The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  They sat for a while, sharing each other’s warmth, pulling strength from the integrity of each other’s compassion. The here and now was warped into the shroud of times gone by, fleeting glimpses of kinder days, safe and timeless. She recalled the day of the fox fur mittens, and he spoke of the day he’d received the silver chain. As he did, he involuntarily reached up to briefly grasp the ring. Her heart rejoiced in the familiarity of the bygone gesture.

  * * *

  Ravan felt warm and at peace sitting with her. The moment was one which made his life a worthy task. It suddenly occurred to him that it was only when good and righteous purpose ceased, when times like this no longer existed that life could accept its finality and welcome death. As he tested the weight of Pig-Killer in his hand, he knew for certain a righteous purpose had been set into motion. There was a spark of life that moved within him. He had not experienced that for some time, and it was warmly welcome. Something stirred within his hardened heart and he was finally at ease.

  He stood and held her at arm's length. “I have loved you, as I believe I must have loved my mother.” He said it with all sincerity and kissed her again on top of her head. Then, he reached for her hand, gently pressing into it the thin silver braid of hair.

  She gasped, clearly overcome with emotion as she palmed the tender token of her past.

  He was surprised at how suddenly she sobbed, how quickly emotion surfaced as though she remembered too clearly the terrible day they’d cut the braid from her head and taken him away.

  Presently the noise within the Inn rose and it was obvious she would be needed soon. Rising, she turned to put together some food for him and the sun fell beyond the horizon.

  He made his way to the door. Pulling her close to him, he struggled one more time with leaving her. “Please don’t worry for me. I am strong. And they—they will answer for what they have done. Of this I swear.” He looked sincerely at her. “When it is all said and done, I will come back.” He joked lamely, “Perhaps then I can learn the trade of the Inn.”

  She looked at him, blinking back tears as though determined not to cry this time. “I have loved you too child, as though you were my own.” She shook her head towards the noise behind her. “I will be leaving here now that I know you are alive. Look for me here no more.”

  He paused, nodded, and understood.

  Then they said their short goodbyes, their faces speaking volumes more than their words ever could.

  She watched him slip, one more time, from her life. This time, as he left, she bolted the heavy door closed behind him when he left.

  As he walked from the Inn, he heard the catch engage behind him and believed that somehow she was fearful no longer for the child of his past.

  * * *

  The next morning, Ravan spoke to the giant as they tacked the horses out, “She lives.”

  “Hmm,” was all the giant offered in return.

  “Pierre, apparently, does not.”

  Ravan looked up from beneath his eyebrows at the monster across the way, but LanCoste remained intent on his task, pulling at the massive girth cinch until it measured two fingers width when pulled out from the side of the warhorse.

  He smiled to himself. The giant had come to her, had perhaps intercepted Renoir along the way. It must have been during the weeks of convalescence, after Renoir had beaten him in the courtyard. Ravan thought back and remembered that he'd spent much time in a despair-driven catatonia as his wounds healed. He'd been left alone for long stretches of time. It had been nearly a month later before the giant came for him to continue his training.

  Sometimes, the mercenaries were sent on errands, with messages or contracts. LanCoste was seldom utilized for these duties as it was ordinarily a lighter rider with a faster horse who was chosen. However, if he’d been unable to train Ravan, perhaps the giant had been sent on such a task simply to pass the time. Perhaps it was on just such an errand that he’d sidetracked to catch up with her at the Inn. It meant he would have ridden hard, and it was surely because of him that she lived.

  Ravan looked long at the man he knew so little about, the giant whom he’d fought beside on so many occasions. Something made him suddenly sad about the breadth of the colossus of a man who stood so alone and silent, preparing his steed for the day’s ride. No one pretended to know him. Even Duval, who depended so much upon him, treated him more as animal than human.

  He wondered if LanCoste had killed Renoir? That was very unlikely. To kill another mercenary violated the code—Duval’s code. Perhaps the Black Death had taken Renoir after all.

  He looked again at his companion.

  LanCoste ignored him, swinging his great weight up onto his steed and turning away.

