Ravinor

by Travis Peck

  Blissfully, the rest of the watch went by quietly, no probing attacks, no ravinors sneaking around the wall. Crallick kept checking the horizon for the first rays of the sun to shine through over the hills to the east, signaling the end of another tiring watch.

  A candle before dawn, Crallick could smell Myrna cooking something up for breakfast, and his stomach rumbled merrily at the prospect. He knew that the soldiers would have their own victuals for themselves, but the exhausted defenders were running out of food. He hoped that Myrna was rationing as they should. Surely they could get through one more day before the century of soldiers arrived, well-armed and well-supplied. Though he was dreading the reason why such a force was sent to bring back the captain to the capital, Crallick felt like the weight of a mountain would lift off his shoulders the moment he laid eyes on the precise columns of armored soldiers marching up the path from the sentinel trees.

  Almost as good as that thought was the sight of Rogair and Ester emerging from the house as the new morning finally dawned over the hills. The two clambered up the ladder and Crallick filled them in on the newcomers sleeping in the barn. The Ayersons both grinned from ear to ear, though their enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by his strategy of not immediately utilizing the five veteran soldiers. But they relented and took up their positions with an extra hop in their step.

  He and Barsus, relieved of their arms and armor, entered the house with the aroma of a delicious and well-earned breakfast waiting for them. The children were up and as rambunctious as ever. The noise and clatter lifted his spirits along with the idea of the five soldiers ready to help when needed. Crallick did not delay in informing Myrna of the newcomers and the imminent arrival of a century of the imperial legion. He could see tears form in her eyes at the good news. But this piece of good news was quickly overshadowed by the question of her husband’s recovery still in doubt. He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly as he sat down, then he closed his eyes and silently prayed to the Giver for his captain’s return to good health.

  Crallick was done eating in moments, partially because of the smaller portions than he was used to, and partially from his intense hunger. He managed to kick his boots off and take off his sweat-damp tunic and breeches before falling into his bed where sweet oblivion lifted him away from the mounting pains and aches of his exhausted body.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE ASSASSIN HAD ONLY left his flat for a quick errand after he had formulated a plan. A plan that would, hopefully, keep the lurk and the guardsman alive if it went smoothly. Ifo was anxious to get underway, but he had another candle before he would need to leave. He would not be going to the legate’s home this evening to wait for his target. Instead, he would wait where the legate always went at this time of night and on this particular day. He was rather hoping the official would have some sort of depraved rendezvous at a brothel to make Ifo feel better that the man was not as pure as his office led people to believe.

  Unfortunately, from the information provided by his old employer, the legate appeared to be a decent man. Not decent enough for Ifo to renege on his acceptance of the contract, but if he had not been offered so much initially, he would have passed on it. His conscious demanded that his targets be individuals of questionable morality. But after his initial wage had doubled, then doubled again, Ifo would not back out now that he was so close to leaving this way of life for good.

  Ifo had sharpened and oiled all of the weapons he would be outfitting himself with tonight. He had already arranged for a horse to be saddled and ready for him just before dawn at an inn that loaned mounts to travelers. He had deposited most of the gold he had received at Styric Central and had hidden the rest in his apartment. After he was successful in his endeavor, Giver willing, he would be able to retrieve that gold on his way out of town. He had long since ignored the irony of invoking the Giver’s name to aid in the completion of a contract. Although he still had his Death-faced octahedral die for Give and Take squirreled away in his gear bag, he had never asked the Taker for anything. His parents had been religious, for all the good it had done them, but they had imparted enough to him during the short time he had known them that he felt much more comfortable dealing with the Giver than the Taker, his profession’s common predilections be damned.

  As the sun set, Ifo made his way out of his apartment and out onto the street. The night was brisk so his black cloak with its hood up would not attract any attention. His destination was a prestigious singing hall at the edge of the Third. It was in the perfect area for disposing the body down the sewer line that his client had designated.

  The blade-like structures in this district would keep him from using the roofs to follow his prey, but he had known that would be the case and had come up with an alternate plan of attack. Wind kicked up the corner of his cloak as it whistled between alley ways and through the Khariskian buildings that did little to slow it down with their sharp edges.

  The streets were as crowded as one might expect of the capital city of the empire on any given evening. Couples strolled about hand in hand on their way to the theater, or perhaps to the same singing hall where Ifo and the legate, and his guards, were bound. Eateries were bustling, as were the many inns and pubs that lined the streets. Loud music and raucous laughter rose and fell as he passed the doors where the merrymaking was in full swing. Mouthwatering scents wafted out of the open entries of the restaurants, making Ifo regret not eating more before his evening’s work had commenced.

  Ifo felt the thrill of the chase growing inside him as he neared the hall. When he was within several hundred yards of the building, he finally spotted the lurk sitting on a bench in front of one of the city’s oldest cobblers, Brenitor & Sons. Ifo wore a pair of their fine walking shoes. If they only knew that they made the favored footwear of assassins throughout the capital and beyond, they might have second thoughts about selling such a soft-soled and quiet shoe. The lurk was staring intently off toward the singing hall where the legate must already be inside. Ifo guessed that it was close to the time for the lurk to signal the all clear. Perfect.

