Risen

  Truthfully, if Yeorathe looked closely, Risen bore a striking resemblance to everything that a son of Ravan would be, but perhaps it was less evident because his current condition lent itself to the appearances of more of a street urchin.

  “He is,” the older boy reiterated. “Just ask him, and I know his father would pay a sincere ransom to have him back. I know he would.” What sort of favor Clovis thought he might gain from this small bit of gossip was uncertain.

  “A son,” Yeorathe murmured. “And what were the odds of that!” Suddenly, he seemed entirely pleased with himself.

  As though comprehending the intentions of the one-eyed commander, Odgar stepped in. “Nothing is changed. The boy will be sold in Toulon. It is business as usual.”

  There were murmurs amongst the men. There was another present, a soldier named Iwan. He was the same fellow who had first seen the children when he scrambled across the creek that fateful morning in the woods. Iwan sidled up to his leader. Not a big fellow, really, he pointed a bony finger at Risen.

  “It may be true. Look, he does fit the description of Ravan.” Then, more excited, “That one,” he gestured at Clovis, “might be right! There may be a fair ransom to be had for him!”

  Yeorathe twisted a finger in his beard as he studied Risen closely for perhaps the first time ever. Maybe he was reminded of an evening many years before, when he met the most harrowing foe of all in an inn, the day Modred fell. “Hmmm…ransom or not, it would be none that we could spend well, I would venture.”

  “What do you mean?” Iwan wondered.

  Having since ceased his struggle, Risen trembled, angered to his core and listening to the callous exchange regarding his fate. He tried to look over his shoulder, to see that Sylvie was unharmed after the scuffle.

  “Yes, you might effect a ransom, but you would be short-lived to spend it well.” Yeorathe dismissed the possibility as he faced Iwan. “Tor is undone; he underestimated the man, Ravan.” The general gestured to his other men. “Odgar speaks the truth! We are vanquished after the battle, seeking our damages in the sale of these captives.”

  Yeorathe indicated the slave children. “I have seen the whelp’s father, know what he is capable of. Yes, he would pay the ransom for the boy. But then, he would hunt us to his dying day until we were all dead.” He gestured dramatically. “No…our fortune remains with his sale.” His gaze fell on Risen. “And we will consign him as the son of a Nobleman. That will fetch a decent penny indeed, and Ravan will be none the wiser!”

  There was nervous laughter amongst the men as they all slowly realized the depth of their indiscretions for, at that very moment, Ravan was surely chasing after his son. And none of them had the slightest notion of how close he might be to catching them.

  “Is it true?” Odgar, snarling at the complication and demanded of Risen.

  “It is,” he said solemnly. “I am his son.”

  “And the bitch? Is she your sister?”

  Risen was instantly offended. When he failed to answer, someone—another soldier—struck him sharply between the shoulder blades. Down he went in the midst of them all. Regaining his footing, he faced them, hands tied in front of him.

  “No! She is not. She is…someone I…” He could hold any gaze but Sylvie’s just then. “…someone I meant to save.”

  Laughter again.

  “Then you will prove to us you are who you say you are,” Yeorathe demanded.

  “I don’t understand—” Risen began.

  “You will fight,” the general insisted and raised his arms up and down in an effort to incite agreement from the rest of their clan. There were cheers all around.

  This prompted a look of confusion from Risen. “Who?…but, why?”

  “Your accuser.” Yeorathe indicated with a flourish the older boy who first spilled the secret, gathering yet another round of applause from his men. Clovis was all at once uneasy at the prospect.

  Risen’s eyes narrowed. He was younger, and considerably outsized, and…he positively relished the thought of trouncing the traitor. Yes, he relished it very much.

  “Agreed,” he said outright.

  This was a surprise to the older youth. He’d obviously not bargained for the consequence of what he’d shared. “I don’t want to fight him; I was just telling you who he was, for…for your benefit.”

