The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  Mounting her, Adorno thrust himself desperately in and out, grunting as he tried to coax a climax from himself. He was desperate, but could not own her. Digging his fingernails into the transparent white flesh of her shoulders, he entangled his fingers into the inky blackness of her untamed hair, yanking himself in and out of her.

  Even as his crowning excitement fast approached, he could not completely capture his domination of her. He shrieked, his face contorted, his desperation complete as his excitement peaked. Grunting, he squealed his rapture and finally pulled from her to collapse back onto the bed.

  Bound, Nicolette lay there, looking away from him, looking out the still open window. The white flesh of her shoulders exhibited the red welts of his clawing battery and several even seeped blood. She watched two starlings that had lit upon the sill intending to nest there.

  “Tell me what you feel. Tell me that you are satisfied!” he demanded.

  “Beyond compare, my lord,” she said, turning back to him and smiling coyly. Her piercing eyes haunted him as she seemed to blink too slowly. She controlled him even as she lie there naked and fettered to the bed.

  Adorno seemed mesmerized by her, as though she was an addiction he could not be rid of'—a sweet poison he desperately needed in his veins.

  Despite her rape of only moments before, Nicolette was aware that he'd done this to many others, but others never more than once. She knew that it was her he wished to own and command completely. Never in his many efforts had Adorno produced a child. This fact did not surprise Nicolette at all.

  He slapped her cruelly across the face. “Don’t look at me so long!”

  Her head jerked harshly back, fragile upon the thin, pale neck that carried it. She relaxed against the silk coverlet again. “Yes, my lord, as you wish,” she whispered, slowly opening her eyes. The silken smile played so subtly on her lips, her eyes remained steadfast on him.

  “You mock me! I know you do!” he raised his hand again.

  “No, my lord. I simply desire you again.” She spread her legs even more, inviting him back into her.

  Adorno might have been aroused, but he would not be capable again for at least a day. He jumped from the bed, securing his trousers as he stormed from the room and motioned for his guards to release her once he’d left.

  * * *

  Moulin entered to free her of her bonds. He was embarrassed by the sounds that he’d only moments ago been privy to—and by the degradation that lay before him. Pulling the coverlet quickly over her nakedness, averting his eyes as he did, he tended to her modesty before loosening the bonds.

  Nicolette had turned her attention back to the nesting birds and only noticed, as a matter of circumstance, when the coverlet was pulled over her. As the bonds fell gently away, she casually peered into Moulin’s distressed eyes.

  “Monsieur—lovely afternoon, is it not?”

  “Yes, my lady—it is beautiful today.” Moulin was dumbstruck. He could not take his eyes from her. When she swung her legs to the edge of the bed and sat up, staring again at the birds, the small of her back was shown bare. He knelt to collect her gowns from the floor, averting his eyes, but had noticed the scratches on her. It enraged him somewhere to the core of his being that he should defile her so.

  “Do you pledge your alliance to him?” she asked suddenly.

  She turned, bewitching him again with her gaze. It was blank, impassive, only a bit curious.

  “Your highness, of course I...” he trailed off.

  “You lie as a matter of preservation, sir?”

  “I—your highness,” Moulin struggled, “he is your betrothed.”

  She frowned. “So you ally yourself to him as a matter of principle,” she said it more than asked it.

  Moulin looked at his feet.

  “Mmm. Oh, I see—and thank you for releasing me,’’ she said it almost as an afterthought.

  Moulin nodded, still looking down and laid the gowns across the foot of the bed. Then he backed from the room.

  * * *

  Adorno recalled that distant afternoon’s events with Nicolette as his party of close to two hundred approached the enormous timbered gates of Duval’s compound.

  ‘Witch!’ he thought to himself. She vexed him thoroughly and he would rid himself of the whore upon his return. This he told himself again, and for the hundredth time.

  It took but a short while for the guards to check clearance. Adorno’s forces were required to remain outside of the compound but he, Moulin, and three assistants were allowed to enter. From the fortress walls, Duval’s soldiers stood at the ready, bows loaded and pointed at the army below.

