by Travis Peck
Then he saw the second purpose. Gazing up at the ring of projectile-armed ravinors staring down on them, he saw the other reason for the circular opening. He saw torches—unlit now—and massive cauldrons perched on stands, along with stacks of rocks, logs, and anything else that could damage a foe below. His companions were staring up as well. Their captors yanked their leashes as they lagged, still staring at the defenses in utter disbelief.
The path narrowed down again for a few hundred yards, then they passed several more of the defensive circles that were nearly identical to the first. The unlucky army that had to push through these defenses would have to be a large one indeed. He was no general, but he would rather try to find a way up to the top of the wall than to attempt to face the defenses down in the pathway with death raining down from above.
The existence of a ravinor stronghold had been rumored for as long as Martel had been alive—probably longer than his mentor had been alive. How else could the humans have failed to eradicate the ravinors after three wars, with each one bringing them onto the brink of extinction, unless they had some sort of safe haven?
The path finally ended up ahead. From this distance, a hundred yards, the path appeared to terminate into the side of the mountain. The face of the mountain wall was dark, Martel guessed that the sun would only touch that face for a candle, and only when it had reached its highest point. As they closed the distance, he realized that the opening was much larger than he had initially guessed. The path was wider too. There were deep grooves in the ground that formed two mirrored half-circles with their open sides facing the mountain face.
Martel did not have to consider the use of those grooves for long. The opening was filled with the largest door that he had ever seen. A double door. Each door’s center edge lined up with the arced groove. The door was made up of steel sheets that had been riveted together. The group stopped in front of the gate for a few moments before they heard a deafening screech, and the massive double doors swung outward. Each door had a large wheel attached to the leading edge that rolled along its groove as the two ravinors pushed them open.
Martel’s mouth dropped open. No two men—or wretches, or trueborns—were strong enough to move those doors, even with the grooves. He was right. The two ravinors had to be three yards high at least. They wore breeches, but nothing else, and their huge muscles bulged with the effort of moving the gargantuan doors. Chains attached to the inside of the doors swung and clanged against the steel as the doors were heaved open by the two giant ravinors. The doors came to a stop with a loud boom and each giant ravinor straightened at attention as they faced each other with their backs to their respective doors.
The two trueborns, the mother and her babe a step behind, separated from the group and passed through the threshold; each gave a respectful nod to the two giants as they disappeared into the shadow of the opening. The rest of the ravinors and their human captives followed next while the sergeant barked and grunted orders at the rear of the group to usher them inside.
The doorway opened to a short hallway that was only a dozen steps long. The hallway brought them into the mouth of a wide cavern. Light shone from above through shafts cut through the stone high above. Torches and lanterns hung—unlit—from long chains secured to the ceiling, but they were not needed with the amount of sunlight that was pouring into the cavern. Martel wondered how they managed to light them so high up.
The floor was all rock, smoothed by tools and wear over what had to be centuries of occupation. At the mouth of the hallway, they descended a flight of stone-hewed stairs that led down to the floor of the wide cavern. Martel had trouble catching his breath from the shock of what he saw. The cavern was teeming with ravinors, trueborn and wretches alike. He even noticed a handful of the large ravinors like the gatekeepers, but these were heavily armored in chain-mail that hung down to their knees. They also wore breastplates that held enough steel to armor several men. Each giant ravinor carried a double-headed axe, with the blade being easily as wide as a human arm. Martel shuddered to think of the damage this new variety of ravinor could do with those devastating weapons wielded by such powerful arms.
One pair of the giant ravinors approached them; the wretches in their group cringed in the presence of the much larger ravinor. One of the duo spoke a quick word to the sergeant, who bowed his head as he was dismissed. The wretches followed their sergeant off into the cavern and disappeared into the milling mass of ravinors that occupied the spacious chamber.
“You three come with us.” The same giant who had dismissed the sergeant now addressed them in a great booming voice that you would expect from such a large creature. That he had been expecting it did not make the sound any less intimidating.
Martel did not want to act too submissively, but with these two, he thought it prudent to be on his best behavior. Yurlo and Mon Lyzink must have shared his opinion, and the three men meekly followed the giant. The other one trailed along behind them, towering over them like they were children. The masses parted before their escort as he led them directly through the throng. Ravinors stared at them as the humans gaped about the cavern like farmers visiting the capital for the first time.
Martel tried to catalog every detail that he observed, and he knew that his mentor was doing the same as his beard waggled this way and that as it followed his eyes darting to each feature. The young scholar did not know what to make of the scene before him. It was like a crowded market back in Styr, some folk idling about; others were involved in more pressing business. But what business did these creatures conduct?
With their escort leading the way, they did not have the time to take to study any of the myriad details in depth; nor could they see through the multitude of ravinors that blocked their view of anything more than a stone’s throw away in any direction—and the cavern was much larger than that. Martel was both relieved, and disappointed, to make it through the wide space and enter a hallway on the opposite end of the entrance; he was relieved to be out of the surreal environment that was essentially a ravinor city, but he was disappointed because he had not come close to studying everything that massive chamber and its contents had to offer. He assumed that this was the capital where the mysterious ravinor queen held her court, or whatever passed for such in the ravinor world.