  Stepping onto his own horse, he clucked gently, urging it alongside LanCoste. He suddenly recognized a growing companionship for the great man next to him. “I should like to know you better, LanCoste.”

  “Hmmm...” Again, was all he received in reply.

  * * *

  The little valley was in a spring freeze when they departed for Adorno’s estate. Frost fuzzed the branch twigs and grass blades so the world looked deceptively soft, especially in contrast to the unlikely pair of travelers. Their horses left two dark trails in the tall grass behind them, where the frost was disturbed by the step of the animals.

  LanCoste rode his enormous draft, each step shaking the ground beneath them.

  Ravan sat astride a French destrier stallion, strikingly black and athletic. The horse was wild and vicious and was untamed when Ravan had first taken it from a field during a raid. That had been a harrowing trip home, Ravan struggling upon his saddle horse, the black stallion fighting at the other end of the makeshift rope halter for nearly the entire distance. From then on, it had allowed no one other than Ravan to touch it.

  Today, the magnificent animal cakewalked early on, fresh as the morning air. Its hooves didn’t even appear to touch the ground. It floated with neck arched, blowing with each step, chomping and frothing at the bit in excitement of the new day. The stallion was an extension of the man who sat it, and it was a remarkable sight as they rode north.

  The pair traveled in silence, stopping only to water the horses. Eating as they rode, they camped on open, high ground where they could see the horizons, and then only long enough to allow the beasts to rest and feed.

  Thirteen days later, they had covered the four hundred miles to Adorno’s estate and approached the fortressed walls of the impossibly massive manor. Rising impressive from a hilltop, it was exquisitely well built. The Bourbon estate was a revered dynasty, for it had thwarted armies, would-be rivals, despots, and kings.

  It was surrounded by a moat and portcullis, and was protected by guard towers. Beyond the twenty-foot-thick walls of the castle lay lavish grounds. The grandeur was complete with stables, servants quarters and a small church. The main estate consisted of donjon spirals, elaborate rooms and staircases, hidden passages and banquet halls.

  Apart from the castle was the township, safe behind the defense of the mammoth structure, or so it should have been had it not been for the tyrant ruler who commanded it.

  Homage to this Lord should have been from an oath of the townspeople. Vassal to Lord should have bound the social structure of this estate, and so the lord should have, likewise, defended the vassal in return. There was a recognized feudal structure which should have begged a noble code of ethics. However, this was sadly not the case of this very corrupt dynasty. Insurgence was evidenced by the need for the two who stood before the massive gate of the would-be king.

  Ravan sat quietly, impassive on the outside but quite skeptical about his current, unusual assignment. He allowed LanCoste to negotiate their entrance.

  “We have come from Duval. We are here at Monsieur Adorno’s request and purchase.” LanCoste’s deep voice carried incongruent and far on the spring breeze.

  There were stirrings and whisperings amongst the tower guards concerning the mercenaries mounted below. R
avan’s reputation had preceded him when Adorno returned from Duval’s. No embellishment had been necessary.

  It was only moments before their entry was approved and they were shown where to stable their animals. A groom reached to receive the reins of the extraordinary black stallion. He shrieked in pain and surprise when the beast laced out with a fore leg in the manor of a mule, striking the man’s hip sharply with its hoof. It was an exceedingly unusual behavior for a horse.

  The animal, lean, sleek, and incredibly fit from the hard ride, pinned its ears in a fearsome gesture of savagery. The groom cowered from the animal, dropping the reins to the ground.

  “He does not tolerate another’s hand. I should have warned you—my apologies.” Ravan reached for the horses reins and checked the stallion firmly.

  The stable hand nodded at him, bent over and rubbing his hip. He looked surprised at the civility he'd received from this most fearsome barbarian.

  The stallion dropped its head and followed Ravan obediently to a stall.

  Ravan and LanCoste were shown to their quarters so that they might organize their belongings and freshen themselves before reporting to their new master.

