†
It wasn’t long before the hounds had the scent of Ravan's trail. The purpose for their breeding manifested itself superbly as they hunted. They ran for one reason alone, to kill the boy. Their drool laced the new snow as they slung their wet noses back and forth across the frosty brush, snapping at each other in their excitement. If unchecked, they would hamstring their prey. If further unchecked, they would gut it alive.
Ravan knew his legs were no match for the dogs. If he was to live, he must stay alert and use all of his resources, mental and physical. Survival meant he must call upon everything he’d learned when he was the hunter, not the hunted.
He tied the flour sack of supplies so that it rested comfortably across his hips, not flopping about or throwing him off balance. Palming the gift from her, he finally tossed the small bag of coin aside—an unnecessary weight for the long run ahead. Then, away he went. In short order, he established a satisfactory pace, matching his breath to his efforts with a mental cadence he knew he could sustain. He conserved precious energy whenever he could. Inhale—two steps, exhale—two steps. The simple counting to himself kept him focused and calm as he ran on. He knew it would mean disaster if he allowed himself to sweat from fear rather than exertion.
He had seen men use dogs before, to fatigue their prey and ultimately lame them. Sometimes, the hunter was too slow at regaining control of the hounds, and the beasts would kill the prey, tearing them to shreds. It was gruesomely efficient and terrible, poor sport. Ravan considered it the lazy man’s hunt and snorted in derision. To him, the hunt was sacred—a dance of shared wits that resulted in a moment of supreme gratitude for the sacrifice the animal made.
His thoughts returned to his flight. Why his enemy had chosen to turn the dogs on him was a mystery for they would gain nothing if they killed him, if what the Innkeeper’s wife said to him was true. This thought shook him thoroughly. He refused to take that leap, to believe she’d been a part of this grand deception.
Ravan did not see himself as she described him—as a valuable commodity to be exploited. It was beyond the boy’s comprehension to see profit in himself. After all, he was an orphan—one of the unwanted ones.
Hadn’t LaFoote said he belonged to someone, told Pierre that he belonged to this person, Duval? And yet, Ravan could not fathom what a group of men—bad men—could possibly want with him? He worried, having heard of terrible things that girls and boys were sometimes forced to do. He thought briefly of his sisters, and it discouraged him to consider what their fates had likely been. No matter; that seemed so long ago. There was no point in thinking about it now. He swiftly categorized these thoughts as counterproductive, pushed them from his mind, and ran on.
Having recognized that the dogs were the greater danger, Ravan knew that without them he could outmaneuver and outrun the men, even if they had horses. Perhaps they knew this as well and were willing to risk his death to the hounds against not catching him at all. He tried to think fast because the situation was not just complicated, it was eminent. He recognized that he had precious little time and must keep his wits about himself.
His strategy was elegant—very refined for one so young. At first, he tried to put distance between himself and Duval. He was able to easily accomplish this as his young, light body was extremely primed for just such a task. Ravan normally ran many miles, nearly every day. Frequently he’d run his prey down on his longer hunts in the woods, and he was conditioned beyond compare. However, never before had Ravan been desperate, and despite his efforts, he broke out into the cold sweat of fear. He wondered if this was how the beasts felt as he had hunted them.
The telltale first sign of fatigue greeted him. His chest began to ache, collateral damage from sucking in the frigid air as he plunged through the forest. He needed oxygen, but the price was damage to the delicate lung tissue. Tonight was a perilous cold. Winter had abruptly arrived, and the snow was crystalline on top of the hoar frost, making the fir needle floor of the woods slippery and treacherous. As the overcast night slowly cleared and stars blinked to life, the temperature began to fall. The chase was going to drain him rapidly; this he knew. He wished he’d eaten before he'd gone upstairs to change the candlesticks.
In a peculiar way, he marveled at the desperation he’d never experienced before—knew now that his prey had felt just this way so many times when he’d hunted. This gave him a small sense of peace. He was in good company, becoming like one of the wild ones he'd spent so much time walking amongst.
Plunging onward, he made his way toward the spring. Time was cruel to him. In an odd way, it seemed to pass in only seconds, but likewise, the run felt eternal. All the while, he listened for the bay of the hounds behind him.
Ravan was normally as fit as the wilder kind he hunted, but he'd been running frightened for nearly two hours now. The cold sucked the energy from him, exhausting his strength and dimming his thoughts. Despite his efforts, his hands and then his feet threatened numbness. He knew this routine, recognized the stages; he'd seen it many times before.
