The Execution (41 page)

Monsieur Cezanne wept at his son’s
pain. How had they allowed such a horrible thing to happen? He fell
to his knees beside his son. “D’ata, I’m so sorry! Please, let
me—”

“
No! I can’t leave her!
They’ll take her away again,” D’ata accused, untrusting. He
narrowed his eyes at them. “Get away from me or—or, I’ll kill you!
All of you!” He clutched Julianne’s lifeless body, willing them to
leave. There was the matter of her being so cold and wet that
needed tended to, and the red stain. Such an awful color—that
red.

Monsieur Cezanne wept softly,
swallowed heavily. “Son, you’ve been here three days; we’ll watch
her—We’ll take care of Julianne.”

It was Henri who knelt now, crippled
and bent. It had been a struggle for the twisted old man to make
the journey, but hearing of the trouble, he’d mounted a horse for
the first time in nearly fifteen years and had ridden nonstop to
the river's edge. He took D’ata’s hand in his own. Crouching, he
leaned his own withered head softly against the shoulder of his
young friend. “D’ata, I promise, we’ll take her home with us. We
won’t take her away again, ever.” He gently turned D’ata’s face
slowly up towards his own, his own weathered face kind and sincere.
“See? I have warm blankets here—we’ll take her home with us. I
promise.”

There was a spark of familiarity about
the one who spoke so kindly to him. D’ata searched the old eyes,
set deep into the craggy folds of skin, and asked, “Together? We
can stay together? They would accept this?”

Henri nodded. “They do son, as it
should have always been—they do. Come home, D’ata, and bring
Julianne.”

The river swept on, deep and muddy,
silently cementing its sad secret onto its bank for
eternity.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

†

The Dungeon: Three a.m.

D’ata stopped his narration, leaning
heavily against Ravan. It was as though a great weight had been
unburdened, to speak out loud of such a terrible thing.

The prisoner
sat as still as stone, afraid to disturb the tragedy that had just
presented itself to him. Now he knew.
As
he felt D’ata’s shoulders sag against him, h
e suddenly and intimately knew the grief that
was still so raw in his brother’s heart.
Secretly, he tried to count the years since Julianne
died...three? four?

A rat reached up to chew the old and
cracking leather boot on his right foot and the mercenary kicked at
the vermin, sending it scurrying away under the straw. “I don’t
know what to say...”

There was a long silence and Ravan
thought D’ata must have fallen to sleep.

But then his brother replied, “You
don’t have to say anything. It’s past now—it’s all right. I’m all
right. I am a priest again.” D’ata lied wearily.

The night paused, for a long and sad
span of time. Ravan swallowed heavily, wiping the wet from his eyes
so that they would not betray him. It was so much easier when pain
was his own. “I’m so sorry, D’ata,” was all that he
said.

It was the second time D’ata heard
Ravan say his name, and the sound was somehow comforting to him.
Sad, but oddly familiar, like the sound an autumn breeze makes as
it blows leaves from the trees—a melancholy sweetness, a voice of
things to come.

“
Thank you Ravan,” he
replied and turned towards his brother.

After a few quiet moments, Ravan
probed, “D’ata, I was wondering?”

“
Yes?”

“
Do you see in colors
now?” Ravan turned his head just slightly, to hear his brother's
whispered reply.

“
No...”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

†

Ravan left LanCoste to tend the shift
the next evening. Adorno was uncharacteristically quiet during the
tradeoff. He did not whine as he usually did about being guarded by
the ‘monster, hideous fool, cursed creation.’ He had many names for
LanCoste.

The giant had no feelings about the
verbal onslaught Adorno offered. It simply did not exist as a
weapon that might injure him. LanCoste would obey Duval. The
situation was appointed—no more, no less. He would do his job, then
if Duval wished, he would just as quickly kill him and think
nothing of it. Again, emotion did not factor into it.

LanCoste had no memory other than his
indenture to Duval. He did not dream, did not consider tomorrow,
and had no one that he called friend. Except recently, ever since
that day on the battlefield not so long ago. Something had happened
to him, since then. LanCoste frowned as he remembered that day in
battle, and he struggled to sort out a new and unfamiliar
feeling.

* * *

Ravan snapped the arrow off close to
the fletching. It had entered left, just below the scapula on the
giant’s back, piercing even the plated armor. Such was the deadly
nature of a long-bowman’s arrow.

Ravan had shot the enemy archer and
secured the battle before coming to LanCoste’s aid.

The archer who delivered the barb was
tall, for the arrow was long and weighty, indicating the man had an
arm to match it in length and strength. It pierced the vast expanse
of LanCoste’s chest all the way through.

By the time Ravan stepped next to him,
the giant knelt on one knee, his right elbow resting heavily upon
the other bent knee, head hanging, massive and loose. His wound was
mortal and he steeled himself for what was to come

Ravan stepped up behind him, drew a
sharp breath and snapped the arrow off close to the skin. Then, he
knelt in front of his wounded friend, the broken butt of the arrow
in his hand. The shaft and barb still protruded from high in the
giant’s chest.

“
Do you want me to—?”
Ravan asked a moment too late.

LanCoste grasped the arrow about the
shaft and drew if from himself before Ravan could finish his
sentence.

As the weapon left the giant’s body, a
gush of air and an alarming amount of frothy blood poured forth and
continued to gush with every breath he drew.

Ravan was alarmed to see the big man
slowly draw the arrow out, and was even more distressed as he
observed LanCoste’s struggle to breathe. Instinctively, he pulled
the chain-mail from the mercenary. Then, he pulled a knife from his
belt and swept it upwards, splitting LanCoste’s shift down the
front in one swift movement, stem to stern.

“
That was my best tunic,”
the giant managed.

