“Bring the people in, as many as you can. If we have an attack—when we can hold them off no longer—bar the gates, but not until we have no other choice,” Nicolette commanded. “Have we sounded the alarm yet?”
“No, my Lady. Lord Ravan has forbidden it. He’s sent scouts to silently alert the villagers instead.”
“I agree,” Sarto motioned to several couriers to prepare the castle for an influx of villagers. “We have no time to lose. Let us do what we can before time has run out.”
Then, to the evident surprise of all gathered, Nicolette swept from the room without even excusing herself.
“My Lady?” Sarto called, but she ignored him entirely.
Down to the ground floor she ran and burst from a servant’s door out the west wing of the castle. Nearby was an orchard, a particularly favorite place that she sometimes ventured when she chose to walk out on the grounds of the castle, and it was there that she now ran. Dark robes flying, and without a cloak in the early hour, she appeared to fly as she dashed into the orchard, her breath frosty plumes in the frigid morning air.
She was nearly a dozen columns of trees into the tiny forest before she slowed to a walk and turned down a particular row. Chin dropped to her chest and eyes nearly closed, she walked past one, two, three, four trees before finding just the right one.
Dropping to her knees at the trunk of an old, gnarled walnut, Nicolette was very focused on the task at hand. The tree appeared familiar to her, and she ran her hands slowly along the twisted bark, first up and then down, as though familiarizing herself with an old lover. This she did for some time as the breeze died away and a quiet settled about her. Even the early morning birds ceased their song as though they wished not to disturb the peculiar visitor on her strange exchange with one of their trees.
All was silent. Gradually, as though in slow motion, she stopped and ran her index finger slowly down a particular crease in the trunk, all the way to between the gnarled roots that sank into the ground at her knees. Dropping her head, she peered closely at the earth beneath her hand. Resting like this, she simply remained there, unmoving and with her hand upon the spot of ground for nearly a minute. The frosty, dead grass thawed somewhat beneath her palm and yet she did not move.
Suddenly, as though coming back to life, she began digging with her bare fingers, clawing, finally pulling a handful of frozen dirt up along with some dried leaves and stones. She then passed the palm of her hand back and forth over the ground around her skirts before finding the old husks of several of last year’s walnut shells with the spent nut fruit still inside. She snatched up three of the old walnuts and shook them. They rattled, shriveled within their shells. Satisfied, she mixed them up with the soil, dried leaves, and pebbles.
She did not turn to see Moulin creep up carefully behind her. He’d evidently followed her into the small woods and paused as though he could see that she was keenly occupied with something. He must have been satisfied that there was no impending risk when he left Moira with the children. Perhaps his intention had been to let Nicolette know that they were safe and settled in.
But he’d not found her in the council chamber, and having discovered her missing, Moulin likely suspected where she’d vanished to. There were several spots that were significant to her, and he knew all of them. He might have sensed she would be at one of these now. Whatever his reason for following, he now stood behind her in the orchard.
He asked, obviously concerned, “My Lady, what is it? Why are you here when…”
She said nothing, only flung her head back and gazed overhead at the pattern of naked branches against the early morning sky. Her gaze darted from one snow white wisp of cloud to another as they hung above the bare limbed trees. Flitting, her eyes rolled back before she closed them tightly. Placing her palm again on the trunk of the tree, her head snapped forward. She leaned, resting her forehead against her hand, against the tree, her eyes remaining closed.
Moulin said nothing. She did not see him standing so close behind her, speechless, unable to pull his eyes from her and the unusual ritual she performed on the frozen orchard floor.
All at once, she pulled her head and hand from the tree. She was on some level aware that he was there, but it was insignificant. Spreading an expanse of her skirt on the ground, she snatched up what she’d come for. Passing the handful of materials back and forth over her skirt, she then cast the earth, stones, leaves, and walnut shells across the fabric.
“No,” she murmured to herself and stared, eyes wide, at the random pattern on her gown. Clawing at all of it, she snatched it up again before recasting the elements onto the fabric. Not willing to believe what she first saw, she gasped more urgently, “No!” Pressing both palms upon her skirt, either side of her castings, she dropped her chin to her chest and closed her eyes, jaw gritted tight.
Moulin startled when she seemed to come suddenly to life, flinging the earth and such from her gown as she leapt to her feet and strode deliberately past him, back toward the castle.
“Nicolette!” It was the first time Moulin had ever spoken her name aloud.
“We must prepare for the battle,” she snapped over her shoulder.
Running up the stone flight of stairs, she was a striking image when she came crashing back into the tribunal of advisors. They were still murmuring their concerns, worries about the impending altercation and Nicolette’s sudden disappearance. Her gown was damp, and she was quite earthy but poised nonetheless.
“There will be a battle,” she said flatly. A hush fell over the counselors.
“Yes, my Lady. Perhaps, but to what gain? What is it they wish?” Sarto asked the burning question again for everyone. “Have you discovered their intent?”