  Ifo nodded politely to the man as he sat on the opposite end of the bench. The lurk gave a small nod in reply and continued watching out for the signal. The lurk was not worried about his own safety; he was only watching people who might appear to be trailing his charges, so he did not seem suspicious of Ifo, at least not yet. The legate typically left the singing hall early, before the entertainment was officially concluded, which by Ifo’s timekeeping, was only two candles away. He pulled a small leather-bound book from his cloak’s inner pocket and began to read, seemingly nothing more than a citizen of the empire passing the time quietly reading.

  After a candle, Ifo saw the barest flash of light, and then the lurk stretched in a natural manner, using the motion to return the signal with the small mirror cupped in his hand. As quickly as that, the mirror disappeared from sight. The assassin forced himself to be patient. He periodically glanced up from his book while he waited for the right time for the next phase of his plan to begin. He let out a sigh as he finally saw a figure ambling slowly along the avenue. The man was twirling a baton in one hand while whistling a merry tune as he approached.

  Ifo forced his muscles to relax, and he developed a small tic in his right calf as his body tensed up before the action. These next few moments would determine his future. If he made a mistake now, he would either be rotting in a cell or on the run for the rest of his life—or, if this went as planned, he would be retired and financially secure. Only one of the three outcomes was acceptable to Ifo.

  The lurk rose from the bench. Ifo casually reached out with his foot and tripped the man. The lurk swore, and Ifo stood as if he were helping the man up, but instead, he delivered a quick knee-strike to the man’s temple. He fell like a sack of grain at Ifo’s feet.

  “Peacekeeper! Peacekeeper!” Ifo shouted to the baton-twirling man down the avenue. “This man has fainted!” he said as he hauled the unconscious lurk back onto th
e bench, taking the opportunity to rifle the man’s pockets for the signal mirror. He found it and shoved it into his own pocket right before the law-keeping officer strode up. A small crowd began to gather at the excitement.

  “Thank the Giver!” Ifo praised. “He’s still breathing, but I think he needs a healer! He just fell down as soon as he stood. Maybe his heart has given out,” Ifo said, babbling hysterically.

  The peacekeeper, gently but firmly, moved Ifo aside with his baton so he could assess the ailing man’s troubles. The man gave no indication that he felt Ifo smoothly drop a small bag of coins into his uniform pocket.

  “Citizen, you can move along. I will handle this now. Thank you for helping him. You all move along now!” The officer of the peace urged the gawkers along, giving Ifo an excuse to duck into the crowd and make his way toward the second phase of his plan. He silently thanked the Giver again for the corruptibility of some of Styr’s peacekeepers. His earlier errand had paid off, and he had chosen the officer wisely. Now the man can pay off his gambling debts and still have enough to keep his mistress happy for another season.

  The crowd dispersed behind him. He felt good that he was able to spare the lurk’s life. He had paid the peacekeeper to keep him unconscious until noon the following day, but a headache and some bruises would heal—death would most certainly not. Ifo sat down on the bench that was only fifty yards from where the lurk had fallen. The unconscious man was being hauled away by five peacekeepers who had arrived at the scene with a stretcher.

  Ifo did not think the legate’s guard would be able to tell that the lurk’s signal was slightly closer than it should have been, but he would be anxious until the guard signaled and began to escort the official back to his home. Ifo did not have to wait long. He saw the flash of light and managed the return signal, if not quite as inconspicuously as the lurk had done.

  The assassin suppressed the urge to whistle a jolly tune when he saw the guard and his target make their way to the north. They would loop back around to their home instead of coming back in his direction. He assumed the guard would notice the absence of the lurk if they passed by the way they had come from originally. The new route also led the two men right to where it would be easiest for Ifo to get rid of the body.

  Ifo guessed that he would have to signal one more time before he would have enough ground to cover to intersect the two men close by the culvert where the body of the legate would be disposed. Picking his way through the steady, late-evening stream of people on the streets of the capital, Ifo slowly closed the distance to his two remaining targets. Once again, he did not want his signal to appear too close, so he slowed his advance slightly. As soon as he made the last signal, he would close quickly and strike.

  Ifo could just make out the two men ahead of him as they carried on northward and turned up another avenue. He had studied a map of this area and had walked it several times, so he knew that they had several more blocks to go before he would need to make his attack. The pedestrian traffic had slowed down to a trickle as the street carried him away from the shops, theaters, and pubs. Now it meandered toward an area that was mostly homes, along with a few gardens. He did not dare close the distance between them more until he saw—and returned—the signal. Ifo thanked the Giver that the legate attended the singing hall at night and not during the day. If it were daytime, the guard could easily recognize that he was not the lurk.

  There it is!

