But Ravan was a mercenary without a significant weapon, and he was particularly outnumbered. There was no way to remedy that now, and it would not be the first time he was outnumbered and outweaponed. Instead, he drew from deep within himself his greatest weapon of all—his cunning.
Briefly, he was reminded of a long night’s flight in the woods when he was only a boy. It’d been horrible and magnificent all at once, what he did to the band of men and what they’d eventually done to him. This caused the hair to rise on his arms and the back of his neck. His breathing deepened, his heart beat faster, and his blood coursed stronger through his veins. If he’d been able to see his own face, he’d have seen his pupils dilate. All the while, he studied the men at the bar.
Tor and his men had focused their attention on their second round of drinks. They were obviously in high spirits and, for the most part, oblivious of all others in the room. That was the first thing Ravan noticed, and he thought their recklessness branded them as opportunists, not elite warriors. Even so, they were formidable, for they had strength, weapons, and numbers.
A few more travelers took the opportunity to leave. The fire was inviting, but the mood no longer was, and so they found their rooms or the stables if they could afford no better. Few remained, only a couple clusters of men in small groups. No one was immune to the disposition of the four who invaded the serenity of the small inn. They were familiar in a bad way, more a part of the mantle that France recently wore. It was an unhappy state of the times, and these men were just more of the destruction that was inevitable. Wait long enough and it would land bitterly on the tongue of any who lived in this world.
Ravan nearly closed his eyes, dark slits in the shadows. He peered sideways at the four, studying them further as he took another sip of his second brandy of the night.
The one-eyed man sported a double handed Norse axe, and it was a brutal weapon. It reminded Ravan of a friend he’d known some time ago, a warrior he’d seen cleave a man in two with a weapon similar to this one, only much larger. No, this man was not near the man the giant had been. For some reason, the very presence of this one insulted the memory of LanCoste, and Ravan’s mood blackened.
Tor, the leader—although Ravan could not have known his name—carried a halberd as did the weaker of the four men, the one who took up a spot directly at the leader’s elbow and resembled him a great deal, only thinner. A brother, Ravan thought, and less sound than the others. This man also had a sword at his side.
The youngest had laughed the loudest and swung his drink over his head before partaking. His eyes carried the greatest vitality of the four, but he appeared subservient to the wishes of the others, parroting them somewhat. He had strapped at his waist a sword, nearly too long for his arm, but more significantly, on his back was a longbow.
Ravan squinted to see the detail of this weapon. It was a good bow, better than average, and had a generous quiver of respectable arrows strapped beside it. This interested him the most—this and the fact that all of the men chose not to dismantle their weapons in the tavern.
These men were infantry, likely seasoned, but not French. Their armors were above average and well worn. They were hardened and had the stench to prove it. Even from the distance, Ravan could smell it. He was not offended by it, though. It was simply familiar to him and an indication of how brutal these men could be should they wish.
The kitchen door swung open again, and in swept the girl—a generous slice of cake balanced on a wooden plate and hiding the stump of her arm. She seemed nervous as she set the plate down, and Ravan thanked her with just his eyes before again scrutinizing the four at the bar.
This set into motion a curious chain of events, for the one-eyed general noticed and seemed to take offense at being appraised by the thinner man sitting mostly hidden in the shadows.
Yeorathe swung his girth to face the stranger but focused his comment to the girl. “Come here. I need food and will have that, or you will return to me the eye you’ve stolen.” It appeared he would step toward her if she did not comply.
“I’ll fetch plates now,” she said swiftly and ducked as though she might return to the kitchen.
“No, you won’t,” the big man shot and stepped into her path, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there. This surprised him, certainly not in horror, for he’d likely seen amputations before, but in mere surprise.
“The wench! She is handless as well! How will the one handed bitch gratify me now?” He laughed heartily, but there was no smile on the face of one as cruel as he. His lips pulled into a loathsome leer, revealing an appalling collection of teeth. “With her mouth, she will…” he said coarsely, and reached for the girl’s good arm.
Ravan was straight out of his chair. It was not his nature to do so, but he laid his hand on the general’s shoulder and held him firmly at bay. “She was just going for my dinner. You can toy with her later, but I wish to eat.” As he spoke, with his other arm he swept the girl behind himself and reached smoothly for the knife at his waist.
The general hadn’t seen the gesture, subtle as it was, but chose to look Ravan up and down. Apparently deciding the thinner man was no real threat, he said simply, “And with what will you pay, for your dinner I mean, since your coin will now buy mine?” The man laughed, drew his sword, and stepped back, leveling the sword at the only-four-days-freed mercenary.
“Go,” Ravan shot over his shoulder to the girl, indicating the kitchen door.
“No!” the general commanded and swung his sword to block her. “The girl stays. I am not done with her, nor will I be for some time!”
Yeorathe glanced at the man behind the bar but was answered with only a shrug. Obviously the inn owner had no vested loyalty to the handless waif that worked his establishment. The warrior would have no objection from him, and so Yeorathe evidently believed he would have his sport with her as he wished.