  Their quarters were comfortable, refined, and very clean. They were located on the ground floor with a welcome southern exposure. The mercenaries shared a room, each with a bed on opposite sides, an open fireplace between them. The sun languished late in the day and as the weak evening sunlight glanced along the stone and marble walls, a fire already blazing on the hearth.

  There was a washstand with mirror and a latrine outside the door. It was fine lodging, even adequate enough for traveling nobility. LanCoste seldom, and Ravan never, had been so finely accommodated in the past.

  After stripping from his tunic, Ravan stepped towards the washstand. As he splashed water on his face and righted himself to dry off, he froze when he caught his image in the mirror.

  Ravan, nor any of Duval’s other mercenaries for that matter, did not keep a looking glass in his own quarters, back at Duval’s camp. Only rarely did he catch a vague and passing image of himself on the surface of a stream or the edge of a blade. Now, the face that stared back at him was unfamiliar, ruthless, and void. He searched the eyes for the child who long ago played at the orphanage and chopped wood at the Inn.

  The man looking back at him was hard and cold, a stranger to him. A wicked scar jagged across one brow while a war hardened jaw gave a grim set to it all. 'No wonder she’d been so shocked when she had discovered him fishing through the barley barrel!' He stared at the face, into the eyes, black as a starless night, sifting their depth to see where the little boy was, where the child might have gone. When had he lost him? At what point had his childhood ended?

  He was abruptly reminded of a terrible night past, choking face down in snow and held to the ground. He shook his head hard, pulling back from his memory, back into the reflection of his own eyes. The abyss offered nothing in return and for all the warmth of the room, he turned away from the reflection with a feeling of cold.

  Across the room, LanCoste also shed his outer clothes. Quietly, the giant watched his friend, sideways, from the depths of his deep-set eyes.

  Ravan just caught his glimpse in the mirror as he turned away. His shoulders sagged and he sighed, more to himself than to his companion. “What am I, LanCoste?” He reached for the towel. “What have I become?”

  LanCoste shrugged his massive shoulders. “You are what you are. It is as it should be.”

  Ravan chuckled dryly, surprised that the giant had even answered. “I was supposed to help at an orphanage—I was supposed to be an Innkeeper.”

  He watched as LanCoste turned his head to one side, deaf in one ear. The ear was fat and fleshy, deformed and overgrown. Ravan never asked him about it, had assumed it had always been that way, and politely disregarded his friend’s only perceptible weakness. He'd become accustomed to speaking up a bit if the giant’s good ear was away from him.

  “You are what you are destined to be,” LanCoste replied, his deep voice rumbled forth like an earth tremor. It was unusual, and the sound appealed to his younger friend. It suddenly occurred to Ravan how seldom he heard it.

  Unsatisfied, Ravan pressed on, “And you, LanCoste? How did you become a mercenary for Duval?”

  LanCoste pealed neatly out of his tunic, chiseled and immense, like an avalanche come to rest. He folded the garment gently and laid it on the dresser. It was an oddly delicate gesture, and the giant paused before he stepped over to share the basin with Ravan.

  As always, Ravan, not a small man himself, was amazed at the personal space that the giant occupied.

  “I have always been Duval’s mercenary. I remember nothing else.” The giant never once glanced into the mirror as he wrung a towel in the water as if it were a washcloth and swiped it across the expanse of his face.

  “But...you must have come from somewhere? A family, a caregiver, a home—somebody?” Ravan leaned back against the dressing table, arms across his bare chest and searched the face of his friend.

  LanCoste wrung the towel, folded it once and laid it on the edge of the basin before turning away. “I remember no other.” He retreated to his designated side of the room and effectively closed the conversation.

  Ravan withdrew into his own thoughts, comforted by the steadfast presence of his companion, but without the answers he wanted.

  Over the long side of five years, Duval had kept LanCoste paired with Ravan. It was effective. Initially, this kept Ravan in check—it honed and guided the young man’s natural skills while keeping Ravan obedient to a fault. Ravan had numbly obeyed, certain of the Innkeeper’s wife’s death, fearing Duval’s wrath towards those who remained. He’d quickly abandoned even the slightest gesture of insubordination in the presence of the giant, and so his destiny had been formed.