  Ifo flashed an answer to the signal and picked up his pace once the guard turned back forward to resume his course. The guard was armored as he had been the first time Ifo observed him, but because of the chill in the night air, he had added a cloak that made Ifo modify his original plan. He had intended to shoot the guard in the back of the neck, by way of a small blowgun, with a dart laced with a paralyzing agent. But the cloak now spoiled that shot. He was resolute to refrain from killing the guard, but he did not have time to get into a prolonged skirmish with the skilled swordsman, either. There was exposed skin behind the guard’s knees, but Ifo wasn’t sure that the paralytic would incapacitate the guard quickly enough if it was introduced into his body there.

  Unfortunately, carrying around his entire arsenal on a contract was an impossibility, but it would have given him more options. As it was, he had little time to decide what to do as he closed with his targets. He saw that the culvert where he had planned to dump the body of the legate was only twenty yards ahead of his prey. That forced his hand.

  He brought up the blowgun and inserted a dart, holding another one in the same hand, careful not to touch the sharp poison-dipped point. He took a deep breath and blew out forcefully. The guard cried out as the dart pierced his unarmored skin behind his left knee. He had already reloaded by the time the guardsman turned to find the source of his sudden pain. Ifo blew out again and the next dart took the swordsman in his right arm. He threw the blowgun aside and charged the two men, who were only now realizing the threat coming from behind them. Relying on a lurk became a dangerous liability if ever compromised, as the current case proved; thinking you were safe from attack in any direction was a fatal mistake.

  Ifo, with a twist of his right arm, loosened the blackjack held by some straps on the inside of his sleeve, letting it fall into his hand. He held a breath as he closed and saw that the two sub-par locations where his darts had struck were having an affect with the guard’s ability to unsheathe his sword. And then he was on him. Taking a hard, precise swing with the blackjack, Ifo launched himself at the guard who was still fumbling with his sword. The weapon struck him on the temple and that was that. Ifo did not have time to thank the Giver at the guardsman’s swift, and only temporary, demise.

  Legate Algis was dumbfounded by the unanticipated assault from the lurk’s sector of protection and shocked by the ineffectual defense of his prized swordsman. Ifo slipped the blackjack in under his belt, he did not have the time to reset the single-use strap he had initially used to bring the weapon into play. He unsheathed his longknife.

  The legate stared with wide eyes, and Ifo was glad this would be the last time he had to see such dread on anyone’s face. The man saw his death approach and could only voice a single miserable, “Why?”

  Ifo did not answer. He plunged the longknife into the legate’s robes, knowing right where to slip it in between the ribs to reach the man’s heart. The man gasped, and Ifo saw his life drain away. He took him gently to the ground and waited a few moments to ensure the man was truly dead. He scanned in all directions and thankfully there were no witnesses. No conscious witnesses, he amended. The special concoction now coursing through the guard’s veins would keep him out until mid-morning.

  He took the longknife out of the legate’s chest. A gout of blood followed, then slowed and finally stopped, as his heart stopped beating. Ifo wiped the longknife on the official’s fine robe and sheathed it at his side. Breathing purposefully, he managed to slow his heartbeat as he calmed down from the action. Ifo felt at his target’s wrist and neck for a pulse. There was nothing. One more task remained… And because of the proximity to the culvert, and Ifo’s good timing, the legate’s body was sent splashing into the sewer on its final journey, floating off to only the Giver knew where.

  Ifo was on the verge of retirement. He found it both exhilarating and terrible. Exhilarating because he no longer had to kill for a living, but terrible because he had had to kill one more person to achieve his goal. He took off at a brisk pace back to his flat, not fast enough to excite comment. He was just a man moving about with purpose.

  Ifo only had to make a quick stop at his apartment and get a few bags and make his way to the inn where his horse should be waiting for him. He would celebrate by having a nice meal, and no doubt a Merovian. Then he would make himself scarce in the capital for the allotted time and return to Styr as a man ready to live out the rest of his days in peace.

  A sudden twinge deep within his mind caused him to swear under his breath. He knew that the legate’s dying question would h
aunt him until he discovered what purpose the man’s death had served. He would still adhere to the conditions set forth by his client, but upon his return, he would not be able to enjoy his retirement while that question remained unanswered.

  ***

  Holan Magdi stumbled down the narrow street in the Fifth district of Styr where he lived in a small shack. He was drunk. Again. But this time would be his last. He was not quitting drinking. He would not—could not—do that. He was going to throw himself into the canal that ran along by his shack. Even he could not call it a house, or even a home, so dilapidated was his domicile.

  This was not the first time he had gone to meet his end. He had always frightened himself too much to carry it out. Each time he would try to take his own life, something drew him back to his miserable existence. He cursed the Taker—and threw in the Giver for good measure. What can either of them do to me that they haven’t already done? he asked himself through the alcohol-fueled haze, and once again, the voice in his head responded, Nothing. It was not someone else’s voice speaking in his head. He wasn’t crazy, or at least crazy like that, he amended. Not yet.

  If he was mad, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. His wife had taken their three children and left him five years ago, and that wasn’t even the beginning of his troubles. In fact, it all started with a miracle, a boon right from the benevolent hand of the Giver. Or so he and his family had believed at the time.