I must focus, he told himself and concentrated on his breathing, recreating the cadence that matched his stride. He snatched handfuls of the fine, powdery snow from the underbrush as he ran, knowing that if the thirst set in, his back would ache, and he would no longer be able to carry the pace.
He finally reached the bank of the stream and glanced only for a brief second up and down the brook, knowing already what he needed to do. It was shallow enough, perhaps one to two feet deep and only about twenty feet wide, but steep and swift. He paused, could barely make out the tiny white caps on the surface of the stream. They seemed to mock him, dissuade him, but he didn’t hesitate. Plunging into the water, he gasped—a thousand icy needles invading his pores. The chill of the stream seemed to laugh at him as it lapped up against his thighs. It was like being boiled alive, in ice. He struggled to wade up the tiny river, but the going was very slow and treacherous.
His breath caught in his throat. The pain was excruciating. If he could only withstand the cold for a bit longer, before his legs went numb… If they failed him, taking him into the stream, the result would be disastrous. For the first time in his life, the forest did not seem like Ravan’s friend.
It was up the stream that he must go and downwind from his predators. He knew this, and if he could make it, it would take a good while for them to figure out the trick and for the dogs to pick up his trail. They would logically assume he'd taken the downstream, easier route. Furthermore, Ravan planned to exit the stream on the same side where he'd gone in. His pursuers would anticipate he would cross to the other side.
Fighting against the swiftness of the current, his muscles cramped painfully from the freezing water. Several times he lost his footing on the smooth rocks and almost fell, plunging his arms into the icy current. Desperately, he grasped at stones to keep himself upright. His fingers turned quickly numb. Eventually, he climbed back out off the stream, tried to control his breathing, and listened. Tears stung his eyes from the pain, and he couldn’t feel his feet, but he held his sobs silently at bay.
Downstream, just as he anticipated, he heard the hunters and dogs grow more distant. It’d played out just as he’d hoped it would. They'd gone with the current and crossed to the other side. It was human nature to follow the easier route, and humans were, well, not always very clever and sometimes very predictable.
All played out just as he thought it would. The party spent valuable time searching the opposite side of the river for his exit. It would be a while before they would abandon this search and conclude that he'd never crossed, deciding that he’d fallen into the river. Then they would search for his body, and it would be even longer before they reasoned that he’d exited the stream on the same side. He smiled briefly, considering the frustration the hunters would feel at this point.
When Ravan was certain the dogs and hunters were on the other side of the stream and moving away in their search, he steeled himself for his next move; he must return to the water. This would be the most excruciating part. Already chilled from his previous exposure, he must struggle back down the current to the same spot where he initially entered the stream. Then he could quietly backtrack along his own trail, back toward the Inn. It would be difficult, though not impossible, for the hounds to determine there was a new scent on top of the old trail.
Slipping back into the water, he cried out softly as the agony of it lapped, for a second time, against his thighs. He tried desperately in the blackness to feel for solid footing, hoping beyond hope he would not fall. He could not feel his feet but was aware of the dull thuds as his ankles and legs banged against the rocks. He was so numb he worried that he would not feel an injury, possibly an ankle pinned between the stones.
Finally, he reemerged from the stream, terribly unsteady on his feet. He clutched at the thorn brush to pull himself from the water and scrambled back up the bank, setting off to backtrack. This would give him a substantial time advantage, and he knew he must make quick work of it.
Running a half mile or so, until the circulation returned to his feet, he then stopped and climbed a tree. By crawling from branch to branch, he cleared a good ten feet or so in the air, angling off the trail. Then, he dropped down from the tree and set off in a new direction…and set the first trap. By the time Duval and his men figured out he'd gone back, as they lost and re-found the scent, he again had a jump on them.
At that point, a trap would be invaluable, if all went as planned.
* * *
The fury on the face of the dog handler was nothing compared to the satisfaction on the face of Duval. He was amused, almost pleased. It was brilliant, all the backtracking the boy had accomplished and how he’d scaled so far from the trail. Duval pondered the child he'd paid so dearly for. He was a gambler at heart and usually a savvy one at that. Thrilled at the indications before him, he believed his prize was worth more than he’d paid. Impatient by nature, Duval was also excited to finally own his prize, to possess him, and so he pushed his men even harder.
He'd seen what a mere boy had done to Pierre Steele, and the fat bastard deserved it. What a pleasurable indulgence it was going to be to break Ravan and remold him into the killer he was destined to become. More importantly, it would be profitable. He pondered this, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand and smiling darkly as he stared down at the ruined dog.
