by Travis Peck
The two statues moved as the three humans walked tentatively up toward the throne. Martel startled at the movement from what he had assumed were nothing more than simple decorations. The two giants stepped forward to the left and right of the throne and angled their axes in such a way that made it clear that the humans had come close enough to their mistress. The three men prudently stopped at the base of the steps that led up to the platform at the base of the throne.
The old ravinor male and the spokeswoman both flanked the humans. The twins stayed directly behind them as the three captives awaited the queen’s pleasure.
Martel felt a slight tremble building in his limbs, only partly because of the long climb up the mountain.
“My Queen,” the spokeswoman broke the silence, speaking in her fluent Styric. “This is the scholar, Mon Lyzink. And his two companions, Yurlo and Martel.”
The queen responded. Her voice was clear and commanding while her mouth seemed to caress the flawless Styric. “Of course it is the renowned ravinor scholar, Mon Lyzink. I sat in on one of your lectures actually, many years ago, when you were a young man.” The queen appeared to be no more than a few years older than Martel. A young woman in her prime. His mentor cleared his throat as if to speak, but stopped as the queen continued. “And an islander, I see. And this Martel must be your apprentice. Welcome to my home.”
The queen’s smile looked natural, but none of the humans felt any easing of tensions despite the queen’s welcoming words. The three men each gave an uncertain bow toward the ravinor monarch, not sure if human protocol would offend her. Martel thought the action was the safest choice considering all the usual trappings of royalty that was present here in the throne room. The giant ravinors did not lop off their heads immediately, so Martel guessed that they had behaved correctly.
“Er—ah. Thank you—Your Majesty,” Mon Lyzink managed to say. Even when not trapped in a mountain fortress filled by ravinors, his mentor was never the most ceremonial of men, but he forced out the proper words, and Martel was relieved at his mentor’s choice.
He and Yurlo muttered something along the same lines, though he could not for the life of him recall what exactly he had said. The queen nodded slightly as if she had just been given her due. Martel had never met Queen Amalia, but he suspected that she would act similarly. In fact, this whole arrangement seemed like it was all in mimicry of what this matriarch thought a throne room ought to be. It was impressive, though—he could not deny that—but he thought it might be more insightful as to the motivation of the queen herself.
Was all this display just to overwhelm three humans? Or did the queen feel the need to establish herself, and her ravinors, as a legitimate power on the continent by such pretense of conventional human ideals of how a sovereign should appear and act? Did the queen want to be human?
Aside from her slightly longer nails and her ravinor eyes, which strangely were still black but did not have the soulless feel emanating from them as the wretches had, the queen appeared to be a beautiful young human woman. In fact, all of the trueborns that he had seen so far looked to be more human than their species’ lower castes. Even the giants, ignoring their great size, were not as hirsute as would be expected of a ravinor, and their eyes held more intelligence, and dare he say, personality, than the wretches.
“It is lovely to have you here, Scholar—and your companions, too, of course,” the queen said. “Your previous works, and those of your predecessors, contained as little truth as I had desired, so it is only fitting that I meet you in person to give you my thanks.”
Martel did not like the implications of that statement at all. Looking at his mentor’s clenched jaw, neither did he. No man liked to be duped, but scholars especially loathed having the wool pulled over their eyes. Unwittingly, and despite their best efforts, and those of other scholars dating back to the First Ravinor War, they had all been led astray by this Ravinor Queen.
“I know you must be disappointed, but at least you were the closest of all your colleagues to the truth. As you can see,” the queen waved around her, indicating the throne room and her mountain stronghold, “the reality is a trifle different from what your race has ever dared to imagine. And you have but seen the barest hint of what we have done. But you shall see the whole truth.
“The reason I had you brought here is simple. You will write the story of the ravinors. The true story of my race. And you shall witness the rise of our kind after centuries of mistreatment by human hands. You shall do this so that my children, and my children’s children, and so on, will be able to know how the ravinors finally gained their dominance over the continent of our origin.”
