He flailed a bit as he tried to extricate himself from the blanket and LanCoste, heavily bearded and sporting his trademark axe, looked absently at the floundering boy before grunting, “Get dressed. It is time to fight.”
“I’m hungry and thirsty,” Ravan said between spells of coughing.
LanCoste turned to leave. “You will eat when you have fought. Get dressed.”
Ravan stood. “I will not fight.”
LanCoste halted, his back to the younger man.
Ravan was, again, silently awed by the sheer size of the monster.
“Then—you will die.” The giant spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, and loosed the axe from its bindings as he spoke. Turning slowly, he raised the awful weapon above his head, holding it with both hands. The tip of the enormous axe scraped the wood of the ceiling. The giant’s expression was cold, blank.
LanCoste towered above Ravan, occupying more space than any man he'd ever seen. The boy was dumbstruck by a sudden realization of how awful the final moments of his victims must be. They must’ve experienced great terror, just from the giant’s presence alone. This man appeared to have a solitary purpose and sincerely seemed about to express it right here and now.
Ravan instinctively leapt to the other side of the bed, landing heavily on his feet, feeling the burning sear through his thigh as the coughing started again. His tousled hair fell into his eyes and he hastily swept it aside.
LanCoste might have wondered at his master’s reasoning for bringing the pup here.
For Ravan, common sense appeared the better part of valor. Without a weapon, he realized the futility of a fight. “All right, monsieur! All right—” He held his hands up, acknowledging defeat, reasoning with the giant. “I will go fight your little fight. You can put your cleaver away. I’ve no argument with you.”
The giant paused and Ravan wasn’t at all sure he’d communicated effectively, but ultimately LanCoste lowered the mighty axe. He did not, however, replace it to its resting place.
Ravan dropped his hands to his sides. “But please—just a cup of water first.”
LanCoste hesitated, squinting so that his eyes almost disappeared into the depths of his massive brow. He turned and left without speaking, ducking to even fit through the door. The crossbeam fell with a heavy thud back into place.
Ravan stared at the retreating mass of a man, confused. He sighed and pulled his boots on, shaking his head as he recalled the giant ordering him to ‘get dressed.’ He’d slept dressed. Never again would he allow himself to be unprepared, and the first moment that allowed it, he would escape.
He stood, walked to the door and pounded. “Hey, you out there—hello? I’m ready.” He purposefully softened his words and the way he said them. Ravan realized that it would serve to make an ally or two if he was ever to get out of here alive. He considered whether or not the giant might be a good target for allegiance. The man seemed too simple and too adequately institutionalized by Duval. Even his thought process seemed slow. Ravan wondered if the monster even had true reflex on the battlefield, or if it was sheer strength that made him so deadly.
He decided that LanCoste would not serve as an ally.
Quite suddenly, and for no good reason, he thought of Pierre. A wave of nausea and shame washed over him. No one knew—no one, but Renoir and Pierre. As he thought of the two of them, he was plunged back to that awful scene once again, reminded of the snow crammed into his eyes and nose. He remembered the gag choking him, the inability to breathe. Choking back a sob, he recalled how his body had been bent and exposed, Renoir’s boot on the back of his neck—them standing over him. He remembered the smell of them, and then...
Ravan heard the skeleton keys jingle and the crossbeam thud to the floor. He stepped back from the door, jarred from the defilement of his memory back to the present.
Two guards entered. LanCoste was not with them. Ravan recognized one of the guards as the man who had brought his dinner. The other was unfamiliar but carried in his hand a single cup of water.
Ravan choked back the emotions from seconds before and thought to himself, 'Perhaps LanCoste was a possible ally after all.’
The man reached towards him handing him the cup.
Never taking his eyes from the guard, Ravan drank the water, cautiously, like a wild creature forced from the highlands by severe weather that accepts food from the hunter in the valleys below. Their eyes never parted.
“Thank you.” He handed the cup back. The guard looked at him quizzically and turned but said nothing.
