Ravinor Page 2

Garet cursed the Taker. During the Third, it was rare to see ravinors out in the light of day, even on the fringe of a shelter. But to see a coven out here?

  The kingdom of Kharisk, one of five kingdoms covering the continent, had been swallowed up by the Styric Empire through conquest many centuries ago. Aside from that period of bloody history, Kharisk had been generally quiet since. Ravinors were uncommon in this region of Kharisk, not only because of the lack of human flesh as an attractant, but also because of its lack of the favored terrain that ravinors would seek out to hide in during the daytime. That was the primary reason why Garet loved Kharisk for his family’s new home once he retired from the legion. Perfect terrain to avoid ravinors. But here they were. It was deeply troubling. He might have to send a message to General Aelpheus, his old commanding officer and the man who served as supreme commander of all the Styric empire’s military might, to warn him of this strange behavior.

  Garet had been to the nearest village of Haelle only a few weeks ago, and they had not mentioned any attacks. Small towns and villages seemed to draw the brunt of the ravinors’ appetite. The smell of human occupation was enticing to the creatures. But larger towns had high walls and garrisons to keep the ravinors out. Assaults happened regularly, but they were almost always small, amounting to just a few dozen ravinors ineffectually trying to get over the city walls to feed. No strategy or intelligent thought were ever employed by the creatures.

  Even these sporadic attacks only took place in the moderately populated areas of the empire. Certainly, ravinors would not bother to attack here, in the scattered dwellings and villages that made up northwestern Kharisk. Like birds, ravinors seemed to migrate, though their movements were based on something more obscure than the seasons, but they always migrated toward larger populations than Haelle. There was nothing out here. Haelle had roughly four hundred people living there, which would be enticing to ravinors but the terrain was unfavorable for them. Farther south, there were many more small towns and villages interspersed with long tracts of forest where ravinors would typically go to feed.

  The ex-captain focused on the task at hand. He would let the great scholar, Mon Lyzink, worry about why the ravinors were here. Garet could worry about the strange events if, and when, he and his family survived them. He hoped that the Ayersons would see the sense in coming over to his lands. The Ayersons lived in a valley with a few stands of trees surrounding it. The ravinors could be right on top of them with little or no warning. The Ayersons had no war mastiffs, either.

  His house was the most defensible; he had a view in every direction from the hilltop, and the grasslands surrounding him would give them adequate warning, even at night, of any ravinors approaching. The moon would be full tonight which would make the task of spotting the creatures that much easier. Garet was loathe to set fire to the grass for illumination. It was summer, and if the grass caught fire, it would sweep for leagues all around, so the light of a full moon was a boon from the Giver.

  Of course, if things got too bad, he would do what he had to in order to ensure his family’s safety.

  Crallick shot out of the barn on one of the horses, Aelpheus trailing behind loping at their flank. His old sergeant expertly guided the stallion down the hill and to the northwest, where the Ayerson lands were located a few leagues away. Garet knew that Crallick would have to make good time, and even then they might not make it all the way back to the house by sundown. But the distance between the forest and his hilltop would take time for the ravinors to traverse, assuming they would follow Osbar and Shiya’s scent. He prayed to the Giver that the ravinors would not leave their dark sanctuary before sundown, or Crallick and the Ayersons would have trouble. He didn’t recall there being too many woodlands between his property and the Ayersons’ but he had not ridden that way for some time. He hoped, for their sake, that there were few places for ravinors to hide.

  Garet could make out the quiver on the back of Crallick’s shoulder and knew that the former soldier also had a sheathed sword hanging down from the other shoulder as well. He could take care of himself, and if he had trouble, Aelpheus was there too.

  Knowing his old sergeant’s well-being was out of his hands, he turned toward the house and began planning their defenses. Barsus would be useful, and Myrna could be vicious when defending the youngsters. If the Ayersons returned with Crallick, they would have another man, a woman, and two young children to help with the effort, though the children would not be involved directly.