Mon Lyzink looked poleaxed, and Martel knew that he and Yurlo were equally shocked. His mentor’s mouth opened and then closed, like a fish that suddenly found itself on land, as he struggled with how to respond to such a statement. Martel knew his mentor was of two minds about this, as was he. On the one hand, ravinors had been the focus of Mon Lyzink’s entire scholarly life and the thought of revealing ’the whole truth,’ as the queen had put it, must be the ultimate gift. But on the other hand, if the queen had been so guarded with her race’s secrets up to this point, would she really let Mon Lyzink reveal all of that closely held knowledge that might well help the humans stave off what apparently was the queen’s ultimate goal of ravinor dominion over the empire?
The queen answered that question. “You shall stay here as my honored guest, along with the islander and your apprentice, until such time as your work is complete. When I am satisfied, you and your companions shall be released. Unharmed, and all well-compensated for your cooperation.”
“I would be honored, Your Majesty,” Mon Lyzink agreed with no hesitation. Martel knew that he had no real choice in the matter, and it was best to go along with whatever the monarch desired while in her realm.
“Lovely!” the queen said and laughed delightedly. “Ila and Ina, please escort our guests to their quarters. No showing off now you two, there will be plenty of time for that later.”
The twins bowed to their queen, and the three humans bowed once more as well. Then they all walked out of the throne room. The surreal scene and bizarre turn of events had numbed them. Martel’s legs felt like they were made of water, and he was surprised they managed to hold him upright. The two giants followed them as the twins led them down the steps, veritably bouncing with suppressed excitement. They did not have far to go, as Ila, the male twin, opened the first door they came to and waved at them to enter.
The three humans entered their room. It was spacious, and the stone was much like the throne room’s. The rock was veined with color and smooth to the touch. The far side of the room, opposite from the door, was contoured and angled inward with a few thick, circular portholes placed high up. He guessed that they were about four times taller than his own height.
Fine rugs were laid down on the smooth stone, and Martel was shocked to see the furniture that was arranged around the room. The room was a single open space but was divided into areas by the furniture that was neatly arranged within. Martel was relieved to see that each section of the room had a few of the lantern-holding pedestals that they had seen in the throne room, so they would not have to endure the suffocating darkness when the sunlight no longer shone down through the portholes.
One area, that was filled with three writing desks and accompanying chairs, was obviously meant to serve as their den. Another area dominated by three large four-poster beds and three low chests at the foot of each bed was to be their sleeping chambers. A long table with a dozen chairs looked to be their new dining room. Two large couches and a low table in front of it would serve as their living space, complete with a fully stocked bookshelf and a chest of drawers.
In one corner of the cavernous room, there were several privacy screens that hid the privy and another similar section that held three copper tubs. There were two fireplaces that were cut into the stone on either end of the room, and each had wood stacked up nea
tly beside it. As they all looked about their new quarters, Martel swore he heard running water and was shocked to see that there was indeed a pool of water in a little niche in the wall. A steady stream of water that bubbled down the rock face kept the shallow bowl full of fresh and clean water.
There was not a proper kitchen in their room, but there were dishes and silverware stacked on a table, and even a kettle for brewing tea or kof, and another large cauldron for heating their bath water. Another table was piled high with fruits and vegetables of many varieties, as well as bread, cheese, and dried meats. It seemed the queen had been planning for her guests for some time. Martel noticed the rug pushed upward at the foot of one of the beds and a scratch on the polished stone floor where it had been slid into place. The queen only expected two guests to stay here. The third bed and chest—and the third copper tub—must have been hauled into place as soon as they had arrived at the mountain city.
Martel jumped as the female twin, Ina, spoke. He had forgotten their youthful escorts were still there as they examined their surroundings.
