cautious even after he disposed of the guardsman.
The guard was typical looking for his profession. He was not quite as tall as the man he was protecting, but he was thickly muscled. His eyes never stopped scanning the crowd for threats to his charge. A vigilant man who took his job seriously, despite the unlikelihood of an attack on a legate. Ifo was disappointed at the man’s apparent competence; it would make his job all the more difficult, but he had killed competent men before. His contract did not actually state that the guardsman had to die, so it was up to him whether or not the guard should be incapacitated or eliminated. Ifo wouldn’t kill him if he didn’t have to. But the man’s life was in the Giver’s hands now—or the Taker’s.
The guard had a leather jerkin on with a great number of small armor plates attached to it; the leather gave way to chain along his arms and down to his knees. He also wore a helm with a nasal guard, rather than a fully slitted helm, for better visibility. He wore swordsman’s gloves with minimal armor to allow the best grip possible. A longsword’s hilt jutted out over his left shoulder. That, and a longknife at his belt, seemed to be his only two weapons. Ifo could tell from the way he moved that he would be skilled with the use of both.
The assassin gave the two men plenty of room down the avenue before he began to follow, staying close enough to make sure they did not veer from their course, which should lead them to the small Merovian garden that was kept a few streets over.
Although the guard was skilled and vigilant, he should have taken a more roundabout course to the garden. He and the legate made a direct route from the home to the garden. If this were someone expecting a possible attempt on his ward’s life, the guard would have led Ifo on a confusing circuit with cutbacks and detours through several storefronts and the like to reveal and evade any pursuit. Ifo just hoped that the legate would be as unconcerned for his safety when he came calling. He supposed the guard was likely enough to deter any common thief or footpad who might make an attempt on one of the empire’s officials.
Ifo was beginning to have second thoughts about his target. This man, by virtue of his position, was the embodiment of selfless and incorruptible service to the empire. Ifo could not come up with any plausible reason why he had to be killed unless he was a disgrace to the office. He had long since come to the opinion that if someone was the target of an assassin then that person had done something very wrong in his or her life. And his targets, up to this point in his career, had proven the veracity of that belief.
This one just felt off to him, but he could not place his misgivings on anything other than the target’s unassailable position. Was it just that? Do I believe in the position of the legate’s inscrutability along with the rest of the empire’s populace? He had assumed that such idealistic thinking had been burned out of him through the demise of his family so many years ago, and whatever slivers of which may have lingered, must have certainly been eroded away from his years of being a killer for hire.
He was so immersed in this line of thinking that he almost missed the lurk pass him by. Ifo cursed in his
mind and berated himself for a fool at his critical lapse in awareness. Luckily, he had spotted the lurk before he noticed Ifo following the legate, or he would have been discovered.
Now he understood the legate’s security better, and it was a good thing that he had, or he would have been getting a fatal surprise six days from now. Lurks were simply guards who trailed a good distance behind their charges while they attempted to spot people, like Ifo, who may be tracking his or her target. The lurk was often positioned far enough away that they couldn’t even see the person they were hired to protect. They knew the course, and the destination, and stayed well back to lull attackers into thinking they had only the target and one guard to contend with.
Now, Ifo knew for a certainty that the guard with the legate would be an excellent swordsman; the idea being that the guard should be skilled enough to delay an assailant, even if overmatched, for long enough for the undetected lurk to come in from behind and dispatch the occupied attacker. He had heard that lurks were often recruited from the ranks of assassins, either retiring, or ones who had failed to have the mindset—and moral flexibility—necessary to fulfill contracts.
Ifo thanked the Giver. He had been lucky to shake himself out of his musings in time to remain undetected by the lurk. This development complicated his task, and he would have to adjust his plan accordingly while still trying to forgo the need to eliminate the guard and the lurk. He would have to see what mode of communication the guard and the lurk used to stay in touch. There could be a signal repeated every so often that would alert the guard if it was, or was not, given out in the correct way or in the right time. If the communication was not received, then the guard would know that something had happened to the lurk and that an attack was imminent.