  Garet had never been so pleased that he had built that wall around the house as he was right then. Myrna had given him grief at the time and expense it had taken to build, but after a life spent campaigning, an old soldier wanted to feel secure, especially with his family with him. Now he was grateful that Myrna had only shaken her head at him and not fought too hard at his added security. The gate could be stouter, but it was too late to do anything other than pile the heaviest things he could find to brace it shut. Of course, that would have to be done at the last moment when Crallick returned with, or without, the Ayersons.

  The mastiffs were trained to fight ravinors and would be most effective in the open defending the property, but Garet had a feeling that there would be more ravinors than the three could handle. He grudgingly admitted that the dogs were less weapons to him now and more like members of the family, and he wanted them safely behind the wall. They would still be able to do some good, though, if they got any action it would mean that the ravinors had made it past his wall. A prospect he fully intended to prevent.

  Osbar was still busy hauling firewood into the area that he intended to become a large bonfire. It was twenty yards from the wall and directly in front of the gate. Garet headed to the workshop and began rummaging through his tools. Tools often made effective weapons. They were durable, and though not specifically designed for warfare, most tools could do the trick against ravinors. That is, if the person wielding it kept one’s head in the face of a ravinor charge.

  He and Crallick each had a longsword, several old shortswords, and some miscellaneous weaponry and armor that only the former soldier would possess. This was probably the only residence in the area, including Haelle, that boasted such a martial collection. He even had his old chain and shield, and Garet guessed that Crallick would have kept his old kit as well. After several trips, Garet was able to haul all of the weapons, armor, and tools he had found during his first cursory search, and place them in the courtyard. He arranged the armament so that it would be easy to sort through and grab quickly should the need arise.

  By this time, Osbar had quite a pile of firewood, and Barsus was back from his tasks and was helping his younger brother. Garet commended his sons and started to arrange the wood for the bonfire, making sure that it would burn long and bright should they need it. He asked Barsus to get lantern oil from the workshop to douse the wood so that it could be set ablaze from the house at the last moment. Ravinors were in awe of fire. They were drawn to fire like a beacon, but Garet only wanted to light it if the ravinors were already following his children’s scent. Ravinors were drawn to fire but feared it as well. It would serve to distract the enemy and also to illuminate the battleground.

  Garet, once done preparing the bonfire, called his two boys to follow him inside to eat some supper. It would likely be a long night, and they were sure to need their strength. Each and every one of them.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table, he saw that his daughter was already there, nervously nibbling on a piece of cheese and still looking peaked. “How are you doing, Shi?” he asked.

  She looked up, and without saying a word, walked around the table and plopped herself into his lap, burying her head in his chest as she held on to him tightly. He stroked her hair and whispered to her, “You’ll be safe here, Shi. They can’t get over our walls.”

  “Why are they here, dada?” Shiya asked, her eyes wide and pleading.

  He wished he knew the answer to his daughter’s question.

  “I don’t
know, Shi… I don’t know.” His mind had been mulling over this question since his children had rushed home. Ravinors had no reason to be here. It seemed like the village of Haelle, and the sparsely populated area surrounding it, would not be worth the trouble for a coven of thirty or so ravinors. Especially with the lack of shelter for them. He felt that he was missing something.

  As he sat holding his daughter, he stared outside. Sunset was fast approaching.

  Chapter Two

  THE KNIFE SHOOK IN Lerius’s hand. Nausea tore at his stomach, and he had to use all of his control to keep from being sick. The room was dark despite the late afternoon sun glaring outside. The windows were closed and shuttered, curtains pulled tight across them. The heat was nearly unbearable for Lerius, but it wasn’t kept hot for his sake. His patient was the one who required heat and darkness; bright lights, or any lights for that matter, wreaked hellish agony on the young man occupying the sick bed. Marelle was his name, a youth, no more than ten years old. Lerius studied him again, dreading what he feared he would have to do in the next few candles—by sundown at the latest. As a healer, Lerius hated the thought that he would actually have to be the one to end a life. His occupation’s goal was to save them—not to take them. But in the end, if Marelle couldn’t fight off the turning soon, Lerius would have to end it to the save the lives of many others in the town of Deepbrooke.

