The Execution (18 page)

After a while, he heard the bees
again. No, wait—it wasn’t bees, it was human voices from far away.
Oh, yes. They were droning, but definitely voices.

For a long while, he just listened as
the faraway people came and went, slowly getting closer and closer.
Soon he was able to pick out the variable timbres, men and women.
No, just one woman. He focused on the sound of the woman’s voice.
It was familiar somehow, and comforting, but agitated. ‘Why would
they be arguing in heaven?’ He heard the deep voices of several
men.

One said. “Monsieur Duval, he’s coming
awake.”

Conscious awareness slammed against
Ravan like a tidal wave. Suddenly and violently, he was aware of
his horrible reality, that he was not dead. He breathed in deeply
and coughed. This was unfortunate for his broken ribs grated one
upon the other and his eyes flew open with the terrible pain. He
gasped, as much from realization of his circumstances as from the
agony. But, oh, he had never felt such pain! It hurt so much just
to breathe and for the first time in his life, he believed pain
could kill him and that he would die from it.

For a few awful moments, he thought he
might pass out and suffocate before he could get his breath. Tears
ran from the corners of his eyes. Even more painful than his broken
ribs was the terrible disappointment that smothered him. He tried
to lift his head from the pillow, tried to focus on the figures in
the room. Slowly, the familiar shape of the Fat Wife came loosely
into view. He struggled to push himself up on one elbow, struggled
to speak to her, only to glimpse her leaving the room.

He was instantly afraid for her,
afraid she might be implicated in his flight. Even so, it was a
relief to see her, to know she was close by.

Another man, one he had not noticed
standing off his blind side to the left, shoved him roughly
backwards down onto the bed, “Stay put you little bastard, or
I’ll—”

“
Unhand him, Pierre.” The
voice giving the order was unfamiliar.

“
Yes, Monsieur, as you
wish.” Pierre Steele, complete with resplendent purple wound across
his nose and face, snorted and stepped away.

It was agony to be pushed so roughly
back upon the bed, but is served to make Ravan more acutely aware
of his surroundings. He was back at the Inn.

He tried to assess his body for the
multiple origins of pain. First and foremost was the excruciating
pain in his chest. This was what kept him from taking a deep
breath, and from the terrible grating sound, he knew his ribs must
be broken. He recalled the same horrible sound when the deer he
killed had fallen down a small ravine. As he had heaved the carcass
over, it made the same awful bone against broken bone sound. When
he gutted the beast, he’d seen the jagged fractures of the
ribs.

Groaning, he became aware that his
shirt was gone, his chest bound tightly with cotton sheeting. He
reached up; the ring on the silver chain was still there. He
breathed an inaudible sigh, relieved that they had not taken it.
His left eye was swollen shut and a bandage pulled at his eyebrow.
His lower lip was swollen and he tested his front, lower teeth with
his tongue. They were loose in the sockets.

His right thigh ached and as he tried
to flex the muscle, a searing pain shot through it. He could feel a
bulky bandage there as well. Abandoning the fruitless efforts of
movement, he finally lay back, helpless. Even the sheets scraped
coarse and painful against his skin and the room seemed much too
warm.

There were countless smaller scrapes
and bruises that he didn’t notice for the pain of the more serious
ones. He thought briefly of the orphanage, wishing he was curled up
next to the stove, listening to stories while his body healed. The
Old One and his daughters would have taken good care of
him.

He abruptly abandoned the luxury of
this memory and returned his thoughts to the perilous present. He
needed to get his senses about himself and he ignored Pierre, still
standing to the left of the bed. He would deal with that bastard
later.

Struggling to push himself up onto one
elbow, he tried to focus on the face of the man who had spoken
last. “Duval—I assume,” he murmured raggedly as he fought to
compose himself.

“
You assume right.” It was
the same staggering, deadly voice he’d heard moments before, as
though an unspeakable creature was whispering. It continued, “Such
a bright young killer you are.”