  Aware of Duval’s infamy and fortune, Adorno was extremely curious of the goings-on inside the vast compound. He’d heard of the extraordinary power and deadly mercenaries Duval produced and possessed. Great power intrigued him, and he wondered of the man’s methods. He had no desire to replicate the hard work which had gained Duval such power—he simply coveted it.

  The smell of the compound offended him, however, as did the conspicuous absence of any female. He wished he'd brought Nicolette. He tried hard to ignore a momentary pang of desperation as her fleeting memory triggered an awareness of his inability to possess her. He considered that she would have been glorious to dangle in front of Duval. For all must want her after laying eyes upon her. In truth, most did.

  He delicately avoided contact with anyone or anything as he was escorted to meet with the master of this intriguing, if not repugnant, court. If Duval was as vastly wealthy as rumor had it, where was the excess? Where was the fine dining and lavish furnishings? Where was his elegant chamber? Where were the servants, and most importantly, where were the women?

  * * *

  It was difficult for Adorno to comprehend that Duval’s wealth was spent on power of a different sort. The mercenary’s coffers were full of gold, and he maintained many land holdings elsewhere, but his primary purpose was in the maintenance of a mercenary army of significant size, outfitted to the extreme. He craved power, and his purpose was to squash outbreaks, destroy campaigns, and remove ‘problems’. This Duval did with considerable appetite and finesse despite the meddling of law. Provisions, training, and board for such endeavors required tremendous resources.

  Duval remained seated as Adorno entered the massive hall in a flourish. He raised one eyebrow as he scrutinized his visitor at length. The fair little man’s perfectly manicured nails and immaculately tailored satin and Kashmir velvet clothing were a sharp contrast to the other men in the room.

  The soldiers who were Duval's Guards stood alert, frozen at attention, their hands callused from wielding their weapons. Their bodies were robed with the heavy leathers, armor, and stench natural to a mercenary.

  Mildly amused and somewhat annoyed that his time should be wasted, Duval rolled his eyes. He’d known that Adorno had approached his compound for some time now and was curious about the vanity of a man who traveled with such force.

  “What is it you wish?” he confronted Adorno straight away.

  With a sweeping bow, Adorno presented himself. “Monsieur, I am Adorno Benedict Antoine de Bourbon IV from the Bourbon township and—”

  “I know who you are and your reputation precedes you.” Duval cut the little man off as easily as one might separate an over-boiled clam. “What is it you wish of me? I haven’t time for trifling banter,” Duval’s expression was unchanged—casual, as if he were chatting about the weather. But, he was more than the tiniest bit curious about the cockscomb preening before him.

  Adorno froze, his smile fading to a barely perceptible sneer which he quickly and wisely replaced. He gestured dramatically. “I have need of your services, Monsieur.”

  “You have need of my services,” Duval repeated and paused. It was a statement, not a question. He kicked his chair back away from the table and crossed his arms across his chest. “It hardly seems you have need of armed forces for you evidently employ a sizable army.” He gestured with one arm
in the direction of which the outside army might be waiting. “True, it may be forced from the very people who feed you—not that I take offense from a working model.”

  Adorno hesitated. The jib was completely lost on him and he shrugged, choosing to remain the ever-gracious visitor. “It is not for my army, monsieur. You are correct, my army is satisfactory.” He embellished with his arms outstretched as he slowly began to walk down the length of the great table. “It is more... a personal matter, shall we say. I have need of, to put it delicately—protection.” He spread his arms in a dramatic display and bowed slightly.

  As he approached the head of the table, one of Duval’s men instinctively stepped forward, extending his lance to stop further advance from the visitor. Adorno glared at the weapon, then at the guard, but refocused on his host. He delicately placed his index finger on the tip of the lance and made to lift it, but the guard remained steadfast.