By now, the other three men were gathering around their comrade. Tor stood wordless and with arms crossed on his chest, seemingly only mildly curious, almost bored of how his general would pillage his intended spoils of this singular man and the handless maiden who was cowering behind the stranger.
Modred edged his way forward, his youth pulling him foolishly closer to the front of the fray. As though from weary obligation, the fourth—the lame one—edged behind Tor, naturally protecting the leader’s flank.
“She is my sister and will get your food.” Ravan sneered as he shoved the girl toward the rear exit. “She is hideous and otherwise worthless. She should be of no other concern to you.”
“Sister or not, she will service me!” The one-eyed general’s intent was clearly obvious when he thrust his sword at her again, as though he would keep her from leaving the room. He spat at the girl, “I am road weary, and you will satisfy enough of what I intend to have tonight.” Yeorathe stepped toward Ravan, perhaps expecting him to retreat.
This was a poor move, for he could not know that even though the stranger was a solitary traveler, the mercenary he challenged had not only battle hardened experience and reflexes, he had the wits of a warrior—a supremely seasoned warrior and one used to surviving the worst battle had to offer. The four in front of him could not know this was Ravan, polished and honed by Duval, tempered by death, driven by a lifetime of cruelty. This mercenary had neither the patience nor the stomach for what the band of men intended, and it was to their peril that they challenged him now.
The fourth—the weariest one who resembled the leader—limped forward, his hand loosely removing his sword. Wounded though he was, he appeared to carry governance of the group, and spoke to Ravan on behalf of Tor.
“You will stand down and concede subservience. You shall also hand over the girl, for you are not only outnumbered, you are now subjugated. Your assets are henceforth ours. I command you, on your knees before Yeorathe.” He motioned with his sword that Ravan should kneel before the one-eyed lecher.
The brother of Tor evidently expected no argument from the
thin, dark stranger for his stance was almost casual. His mistake could not be more mortal. With a blinding flash, Ravan swept the blade across what he knew would be the most vulnerable part of the man’s arm, intending to straightaway disable him. The bladesmith’s talent displayed itself perfectly as the knife cut easily through the leather buckles that held the forearm plate to the upper arm. Into flesh the weapon drove, severing in one swipe the tendons and, more critically, the brachial artery.
Kenrick would rage briefly if he chose, but weakness would come for him in moments, and death would be his within minutes. The other three were, for and instant, distracted by the arc of blood that sprayed from the man’s arm.
Ravan knew he had only seconds, and he instinctively focused on the three that remained. The halberds and ax were a great concern, for he had no good defense against them. But as the weakest was injured, he stepped in, swooped up the man’s sword and spinning, pointed it at the youngest soldier.
“Do you wish to die tonight?” His voice held the cold promise of death, and it was enough to cause Modred to pause, eyes wide as he stared down the blade.
Ravan hissed over his shoulder to the girl, “Horse,” indicating she should be gone for the mare. The maiden disappeared through the back door as the other three men threw themselves at the mercenary. Ravan had only a second’s notice to block the rage bent upon him. He feinted the weight of the one-eyed general’s battle axe with the borrowed sword as he stumbled backward, away from them and toward the fire.
Tor raged to the front, infuriated by the mortal injury his brother had sustained. Sweeping his cup from the nearby table, Ravan splashed the full brandy into the face of their leader before heaving the table at all three of them. Turning, he reached the hearth in two long steps. Grasping the coal bucket, he swept it through the fire, and spinning, threw it—bucket, embers, and burning wood—at Tor as they charged around the overturned table.
Instantly, the brandy erupted on the man’s face, lighting his hair and beard ablaze. This was enough to give the other two further pause. The youngest was obviously thrown off that his father was on fire.
The mettle of the dark man who’d erupted like a demon from the shadowed corner of the room, disabling two of them in quick order, had surely not been what they expected. Even so, it was still two against one. Ravan took this moment to plunge for the stairs, pulling in his wake another table as he charged the steps three at a time. It wouldn’t be long before three men would be after him, albeit one burnt considerably.
Crashing through his door, he barred it swiftly and set to work. He could hear the commotion working its way up the stairs and down the hall as he swept up his longbow and arrows, heaved the window ajar, and tossed the sword and bow out. Then, dangling out the window himself, he let go and tumbled nearly ten feet to the ground.
The earth was slick with frost, and he slipped, falling heavily onto his back, the breath knocked hard from him as he did. Ravan was leaner than he normally liked to be and sucked wind as he groaned and rolled over. Trying to force himself to his knees, he reached for his bow, arrows, and sword.
Tor’s son was the first one to break into the room. The door bar was weak, and the young man’s strong shoulder broke through it easily. He ran to the window in time to pull an arrow and seat it on the rest. As he drew back, Ravan rolled and scrambled, desperately trying to get out of the man’s line of sight. But the arrow Modred launched cut Ravan at the flesh of his shoulder through and through.
Ravan was not even immediately aware that he’d been hit and, fortunately, it connected neither with bone nor tendon. He kicked, clambering farther out of range nearer to the side of the building, and struggled to his feet, girding himself at the waist and securing the sword and bow as he ran behind the inn for the stables.
There she was, drawing his steed from the barn with her only good hand, steadying the horse with the stump of the other arm as she whispered to the nervous mare.
