Risen

by Sharon Cramer

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I have some nuts. I saved them from when we were on the boat. And you should drink some water.”

  She smiled, and her eyes sparkled. That, he decided, hadn’t changed at all. The brightness of her eyes was something that would never change, no matter what.

  “Let’s share,” she said sweetly and, with modest effort, pushed herself up to sitting. The leg brace was long gone, having been forgotten on the ship.

  They nibbled the nuts together, and Risen watched and waited as the festivities amongst the men continued to grow as the evening wore on. His eyes became heavy and, somehow, he dozed, his arms around her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  †

  When Risen awoke, it was a beautiful evening. The sky was a pale blue, and the moon, full and yellow, peeked from between the stand of trees like earth’s lazy lover. He thought it was much larger than he’d ever before seen it, almost as though it had rolled onto the edge of the distant woods and was coming for them. It occurred to him that it’d been nearly two months since he last saw the moon.

  Kicking more upright, he struggled to get his wits about himself. Tonight, he thought, would be the perfect night for them to orchestrate their escape, for Yeorathe, he was certain, would be drunk. So, when someone else other than the Englishman came for him, he was confused.

  At first, Risen refused to go—refused to leave Sylvie alone on the edge of the encampment. “Send the Englishman.” He held his ground. “Send William.”

  The man, a wiry, mid-aged fellow with more gum than teeth, laughed heartily. “We’re just having some fun with you. You’ll be back to your little bitch before you know it.”

  This set Risen entirely on edge, and he was just about to refuse a second time when the man chuckled as though sharing a great secret, “We know your weakness. Oh yes, we know. We’ve watched you today. The girl—she’s your Achilles’ heel.”

  The man grabbed at his own crotch and yanked, his gaping maw as awful as anything Risen had ever seen. To make matters more sobering, the man drew in a flash one of those peculiar swords and leveled it at Sylvie’s face. He stabbed at her, alarmingly close as he exclaimed to them both, much more soberly than Risen believed he really was, “Resist me, and I’ll stick her good! Take those pretty eyes out of her head. I’ll do it!”

  Risen feared the man would injure her with his carelessness. “Stop! Please—I will give you no trouble. Just…please, lower the blade.”

  This was not, however, what he thought. William or no William, he intended to flay this man to his very heart, if the opportunity arose. His blade had remained in his boot long enough, and he decided that he and Sylvie were too long gone from the lovely French countryside. It was time to make a move—to go home or die trying.

  But though his intentions were strong, he would not yet have his knife, for he remained bound as the man dragged him closer to the fire to join the group who were gathered around it in varying stages of relaxation. They laughed heartily, calling him the Janissary pup. He’d never heard these words before and wasn’t at all sure what was meant by it. He looked for William, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “What do you want from—” he began to ask, but Yeorathe silenced him with a tremendous bellow.

  “Be still slave!” He drew a fist across his slobbering lips before adding, “You will speak when I wish you to!” He was reclined and raised himself onto one elbow as Risen’s bonds were released.

  The boy rubbed his wrists, calloused from days on end of bondage. The men pressed him closer to the fire, forming a loose semicircle around him.

  Yeorathe continued as though preaching to his congregation. “They say you are worth more than the others.” His wrist flopped in a disjointed fashion as he went on. “They told me that you are special, that you have the heart to be Devsirme.”

  “I don’t know what that—”

  Before he could finish, Risen was struck from behind by the man with the gaping maw, the one who “knew his secret.” Stumbling forward, he fell. His hands nearly landed in the fire, and a stray coal burned into his right palm. Scrambling backward, he struggled to regain his feet but was kicked on the back of the knees by the same lout before he could fully regain his balance.

  Again, down he went, this time to his knees, and there he stayed—eyes wide, scanning the men around him. Did they mean to kill him? Is that what Devsirme was—a ridiculous ritual of a young man’s death?

  One of the men called, “Let us see the wit of such a smart lad as this! Let us see his cunning!”