  “Face me. You wished for them to know who I am? Now you shall know without fail who I am.”

  “You will fight…to the death,” Yeorathe interrupted Risen.

  This was enough to cast a hush over everyone, and curiously, Odgar seemed not at all concerned with the certain loss of yet another one of his captive gains. Perhaps it was as it was for the rest of them. The blood sport of it simply took over.

  As frustrated as Risen was with the older boy's cowardice, having betrayed his father as he had, he was even more mortified with the absurd request. “I will not,” he said flatly. “Let us fight, but I refuse to fight to the death.”

  “Then this will be a short fight,” Yeorathe smirked and tossed a sword to Clovis.

  The boy picked the blade up from the dirt and sawed at it, severing his own bound hands. Then he smirked, swinging it back and forth as he advanced slowly on Risen. It appeared that, now that he was armed and his enemy was not, he was more willing to accept the terms of the fight—to the death. He slashed the air with the blade to cheers from the crowd. He was obviously empowered by the weapon in his hands.

  Risen lifted both hands, not yet accepting the sword that another soldier was holding out for him to take. He spoke to Clovis, tried to reason with him. “Don't do this. It is a mistake. Don't let them make something of you which you are not.”

  “What do you know of who I am? You, your castle, your noble family and name!” He snorted and swung the sword lazily back and forth in front of himself, crossing and flexing his arms as he did.

  He swiped the blade two-fisted in a wide circle, behind himself and over his head, as though he wielded an axe. His unfamiliarity with the weapon was fairly obvious, but he was like a rogue beast, simply dangerous for the brute effort of necessity. No one had any way of knowing what talent the smaller, younger child—Ravan’s son—might possess.

  Risen backed away from him. “If you wanted for something, you only needed to ask. You know my father would have helped you. This…” He motioned with tied hands to the jeering circle around them, shook his head at their captors. “…gets you nothing. It's only a game to them. Don’t you see? We’re the players. And we both lose.”

  “I didn't need anything. What I wanted is what you had, your life, your precious adoration, everything! The whole township thinks so highly of you! Like you’re something special!”

  “These things you wish for, you can have them! You just have to—”

  Yeorathe was evidently tired of the conversation between the boys. He motioned to one of his men, and the soldier hit Risen sharply in the small of his back with his fist, sending him sprawling toward his opponent.

  Clovis took the opportunity to advance on his prey. He swung the sword awkwardly, but Risen rolled to his side, barely dodging the overhand slice. Pushing himself to his feet, he skipped sideways in the circle the men had formed around them. He could see Sylvie behind them, still trussed to the stand of trees and with the other captives. She was struggling to stand.

  “Risen!” she called. “You must fight!”

  Clovis swung the sword again, clumsily, a wide sweeping blow at Risen's abdomen. Risen pulled his arms up and sucked his gut in, but the blade connected, leaving a shallow slice nearly eight inches long across his abdomen. It surprised him, the sting of it, and made the fight seem immediately real.

  Everything his father had taught him about fighting, everything Ravan had tried to instill in his young son regarding situations just such as this, came instantly to the forefront of his being. He was in danger and needed to defend himself, needed to survive.

  Risen had already been struck. He was already d
isobeying what he’d been taught. Then something, something instinctual surfaced, and largely because of simply who he was. He was Ravan’s son, and this was his first battle. Now, he didn't hesitate.

  As Clovis swung through, over correcting and spinning around with his back to his foe, Risen ran, jumped, and planted both feet into his shoulders sending the larger boy sprawling forward onto the ground. Risen took this chance to snatch the other sword—the one he was initially offered—from the soldier’s hand. He swept his wrists over and pulled them down the blade, deftly severing his own bonds.

  Running at Clovis, he closed the distance and struck the boy with the butt of his sword on the back of his head. He was not yet ready to impale another human being, so this seemed reasonable for now. He should have hit him harder.

