Tor didn’t focus on Odgar. Standing on a small, rocky rise, his full attention was focused instead on the black horizon behind him. He willed the eventual lightening of dawn to crease it, sure that the battle would be in his favor. His second in command was more than capable. Odgar had been a machine, manipulating the army superbly to set up the perfect front. Beyond that, he was brutal. This man had battle skills that exceeded most, but even more so, he had a gluttony for profit and opportunity. And, he enjoyed what he did. War agreed with him in a supreme fashion, and he’d been too long away from battle. This is what he told Tor.
The general stood next to him, rubbed the palms of his hands together as though in anticipation. “It will be light soon.”
“Where is Yeorathe?” Tor wondered.
“He is in place, positioned at the North front, just as you wished.”
“Excellent,” was all he replied before going back to his eternal stare of the eastern horizon. His first in command would hold the flank. Of this he had no doubt.
When the first glint of dawn creased the profile of the distant clouds that lay behind them, Tor spun to face the west, the direction of his enemy. The castle lay beyond the population, but the town was not his priority today. They would run over it, kill any who stood against them, and skirt through the rest of it in the remaining cover of darkness. They would then call siege directly on the castle at daybreak. Today, victory would come with the death of only one, but if the entire dynasty fell it would be glorious beyond measure.
Because every warrior in Tor’s army was already amply pay-rolled, any plunder would only be incentive for them to fight harder, longer. Let the village burn. If it hurt him before Tor reached him, all the better. And his wife—Tor would take her first and then plunge the blade into her chest himself, and he would allow Ravan to watch.
The warmth that showed on the bare hint of a smile did not come from the heart of the Norseman; it came from a coldness in his belly, and with it the last shred of humanity was gone. He peered hungrily at the castle as an animal might consider prey. He imagined he could see the sleeping man within. It would not be long now.
CHAPTER NINE
†
Ravan shoved his son toward the castle. “Go! Find your sister, your mother. Get Moira and Moulin!”
“But, I could—”
“Risen, go!” the mercenary’s battle voice was terrifying, something the boy had never heard before. “Get them to safety, now!” his father charged.
Risen obeyed, taken with urgent alarm and running fast as he could, glancing over his shoulder only once as he did. The mounted scout galloped across the courtyard toward Ravan and slid a drained horse to a skidding stop. The boy could not hear the conversation but knew it must be serious, for the rider never dismounted, only spun his horse and whipped it viciously, galloping next toward the main stables and barracks.
The boy lingered at the doorway, stunned, held transfixed by the odd turn of events. What if something was wrong? What if she was in danger? This thought pulled immediately at his gut in a terrible way. Never before had he felt such an awful feeling, not even in the frozen pool, and he disliked it immensely.
Seeing his father glance over his shoulder, even as he sprinted toward the main stables, Risen leapt back behind the door, keeping it cracked open only enough that he could just see out. It would not do to disobey his father. He’d learned this on many occasions. But even so…what if?
Risen was driven by a need to know that everything was all right. Perhaps this was just an exercise? Surely that was the likelihood of it. Father had drills frequently and was never satisfied with them, no matter how perfect his men performed. But that was a good thing. The result was that his legion was fierce, cunning, and intensely loyal to their leader. And it wasn’t just the army. The entire township outside the gates of the castle was loyal to Ravan.
But this time had been different; the look on the scout’s face, the dreadful state of the bone weary horse, and something about his father’s expression, were all things he’d never before seen. The boy chewed his lip as he squinted through the crack in the castle door. What truly nagged at the boy was the dream he had of late. It was fire, only fire. From within it she walked to him, unburned, hand held out toward him, but upon her face was a look of such sorrow, an expression he’d never before seen in the real light of day.
Risen shook the memory of the dream from his head and convinced himself he would have a better vantage point from the tower. And so he obeyed, sprinting for his parents’ wing first.
As he bolted across the rough marble floor, he spied his mother just coming from her room. At her side was Moira, the handless maiden his father had rescued from the inn the year he was born, and in tow was his younger sister, Niveus.
“Risen, what is it?” Moira stepped toward the boy, dragging Niveus behind her, but Nicolette interrupted her.
“Come with me. There will be a battle this morning. We must alert the guards, secure the castle.”
How his mother could already know this was a mystery to Risen, but neither was it a surprise. She was nearly always right, and the events of just moments before supported her claim. Risen’s heart dropped heavy within his chest with his mother’s words. So it was true; forces were advancing on them. She might be in harm’s way after all.
“Mother, I have to go to the village,” he said urgently, “I need to help.”
“No,” was her flat reply.
“But people…might be in danger,” he argued. What he was really thinking was that Sylvie might be in danger. “I can help. I know I can. You must let me go.”
“No. I will not have you at risk.” Nicolette motioned for him to follow Moulin and instructed him, “Take them to the cellars. Hide them in the library chamber. Stay with them.”