  “Yes! A test, a test!” another called in excitement. “Let us put him through his paces before he is sold!”

  There was a general amount of laughter and animated discussion that took place around the boy. The merriment faded, and Yeorathe pushed himself to sitting.

  “I’ve disputed your worth, though the Englishman insists you will fetch better coin than the others did. I will be rid of you, but first…” He indicated behind Risen.

  Risen struggled a second time and regained his feet, craning to see behind himself. There, being half led and half dragged through the cluster of men and into the inner circle…was Sylvie.

  “No!” Risen called out then repeated himself. “No, don’t involve her! This test is for me alone!”

  “Ah, but it isn’t for only you.” Yeorathe pushed his massive frame to one knee. “You see, it was you who bid us bring the child with us. Now, her fate is woven ever so magnificently into yours.”

  Sylvie was silent, but Risen thought he’d never seen her look so pale. Her eyes were enormous in her face, her cheeks drawn, lips grey and grimly set. Her blond hair hung in heavy ringlets about her face and almost appeared to be too much for her to carry. She was the very definition of a waif, and Risen suddenly believed that she was dying.

  “Leave her be,” he hissed. “There is nothing to gain from harming her except that I will kill you.”

  “And how would you orchestrate that?” Yeorathe howled at the notion of it. Then he became much more serious, the humor gone from his eyes. “Tell me, noble one, how you mean to control your destiny now.” His countenance was evil; blackness was all there was where he should have a heart—of this Risen was certain.

  “A man might look for a day, even years, to discover a reason to live, but give him an ounce of necessity, and he can drag an enemy with him to death’s door in a single step,” Risen quoted his father.

  Yeorathe scowled, and he seemed much less amiable than he was moments before. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “My father,” he said coldly.

  “Your father was a fool.”

  Risen knew, without doubt, that Yeorathe was a monster. At long last he’d identified the beast and knew exactly what to do. Consequently, he stood his full height in front of the wretched man and did just as Ravan taught him to do. He took his own fear, turned it first into his heart and then into his head, and used it instead to discover the monster’s weakness.

  He could see it now, see it awash on Yeorathe’s face. It was complacency—foolish, ignorant pride. His power was a myth—a trick—and these men were ignorant enough to be fooled by him. Risen knew then that to defeat him he must simply expose the fraud. And now, with all eyes on him, it was his last chance.

  “My father is Lord of the Ravan Dynasty and has sent your troops running, scattered like the dogs that they are. And…he is coming for you, for all of you.” Risen ran his gaze over cluster of men.

  There were a few chuckles but, halfhearted, they faded away.

  “There is a reason no one can defeat my father, have you not heard?” Risen was utterly sincere, and it was working. “He is not mortal. Cross him and you will see the face of death. But if you chance to survive,” he indicated Yeorathe now, “as this one did, do not sleep with both eyes shut, for he is a bloodthirsty phantom. He will find you when you least expect it, and it will be a very bad death.”

  Risen meant to rattle the men, draw Yeorathe closer to himself.
Then…he meant to kill him with his blade—monster killer. The blade finally had its name and begged to be used.

  Yeorathe was immediately on his feet.

  There was a great deal of confusion, and one of the men asked, “What is this magic the boy speaks of?” He looked at Yeorathe but pointed to Risen. “What evil do you draw to us?”

  “He lies!” the toothless one exclaimed for all of them. “He is a liar; I can see it!”

  Perhaps Yeorathe remembered the night at the inn when the mysterious, dark mercenary had so easily left them undone. The wicked man’s countenance sobered even more.

  Risen was fearless. “You have invited death to visit you; God have mercy on your souls.”

  What he could not see was how extraordinarily he looked like his father just then. He could not know how much he resembled a fourteen year old boy who’d leapt from an inn many years before, giving an entire band of men the chase of a lifetime through a dark, winter forest.

  One of the men—an obvious warrior—stepped forward. “Who are you? I must know.”

