Risen

by Sharon Cramer

  Turning his back to them, Ravan was standing as a representation of strength behind Salvatore, who was by then negotiating his fees in a subdued voice with the man behind the bar. The conversation wasn’t necessarily heated, but Ravan could hear that there was an edge of dispute.

  He overhead Salvatore say to the man, “I have the currency right here.” The captain glanced at his waist, to the small pouch secured there. He then nodded over his shoulder at the crowd of patrons behind him. “Let us get some privacy, and we will settle our charges.”

  The man whom Salvatore bartered with was unconvinced but eventually indicated that Salvatore could join him behind the end of the massive slab of wood that was the bar. Concealed on the small, dropped table behind, the captain appeared content to share his good fortune and make good his account. The two men were entrenched in their quiet dealings when Ravan heard a name, spoken from the group of seven behind him.

  “Yeorathe…”

  A sweeping chill settled across the mercenary’s shoulders in a terrible yet familiar way. Everything else diminished to nothing as he heard only the conversation of the band of men. He stood motionless as could be and listened. Ravan heard them speak of the profits that would soon be theirs, of how angry Yeorathe had been that the Englishman had thwarted his intentions with a girl. He heard talk of someone named William insisting he accompany Yeorathe, to make certain their “shares” were brought safely back.

  It was enough.

  Turning slowly, Ravan’s vision became all at once much clearer. In an instant, he appraised each of the seven men, observing size, weapon, the set of their expressions. And it was brighter now with a lovely red that swept across his sight, lighting the room in a beautiful, bloody tone. This was familiar. This was good.

  “You invade our privacy? Wish to hear our conversation?” one of the men snorted at the dark mercenary. “Go back to your own evening, back to your own sorry life.”

  * * *

  “Yeorathe,” was all Ravan said.

  There was something in the air, now—something very somber, and the other patrons quieted as though they sensed it too. Odgar’s eyes narrowed, and the other six sobered significantly.

  “I know not that name,” Odgar lied.

  “You said it, just then. I heard you, and I have business with him.” Ravan’s voice deepened.

  Iwan blurted, “Well it is too late. He is gone, taken his cargo and sailed.”

  “Ahh, his cargo, that is my interest.” Ravan basked in the red, set his feet just so, dropped both hands close to his blades. “I’d hoped to acquire some of the slaves.” It was Ravan’s turn to lie…somewhat. He played the ruse superbly. “The younger ones, for they are my…” he lifted one hand lightly, “…my inclination.”

  With that, the group relaxed a bit, and one laughed. “Well your fancy would have been well served for there were several boys and a girl—crippled, but a beauty.”

  It was all Ravan needed to hear. By now, Velecent was turned, had obviously heard the end of the peculiar conversation. Velecent was fully aware that his friend had stumbled upon the group of men who’d contributed to the theft of the children, and he was right behind as Ravan unleashed a fury that few had ever known.

  Such rage sprang from him. Blindingly, he unsheathed his sword in one sweep and with his other hand secured his knife. Two fisted and with a weapon in each one,he attacked the seven men. Ravan’s first swipe with his sword severed Iwan’s head while, with his other hand, he drew his short blade up and over to cut the throat of the man seated next to him. His sword, however, lodged into the shoulder joint of the beheaded man for, in his wrath, his accuracy suffered.

  Velecent let go a roar as he leapt forward, kicking the table into the surviving men.

  Just as Ravan momentarily struggled to pull the blade from the dead man’s shoulder, Salvatore came up and over the bar. Sliding on his hip, the Spaniard slid dramatically down a length of it before leaping off and to his feet.

  It was a fairly spectacular demonstration and enough to briefly gain Ravan’s attention. It was that precise moment that bolstered Ravan’s confidence that he’d found the perfect captain to chase after Risen.

  Velecent was by then with Samuel, both of them managing three of the five remaining men. Two were on Velecent, one had him by the hair, and he was significantly busied fighting them bare-knuckled.