  “Protection?” Duval smirked. “Are you so despised that you worry you will be killed from one of your own?” He chuckled and continued, “Lack of such control is a grave weakness. Would you not agree?” Duval was enjoying baiting him, “It is reasonable that your employ might hate you, but to sacrifice respect is a sign of...” He allowed his voice to trail off and gestured dramatically with one hand, “...impotence.”

  Adorno clenched his fists behind his back but his demeanor remained silken. He reached up to smooth back his perfectly coifed, starkly white hair. Self absorbed, Adorno may be, but he was not unobservant.

  “All men of power are vulnerable,” he paused for effect, “even you—it would appear.” He nodded towards Duval’s arm, at the horrible wound that rose unnaturally from it.

  The gash from Ravan’s arrow had infected terribly and drained for several months, finally healing as a raised and ragged scar. The proud flesh on Duval's arm had gnarled shiny, purple, and hideously distorted. It had seemed, for a time, that Duval might lose the arm, and it pained him even years later. The defect also compromised his ability to draw a bow. No matter—he hadn’t much need of hand-to-hand combat himself and preferred the sword anyway. Still, it maddened him that Adorno noticed. Duval instinctively pulled his tunic sleeve down to cover the offending mark.

  Ravan had been the only one of Duval’s men to ever successfully attack and injure him, and the only one to survive such a mutiny. It had been sheer luck that Ravan hadn’t killed him. Duval knew by now the uncanny archery skill of his favorite mercenary, and thought again of his own good fortune.

  At first, the assault had bothered him terribly. He’d been violated and then came very close to destroying the possession which he'd sacrificed so much for. He had no remorse at having so quickly sent for the Innkeeper’s wife to be killed. He was, however, alternately infuriated that she and Renoir had evidently been taken by the plague before Renoir had a chance to carry out the order. Damn the plague! It had marked more than a handful of his own men every so often, and it pained him to have to rid himself of them when it happened.

  He’d let Ravan believe the act had been done, though. Dead was dead, and it served him to allow Ravan a degree of despair; his insubordination would not be tolerated. His mercenary needed to be broken before he could be rebuilt, even if it meant killing his kindred or leading him to believe that he had.

  Despite the grievous insult to his arm, as time went by Duval had come to appreciate the killer Ravan had become and the brilliance of the young mercenary. He had never experienced a recruit like this one and prided himself in his acquisition. Ravan, as a mere boy, had led his men on the chase of their lives. He’d cost Duval precious resources, but had more than liberally returned the losses with the skill with which he now fought. Ravan was feared, and his reputation had begun to grow.

  Nevertheless, Duval always sent LanCoste with him so that the younger man could be monitored. Ravan appeared to carry a silent respect for the giant, and so it was good security to keep them paired. LanCoste was faithful to Duval at all costs. Duval knew this, and so it had become a subtle means of controlling Ravan.

  Even so, it troubled Duval that Ravan remained such an enigma. He seldom spoke and never participated in the revelries or camaraderie of the mercenary groups. Instead, when not at battle or back at the camp, Ravan stayed to himself, isolating himself in battle practice. He spent most of his spare time refining his weapons or simply retreating to his quarters and his damnable silence.

  Once, Duval had surprised the young man, walking in on him only to find him sitting in the corner of his quarters, arms wrapped around his knees with his head buried. He was clutching that simple silver chain with the copper ring on it. Duval had observed how sometimes he idly slid the ring up and down the chain as if mesmerized by the silky, grating sound it made.

  Duval would never understand Ravan because he simply had no capacity to. It was enough for him to believe that time would diminish and ultimately erase any chance of rebellion. For now, he was satisfied that the young warrior had fallen into a routine, obeying orders and carrying out his missions as they were given to him.

  As long as the campaigns he sent Ravan on were successful and the coffers continued to fill, it was enough for Duval.

  He turned his attention back to his guest. “I have no extra men at this time. I’m sorry but I cannot be of help to you.” Duval stood up, closing his ledgers as well as the conversation. It was pride that caused him to dismiss Adorno so quickly; he just didn’t like him.