The two men escorted Ravan from his quarters down two corridors, the second of which ended in a heavy door without windows. Unlocking the door, the first guard pushed it open to the outside courtyard. All three men squinted at the brightness of the morning.
It was cold and clear, and the fresh, icy air burned in Ravan’s lungs. His breath puffed out in tiny frosty clouds. He remembered his flight in the woods, before he'd fallen, how the cold had burned his lungs. He wondered how severely they might be scarred. Mustn’t breathe too deeply or too rapidly—must keep the coughing at bay.
He stepped into the light—fragile, bent, and small in comparison to the men who stopped to stare.
Ravan’s feet were numb almost right away. He had absolutely no idea of where they were, but he guessed from the amount of time they’d traveled that they were either in the Western Mountains, toward Switzerland, or further north to Picardy. He only knew this because of the way traveler's at the Inn had talked about their journeys and the magnificent mountain ranges they’d seen.
He rubbed his arms to warm himself and hopped lightly from foot to foot, testing his legs. They were weak but seemed predictable enough. His thigh would need more time to recover, but for the first time in a long while his legs felt familiar to him. He tested his breathing again and searched the yard. Some of the men were familiar, most not. He then scanned the walls.
The encampment was built fortress style with broad, covered walkways atop the enormous stone walls. The base was much larger than Ravan had originally realized with archer’s windows built into the distal towers and corner peaks. It was clever for even in foul weather the encampment could easily stand guard.
Men walked casually on top of the walls, keeping guard, their longbows and crossbows engaged and ready. They watched outwards, not in. Apparently the threat was not that the fighters within the yard would leave but that they might be attacked from outside the fortress. Ravan thought to himself, ‘These men are here of their own accord,’ and then he wondered again, why he’d been chosen.
Just then, LanCoste turned the corner and approached the three men. He towered enormous, even in the out of doors. The giant carried with him a sword, a wooden sword, and offered it to Ravan.
The young man looked around as mercenaries slowed and paused their training to watch. “What would you have me do with that?” Ravan asked. He offered a wry grin to the giant, remembering the water offering from just moments before, and politely accepted the weapon.
The smile immediately faded as he saw Renoir step from around the corner of the barracks.
He froze, the wooden sword dangling from his hand. This was impossible, a horrible joke. He looked at LanCoste to implore his assistance, but LanCoste remained silent and instead gazed towards the advancing Renoir.
Renoir was a coward, a dangerous and cruel coward, an opportunist—and a rapist. He carried in his right fist both rapiers that were his trademark.
Instinctively backing away, Ravan was mortified to be facing the man who had not so long ago dragged him from the cage.
The horrid little man sneered at Ravan and briefly grabbed his crotch as he approached, a gesture of his true intent, or perhaps a reminder of a previous day. He laid aside the rapiers, picking up instead a wooden staff, almost two and a half meters long.
LanCoste stepped back and nodded slowly, his expression blank.
Holding his hands out, Ravan allowed the wooden sword to dangle loosely, looking i
n appeal at the giant. “What? You want me to—”
Renoir lashed out violently with the staff, striking Ravan heavily in the midriff and sending him sprawling backwards onto the frozen ground. The greasy, wiry man laughed heartily and advanced upon his prey swiftly and with precision.
Ravan recognized his immediate peril as he gasped, shocked and surprised, the breath knocked from him. The sword had fallen from his hand and lay ten feet from him.
As the older and more seasoned mercenary moved in on him, Ravan rolled quickly to one side. He avoided Renoir’s staff, which would have caught him viciously on the side of his head. He kicked backwards, crablike, scrambling to avoid Renoir’s assault and struggling to reach the sword.
His fingers wrapped around the roughly hewn handle and he feinted Renoir’s next blow with the ridiculous wooden weapon. He struggled to his knees and then, to the surprise of his enemy, lunged for his tormentor taking them both down heavily onto the ground. His opponent grunted and gasped as Ravan, lighter though he was, allowed his elbow to absorb the majority of his own weight squarely onto Renoir’s sternum.