  As time went by, the pair developed an unlikely bond, unspoken. They fought side by side and back to back, and both owed each other their lives several times over. LanCoste watched as Ravan evolved into Duval’s most lethal killer and this is what he reported, that few matched him with the sword, and none matched him with the bow. Even more uncanny was the raw instinct in battle which Ravan possessed, incredibly uncommon and—exceedingly deadly.

  Likewise, Ravan held serious respect for his friend. He was dumbfounded by the sheer strength of the giant and by his devotion to the other mercenaries. He could not, however, comprehend LanCoste’s allegiance to Duval. And, as of yet, LanCoste had no reason to doubt Ravan’s allegiance either.

  A short time later, there was a knock on their door. LanCoste and Ravan looked at each other for a moment, from across the room, almost comically, as if to say, ‘You answer it’, ‘No, YOU answer it.’

  Finally, LanCoste rose and answered the door, and the guard stopped in his tracks as though unprepared for the vision of the one who greeted him. Certainly he may have heard of the giant, but until one stood directly in front of the man, it was hard to believe his size.

  Behind LanCoste, Ravan was sitting on a chest, one knee bent and up, his arms crossed lazily. He had been looking out a small window, across the interior castle grounds. Pulling himself up from the chest, he only nodded as he walked past LanCoste into the hall.

  “His excellence will see you now,” the guard stammered, gesturing back down the hall, stumbling backwards as the two passed.

  They left the wing where their quarters were located and walked across the elaborate grounds, making their way through the heart of the castle. Eventually approaching the front, they entered the massive and elegant reception hall.

  * * *

  Adorno sat in the great hall, expecting Ravan. He was ready to flaunt his newest acquisition, his bodyguard. He wished to cast fear amongst those who might harm him. He also intended to establish, straight up, his domination of his hire.

  LanCoste stepped back a bit, allowing Ravan to lead as they entered. Despite the size of the giant, it was the other mercenary whose presence was unden
iably front and center. All eyes were on the pair as they approached.

  Ravan spoke first, “I have come, as you wished. Duval requests that I—”

  “Who’s the giant?” Adorno interrupted and hastily added, “I didn’t ask for two bodyguards. I’m not paying for two!” The little man shrieked and pounded on the arm of his throne. After a moment of stunned silence by all in the room, Adorno sneered and stood, then walked slowly around LanCoste as though he was a carnival attraction. He snorted and poked with derision at the giant, apparently unable to overcome his own fascination with the sheer size of the man.

  LanCoste swallowed, as though he tried to close his misaligned and distorted jaw, but it only came across as a snarl. Adorno leapt back.

  Ravan had an immediate and intense dislike for Adorno and his body tensed, dark eyes burned. “I do not work alone, monsieur. You will not be charged for two.”

  “What? You are incapable of satisfying my needs without him?” Adorno hissed, and before Ravan could answer, he exclaimed, “I said I don’t want him! He displeases me, he’s...” he gestured with his hand, “he’s hideous!”

  Gritting his teeth, Ravan willed his hand not to slip to his sword. Matters of diplomacy were not his forte, and he proceeded cautiously, picking his words carefully.

  “I assure you, I am quite capable of disposing of any—” he paused, forced himself to relax,“I will kill any who would be so foolish as to—oppose you. However, I have need of sleep and you, sir, would be at your most vulnerable then.” Ravan allowed his hand to fall back casually to his side,

  Adorno seemed to notice the gesture, subtle though it was, and likely recognized the intent. He hesitated, thoughtful, as though he recalled the last time he'd laid eyes on Ravan. Adorno was impetuous, but far from stupid. He circled Ravan, appraising him from head to toe, evidently approving of what he saw. “You are mine! Do you hear me? Mine!” He curled his lip, snarling, “You are my commodity, you are my possession, and—you will do as I say.” He stomped his foot. “Do you understand me?” Foolishly, he appeared to feel no fear.