He had wanted to see more of what all those creatures were doing in the cavern, but his mind quickly lost that desire as the giant leading them opened another set of doors. These doors were large but swung smoothly on oiled hinges. He heard Mon Lyzink gasp at his right as the door opened into another cavern; this one had much lower ceilings and natural rock pillars that held up the mountain above. Martel could not determine whether these cavities in the rock were naturally occurring or if the ravinors had excavated them. He choked when he realized that his mentor was not shocked by the strange rock formations. Between the pillars were fences made from wood, much like that to keep livestock penned up, and some of the spaces were indeed used for cows, pigs, and some goats. But also people. Humans were penned into the majority of these cave-corrals. Most were naked, and all of them were filthy.
Martel felt hot anger welling up inside him at the sight. The giant leading them turned and gave them a knowing smirk. They knew how upsetting it would be for the human trio to see their brethren fenced in and treated like cattle. The humans within the corrals looked at them askance, but did not call out, or otherwise attempt communication with them. Understandable if the same threat of punishment would fall on them as it had on the three captives while traveling.
As they walked through the labyrinthine paddocks, the group passed close by to yet another corral occupied by naked and dirty humans. A sergeant was grunting and waving about at a small group of the captives. One of them was a middle-aged man sitting on his haunches; the man had a freshly shorn head and face. The others were likewise clean-cut. Even the two women in the group had bare scalps.
The man the ravinor sergeant was berating had more hair than the others, and
his facial hair was beginning to grow out into a scruffy beard. The sergeant grabbed the man to his feet and pushed him out of the pen where one of the giant ravinors picked the man up and flung him over the shoulder. The distaste for the giant to be given such a task was evident by the grimace on his face. The man began to grunt at the giant who was carrying him and vocalized just as the sergeant had done. This captive was speaking the low language. How long had he been held captive to learn the guttural form of communication?
Martel had a chilling thought. And as he studied more of the human livestock he knew that he was correct. These people had been born here, and had grown up amongst the pens. They had no clothes. They did not speak out when they saw Martel and the two other humans, and they spoke the low language of the ravinors. He could not believe that this had been going on unbeknownst to anyone in the empire. Generations of human cattle must have been born, bred, and buried—or rather, eaten—here in these caves without ever seeing the light of day. Perhaps their ignorance was a blessing so they did not know how unnatural and terrible their plight was deep inside the ravinor stronghold.
He felt dizzy and shook his head to right his vision. Martel’s mind was reeling from all he had seen. He desperately needed to talk all of this over with his mentor walking beside him, who appeared to be equally dazed. A quick glance to Yurlo revealed the islander’s own disbelief at what he was seeing. Martel saw the giant drop the man he had been carrying onto a raised wooden platform that had a crude railing around it. The giant expertly lashed the struggling man down to the table, grabbed shears, and began to go to work removing the man’s hair. To prevent lice, Martel mused. The human livestock were filthy, but they all had trimmed hair to prevent lice from breeding amongst them, and then spreading to their ravinor masters. Even ravinors preferred not to itch. He looked behind as they passed the grooming station, and the giant was already slinging the man back over his shoulder to return him to his pen.
The group reached another hallway that eventually split into two paths. One leading down and the other upwards. Their two escorting giants prodded them on the upward path. Martel knew that either choice would have revealed more discoveries, but his instincts told him that the path leading into the depths of the mountain would be more unpleasant. He would be proven wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FOR THE REMAINDER OF the day that Garet had gone down, there were a few more halfhearted and ineffectual assaults on the gate, but nothing serious. Even so, Crallick had not left his post all day. Myrna had sent up a meal for him around midday which gave him enough strength to keep going. Barely. He did not have a choice. He had to keep on going for the sake of his friend and his friend’s family.
Barsus had finally relented to Crallick’s suggestion that he get some rest a few candles ago. So far the ravinors seemed less aggressive than they had been previously and less disciplined as well. He smiled grimly at the prospect of the injured ravinor leader not functioning as capably as he had been. Of course, neither was their own leader. He prayed for the hundredth time to the Giver for Garet’s safe return—sooner than later.
Crallick stifled a yawn that threatened to unhinge his jaw. Without a second person on the wall with him, he had to start on another circuit to ensure that none of the creatures were sneaking about. Once again it was clear, but the movement helped the exhausted sergeant stay alert. As he positioned himself back by the gate, he saw that a steaming mug of kof was waiting for him. He gratefully took a sip of the scalding liquid. It would help, but soon he would need some sleep, if only just a short nap.
It was afternoon now, and he would like to be able to come back up on the wall before midnight. He did not trust this lull in the ravinors’ siege to continue much longer, and he wanted to be on the wall when they resumed their attacks. He put the mug of kof down, only having sipped a few mouthfuls. Crallick decided that he would sleep soon and did not want the strong brew to fight it, though he did not think it would have much of an affect if he drank down an entire potful of kof.