  Yeorathe began to object, but the man held up a hand to the one-eyed barbarian. “You will have your way, but first I must know of the infidel you’ve brought to our land.”

  The others mumbled their agreement, and Yeorathe was forced to hold his tongue as Risen spoke.

  “My father was condemned to die in prison. On the night before his execution, he was visited by a man—a holy man.”

  The men were silent as they listened intently and leaned in as Risen continued his tale.

  “He’d only ever seen this man once before, on the day of his birth.”

  An urgency overtook the ranks as they hearkened to the quiet narration of the boy.

  “Enough of this!” Yeorathe commanded. Then, to Risen, “Your tale makes no sense, and I weary of it!”

  Ignoring his threat, for Risen was fast chipping away at the monster’s complacency, he continued. “The holy man was my father’s brother—his twin. After only one night together, after sharing their tales with each other, my uncle went to the gallows in my father’s stead.”

  Gasps and murmurs rose amongst the men, but Risen went on before he could be interrupted. “It was a perfect sacrifice. My father was a free man. He believes my face to be that of his brother’s.”

  “You mean to say?” one of the soldier’s exclaimed.

  “I am my uncle risen…I am Risen. It is my name and who I am.” He stared at Yeorathe alone. “It is destiny.”

  By now, dusk was fallen, and the firelight lit the stand of trees in an eery way, the gnarled trunks trussing the canopies like a legion of timbered warriors. There was an awkward silence amongst the men, almost a reverence, which only seemed to infuriate Yeorathe more. His pride stung at him, bit at his heels. His control was fracturing, and he sneered, “But where is your great father now?”

  “Kill me, sell me, do your worst. It will not matter. My father is fast approaching. You will never be free.” Risen’s eyes passed over all of them. “And he has condemned all of you.” He raised his hand to point a finger at Yeorathe.

  It seemed the men were of mixed feelings whether they should believe the prisoner or not. He was, after all, a foreigner on sacred soil. But was he not to be sold to the Janissary? Didn’t Yeorathe and the Englishman see something special about him, that he was worthy to die for the Sultan?

  Just then William rode up. He’d been on perimeter scout and was fairly surprised at the proceedings. “What is going on here? Why are the prisoners front and center?” He swung from his horse and strode up to Sylvie, removing her from the grasp of the man who held her.

  “Silence!” Yeorathe commanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, and he turned his anger on William. “You insult me, with your deceit and foreign tongue! You knew…” he seethed and took a step in William’s direction.

  “Knew? Knew what?” William spat back.

  “You knew the boy’s father would come for us! You knew that he was here. That is why you’ve so intently kept the boy alive! Why?” He began to draw his sword. “Do you wish Ravan to spare you? Have you bartered with him for your own profit? For your own life?” Yeorathe was advancing on Sylvie and William. “Have you bargained with his father?”

  The one-eyed madman was working himself into a substantial rage with his accusations, and the others were becoming increasingly stirred up as well. What’d started as a carefree evening on a happy path home was swiftly turning into something entirely different.

  William was fairly taken by surprise by the sudden accusations and focused instead on Risen. “You told them? You told them of your father?” His expression begged the boy to follow the ruse.

  Risen understood but said nothing.

  “And the girl? Is she important?” one of the men interrupted urgently.

  “She…” William looked at Sylvie. “…she is the girl the boy loves. Harm her and you will as sincerely have harmed his son.”

  Sylvie held Risen’s gaze, reached a thin hand toward him.

  All of these proceedings were enough to create a significant stir amongst everyone present. The dreaded mercenary who’d thoroughly trounced an army, who’d sent Yeorathe seven sails to the wind, was pursuing them!

  Things were going bad very fast. The horde regarded William as they’d not done before, with his pale eyes and his light hair. He was English—a Christian—and swiftly becoming their enemy. He was a foreigner on their land, an infidel!

  Paranoia wrapped around the band of men in a very peculiar way, in a fashion that could only happen to truly wretched souls. Their dispositions writhed like a nest of snakes, snapping at their own tails. Sylvie was yanked from William’s grasp as several men wrestled her away from him and held him at bay.