  He had only been given permission to practice the healing arts four seasons ago by the Deepbrooke town council, and thus far, he had found great success in providing care for the sick of the township and outlying hamlets and villages. But a ravinor attack had taken place late the previous night and had not gone well for the townspeople. A drunken guardsman had fallen asleep at his post, and the ravinors were able to sneak into town during the darkest time of the night. Bent on feasting upon the residents of Deepbrooke, the ravinors had shown uncommon stealth and restraint during their ingress. Rather than setting upon the first likely meal they encountered, the ravinors had stolen past the various patrolmen to a popular inn. Lerius believed it was the Pint and Keg that had been the unfortunate target of the ravinors. Poor Marelle was the cook’s helper and had been stoking the fire in the early morning when the creatures had struck. The inn was full, but luckily the common room was empty when the attack came. A dozen customers were killed and torn apart in their rooms, many not even having time to rouse from their beds or pallets. Marelle was the only survivor of the attack. Lerius had not received the full story yet—nor did he think he ever would. His patient was unlikely to speak again other than during the delirious ramblings brought on by a high fever.

  Now he found himself at another inn in Deepbrooke. Lerius could not recall the name of this inn, though—he had more important things on his mind. He did recall that the proprietor of the inn was a man named Hossen. Despite only having had a few brief interactions with the innkeeper, Lerius thought he seemed a decent sort. The man was well past middle-aged, but a few years shy of elderly. In contrast to the typical innkeeper who had a penchant for overindulging in the fine food and drink their establishments served, Hossen was skinny as a post—and a good hand taller than Lerius. It was a rare innkeeper who would be so kind as to allow a ravinor-infected patient to be cared for in his or her inn. Most innkeepers would not have been so generous. Lerius was grateful.

  As he remained by the bedside, Lerius recollected the days when he was learning his craft. It was estimated that only one out of a few thousand people who were infected by a ravinor, survived. Not good odds, but at least there was a chance. He also remembered from his studies that there was no sure way to stop the infection; recovery was entirely in the hands of the infected. Had he been at the scene of the attack, it might have been possible to amputate a limb that had been bitten or scratched, severing the infected limb before it had a chance to taint the rest of the body. Of course, he had only read about that happening; he had not been in such circumstances before, nor would he ever wish to be.

  Lerius had been enjoying his sister’s wedding when he had first learned of the tragedy. Liselle lived only a few leagues outside of Deepbrooke, so he had been able to schedule his bi-weekly circuit of the villages, hamlets, and towns he was responsible for in the area to coincide with his sister’s nuptials. A few candles after the ceremony had ended—and after indulging a bit too much of the celebratory refreshments—a rider from Deepbrooke had arrived with the unfortunate tidings. The rider gave up his horse to the young healer, and Lerius had galloped off to help.

  His headache from the wedding’s ample supply of strong drink earlier in the day was nearly gone by now—sitting beside Marelle’s bed, he hardly noticed the lingering ache behind his eyes.

  He studied Marelle. The boy was sweating profusely and twitching and crying out in his semi-conscious state. His hair was soaked with sweat, and Lerius was sad to see the youth’s healthy skin start to pale—one of the signs that the turning was almost upon his young patient.

  Lerius pulled a cold, wet rag out of the washbasin by the side of the bed, rang it out, and patted the boy’s head with it. At least he could keep the youngster a little more comfortable before the end. He was careful to avoid the scratch on Marelle’s neck. It was only about the length of a finger, but it was an angry red, and there was pus oozing from the wound. The fluids of an infected person were as dangerous as the bite or scratch of a ravinor. He was awaiting word whether or not any leeches could be found, but in high summer there was little chance of finding any of the bloodsuckers when the streams had all nearly dried up. And to get them in enough quantities to possibly make a difference was next to impossible.