For the first time, Ravan perceived
the wickedness that the man embodied. He braced visibly, forcing
himself to sit almost upright. His instinct told him he was in a
grave situation with this new stranger. Blinking back tears at the
agony that wracked his body, he gasped, working to control any
waver in his voice. “I am no killer.” He knew this was not entirely
true. He did intend, in Pierre Steele’s case, to make an
exception.

Duval grinned and his lips pulled back
into a snarl that surrounded those unusually small, and
staggeringly crooked, teeth. “Oh, but you will be—when I tell you
to.” He smoothed his thinning red hair over his scalp. A broad man
who appeared taller than he really was, Duval had the appearance of
an educated farm boy, a refined farrier. There was something brutal
about his eyes, though—something horrible and mercilessly pale,
with peppercorn pupils that were abnormally pinpoint in the light
of the room. His demeanor was guarded with his arms folded across
his chest.

Ravan struggled unsuccessfully to
swing his legs out of the bed, facing Duval’s newest strong-arm,
the towering Pierre. “To hell with you,” he said flatly.

Pierre took offense to the comment and
backhanded the young prisoner, sending him across the bed where he
threatened to tumble off the other side onto the wood plank
floor.

Ravan’s head exploded with brilliant
sparks of light and a shooting pain erupted in his left temple.
Fresh blood stained the bandage around his head, above the eye,
turning the crisp cotton a bright crimson. Blood dripped lazily
down his left cheek. He gasped as the movement mercilessly
assaulted his ribs, cruelly snatching the breath from him again. He
lie there, unable to move, his eyes glazed over with pain and
gasping like a dying fish. His vision faded and he was on the verge
of passing out again.

Duval ambled casually to the other
side of the bed and caught Ravan before he tumbled full out of the
bed. He lifted the young man back up and eased him gently back onto
the pillow. It was an oddly kind gesture, given the circumstances,
and belied the man’s true intent. He then purposefully, almost
gently, straightened the bed sheets as the boy blinked blindly up
at him, trying to regain his senses.

“
Ravan,” Duval dusted his
hands and walked slowly away. “I know your kind. I know you will
fight me and I have played this game before, you see.”

“
I’ll never work for you,”
Ravan choked on the words, coughing, fighting to maintain
wakefulness. He felt blood in his throat and his head pounded a
steady, crashing, wavelike rhythm, his eyes throbbing with each
pulse. The bandage on his head was now too tight and a wave of
nausea washed over him. He struggled unsuccessfully to push himself
further up in the bed, gasping with the effort.

“
Not ‘work’ for me, Ravan?
You ‘belong’ to me.” Duval turned, looked at the prisoner and
grinned, a broad, flat, two-dimensional grin—horrible, like the
rest of him. “You see, there is a difference.” Duval looked at the
ceiling, gesturing gallantly with his hands. “I bought you. I own
you!” He laughed outright and allowed his eyes to rest again on
Ravan, all humor dreadfully absent. “You will do as I say, or
else—”

“
Or else you can rot in
hell,” Ravan interrupted, his voice ragged, his body tensing,
preparing to endure Pierre’s forthcoming attack.

Duval motioned the man to leave the
younger one be.

It occurred to Ravan that his boots,
leggings, and precious knife were missing. He quickly scanned the
room for them. There were no indications of either his clothing or
his knife. The clothes? Who needs them—but the knife? He would kill
the thief who took it.

Duval continued as though he hadn’t
heard the boy.

“
You see, Ravan, I know
you would choose to die fighting me. And we have already observed
that, have we not? That is good, though ultimately useless to me.
But—” he paused, waiting until he had Ravan’s full
attention.

“
Are you prepared to watch
others die because you fight me?” Duval took a seat, opposite his
new possession. He folded his hands across his lap, fingers
interlaced as though he relished this moment. “Because, it would
take a monster to make such a decision as that.”

“
The hell with you! I have
no one—” Ravan started.