  Risen yelled, “He lies! William did not know! I’ve told no one until tonight, I swear!”

  Yeorathe considered this carefully before approaching the boy. “You will be tested to see if you speak the truth. Then, you will be sold…if you survive.”

  The children were both dragged to the edge of the fire and forced to kneel next to one another. William was held behind Yeorathe, standing and held at saber point. He continued to appeal to the monster and the other men.

  “Don’t do this! It is a mistake! You invite God’s wrath if you harm them!”

  His was a tirade of reason but seemed to gain no attentions from the rest. His cause was lost, and he was largely ignored.

  Yeorathe, in the meantime, was setting into play the ‘test’ and was fast gaining approval from the mob. He gestured dramatically.

  “We will see if he is indeed the son of the legend, Ravan!”

  Into the fire he stabbed two blades. When they smoked with the heat, he drew one from the fire and held it up for all to observe. The tip glowed a brilliant orange. He spun slowly in a theatrical display for all to see.

  The children were pulled to their feet. Approaching Risen, Yeorathe explained the terms of the test, giving him an option. “Into your eye with it, or into hers. If you have the courage to do this, perhaps your father is as great as you claim, and we should free you.”

  There were murmurs of agreement, and this bolstered Yeorathe. “Choose, or all will know that your epic tale is simply a myth, a fabrication of lies.” He was evidently convinced Risen was unable to follow through and tossed the blade onto the ground at his feet.

  “No!” William commanded from behind Yeorathe. The guards had loosened their grips on him, but he remained at saber point. “This is insanity; you hurt yourselves if you harm him! I can promise you this!”

  His argument remained one of futility. There was just enough alcohol and psychosis amongst the men to make the test much more reasonable than anything the Englishman might toss their direction.

  As Risen neglected to pick up the blade, Yeorathe drew from the fire the other blade.

  “Blind her! Blind her now, or I will take her hand,” he snarled.

  Grasping Sylvie, Yeorathe pulled her to the
center of the group of men, directly in front of Risen. Holding her arm outstretched, he raised the weapon above his shoulder, prepared to slice down at any moment.

  “Blind her, I say. Pick up your blade, or I will cut her to pieces as you watch!”

  “No!” Risen cried, but when it appeared Yeorathe would harm her, “Please,” he begged. “I will, just…” He appealed to Yeorathe as though broken, allowing his shoulders to sag and his head to fall. “I will. Just…just let me….”

  He reached for the saber as though he would do as he was told. It lay on the ground by his right foot. Down his hand went, down toward his right knee. Then, in one swift move, he had not the saber but his own knife in his hand. It was just as his father had said it would be. The knife was his friend, his first in command, and much more familiar than the saber that lay at his feet. He lunged for Yeorathe.

  Risen might have mortally wounded the man except for what happened next. Yeorathe meant to bring his blade down just then, to take Sylvie’s arm from her, but William launched himself from behind the awful leader, taking a severe cut to the arm from one of the men as he did.

  He leapt just as Risen did and, not a small man himself, collided full into Yeorathe, knocking Sylvie and Risen aside in the process. Risen’s blade connected with Yeorathe, swept across the wrist of the monster, but the boy dropped his blade in the skirmish.

  William took the Turk down hard. Into the fire they crashed and rolled, kicking cinder and flame everywhere as they fought. Mayhem ensued.

  The man with the gaping maw went for Risen but was surprised to be met by a boy wielding a sword. Risen had snatched up the one that lay on the ground. Another man surprised Risen, however, catching him up from behind, encircling his arms about his waist.

  The man cheered. “I have him!” and lifted the boy off the ground.

  Two fisted, Risen swung the unfamiliar blade in a wide arc, right to left, flipping his wrist and pulling the weapon just over his own head as he completed the tight circle. He dropped his chin as he did so he would miss himself as the blade passed.