“Someone will be outside of your door at any candle, day or night, ready to bring you anything you require. You may leave the room any time you wish, but you will have an escort whenever you leave your room. This is for your own safety, as many of our less-enlightened brethren find it difficult to resist their desire to sate their hunger,” Ina said. As she spoke, her sharp canines flashed between her lips.
Martel shuddered. With the human-like behavior and appearance of the queen and the trueborns, he had forgotten that this place was still teeming with ravinors. And from the look of those canines on the young Ina, he did not doubt that the twins and the other trueborns still partook of a human meal—the corrals far below them were proof of that.
The twins bowed to them, each still smiling, and then they left the room, firmly shutting the door behind them.
“Our saddlebags,” Mon Lyzink said while pointing them out to the others. The utterance marked the first words spoken privately between them in days. Martel saw that his mentor was correct. Their saddlebags were leaning against the table that had all the food stacked on it. Martel was pleased to see them, it had many of their notes within, an irreplaceable part of their research. Then he realized that the notes were likely worthless and soon to be replaced by new and accurate information.
Martel walked over to the couch and sat down with a great sigh. Mon Lyzink followed suit. All three men were exhausted, both physically and mentally, by their capture and the revelations they had seen in only their first few candles within the mountain fortress.
Yurlo did not sit down but instead opened up the larder in the kitchen area and made a surprised grunt. He returned with a bottle of Nøm-Ünish liquor and three glasses. Martel could not recall its original name, but he knew that it translated into roughly: “fire-gut-head-spin-drink.” Yurlo poured them all a round, and once they each had a full glass in hand, they clinked the glasses together and gulped down the strong, fiery liquor.
“A well-named drink!” Martel managed to say between coughs and several attempts to clear his throat.
Yurlo raised his eyebrows and Mon Lyzink explained the translation of the potent drink. They all heartily agreed that it was accurately named, and Yurlo poured them all another round. Some time later—Martel had lost count of how many rounds they had consumed—and the three men were in good spirits.
In their strange room, high up in the ravinor stronghold, thoughts of the beautiful, terrible queen, the giants, the trueborns, the sergeants, the wretches, and all the other strange things they had seen were pushed down deep in their minds, for the moment, to allow them some well-earned levity. They would deal with tomorrow as best as they could, but for the rest of the night, the three companions ate and drank and laughed. The humans realized that they were unlikely to share such an evening again for a long time, so they would enjoy it while they could.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE RETIRED SERGEANT WOKE to hands on his shoulders urgently shaking him. His eyes snapped opened, and he bolted upright in his bed. His heart raced at whatever emergency was greeting him this…evening? “Wha—”
“Get dressed and meet us out in the kitchen.”
The voice belonged to Mozz, though Crallick could not make him out within the darkness of his room. As to the serious tone of voice, however, he was perfectly capable of understanding, and he forced himself to become alert. He was dressed in a flash and hurried out of his room to see what was happening. The fact that he was seeing pre-dawn light coming through the windows was evidence that it had been a quiet watch for the Ayersons, as he had not been rousted from his bed until now. His body still ached terribly, but his mind felt more clear than it had in days.
Crallick braced himself as he went to see what business awaited him in the kitchen. His mood rose to elation upon seeing another new soldier at the table, but then fell as he studied the young man more closely. His armor was ragged, and there were still streaks of dried blood on his plate. The man wore a helm, but even with it on, the veteran could make out how dejected the man appeared. Not a good sign.
Mozz met his gaze with his jaw muscles clenched tightly. As grim a look as he had ever seen on the normally jovial man’s face, and with it, Crallick knew beyond doubt that their deliverance had just been snatched away by the Taker.
The corporal delivered the bad tidings before he had even made it to the table.
“This is First Scout Trimmel,” Mozz said, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. “He and five others are all who are left of our century. Shortly after we left the main group, a large ravinor force numbering ten flocks converged on our position…” He did not have to say the words. The state of the dazed scout staring blankly at the floor of the kitchen said it all.