  If this were a snake bite, he would suppurate the wound and make several small incisions on either side of the scratch where he could then attempt to suck out the poison. As unpleasant as that prospect was, Lerius was more than willing to do just that—and had done so during his training. But with a ravinor-made wound it was a death sentence for both patient and healer to attempt such a treatment.

  A wave of grief washed over him as he thought of the young lad’s dwindling chances of survival. Lerius took an iota of solace that he could, at least, ensure that the youngster would not end up a ravinor. The healer abhorred the thought of the boy’s innocent soul being trapped inside the body of a ravinor and forced to look out from those once-human eyes and witness the bloodthirsty acts that it would commit because of the torment from the all-encompassing hunger that would consume the body the boy had once possessed. No one knew what went on in the minds of those turned from humanity to ravinor, but that was his belief. Even the scholar, Mon Lyzink, had yet to confirm any such theory—or if he had, Lerius certainly had not heard of it.

  The young healer held firmly onto his belief that it was a great mercy to end the lad’s life, thereby sparing him his new existence as a mindless and savage creature after turning.

  The boy cried out in his sleep and began to mutter under his breath. Lerius’s heart sank. Marelle was dreaming now, yet another sign that the turning was imminent—maybe as far off as three candles, but likely only one, before the boy’s old life would end.

  Lerius would take no chances with the patient spreading the ravinor curse. He had prepared several lengths of rope to secure the boy to the bed. He had hoped that the fever would break, and he would not have to do this, but once the fever-dreaming begins there had only been a handful of cases where the patients recovered without falling any deeper into the throes of the infection. The boy’s hand suddenly clenched, startling Lerius while he deftly tied the patient to the bed. The lad’s arms were pinned to his side with the lengths of rope, one at the elbow and another at the wrist. Two more ropes secured his legs at the knee and ankle. Ravinors were stronger than humans but not enough to break the bonds Lerius had tied, especially an immature and newly turned one. Once the boy was lashed down tight, Lerius settled back onto his chair to await the end.

  Only a quarter candle had burned when he heard a light tap at the door.

 
“Come in,” Lerius said, keeping his voice as quiet as he could for the boy’s sake and wondering as he did so whether it would make any difference.

  The door swung open, revealing a large man with a dark beard. Normally affable, Marelle’s father looked to be on the verge of tears. He knew as well as Lerius did that the odds were long for his son’s survival.

  “How—” Mikel could not finish the question; his voice cracked and he started shaking as he sobbed. His large hands covered his grief stricken visage for which Lerius was grateful. He had seen far too many parents and loved ones in their misery, crying over their losses as they cursed the Giver for failing to protect them. One was too many.

  Mikel had composed himself enough to speak, “Could you give me a moment with him?” he said, his voice cracking under the emotion.

  Lerius nodded. “You can, but I have to warn you it is almost time… If his eyes open, call for me. If his eyes are red, yell for me and get away from him immediately.”

  Mikel nodded his assent to the instructions, so Lerius took his leave, soflty shutting the door behind him.

  A patient’s eyes turning red had been the hardest symptom for the healer to behold when he was present at his first turning. The young Lerius had believed it was the sign of evil taking over the body, but his mentor had explained that it wasn’t so nefarious as that. It was a simple matter. Due to the rigors of the turning, the small capillaries of the eye would burst under the strain, causing the blood to pool in the whites of the eyes. The red eyes would fade after a day or so, before changing to the characteristic—and to him, even more unnerving—black. For someone who had never seen it before, the sanguine stare of a newly turned ravinor had frightened Lerius to the core, and he had never become inured to the unholy sight. He hoped Mikel would be clear-headed enough to get out of the room before the turning was complete. Then it would be Lerius’s turn to fulfill his sworn duty.