  The older boy was faster than his size suggested. He flipped onto his back and kicked Risen, sending him flying backward. Up into the air he went and down hard onto the ground. He dropped his sword but, hearing his father’s words in his ears, scrambled to retrieve it.

  The blade was much too big for him, but he twisted, was up on one knee and able to feint Clovis’ next blow. Hopping swiftly to his feet, he surprised his opponent, parrying with an offensive set of moves that pushed the bigger boy back a few steps.

  There were appreciative calls from the crowd, and Clovis glanced nervously away.

  Pausing, Risen stepped sideways, falling into the perfect form that his father had taught him. Clasping the blade with both hands, he held it first vertical and close to his face. Then his stance changed, became wide, wider than his shoulders, and he took a long slow breath in and out, clearing his mind.

  He circled his opponent, extending the blade in a gesture toward Clovis’s throat. “You want this? Is this what you want?” Risen baited the boy. “You’re so much bigger, so much stronger. Go ahead. Show these men what you are made of, or prepare to die trying.”

  Clovis raged, stabbed clumsily at Risen with a straight on jab. Swinging his opponent's sword around and down, Risen trapped the blade, edge against the flat, and pinned the point of Clovis’ sword to the ground. He leapt in, closing the distance, and let go a knuckle punch to his enemy’s throat. It was enough to stagger his attacker considerably.

  Dropping his sword, hands to his larynx, Clovis’ eyes shot wide, his tongue protruding in a silent howl, but nothing came from his mouth. The boy could not get his breath. Risen, however, was not done with him. He backed the boy up, sword to his face.

  Clovis tripped and fell backwards, landing with a hard thud, his eyes pinched closed. When he opened them, he looked directly into the sword tip of the victor, inches from the end of his nose. Terror filled his eyes, he found his voice, and began to cry.

  “There is a reason you are not like me,” Risen sneered in a low voice. “You have the heart of a coward and will never be anything more.” With that Risen brought the sword up and sliced down hard, severing the boy's left ear cleanly from his head.

  Clovis howled and rolled over, clutching the bloody hole where his ear used to be. Risen ignored him, instead stabbing the severed ear with the tip of his sword before walking over and offering it to Yeorathe.

  “You want him dead? You will have to finish him yourself.” Risen threw the blade with the ear still attached into the dirt at his captor’s feet.

  Hushed silence. Slowly there were murmurs of approval from the gathered men, then applause and cheers. Yeorathe’s single eye narrowed as he studied the son of the man who’d destroyed Tor’s great army.

  “Silence,” he howled at his men. “He is no hero!”

  When it seemed Yeorathe would have issue with the outcome, Odgar intervened. “It is fair enough. The coward is undone.” He nodded at Clovis first, then indicated to William that he should take Risen back to the tree. The Englishman took him by the arm and steered the boy away, returning him to where Sylvie was tied.

  Risen thought the event over and was trembling with the aftermath of the emotional and physical effort he’d just endured. He was victorious, his first battle ever, won! His father would have been so proud of him, would surely have taken him into battle that first terrible day had he known he could fight so well!

  He was almost in good spirits as he approached Sylvie. Then he heard a squeal come from behind him. It sounded as though someone was butchering an animal. When he went to turn around, to see what the disturbance was, William diverted him, pushed his head back around.

  “Look on the girl you mean to save. There is nothing more to see from the battle you’ve won.”

  It was too late. Risen had glimpsed the demise of Clovis as Yeorathe took his wrath out on the defeated boy. It was a bad death, the first blows he dealt were not quite fatal, and Risen was mortified by the cruelty of it. He tore his eyes away, hoped that Sylvie did not see, and covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the cries that weakened behind him. He heard instead his father’s voice…

  “In your life, there is only one battle for you to lose, the one that will fell you. Then there are no more. So, that is a battle you must never face. Remember, when it is to the death, a bad victory is always better than a good defeat.”