“They wish to draw out what it is they want.” She rested her fingertips on the edge of the long table, her gaze burning into each of them in turn. “They want Ravan.”
There were gasps all around at this news.
“But…why? What could they possibly want of our master that simple correspondence couldn’t have accomplished? Ravan would certainly have allowed their leaders in.” One counselor rose to his feet in concern.
“What man would risk battle against a defense such as his?” Another counselor pounded the table with his fist as he implored his mistress.
Shaking her head, “I’m not sure.” Nicolette wrenched her hands together in a gesture entirely unfamiliar to the tribunal. They watched, obviously shaken as she added, “Revenge…I think. I’m not certain why. I’m not…” she paused, “…entirely clear.”
This was very unlike their leader. She’d not even exhibited such emotion the day she left Ravan on the cliffside—the day she’d released him to his own fate. Nicolette nearly staggered with the premonition that she suffered.
“My Lady, please, sit.” Moulin motioned her to a chair and helped ease her into it.
“Do we…” Sarto face was very grim, “Can you see? Do we lose him?”
“No,” she shook her head violently. “I do not see that we do.”
There seemed to be an audible groan of relief from all present. “Then why do you torment yourself so?” Moulin approached her, reaching for her, resting his hand gently on her shoulder as though he might take the uneasiness from her.
“I’m not sure.” She put her clenched fists to her temples, earthen smudges marring the pristine white of her skin. “We do not lose this battle, I know that. I can see that. But…” She jerked her clenched hands down, stricken eyes wet with fear. “…I feel as though I do.”
No one spoke. They just stared, speechless at their mistress.
“We must take her, get her moved to safety,” Moulin commanded straightaway.
“No!” She commanded. Rising from the chair, Nicolette began pacing as though she could walk logic into the scenario that ran through her head. Murmuring more to herself than to them, she recounted, “It is not me.” She slashed at the empty air with one hand. “Death does not frighten me. It is not what gives
me such trepidation.”
She spun on them. “I am not sure why this gives me such foreboding. Ravan is saved; I can see this very clearly. I can only tell you that what happens today culminates what has troubled me so much as of late.”
Moulin swallowed heavily. “We don’t know this, we don’t know—”
“This will be a bad day,” she said flatly. “It is all I can share.”
There seemed nothing else to add as each present silently turned their thoughts and fears into themselves. Nicolette commanded quietly, “You all know your posts. To them now.”
This was a bad hour for everyone, for because Nicolette was fearful, all of them surely were as well, as undeniably as if they stood within the very maw of death.
CHAPTER TEN
†
Ravan had received advanced word of the approaching forces in barely sufficient time. Even though his reconnaissance scouts were well trained and extremely vigilant, the enemy army had pushed in so rapidly, so stealthily, that Ravan was nearly taken by surprise. This irked him not a small amount, for it had always been a priority of his to never be taken by surprise. Minimally, he was satisfied that the information the scouts brought was accurate enough. Even so, the battle was upon him in what seemed like minutes.
It was a desperate move by the enemy to position such forces so swiftly. And it was exactly this that troubled Ravan the most. He held the general assumption that it was passion and not greed which inspired the recklessness that would have been required to advance a force of this size with such dispatch. Passion of this kind, he knew, invited death and was the most dangerous of all.
He was of the belief that there were but two obsessions which invited death—hatred and revenge—and Ravan was intimately familiar with both. He was also convinced that neither summoned a rational opponent. This would be an extraordinary conflict, for it would be one of these. It would be fought to a bloody finish, until one side could stand no more. Ravan was determined that his realm would survive to see the end of the day.
Struggling, his mind twisted in loops as he tried to make sense of it. Who could possibly seek him now? Who held a grudge so insufferable to assemble in the night an army such as this? Who might hate him so deeply? Were his enemies not all put asunder? He and Nicolette had long ago destroyed all who might have malice toward them. Or…had they?
The mercenary’s past had been one of war. He’d fought many campaigns, killed many, but it had never been personal, had it? And why now? Why twelve years after he’d commanded his realm long enough to develop a steadfast peace—a peace supported by supreme power? Could another simply wish to take this from him?
At last, he decided there was simply no good explanation. It gave the leader a sense of finality, a direction to take himself and his men. He would fight this battle and discover on the other side of it the intent of his enemy. Then…he would destroy them.
With that, Ravan allowed something long ago rested to rise from its barbarous bed—the ferocity of the warrior within. This was not practice. This was not training. This was war.
With meticulous purpose, he strapped on his armor and girded himself with his battle sword. He knew the greatest enemy was one who could not be understood. And this one was exactly that. But it didn’t matter. He knew war, knew the art of it, and as he walked from his battle quarters to greet his army, he glanced at the eastern wall of the castle grounds.
Ravan knew the enemy would wait until they had the sun just over the eastern treeline before they would advance their first attack. They would want the sunrise in Ravan’s eyes to tip the first wave of battle favorably in their direction. However, the dark leader would not allow this advantage.