“Whoa…there’s a good girl.” The woman’s one eye was tear filled and wide with fear as the mercenary sprinted up to her. She reached as though she would hand the reins to Ravan. “Here you go. She’s ready to—”
“Up you go,” he said simply and grasped the reins before reaching his other arm around her.
Hoisting her easily, he heaved the surprised girl up onto the back of the horse. He swung up behind her, and the mare reared, not accustomed to the weight of two on her back. Ravan drove his heels into her sides and pulled her head about, effectively putting the steed back onto the ground. Then he gave the horse her head, nearly running over a still smoldering Tor as they stampeded from the establishment grounds and out onto open road.
It wasn’t long before the three remaining were mounted and giving chase. Tor’s brother was already bled out and dead on the tavern floor, as Ravan had wished it. Before long, they had their horses, but the warriors were out matched for the mare ran frenzied, taken completely with her superior breeding, and covered ground much faster than the ones who trailed after her.
Even so, Ravan knew his horse, already fatigued from their long journey, would tire first with the weight of him and the girl. Consequently, he did a wise thing. He took his mount to higher ground, pressing her to climb while she still could. The knoll was only a mile or so away, and up, up they flew to the top of the hill and into a small stand of trees. He swung from the blowing horse, tossing the reins to the girl as he did.
“Hold her,” he commanded as he whipped his bow from his back.
The girl struggled to keep the mare from bolting away with her and began, “But, I don’t—”
“Silence!” Ravan hushed her as the maiden held the horse. The mercenary stood on the knoll, unmoving, squinting into the blackness from which they’d come. He listened intently until, in the distance, he heard the hooves of the galloping horses. Then, he could pick out the three men as they thundered up the long hill, following his trail. Evidently they’d not yet seen him.
Pulling an arrow and seating it on the guide, the mercenary rejoiced in the familiarity of what he would now do. He drew the longbow, narrowed his eyes and picked his target—the youngest one. Blood ran down his shoulder and arm, dripped from his fingertips from the wound the young longbowman had given him. His fingers were sticky upon the fletching of the arrow as he pulled the bow, as the arrow feathers brushed his cheek.
He would take this target first for, youngest though he was, he was the most deadly of the three simply for the skill he possessed. Then, the other two would have to catch him—chase him down to engage him further.
Taking a deep breath, Ravan exhaled slowly, allowing the urgency of the moment to sweep from him. This he knew; this was as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart. He picked his target, closed one eye, and let go.
The arrow soared, found its mark, and killed the young man straightaway. It was as it always was. The victim was moving, alive, and with purpose when suddenly he hit a wall that knocked from him all things reasonable. Consequently, the youngest toppled and fell, dead before he hit the ground. Ravan had gambled on something—that the youth was the son of the burnt leader, and he’d been right.
The leader pulled up short with a cry of deep outrage and ran to the aid of his fallen, dead son. That left only the one-eyed general in pursuit—the would-be rapist. But his allegiance was evidently for the man who cradled his dead son, and Yeorathe quit his chase in short order to return to the side of Tor.
Ravan dropped the bow to his hip and narrowed his eyes to evaluate, taking immediate stock of the consequences. What burned through his thoughts were strategic clips of what had happened, what he must do next, what was reasonable to ensure his survival. It was the definition of what Ravan was, as precise as a dying moment.
The youngest man’s horse bolted when its rider fell and run back from where it’d come, but Ravan still could not find a clear shot to either of the two men who remained standing. The one-eyed general had cleverly positioned the remaining two horses in f
ront of them as cover. Yes, Ravan thought to himself, these men have seen battle before. But so have I.
No matter. He aligned himself and struck the horses with two more shots. The first staggered as if in slow motion, its neck bent around as it gnashed at the wound in its side. Then, it tumbled to the ground. The other horse, lamed in the shoulder by the arrow, limped in a circle around the men before Ravan felled it with a final shot.
Horseless, the two remaining men were quite vulnerable. Hiding behind the carcasses of the fallen animals, they managed to remain fairly hidden and out of reach. Not certain if either of the men had bow skills, Ravan realized that he was now the greater target, standing in the open on the hilltop as he was. He aligned one last shot, hesitated, and withdrew the arrow, instead replacing it in the quiver. Turning away, Ravan swung onto his horse, up behind the girl, gathered the reins, and reeled the mare about. Off they galloped into the night, leaving the grisly scene behind.
Tor lived. Years from now…Ravan would regret this.
CHAPTER FIVE
†
The baptism was set for the next morning, and yet, Nicolette had no name for her infant son. Since she first shared her concern of it with Moulin, she’d spoken of it rarely, and only to arrange the few details of the ceremony. She was particular about the day and time, canceling it twice because something was, “…just not as it should be.”
Now the time was close at hand. She laid the babe back into the bassinet and spoke softly to Moulin. “I have no name for this child.”
It troubled Moulin that she should struggle with such a thing so personal as naming her own son, for it was not like Nicolette to be so uncertain of anything. She’d commanded, in less than a season, superb reign of the dynasty as though it’d been nothing. Yet, she could not choose a name for the bastard child.