  Salvatore pulled from his waist a dagger and let it fly. It stuck brutally into the throat of one of the men leaving Velecent wide eyed with appreciation as he now faced only one attacker.

  The remaining two enemies were retreating before the insane barbarian who’d unleashed terror upon them. Ravan captured one in mere seconds as Salvatore took the other.

  The dark mercenary pinned his man—the largest of the bunch—to the floor. He pressed his blade against the man’s throat as Odgar asked hoarsely, “It is you, is it not?” He coughed, “The boy’s father, the one who defeated Tor?”

  “I am Ravan, father of the boy, Risen,” he snarled.

  There seemed to be a knowing expression that crossed the face of the doomed man, one that only comes to someone who stares death in the eye. Even so, Odgar had nerve as he spat back. “Kill me if you wish, but you are undone. The boy is sold—gone. Hi ill fate is cast, and you cannot bring him back.”

  “That is something you will never know,” Ravan replied and allowed the man one final breath before taking the next with his blade. He drew the knife slowly and with precision, all the while watching as Odgar embraced his final regret. Then, brutally and magnificently, it was done.

  The group of seven were reduced to a dead and dying heap on the tavern floor. Salvatore righted himself, breathing heavily, and retrieved his dagger from the throat of a dead man.

  “You do make an entrance, don’t you?” he said to Ravan as he stepped over a body, then looked over his shoulder at the man behind the bar. “My apologies. It’s good we settled up before all of this.” He indicated with outstretched arms—as though he were the lead in a performance—the mayhem that lay strewn on the establishment floor.

  Slapping Samuel on the shoulder, the captain strode past and called back to Ravan, “Time to shove off! The sails won’t lift themselves!”

  Out of the bar the four strode, given once more to the chase of a boy.

  * * *

  The ship swept from the harbor as though it knew the desperate task they were undertaking. Sleek and swift, her pristine sails were in sharp contrast to the reddish-black, oiled teak wood of her body. Her captain had spent nearly eight years gathering and shipping the wood from India, and she was the first vessel to boast such a frame. Salvatore could not know it, but his ship would be the precursor to all of the caravel designs of boats that would be of the Renaissance. For now, it was simply the best there was of her size. But, of course, Salvatore dreamed of more. Tonight, all that mattered was that the Red Raven would chase the slave galliot like no other vessel in the world.

  It was late, and most of the crew, a few of Ravan’s men, and Moira had settled in for a long night’s sail. Those of the crew who were not on watch slept in their hammocks. The soldiers would eventually adapt to these well enough, lulled to sleep easily after the grueling trek across half of France.

  Moira had the mate’s small room, while Ravan and Nicolette were offered the aft guest quarters. Tonight, however, Risen’s parents would sleep very little.

  As the flickering lamplights of Toulon diminished, the swell of the sea breathed beneath them, and a trail of moonlight on the waves marked almost the exact path on which they sailed. Standing on the bow, Nicolette looked as though a siren had leapt from the sea to peruse her vast, watery home.

  Even Salvatore, his hands manipulating the ship’s wheel instinctively, could not take his eyes from her with her dark hair streaming behind her, an ocean witch to be sure. If he could have seen her eyes, he would’ve seen her cold determination to have her son back. She would slice through those who would stop her as easily
as the ship sliced through the waves.

  Ravan stepped up behind and wrapped his arms around her. “How can we know we are going the right direction?”

  He was enraptured by this ship, this great horse galloping over its ocean pasture. Had fate steered him another direction, he would likely have made a fine sailor, a captain perhaps—this he thought to himself. The deck rolled beneath his feet, and he rode it as easily as though he’d sailed his whole life. But, it was not enough to distract him from the dread that consumed his heart.

  “It is the right direction.” Nicolette turned her head, resting her cheek against his chest and laid her hand upon his arm. “I will tell them if it is not.”

  From his being, Ravan knew this to be true. “It’s cold and damp up here with the night air and the spray. Come to bed. Let me warm you, and we’ll face the morning together.”