He checked the cinch of his warhorse, the stallion. “We fight again,” he murmured to his old friend. Patting the steed on the neck, he prepared to meet his army. His intention was to draw his troops together to prepare for a counter attack—a first strike—before the sun was over the trees.
The stables were at that moment a whirlwind of activity as was the armory. Ravan had long ago modified this area of the castle grounds so that it would be strategically efficient in the event of a sudden clash such as this, a surprise attack.
The barracks were next to the armory, tucked in between it and the stables. These three buildings were arranged, semicircular, around the training area so that quick mantling of the forces was very organized. Ravan had considered this of primary importance, and drills were accomplished just to make sure the militia always remained in top form.
Now, the army did just exactly as they’d so often practiced. Silent sentries were already alerting the townspeople and calling forth additional men and horses. Already assembled were the foot soldiers, mounted cavalry, and archers—of which there were many specifically trained by Ravan. All were outfitted, tacked up, and deployed, ready to fight in less than half an hour. It was an epic preparation for the battle to come and impressively efficient. Yes, the Ravan Dynasty was a formidable target.
The village, unfortunately, lay between the castle and forest in such a position that the enemy would have to go nearly straight through it to reach the castle. There was no reasonable attack from the rear because the river arced around the western grounds. And if they were attacked from the sides, it would effectively bottle neck an enemy, making them easy targets to pick off. No, the first wave would come through the little town.
Ravan often wished the village had been positioned next to the river, with the castle and its great might between it and any advancing forces. But Adorno had wanted the highest vantage for his view, and so this was the layout Ravan and Nicolette inherited.
On the castle walls, longbowmen were already lining up, baskets of superb arrows at their disposal—a last line of defense should the enemy break through the front. Even more archers were deployed on the edges of the village, in rooftop perches, on strategic scaffoldings, and in designated fortified tree perches. They were hidden amongst any elevated spot, ready to attack, ready to rain down a sweeping wave of terror at the first rush of an enemy’s army. This would be their first line of defense.
After the initial resistance by the longbowmen would come the foot soldiers, shield to shield with each other, to press forward, advancing on the enemy to push them back. Lastly, the mounted cavalry would strike to back up the foot soldiers and quell those enemies who had gotten through.
It was a solid first strategy for defending the domain, and between the river and the moat that encircled the castle, Ravan believed it gave his smaller army a fairly modest edge. This they would need today, for it would be a fierce battle.
As Ravan swung onto his battlehorse, he called down the row of his army. “My legion! We have an enemy gathering at our gates, and this one is grave, for we don’t know the purpose of this battle. This we will discover only as the fight unfolds.” He lifted his sword high above his head. “But I promise you this—I will lead you and stand by you until this day is done!”
The army yelled in unison, raising their weapons above their heads, encouraged by their leader’s words.
Ravan loped his steed down the long line of his men. “Your families will be defended!” He spun the magnificent horse about and galloped back. “Our enemies fight for gain! We fight with our hearts! All across the kingdom people will hear of this battle, and I will not rest until the last of our enemy are destroyed!”
There was a roar from the troops. They pounded upon their shields, called their allegiance to their magnificent leader. These men were battle readied. Many were from the village—sons, fathers, brothers. They’d come to recognize the code by which this unusual ruler commanded his domain and grown to trust his compassionate might. These soldiers would fight fiercely and with conviction, standing by their Lord at all costs. Now, with the bare glimpse of daylight, the time for war had come.
Motioning to the archers overhead, Ravan received signal that they were ready, and the white flag, the one with Ravan’s coat of arms in starkly black contrast
on it, was replaced with a black flag—the coat of arms emblazoned in bloody red.
Then, as the opposing army slunk across the narrow field that separated them from the village, Ravan’s army left the castle grounds…and the battle began.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
†
Several hours went by and Moulin could stand it no longer. He left Moira in the care of the children, deciding he would post a guard at the mouth of the catacombs as an extra precaution, and this would be enough. He was simply compelled to see what was transpiring above.
“Please,” Risen begged after he was gone, and fairly out of character. “It’s been so long. I’ll bet the battle is already won.”
Moira seemed unconvinced.
“Just something. Pleeeze…I’m starved.” He appealed to Moira with his most sincere smile. “Just some bread, maybe some cheese. At least for Niveus.”
Niveus, meanwhile, appeared scarcely concerned whether breakfast arrived or not.
“Very well,” Moira conceded. “But stay with her. I’ll run to the kitchens, be back before you even know I was gone.”
After she left, Risen knelt in front of Niveus. She ignored him, only continued to press her finger at intervals along the rough mortar between the massive stones. “Niveus,” he said calmly and tried to catch her gaze.
Truthfully, Risen was the person she most attended to at times, and she ceased her task, focusing on her brother’s face.
“Niveus, I must go, but I’ll be back soon.”
“You should stay.”
Her response surprised him. “I have to go. But it will be all right, I promise. I’ll be back before lunch and we’ll have that cheese together.”
“You should stay,” she repeated.
He leaned into her, kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry, and don’t say anything. Just pretend you didn’t know.”
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