The hound was stabbed through, spitted on a black thorn branch. The impact was extreme, the spear roughly hewn but beveled in such a way as to be extremely deadly. It was sudden and efficient, and the dog had suffered only briefly, having taken the harpoon to the chest.
In all actuality, loss of the dog hardly slowed the hunting party, but the boy now maintained a good hour and a half lead on them because of his antics at the stream. Duval was impressed by this. Ravan’s strategy was brilliant. He stooped to observe the rudimentary, deadly detail of the trap and decided he would not underestimate this one again.
Onward they ran. By now, it was quite dark as only the hours after midnight can be. Even with torches, the going was slow. His mercenaries, fit as they were, struggled to keep the horrible pace that Ravan set. For the first time tonight, Duval thought he might lose his prize.
Then…they found the second trap. The man gasped and plunged to the ground, his leg nonfunctional, the tendon cut clean through. The retraction of the muscle caused much greater pain than the actual injury itself. Now lamed for life, the dog handler screamed in agony and rage, perhaps anticipating existence as a cripple and knowing Duval would not hesitate to cut him loose from his ranks.
Duval approached the scene, looked down at his man, and calculated his losses. The mercenary was now a liability. Duval did not deal in liabilities. He made a decision and, before the wounded man could object, drew his sword. Suddenly and efficiently, he separated the man’s throat, meticulously drawing his blade across both arteries and leaving him to quietly bleed out in the dark. Duval’s mood blackened profoundly as he wiped the blade on the man’s tunic and tallied his losses once more.
Time was stretching on, and Duval was no longer amused. His temper was running critically short, and he berated his men. They were the experts, weren't they? All of them, hunters, killers, and mercenaries, but tonight they were fools! They had taken on armies, crushed warlords. Could they not even catch a mere boy? He cursed them, threatened them lest his prize escape. His men would satisfy him or become victim to his rage. And in this way, the night wore abysmally on.
* * *
Ravan had obstacles of his own to deal with. There was no moon, and where the dogs had a keen sense of smell to propel them along a path, he stumbled blindly through the darkness, trying to remember the lay of the forest.
He thought of the blind child at the orphanage, how the boy’s ankles and shins were always a smattering of bruises, and strangely, it gave him comfort to think he had something in common with this particular orphan now—something more than loss.
He talked in gasps to himself, verbalizing his plan. Could he possibly afford to set another trap? He knew forty square kilometers of the forest and had managed to set three traps so far. Ravan plunged on—can’t give up, can’t stop. What sweet relief it would be to find a burrow of sorts, to curl up and give respite to his aching body, to sleep. But not now, not yet.
It was at this point Ravan started to call upon himself for the strength which comes when muscles lose their fuel supply. It is an awe inspiring strength—a courage that comes only from the heart. Of this, Ravan had an abundance, but fear threatened evermore.
Ravan knew this stage well, had seen the noblest of creatures tap this resource. He knew that, eventually, they always succumbed. He prayed silently now, a prayer of gratitude and thankfulness that he’d been part of the lives of the magnificent creatures he’d hunted. He saw them in a new light, more hallowed than ever before. Choking back tears, he gave thanks—thanks for the abundance they’d provided. He was grateful that he’d never taken more than he needed.
Melting another mouthful of snow on his tongue, he fumbled through the sack. He quickly chewed a piece of salted ham and stuffed the remainder of the meat into his pocket. Then, he shredded a length of the flour sack to wrap around his face.
Running in the cold, as he had been, was burning his lungs. He could feel his breathing thicken, needing to spit the thickness from the back of his throat more frequently after coughing it up. He needed a barrier to cut the bitter cold from the air he sucked into his chest. Now with the cloth wrapped securely about his face, he pressed on, resigning himself to the fact that he would die this night. He now believed he would eventually be caught, and when the time came, he would fight until his death. There would be no dishonor in this.
A strange calm settled over him as fear faded from his mind. A quiet acceptance replaced the fear, and a warmth replaced the cold. Ravan was nearly fifteen years old and had many times been the hunter. Many times he'd seen the last expression of his prey as the creatures’ eyes glazed over, giving in to the birth of their death. It was the pattern of things. It was natural.
Now he spent precious moments recounting to himself the things that seemed important to him—the things that really mattered—and he realized, quite surprisingly, that they weren’t things at all.
He was stricken with this realization, awed by it, as he bent another sapling over, stabilizing the last snare. This snare should efficiently trip its prey, hopefully impaling it on the sharpened stake just beyond. The victim would likely be running, and he’d chosen a small downhill. He knew he must change the style of his traps so that he stood the greatest chance of thwarting Duval, and he gained not a small amount of satisfaction at the thought of costing them the loss of another dog or man. This gave him pause. He was astonished at this new part of him. When had he so suddenly included the loss of a human life as an acceptable part of his walk upon the earth?