“Ten?” Crallick asked, his voice heavy with shock.
The scout did not look up but nodded woodenly, still not fully present.
The sergeant swore under his breath, not wanting to scare the children any more than they were already with any uncharacteristic emotional outburst.
“Myrna,” he said in a calm voice, though he felt anything but, “would you please take the children out to feed the mastiffs and the horses.”
She took the hint and deftly shooed the children outside. The youngsters were rubbing at their eyes, having just woken up, so meekly obeyed. Osbar was the only one who protested the forced exit from the house, but it was halfhearted and interrupted by a wide yawn.
“How long before they are here?” Crallick asked the befuddled scout. He did not want to push the fragile man any further, but he had people to look after here who required the information.
“Trimmel!” The corporal’s voice was like gravel as he growled at the man.
He stirred and finally looked around. His blank look showed that he had not heard the question. He asked again.
“Three candles. Four at most, sir.”
Crallick let out a long sigh. This was dire news indeed.
“Where are the surv—the rest of the men?”
“Where the corporal and his squad left their mounts, sir. We managed to bring along a few remounts.”
“Very well. Corporal?”
Mozz straightened at his old sergeant’s voice, and it was like Crallick had never left the legion. But he and Mozz knew that it was the captain that had been the mastermind behind all their successes, and he was not likely to be of help on this one, though little could be done now to change that unpleasant fact.
“I have a plan.” Crallick detailed his thoughts to the corporal, who brought in the others from the barn to go over it in depth. They did not have time to go over all the holes left in it, but at least they had a purpose now—and a chance.
***
Two candles after Crallick had shared his plan, the humans waited for their one chance to escape before the larger force of ravinors came and sealed their fates. The two women and the four children were in the barn, mounted, along with
the still-unconscious Garet, who was strapped tightly to one of the horses. Two of the soldiers were prepared to ride double on the last horse. Crallick and Mozz were lying on their stomachs on the catwalk directly above the gate. They had positioned barrels to hide behind so they would not give away their surprise. Everything was as ready as they could be on such short notice.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Crallick nodded to the corporal.
Mozz climbed down to the gate by rope. They did not want to leave the ladder in place for the ravinors to use. The corporal swung open the gate and scurried back up the rope, coiling it up behind him but leaving it secured to the post.
The two men peered over the wall and waited.
They did not have to wait long. The ravinors were all standing and looking like a flock of seagulls who had just spotted a whale carcass wash ashore. The leader pointed and a group broke off from the main force. Crallick counted no more than a dozen. The leader, wisely, suspected the humans were up to something and only sent a small force to investigate. The two men hunkered down between the walls and the barrels as the creatures approached at a run. The leader might think better of it, but the rest of the ravinors sensed a meal of human flesh was close at hand.
As they entered the gate, they slowed down. If this was all they had been facing these last few days, Crallick and the others would have had nothing to worry about. The ravinors were almost inviting an ambush. Not yet.
Inside the perimeter of the wall, the formerly well-kept courtyard was now strewn with pig and horse blood. The gory trail led through the open front door of the home. Myrna had wept while she was spooning out the freshly butchered pig’s blood and viscera around her tidy home. There would be no going back to that house in any case. Crallick hated to see it tainted, but homes could be rebuilt. People could not.
The scent of blood was irresistible to the creatures once beyond the gate, and the ravinors wasted no time sprinting to the house, following the trail of gore. Inside, though he could not see it, Crallick imagined the bloody feast that awaited the ravinors there. Not only were there two freshly gutted pig carcasses, but also Rogair’s old nag—the poor creature had hardly been able to stand—lie butchered inside. The unpleasant result of that decision had been made with tears, and they might just have the old nag’s sacrifice to thank for any chance Crallick’s plan had of working. The ravinors vanished inside the house, and the cacophony of delighted barking and characteristic hoots filled the air with a great clamor.