  But they did not go to bed for some time. Instead, they looked to the East, to where their son had been taken. Somewhere in front of them was Risen and Sylvie.

  * * *

  The wind was in their face at first, forcing them to tack the boat, which had been a very curious process to Ravan. However, the wind shifted when the stolen boy’s mother took to the foremost bow of the ship.

  Salvatore remained on deck for some time, partly because it was where he preferred to be, partly because it was a superb night for a sail, and largely because Nicolette was there. He could not take his eyes from her. He squinted, not certain, but it looked as though on her shoulder sat a mangy little sparrow.

  Now, with the wind off her port flank, the Red Raven skimmed through the water like a hungry wolf on the chase. The sails were magnificently full, and they were off to a very fast start. Some time later, when the watch was established and the night sky had gone nearly clear, the captain went below. Some of the crew were still up, and there was an overall sense of merriment and revelry, for they were sailing, and their cargo was light and paying handsomely.

  There were a cluster of sailors and most of Ravan’s men gathered aft hull around several secure tables. The conversation was two-directional, questions emerging from the curiosity of one to another. Ravan’s men wished to know about the land they were sailing to, of what a warrior from the east looked like and the weapons they carried; Salvatore’s men wished to know more of their leader, his bride, and the dynasty.

  “There is none I trust more,” Velecent answered a question about Ravan.

  He was enjoying the camaraderie and the ale, as were the other men, for there was nothing more to do at the moment but sail. The boat pitched very little now, rolling gently as though rocking a baby to sleep.

  “And what of his bride? She is a strange one,” a deckhand wondered aloud.

  Salvatore stepped from above just then, and with him respect could be sensed from all his men. “She is a hard one to read,” he concurred, having overheard and only too happy to leap into the conversation. “Like a winter squall, perhaps. Her husband, however—he, I feel, could be a rogue wave if you press him just right.”

  Velecent nodded. “He has been pressed already, and I would not want to be the men in his path.” He sipped from his ale. “It will be very bad for them.”

  “He’ll have vengeance, then?” Salvatore poured himself a draft and sat with his men.

  Shaking his head, Velecent said, “Not vengeance—he will destroy them. They will scarcely have time to consider their fate if he finds them.”

  “I’m glad to be his ally then. We wouldn’t want to see this side of him, would we?” Salvatore raised his glass in a half toast and drank deeply.

  Behind them, Ravan’s boots appeared on the deck steps as he came below. All conversation ceased as the mercenary descended the stairs. His presence seemed to fill the room, and Velecent and Ravan’s men rose, a gesture of respect.

  Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, Ravan considered all present in a very calculated way, his eyes lingering on each man in turn. Gradually, a wave of complete quiet swept over the group. Someone coughed.

  Ravan spoke to all of them. “Thank you, for taking me to Antalya.”

  Salvatore broke the somber moment as he swept a still half inebriated hand across his crew and toward Ravan. “There is my friend! Willing to step into a fight and have my back, he was!”

  Ravan regarded the captain curiously. “I recognized your name in the crowd, had need of your ship.”

  “Oh, come now.” He indicated the companionship and ale. “We are kindred spirits, destined for an adventure together!”

  “Perhaps at another time. Tonight, however, I can think only of my son.”

  With a polite tilt of his head, Salvatore conceded. “Yes, then. Let us find this boy first. Then maybe an adventure, and,” he looked about as though he would see Nicolette in a hidden space, “where is that lovely bride of yours?”

  This appeared to almost amuse Ravan, and as if on cue, Nicolette’s gowns showed on the steps behind Ravan. He extended a hand to assist her as she descended the stairs.

  Speaking to the shipmen, Ravan introduced her. “My wife, Nicolette.”

  Most of the crew had not had the opportunity to experience the presence of Nicolette first hand, and so this was a curious moment. She did almost just as her husband had done, pausing to give each present a thorough evaluation. The electricity in the air seemed to rise, and for most present, was very pleasant.