It was an uncommon attempt at levity,
and Ravan may have been amused if he'd not been looking at the
lifeblood running so alarmingly from the arrow hole. “Shut up,”
Ravan said urgently. He probed the hole gently with his fingers,
observing the gush of air that sucked in whenever LanCoste drew a
breath and the subsequent spurt of bright frothy red, gushing as he
exhaled.

It was a disturbing amount of blood,
even for the size of the great man, and soon the ground they knelt
upon was red with it.

“
Something’s wrong,” Ravan
murmured as he continued to probe the hole.

“
Really?” LanCoste grunted
as he lifted his head to regard his friend.

Ravan glared briefly at the stoic and
rare stab at humor the giant displayed and noticed the cadaver blue
tint on the lips of his comrade.

The giant was weakening and struggling
even more to breathe.

LanCoste could now scarcely take a
breath, and was fading fast. Ravan grabbed from his saddle the food
pouch, pulling from it the salt pork brick. He quickly whittled a
narrow slab, using one piece for the hole in the front and one for
the hole in the back. Slapping a fatty salt patch over each hole,
he bound it securely against the giant’s torso with strips of the
already ripped tunic.

Ravan instinctively did the right
thing, without even realizing it...he sealed the wounds.

LanCoste swayed heavily, cyanosis
getting the best of him, and Ravan supported his friend, fearful
should the man go down he would never again rise.

Almost immediately, LanCoste steadied.
The seesaw breathing corrected itself and the blue faded subtly
from the man’s lips and massive fingertips.

Ravan murmured kindly, “Stay with me,
my friend. I won’t let harm come to you. You deserve the sun on
your back another day.”

Eyes closed, wretched head sagging
heavily, LanCoste heard Ravan, felt the steadying arm around his
shoulders, and was bewildered at the kindness.

Men feared the giant, even the other
mercenaries. His sheer size made him a formidable warrior and his
fearsome appearances and stonewalled stoicism effectively kept
others from becoming familiar with him. As a result, LanCoste was
isolated, a lone warrior—more so even than the other mercenaries.
He truly had no one.

An arrow through the chest was
strongly considered a terminal event. Others would have left a
mercenary where he fell with such an injury. Yet, Ravan patted him
gently on the shoulder and steadied him, whispering words of
encouragement and kindness. This stunned the giant more than the
injury ever could have.

After he recovered, LanCoste paid
closer attention to Ravan. He noticed, with an impassive
disengagement, how Ravan watched the other mercenaries, positioned
himself to aide in battle and defended a man down. It was uncommon,
the allegiance he displayed even to ones who had been unkind to
him. He also watched as Ravan forbid the harm of innocents, the
elderly, infirm, women and children.

LanCoste observed Ravan run a man
through for the rape of a woman after battle; one of Duval’s men
had committed the crime. Ravan launched the arrow, shot the man
through the back at fifty paces, causing the attacker to fall from
the girl.

The maiden knelt and exalted thanks
onto him, hands raised and head bowed.

Ravan turned and walked away, as
though not knowing what to say, offering no comment at
all.

None had ever spoken of the killing to
Duval. Death of another mercenary by the hand of one of Duval’s own
was forbidden, but no one exposed Ravan for the event. This meant
one of two things, allegiance—or fear.

On another occasion, LanCoste saw
Ravan sever the carotid of a man who had been crushed by his fallen
horse. The man lie paralyzed, twisted and bent, unable to move arms
or legs and struggling to breathe. The giant watched Ravan cradle
the man and speak softly, as he drew the blade sharply across his
neck, speaking in comforting whispers to him while the lifeblood
ran mercifully quick into Ravan’s lap.

Therefore, it was this evening, as
LanCoste took his place at watch, that he felt nothing as Adorno
tossed a single insult his way. Instead, his thoughts were of the
unlikely mercenary which fate had brought to him. He recalled again
the memory of Ravan saving his life and then struggled with a
notion that had haunted him more frequently as of late.

What to call him? Comrade, ally,
partner-in arms? What was this feeling he struggled with? He
wondered, was this his first and only—friend?

* * *

Ravan, on the other hand, had more
pressing feelings tonight, feelings of a different sort. He also
had other plans. He'd received more than a belly full of Adorno and
was tired of being the misguided weapon of others. He was finally
prepared to come to terms with his destiny. Ravan was no longer a
child, and with some thanks to Duval, he'd become stronger than
even he could have ever imagined.

No more could he carry the destiny of
others upon his shoulders. Ravan was ready to make another run—a
run for a life of his own. He was no longer the boy who’d fled the
Inn, stumbling through the cold forest, chased by men and hounds.
He was Ravan—mercenary, warrior, and harbinger of death. Most
significantly, however, he was now a man possessed of his own free
will.

It was time—time to make his stand, to
get away, and it would be a run like never before.

These were his thoughts as he
approached Nicolette’s room late this night. She'd made him realize
this over the past few months. Words, looks, a touch of her hand.
Even as her wedding approached it was she who’d changed
things.

The guards at her door looked
quizzically at each other as he approached.

His long dark hair free and wild, his
eyes murderous with fire, his heart full and ready to be damned, he
rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he strode purposefully
towards the door.

Glancing briefly at one another, the
guards instinctively backed away without saying a word.

Slamming the door open, he swept into
the room. She wasn’t there, but her window was open, the curtains
gently swaying in the frosty breeze. He stepped to the window and
stopped in his tracks when he saw her. She was standing on the
balcony railing four stories up, hands outstretched in the night’s
cool breeze as she gazed upward at the new full moon.

For a moment, he just stood frozen,
watching her. He could not tear his eyes from her. “Nicolette...”
his voice sounded strange to his own ears.