Renoir easily tossed the younger, slighter man from him, but not before Ravan landed a solid and vicious blow with the butt of the sword to the hawk-like face of Renoir. Blood streamed from the man’s nose and Renoir paused, wiping it from his face and staring at the bright red hand before him.
Fighting a man was something Ravan had never done before. He took a moment to regain his composure and adopted a stance ready for the next round. He trembled with anticipation, adrenalin coursing through him. When Renoir finally looked up at his attacker, Ravan laughed aloud, pointing at Renoir’s dripping nose, purposefully taunting him.
He knew this would only serve to enrage the man. Ravan had observed this often enough at the Inn—the weekend fights. Animals were much more dignified, refusing to surrender to blind rage, succumbing only to a quiet honor when death ultimately claimed them. Dumb with fury, Renoir squealed, lunging at the younger man.
Ravan retreated. Then, he turned suddenly as though he’d fallen and dropped to the ground. His legs were drawn up and ready. As Renoir plunged recklessly upon his prey, bent with rage, the boy parried the staff with his sword allowing it to narrowly miss his head. Suddenly, he thrust his feet upwards with all of his strength into the groin of his attacker. He landed a solid, crunching blow into the man’s testicles.
This crippled Renoir and sent him, first into the air, then heavily to the ground where he curled into a sniveling heap. He frothed at the mouth like a rabid animal as he struggled to overcome the brutal waves of pain and nausea, clutching desperately at his scrotum.
By now a sizable group of men had ceased their own training to watch.
Ravan didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto the fallen Renoir, shoved his knee between the man's’ shoulder blades, grasped his head by the hair and forced it sharply back exposing the vulnerable soft tissue of the neck.
Drawing his wooden sword, Ravan ritualistically drew the blade slowly and deliberately across the neck of his enemy before bringing the butt of the sword crushing and savage into the temple of the man who had staged his rape. Ravan's eyes glazed with untamed fury and he gasped raggedly, then stepped up and off of Renoir.
The man lie unconscious and dead apparent, face down on the ground.
Ravan stood, sword pointed to the sky, and let out a long and deep, feral howl. It was all of his rage, all of his anger and righteous indignation that culminated in this one glorious gesture. It echoed back from the canyons around them and carried with it all the ferocity of a caged animal that had finally, mortally, bested his captor.
As the howl died, Ravan panted and coughed only once, breathless from the fight. Clarity slowly returned.
Glancing about himself, the sword still in his clenched fist, he noticed that the courtyard had become completely silent. All eyes were on him. Even the birds and animals were deathly quiet. The cold, soft whistling of the early winter wind was the only one who dared speak.
Motionless, breathing heavily, evenly, he slowly looked about the yard at the stares. Squinting, he scanned the fortress walls. Four hundred paces away, on the east wall of the yard, stood a familiar figure. It was black with the sun behind him, but the silhouette was unmistakable. Ravan watched Duval nod slowly in satisfaction.
Straightaway, he was painfully reminded of his purpose, that he was a pawn and was performing for the sake of this evil sovereign. And he had performed, just as Duval had said he would. It was Duval who controlled his captivity, his food, water, sleep—freedom.
Enraged, he dropped his wooden weapon. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he sprinted across the yard towards a nearby weapons rack.
His behavior was so sudden, so unpredictable, that he had within his hands a longbow and single arrow before the guards swarmed him. He let fly with the one arrow just as he was overcome by the mercenaries and struck hard to the ground.
The arrow flew like a falcon and found not the heart, but the arm of its prey.
* * *
Ravan’s deadly aim had been thwarted by the urgency of the moment. A mere second longer and Duval’s heart would have caressed the sweet barb. With sudden realization, Duval knew this without doubt, that what he'd heard of the boy was true after all.
Duval swore and bent over as he grasped his arm. The arrowhead, having completely intersected the flesh of the muscle, protruded from the back of the arm. Breaking the shaft with an agonizing groan and blasphemous curse, Duval drew the offending weapon from him. Arterial blood spurted and ran bright red and urgently down his arm, dripping from his fingers. He clasped the wound tightly with his other hand, leaving the wall to find his physician and tend the wound.