  Adorno raised his hand before he could be excused. He knew that even with his army he had no chance against Duval’s forces, but he was also used to getting his way. The army was simply a show of force. However, taking no for an answer was not an option.

  “Perhaps we could sweeten the arrangement.” Motioning to Moulin, he nodded towards Duval.

  Moulin, with the help of another man, stepped forward with a heavy chest, depositing it with some difficulty onto the table with a dull thud. The weight of the chest was apparent as they set it down.

  Pulling from beneath his laced vest his thin, Rondel knife, Adorno created an immediate stir within the room. Duval’s men all instinctively drew their swords. It was almost comical, the massive show of force against the preening fop with his little blade. Adorno looked dramatically from one of them to another, seemingly quite amused and enjoying himself immensely.

  He casually started to clean his fingernails with the delicate weapon, and then as if in afterthought, motioned with the blade for Duval to open the chest.

  Duval’s expression remained serious, unchanged. He did not like to be toyed with and this child-man was playing with him, indeed a risky game. Duval’s instincts told him Adorno was unbalanced, and this made him dangerous, like a small creature that one doesn’t realize is deadly poisonous until moments after it has stung.

  Nodding, Duval motioned to the chest and one of his men approached it, flipping the catch and tossing the lid back heavily. There before them, even in the subdued light, glistened close to one-hundred and eighty pounds of Spanish doubloons—solid gold. The coins cast a bright and golden contrast to the darkened room as though they seemed to radiate their own light. All eyes focused on the fortune. It was an enormous treasure by any standard and commanded the attention of all present.

  Remaining seated and to his credit, Duval’s face did not betray his surprise. If his mind could have been read, however, it was another matter altogether. This was a king’s ransom! He was completely taken aback. So, the dandy backed his rhetoric with coin and with Spanish gold at that.

  The treasure was enough to feed his troops for several winters, buy the raw ore necessary for many weapons, or pay for the armors and clothing needed for many battles. Adorno could have simply taken the gold and employed for himself a serious army. Duval was faintly impressed, which irritated him not a small amount. The weakling man was to be taken very seriously. Duval was then aware that should he deny Adorno, the man could put together with this coin an even greater army, and cause him not a small amount
of grief.

  Adorno’s smile, for the first time during their encounter, faded, and over his face was cast the shadow of depravity.

  It was surprising to Duval how quickly the fair, little man’s face became an object of menace. His guard went up instantly, his instincts telling him that Adorno was no child-man. He was insidiously dangerous in a very nasty way, like a viper, and should be taken with utmost gravity.

  “You see, I have need of your service, monsieur. I am not prepared to leave...unsatisfied.” As Adorno spoke, he dangled the knife between forefinger and thumb, allowing it to swing lazily. His eyes, however, leaked venom.

  For a quick moment, Duval pondered just killing the bastard on the spot, keeping the gold and massacring the army waiting outside the fortress. The thought was faintly amusing to him and he held onto it, relishing it, turning it over in his mind. Of course, this was just fantasy. It would not serve to incite a war of French against French, and that would surely be the consequence.

  Adorno may be a despot but his township would object to such a massacre, especially from a condottiere such as himself. Duval was a great power, and greatly feared, but he was neither royalty nor nobility. His power has been gleaned from consigned murder, and his reputation depended on discretion.

  It was Duval’s turn to smile at what happened next. All present were startled when the heavy doors of the hall slammed suddenly open. An altogether bizarre creature strode purposefully into the room.

  His beard was long and coarse, particles of grass and leaves clinging to it as a permanent feature. His hair was coal black, coarsely braided and long, tucked into the tunic collar beneath the armor. His face was lethal, expressionless and smeared liberally with old, dried blood. He smelled of sweat and death, for there was no warmth to this man. To behold him was to feel fear—to breathe loss. Most remarkably, his eyes held no evidence of color, only the glint of the darkest fractured obsidian.