“
Don’t you?” Duval tapped
his fingertips lightly together, obviating his mirth. He seemed to
enjoy the game he was playing, but was horribly inadequate at
sustaining it for any significant amount of time. “I suppose the
Innkeeper’s wife means nothing to you?” Duval watched as
comprehension settled over his captive like a smothering wet
blanket. “Or, the old man at the orphanage, and his daughters,
or...” he chuckled, carefully emphasizing his next words, “those
miserable, godforsaken creatures—the orphans?”

Bile rose in the back of Ravan's
throat, and he became dizzy.

“
I’ll kill them Ravan, one
by one—every last pathetic soul. And I’ll do it slowly…painfully,
and I will let you watch.” Duval could not seem to contain himself
and laughed outright at the splendor of his game.

Growing faint, Ravan's vision swam and
Duval’s form faded from the outside in. The last thing he saw was
the wide face and those pinpoint, predator eyes.

* * *

When Ravan next awoke, it was
nightfall. His body tormented him again as consciousness assaulted
him, but it was good to feel alive, even with pain. He was aware of
someone changing the dressing on his head.

As the vision in his right eye slowly
cleared, he squinted and saw the Fat Wife tending his wounds. He
tried to focus on her face, but the task was too much and he closed
his eyes as a wave of nausea swept over him. He lay still, allowing
her to minister to him. Finally, he murmured, “What
happened?”

She startled, as though unaware that
Ravan had awakened, “Child, you fell—from a cliff.” She wrung out
the rag she was using and dabbed again at the laceration. “Pierre,
that monster, has broken the wound above your eye open again. It’s
quite a miracle that you are even alive, Ravan! You’ve been badly
hurt, though. Now lie quiet and rest while I fix these dressings,
then we’ll have a bite to eat, eh?” She tried to smile and reached
for dry linen.

“
Where is he?” Ravan took
her hand gently, stopping her task, and with great effort focused
on her sad face.

“
Who, child?”

“
Please, don’t try to
protect me—you only hurt me.” He released her hand.

She sighed, wringing the rag in her
hands. “Duval has gone into town for some supplies. He will be back
in the morning, I suppose.” She reached up, smearing bacon grease
onto the cut.

Ravan winced as salt met raw
flesh.

“
If we could only get you
better and strong enough, I could fix the cart and we could take
you somewhere else, somewhere safe.”

“
No! No, I can’t—I can’t
run.” Ravan blurted back at her. “He would hurt you—hurt everyone
that is important to me.” He grimaced and with an incredible
effort, sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He
splinted his ribs with one arm and took shallow breaths. His body
betrayed him, trembling unnaturally.

“
Ravan, you can’t just
live your life like he wants you to—on account of others,” she
pleaded with him.

“
I don’t intend to.” He
struggled to stand, but sat back down, quickly realizing the
futility of it. “I will play his game for now, then, when he does
not expect it...” He coughed and spat frothy blood into his palm
and wiped it onto the bed sheets. “...I will kill him.”

Her expression fell. Ravan saw it and
thought that perhaps she realized that Duval’s assessment was
partially true; he would kill if he needed to. But what of it? What
man wouldn’t? It was like war, was it not?

“
You must do me a favor,”
he asked.

“
What is it
child?”

“
I had a knife, it was in
my boot.” He looked about the room again, more thoroughly than he’d
been able to before.

She shook her head, “I’ll try to find
it, Ravan, but I haven’t seen such a thing about.”

“
It’s different.” He
reached out, steadying himself on her knee. “It has a shaft made of
antler horn and the blade is double edged.” He groaned.

She tried to steady him. “If I find
it, I’ll bring it to you dear.” She patted his hand
softly.

“
No, they’ll just take it
again. Find it for me and hide it somewhere they would not think to
look, somewhere only you know of. When the time comes, I will come
back for it.” He struggled again to stand, this time succeeding, if
only for a moment. The blood rushed to the wound in his thigh and
forced him to collapse back onto the bed. He finally accepted that
he was going nowhere.