“But you don’t understand,” Risen persisted, “I can help Father! I know I can! I just need to get to the—”
Nicolette snapped harshly, “Go with Moulin! Do as I say. You cannot help the villagers now, Risen. You must trust your father to take care of the townspeople.”
He was deeply troubled but not for his mother’s severe words. He was stricken with worry for her. Sylvie was, oddly, Risen’s blossoming best friend. But what Sylvie didn’t realize was that she’d become much more than just a friend. She had slowly replaced his male counterparts as his primary interest. It wasn’t that Rowan, Tobias, and Cedric were no longer at his side, one imaginary battle after another. It was just that recently this uncommon girl seemed to engage his mind more…much more.
Sylvie was Risen’s first love, and no one knew—not his parents, not even Sylvie. He guarded his secret perfectly, letting his parents believe it was Tobias he meant to spend so much time with. And it was true, Tobias was his best friend. But Tobias’ sister…was even more.
It was a perfect secret, the most precious of all, and Risen meant to wait for just the right moment to tell her. Only then would he allow Tobias or his parents to know. The circumstances must be just right, for Risen believed he and Sylvie should always be together. He believed it was destiny.
Risen hesitated; he had strong reservations about his mother’s observation, to simply trust that everything would be for the best. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe his father could defeat the fiercest of any foes. On the contrary, he believed him to be the most formidable warrior ever, and Ravan certainly had the army to back him up. They were all superbly trained and with weapons that rivaled any others.
No, what gave him reservation was the dream, the awful fire, and he’d never shared it with anyone—not his mother, not his father, and especially not her.
Risen did as he was told; he followed Moulin, Niveus, and Moira to the hidden chamber beneath the castle. His heart, however, was elsewhere.
Close to the center of the cellars was the massive, circular room dubbed the library. Snaking through the catacombs, the small group eventually found themselves sequestered away.
He looked about. Truth
fully, it was hardly a library at all. Instead, the cloistered chamber, with its pillars and curving stone walls, had more the feel of a clandestine meeting room, the nature of which important matters regarding such things as strategy and espionage might be discussed at length.
The walls were lined with tapestries, crests, and flags, some representative of France’s regions and the rulers who governed them. Ravan had, overtime, developed diplomacy with all of them. Maps were also hung here and there with more of them rolled up and stashed in open chests or spread upon the great table. More of the heavy wooden chests were pressed up against the walls, and a few chairs were scattered about for any who might choose to spend time in the library.
There were shelves too, most of them lined with books from exotic countries. Ravan had collected them as gifts for Nicolette. It was one of the few physical objects she seemed to enjoy, and Ravan missed no opportunity to indulge her. He was surprised to discover, when he first returned to the dynasty, that she spoke seven languages, all learned in her childhood.
Risen had played down in the library before, had even brought Sylvie down once. She was amazed by it, said she had never seen anything like it. But ultimately she’d been intimidated by the depth of it, so far underground as it was. Drawn first to the books, she eventually asked if they might leave and go back to the sunny day above, “…for the flowers are blooming,” she said, but Risen had seen the look in her eyes, seen that she was fearful.
It was labeled the library because all the books, maps, treaties and other such documents were to be found here. The cold, dry air of the room lent itself well to the preservation of vellum and parchment. Ravan also kept in this chamber the most important breeding records of the horses, begun with the Destrier stallion and the Barb mare when he first came home to discover his realm. The bloodlines were meticulously penned in his own hand and as good an account as any in the country.
Only Ravan and Nicolette’s closest confidants had ever been allowed to know the whereabouts of this room. Consequently, the library was nearly perfectly hidden, and it was because it was so hidden that it could serve as a safe room for Ravan’s family in the attempt of an overthrow or coup. With today appearing to be just such a day, the library, sunk within the deepest keep of the castle and with its maze of consecutive locking doors, was supremely fortified and exactly where Ravan could rest assured his family would be.
“This is stupid,” Risen protested. “I’m twelve years old, nearly thirteen! I’m old enough to go into battle with my father.” When he was ignored by literally everyone present, he persisted. “How am I supposed to learn real fighting?” Still no one answered his question. He really didn’t expect them to. Truthfully, it was not battle which called for him, and he wondered if they sensed that, if it showed on his face.
Moulin smiled at him. It was true that the boy was born of the man who’d claimed Nicolette’s heart. But the Swiss pikeman could never bring himself to dislike this boy…or Ravan for that matter. More accurately, he’d grown quite fond of the child. Who could not? With his engaging wit, endless abundance of happy energy, and compassion for all things living, Risen was likable beyond normal reason. And so Moulin had swallowed his crushed heart and built himself a family with all of them, especially this one.
Everyone loved Risen, and with Nicolette and Ravan of more distant dispositions—and Niveus even more so—the townspeople had likewise grown very attached to the young heir to the Ravan dynasty. And what a dynasty it had become! Already with wealth beyond believable means when the dark beauty had taken it, the couple together had ruled it with a savvy that only served to strengthen the security of it and cement the loyalty of all within. Moulin deeply respected this.