  “There she is!” Salvatore exclaimed and rose to bow deeply, sweeping his arm again to nothing, really.

  Ravan’s expression darkened somewhat, but he said nothing.

  “My husband has already expressed appreciation for your efforts. You must know that my sentiment is the same.” She spoke softly to all present.

  Salvatore seized the opportunity to reply for all of them. “We are paid dearly, my lady, and eternally at your service because of it. But, much more endearing than your gold is your lovely presence.”

  Nicolette said no more only turned and disappeared as she slipped down the short hall to her room.

  “Join us?” Salvatore offered to Ravan. “Perhaps discuss our strategy?”

  “Keep the ship on a straight line. It is late, and there will be time enough to discuss strategy as we sail.” Ravan began to take his leave.

  “I would chase her too, given the choice of company,” Salvatore added hastily. “Please don’t rock my boat unnecessarily.”

  There were nearly audible gasps from Ravan’s men as their leader froze and glanced over his shoulder. He almost leisurely faced Salvatore, and the captain saw an expression yet unfamiliar to him.

  The smile faded from the Spaniard’s lips. “Oh, come now. You cannot be so grave as to not rejoice in a reunion with your bride. If you have reservations, allow me.”

  What occurred next was a flash of steel and fury as Ravan crossed the short expanse and drew his blade to Salvatore’s face. It might have even cut him, but the captain instantly drew two knives of his own, wickedly hooked and crossed, holding Ravan’s blade barely at bay.

  Ravan’s voice was a throaty hiss, his face only inches away as he leaned heavily on the Spaniard. Had he intended to kill him, it is likely he would have. His obvious intention had been just that, to make his intentions obvious.

  “Speak of Nicolette in such a way, think of her in such a way, and I will gut you. Know this before we go any farther, that it is my son for which I agonize, and all that we do—all that I do—will be with respect and with Risen’s best interests at heart.”

  The Spaniard appeared suddenly almost entirely sober, and he lowered his voice as he spoke to Ravan alone. “I needed to know,” Salvatore’s expression was nearly as dire, his blades crossed right before his nose, “that your quest was of the most serious in nature.”

  This, and perhaps the look on the captain’s face, gave Ravan pause. He eased up the smallest bit.

  Salvatore added, “We go to a land not fit for the likes of us, my friend. Ask me to place my men and ship in such a state of affairs, and I m
ust know that you do it with all sincerity.”

  “I will lay my life down for my son.”

  “And for my men? Would you do the same for them?”

  Scanning the faces of the men as before, Ravan saw something very different about them this time. Theirs were expressions of serious loyalty. These men evidently knew the gravity of the task ahead of them and, like Ravan’s men, were willing to follow a leader such as theirs into the worst of it.

  Stepping away from his intent, Ravan re-sheathed his sword. He stared at the Spaniard, a new respect showing in his demeanor. “I will.”

  Salvatore relaxed, his features easily animated with his dark skin and broad smile. But his eyes danced with an intelligent seriousness as he replied, “Good…for these men are my brothers and every bit as dear as kin to me.”

  Saying nothing, the mercenary only regarded the captain with a nod.

  “We are alike, then, and one with this quest?” Salvatore extended his hand.

  This was a good moment, a bringing together of the troops of men as one with a united mission. Ravan took the hand of his employ, and they shook heartily.

  Salvatore pulled him close and whispered into his ear. “Very well. I will follow you into hell, then. But…I still begrudge you whom you lay next to tonight. I cannot lie.”

  Ravan considered this strange captain and finally acknowledged him. “I have been in your position once. I would have killed the man to have her.”

  The captain’s eyes flew open at this. “But you did not?”

  “I didn’t have the chance…she did.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  †

  The dark-skinned boy came frequently enough, sneaking extra water and food to the degree that Risen would not suffer too greatly. It surprised him how, even with Sylvie gone, the boy’s loyalty remained, and it gave him a degree of hope. He believed the unusual child would find and minister to Sylvie as well and thought William had something to do with it.