  He did not see Odgar watch him as he retreated. The true leader of the band perhaps noticed for the first time the warrior in this particular captive. Yes, this was one worth more than all the others. This one could be sold to the Janissary. That night, Odgar checked Risen’s bindings himself.

  * * *

  Two nights later, they rode into Nevers, and Risen thought it a lifeline. No matter what their circumstances might be, they’d been forced to ride for five days straight with only short camps to rest the animals. He and Sylvie had been allowed very little respite, even at camp. Moreover, he was increasingly worried about her for, after the dreadful event with Clovis, she spoke less, and when she did, it was very pragmatic and almost calm. She also kept watch for him, seemed to wish to have Risen in her line of sight always.

  When the band of men marched into the small town with the child prisoners in tow, Risen thought how welcoming it might be to sleep somewhere other than the cold forest floor. He considered how he’d taken his warm bed for granted, had assumed it would always be there for him.

  It was not that his father had not made him endure cold nights and scarce resources at times, but home and his bed had always been waiting for him at the end of these adventures. It was just that he’d never really considered the possibility that the everyday comforts he took for granted might be finite. There were many things he wished he could say to his father now.

  He reflected on what his parents tried to teach him, tried to instill in him to grow his strength and his character. It was for a time like this, a time when he would have to pull on his cunning and will to survive…alone.

  Ravan and Nicolette must have known they might not always be there, and when the time came, would want their son to be able to defend himself. It made Risen wonder more deeply about his parents, wonder at the things they’d endured before he was born. He decided that if he survived this, he would try to pay greater attention, learn more of whom his parents really were.

  Now there was no guarantee of ever getting home, but Risen was fierce in his belief that somehow he could affect his own destiny. As it turned out, tonight there were no beds for the young captives. Even so, the straw loft of the livery was a welcome relief to the eternal damp and cold of the ground.

  “Here,” he murmured to Sylvie and pushed more of the straw into a mound. “We can sleep on this. It’ll be warm, and together we can gather our strength.”

  This time he did not remind her to remove the leg brace but went straight to the task himself, his hands swiftly undoing the buckles.

  “Why?” her voice was small.

  He paused, glanced about the small loft in confusion as he laid the brace aside. “Because, we need rest and…”

  “No. Tell me. Why do you care so much for me, care if I gather strength?” She was not somber only sin
cerely honest. “You are the one who must survive. You should not worry so much for me.”

  He was almost angry. “Sylvie!” He knelt by her and took her hands in his. “You cannot be like that! You cannot give up! We will both survive this. Do you hear me? Both of us!”

  She did something he quite did not expect. She reached up and touched his cheek, almost smiled as she did. “I want you to survive, Risen. Really, I do. But…I’m not sure that I want to anymore. This world is too cruel for me.”

  He choked back tears, looked away, pretended to focus on the other captives who were finding precious niches of their own for the night. His lips creased in frustration. Finally looking again at her face, his vision blurred through his emotions. “But…”

  She waited, beautiful and poised, her pale eyes so very patient. She was always like that, so eternally patient.

  “Risen,” she said, nearly smiling, “it is all right. I have lost too much, don’t you see? You worry so much when God simply may have another plan for me.” When his expression was unchanged, she pressed him. “What? What is it?”

  He forced himself to stifle his grief, glanced away then back at her. “Sylvie…” He swallowed hard. “…I love you.”

  That brought a look of mild surprise and then composure to her face. “Risen, of course you do, and I love you too, but—”

  “No, not like that.” He stopped her with a slice of his hand, then he took her hand from his face and squeezed, fortifying himself. “Sylvie, I am in love with you. I love you. Don’t you see?”

  Her eyes widened even more, and Risen thought she seemed pleased, a soft smile nearly crossing her lips. He added, before she could say anything, “I have been in love with you for…for a long time.” Looking away, he murmured, “I’ve just not had the courage to tell you until now. But…I cannot imagine life without you.”