Meanwhile, Ravan was tied to a timber in the yard and beaten by the now conscious Renoir.
LanCoste watched, lest the vehement Renoir permanently damage or kill Duval’s property.
Renoir, in fact, did not seem quite right. He was unsteady as he beat the boy and by the grace of God, or the Goddess of Luck, was shortly spent.
Ravan survived but sagged upon the timber. His face and body were bruised and bleeding, his healing left ribs fractured again. He fainted into a deep and deadly sleep as the night became cold.
Duval ordered his body left on the timber for the night as an object lesson. It was a risky order, cast from rage, and could cost him his hard won mercenary to the cold.
Along about ten o’clock, LanCoste knew the foolishness of the order. As the temperatures fell, he stole to the courtyard and cut the bindings with his axe.
The giant heard a groan. Ravan roused only slightly as the axe fell so close to his ear. LanCoste hoisted the young man over his shoulder and carried him inside to his warm chamber.
Ravan groaned again, roused to consciousness with the pain of being moved, and smiled, his face contorted by Renoir’s handiwork. “Guess I made a good first impression, don’t you suppose?” he whispered.
“If you ever do such a thing again? I will kill you,” LanCoste said. He was expressionless as he deposited his burden unceremoniously onto the bed.
Ravan gasped with pain and splinted his broken ribs, unable to breathe.
LanCoste left water, but Ravan was too wounded to reach the urn and instead slept reposed again upon the footsteps of death.
It was two weeks before Duval came to see his prisoner. Ravan’s face was at that point almost recognizable, the bloody pulp had lightened to purple and green bruises. His eyes, however, were sharp and black as pitch.
Duval, still pale from the massive blood loss he’d suffered, fingered his bandaged arm thoughtfully as he approached Ravan. “I thought you would be easier to reason with. I didn’t believe you would be so reckless—so stupid.”
Ravan stood up slowly, painfully silent. There was something about the way Duval was speaking, so calm and quiet. It made him uneasy and gave him regret just now. Duval’s pallor gave his disposition greater weight as well. Ravan’s anxiety rose, a nasty feeli
ng growing in the pit of his being.
“You will not be fighting Renoir anymore,” Duval continued, waving his good arm in the air.
Ravan shrugged as best he could under the circumstances. His effort was one of indifference, an effort to hide fear, but he was naive.
“Oh—you care not? Well, that is good. I have sent Renoir to kill the Innkeeper’s wife.” He said it flatly, without emotion.
Initially, Ravan felt he had run headlong into a stone wall. The blow of Duval’s comment crashed hard against him so that he physically staggered back a step. His shock turned to rage, his torment catching in his throat. He lunged, reaching up with both hands. He would kill Duval with them, with his bare hands, and he limped pathetically toward the evil one, his right leg dragging behind.
LanCoste quickly stepped in, his broad axe drawn, and pressed the blade against the young one’s chest.
Ravan ignored the weapon and shoved it aside with both hands as he lunged at Duval.
LanCoste reached an arm around the wounded young man and easily overpowered him, holding him to face Duval.
Ravan struggled helplessly against the chest of the giant. First, he raged, then he begged. “Please—please don’t hurt her. It is my foolishness that should be punished. Kill me instead, please just kill me, I beg you!”
“Now what would that accomplish me?” Duval lifted his hands helplessly. “Besides, it is quite too late—but your point of view is very interesting.” He approached his captive.
Tears stung Ravan’s eyes as he watched Duval absentmindedly stroke his beard, a thoughtful expression on his face. He appeared to be only mildly interested in the anguish displayed before him.
Ravan sensed his throat closing, and his heart pained him with the torment one feels when helplessly forced to watch a vulnerable or innocent creature tortured by heartlessness. “You can stop him. Send word—please,” Ravan trembled in LanCoste’s arms.
The Execution Page 20