As if the Giver had heard his desire, Rogair and his wife clambered up the ladder to relieve him. Handing over his helm and his shield to Rogair, Crallick climbed down the ladder with only a few groans. His whole body ached.
“I’ll be back up before midnight at the latest,” he informed the couple, who nodded at his pronouncement. The two Ayersons were doing well, and if nothing else, the farmer and his wife were two more pairs of eyes that could warn of an attack. And that was worth their weight in silver. Gold—Crallick amended—if their presence allowed him to get some sleep.
Before going inside the house, Crallick splashed some water on his face and washed his hands. Stripping off his greaves and breastplate, he set them by the front door. He needed a bath desperately after getting a whiff of what had been stewing under all that armor, but he needed sleep more.
The kitchen table was occupied by the children, who were all hovering around a board game. Tyrant and Amalia were both stretched out on the floor beside the table, their large forms taking up most of the open floor. Tyrant did not stir. Amalia raised her head briefly then returned to her repose. The children did not notice him enter. Crallick grabbed a knife and cut off a chunk of bread and a thick slice of cheese. He wolfed down both, took a large drink of water, and made his way to his room. Barsus’s door was closed, as was Garet’s, where Myrna must still be watching over her husband. Aelpheus acknowledged Crallick with a small tail swish but otherwise stayed at his post at the top of the stairs. Crallick reminded himself to get the leader mastiff some food and water when he woke up.
The retired sergeant stripped off his clothes and got into bed. His body was drained, as was his mind. Sleep found him within moments, but with it came bad dreams. He woke once, and it was dark outside, but his exhaustion was so deep that he fell back to sleep despite his intention to rise.
The next time he woke, it was still dark outside and he forced himself to get up. His body preferred that he did not. With a grunt or two, he managed to get up and stretch out his sore muscles. Feeling vaguely alive, he put on clean breeches and a tunic and walked out of his room. The children had all gone to bed, and the two smaller mastiffs were no longer inside. Aelpheus was lying on the floor now, but still in front of his master’s door, with his head hanging sadly over the top step.
Myrna was at the table sipping on some kof and staring out the window, lost in her worries.
“Any change?” Crallick asked softly to avoid startling her.
“Not yet,” she answered. Myrna did not take her eyes off the window.
“Why don’t you sleep, Myrna?”
“I will. I just have to…”
Crallick put an arm around her and gently raised her off the chair. As she stood, she looked him in the eyes and her worry burst forth.
“Oh, Crallick… What if he doesn’t wake up?” Her whole body shook as she cried onto his shoulder. He did not answer her, simply held her until the crying slowed. He fought back tears himself. Crallick had been relying on Garet’s leadership for most of his adult life, and he felt rudderless without his solid presence.
Myrna disengaged from Crallick and gave him a tired smile. “I will go to bed now, Crallick. Thank you,” she said and gave his arm a squeeze before she walked away.
Once Crallick saw her enter her room, he took a glance outside. By the height of the moon, he saw that it was a little past midnight and was relieved that he hadn’t slept the whole night through. Rogair was standing over the gate looking out toward the besiegers, and his wife was doing a circuit of the wall—helmed and carrying a shield— Crallick was pleased to note.
He heard a door open behind him and greeted Barsus as the young man emerged from his room, rubbing at his face.
“Good timing, I was just about to go relieve the Ayersons,” Crallick said.
Barsus started to ask something, but Crallick forestalled him.
“No change. Myrna just went back in to sleep some.”
“Good
, she had not slept since…” Barsus could not speak of the terrifying incident.
Crallick grabbed his shoulder. “Your father is the toughest man I have ever known. He will be up on his feet in no time. Just be patient.”
Barsus nodded and seemed to recover.
“Grab something to eat, and we’ll give the Ayersons a break.”
“I’m starving,” Garet’s eldest son explained with a tired grin.
“When are you not?” Crallick chuckled and shook his head. “I’m going to go out and check on the horses. I’ll meet you there.”
Barsus already had a mouth full of bread so he couldn’t speak; instead, he waved to his adopted Uncle Crallick that he understood.
As he emerged from the house, two pony-sized mastiffs greeted him exuberantly, their tails wagging back and forth at a furious rate. He greeted both with a good behind-the-ear scratching and then they both bounded off as they growled and snarled at each other in play. The mastiffs were used to running about during the day, and had been pent up behind the walls for some time now and were eager to burn off some energy. Crallick felt equally pent up, but did not have any energy to be burned away.
In the barn, Crallick’s horse, and one of the Ayerson horses, were fine and beginning to recover from their strenuous journey. Unfortunately, the Ayersons’ oldest mount was not yet recovered, nor did Crallick think that it ever would. It was an old nag, and though it had shown great heart and possessed resilient survival instincts, the race against the ravinors would likely be the old farm horse’s last. He wished that the old girl could make it, but the strain looked to be just too much. He gave the nag some extra oats even though their supply was dwindling all too fast with the extra horses to feed.