He glanced up from his task, heard the wail of the hounds. The traps were time consuming but his only chance, if indeed he even had one. He knew he must even the odds and this was his only way.
* * *
Duval was incensed. He now had two dead dogs and two wounded men, one mortally, and he scowled more at his losses than at the sacrifice of life. The chase had gone on for nearly eight hours, and the expense was mounting. He'd endured enough of this game. His patience was gone, and he wanted the boy! At this point, his pride played the better part of furthering the chase, and he kicked the twitching carcass of the not quite dead dog.
He snarled, his eyes reddened with rage. Ravan would pay for the inconvenience and expense he'd cost him. Duval was a man used to getting his way and not entirely averse to soiling his own hands in the process. He’d originally joined the chase just for the amusement of it, but his humor had long since run out. Stooping to examine the hound, he then peered into the darkness of the night.
Duval’s eyes were close set in front, like a creature of prey. He was blessed with hideously crooked teeth and a massive jaw, so he looked as though he could crush bones. However, it was his expression that instilled fear. Duval’s face carried a countenance of merciless death. He loved death, craved it. Carnage was his forte, and upon it he feasted.
His men feared him, worshiped him, and would die for him. To the mercenaries, any death at battle was preferable to the wrath that would pour down upon them should they disappoint their master. If they failed him, they would certainly die at his hands. They also knew it would not be an honorable death, and very likely they would suffer. This was the fuel that drove his men now.
* * *
The cliffs were as far as the boy had ever wandered. Ravan squinted to see beyond the ledge, to try to gauge the sheerness of the drop. The absence of trees told him the drop-off was steep and perilous. Even in the dark, he saw white patches bespeckled with black where it was too steep for even the snow to cling.
He knew it was dangerous—a risky chance—but he was to the point where a reckless chance was all he had left. Peering over the edge, Ravan could not make out the bottom of the cliff. He sat for a while, recalling what she’d said, “Give them the run of their lives.” This gave him reason to smile. Even though he was exhausted, he was overcome with a calm sense of pride. He’d done just as she wished; of that he was certain.
Ravan hesitated on the edge of the precipice—heard the dogs in the distance behind him. He knew they would be surprised that he’d taken this route. He hoped it would be horribly inconvenient for them—wished that if they found him, it would only be a mangled corpse.
Trembling, he reached into his tunic, his numb fingers finally finding what he searched for. He clutched the ring and thought of the orphanage, closing his eyes briefly as a warm summer’s day flooded his memory. Now he could hear the other children teasing him, trying to coerce him into a game. And there, somewhere not so distant, just beyond the Old One…he could see his mother.
The dogs bayed. The howls were clear, having lost the echo of distance. His heart softened, his body relaxed, and he ceased to tremble. Standing upon the edge of the cliff, the wind whistled cold, but Ravan did not feel this on his face. All was warm now, and the time had come. He opened his eyes and took his best guess. Taking a deep breath, he stepped off into the abyss and fell.
At first, the drop was what Ravan suspected, very sheer, but loose dirt. His heels dug into the sloping cliff wall as he careened downwards, his hands grasping at roots, rocks, and branches. Very abruptly, however, it became treacherously steep. He lost his footing and plunged down, soon head over heels, falling rock and snow cascading with him.
As he fell, the storm of loose debris, earth, and stone surrounded him. The sack he’d wrapped around his nose and mouth was torn away. He’d grossly miscalculated the height of the cliff. His fleeting thoughts acknowledged this, and he briefly wondered how much this miscalculation might increase the chance of his own death.
It seemed he fell forever. A boulder’s sharp edge slammed against his side, breaking ribs, the thunderous impact heaving the breath from him. He gasped, struggled to pull in air, shocked at the amount of pain it inflicted.
His world turned violently this way and that as he was thrown mercilessly about. Another branch glanced cruelly across his left eyebrow, leaving an open gash; this he didn’t even feel. Blood ran into his eyes making it harder to see anything in the tornado of black earth and stone. He tasted blood in his mouth, didn’t know where it was coming from, and his right thigh had a sharp burning to it as though someone was searing it with a fire poker.
Finally, thankfully, the avalanche of distortion and pain stopped, and all was black. Ravan’s awareness was mercifully silenced as the earth, in a blanket of rocks, snow, and damp soil, laid the boy to rest at the base of the cliff.