“I think it would be foolish if you died because you’re not strong enough to lift a blade.” Moira rolled her one eye at him. Sitting Niveus down on a fur covered stone bench, she pulled a pelt across the girl’s legs before casting her attention back on Risen. As each sought a comfortable spot, Moira gestured to the boy. “Come here,” she goaded him further. “Let’s see if you’re the man you claim you are. Let us see if you can best me yet.” She lifted her only hand and extended the challenge, offering to arm-wrestle him at the large, stone table that was the centerpiece of the room.
“Not fair! You know your one arm is nearly stronger than both mine together. Besides, I’m right handed.” He shrugged, but could not resist sitting opposite her to offer up his left arm and hand. The two clasped and the challenge was on. Then, for the first time ever, Risen beat Moira…barely. His chin jutted out in willful victory as he leapt to his feet. “See! I’m ready for battle!”
Risen was perfectly serious, and this provoked laughter from Moira and Moulin both. “What? Why do you laugh? I am a warrior!”
“Come, warrior. Help me with a fire,” Moulin motioned for assistance.
Niveus remained off to the side, saying nothing. She was running her finger idly up and down the joint of a stone in the wall. Moira rose, went to her, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders while Moulin and Risen tended to a fire on the hearth.
“What do you see, Niveus?” Moira wondered.
Niveus continued to run her finger up and down the seam between the stones. Risen glanced over his shoulder at her, and just when he believed she would not answer, Niveus said simply, “It is a vapor. Different from that which we breathe above. Not so much of it, really, but we wouldn’t want more of it. It is not a good vapor…not healthy.”
Moira turned her away from the wall. “Niveus, do not talk such nonsense.” When the girl only stared at her, she suggested, “Let us play a game instead.”
Risen’s sister turned obediently from the wall and stared at him. He thought he saw in her eyes a supreme intelligence, a look of they may all think I am unsound, but you know that I am not. Then she looked away.
“I love you, brother,” she said abruptly.
Everyone froze, gazing at her. She stood up, eyes searching the vacant ceiling overhead, blinking so slowly as she studied it. All were startled by what she disclosed, for Niveus never let her feelings show. She’d said, on a few occasions, that she loved her father or her mother—mostly when prompted—but nearly never had she said such a thing to Risen.
“I love you as well,” he replied almost immediately and went to his sister, taking her by both hands and leading her to the table. “Come, Niveus. We’ll play a game with Moira now.” This was very much like Risen, to sincerely care about the well-being of his sister, to help her in any way that he could.
“You are stronger than you realize,” Niveus told him flatly. “Don’t think you are not, even when you think all is lost.”
This baffled Risen quite a bit, this and the way his sister peered at him as though she could see to his very heart, see what occupied him there.
“I know, sister,” He made light of what he believed she was trying to say. “I just beat Moira at arm wrestling for the first time; I’m ready to take on the world.”
* * *
Nicolette left her two children in Moulin and Moira’s care, going instead to the second story council room where her advisors were fast assembling.
“What is happening?” she demanded flatly as she swept into the room.
Her head advisor, Sarto, was a small, deliberate man with scarcely any hair at all—not even eyebrows. He was also her closest political advisor and, most said, her wisest councilman.
He calmly bobbed his head in her direction. “My Lady, the news we have so far is that considerable forces are assembled, east and north of the village, hidden within the Cheverny forest. Our scouts have estimated the army to be as large as five hundred.”
“Have they sent an emissary?”
“No, my Lady, not yet. And I believe they will not. Their mission is unclear, but it would appear to be entirely offensive in nature.”
“Do they have an obvious target?”
“I’m convinced it is the castle, my Lady. That is all we know so far,” he spread
his hands gently, his robes wafting on the dead air like the wings of some great, balding bird.
“Have they attacked the village yet?” she wondered.
“No, but from their vantage—the direction they are assembling—that would seem to be their secondary target, only because they must run through it. It is completely reasonable to assume what they want is something from behind these walls, perhaps your gold reserves, and are willing to plunder the village as a secondary means.”
Another advisor, trusted within her council, spoke up. “I disagree. Would they bring on themselves the wrath of Lord Ravan’s army? I don’t think that is reasonable! There is little plunder in the village, not such that would offset their losses with what our Lord shall return upon them tenfold!”
Another council member, a woman, appealed directly to Nicolette. “I must disagree with Sarto.” She pushed herself to standing. “Yes, an enemy must know that all our reserves in gold are stored within the castle. But certainly they know that to storm it would be a task only taken with great losses if at all. They would need an army stronger than the scouts indicate they have.” The woman shrugged. “I just don’t think an attack is reasonable. It must be a simple show of force…for now.” She appealed to the others, “I feel we are missing a piece to this mystery.”
“Do they raise a flag?” Nicolette asked.
“None,” Sarto said. “We know not from where they come.”
“English?”
“No, my Lady,” the female advisor replied. She’d been appointed by Ravan specifically to know the current state of English-French affairs. It was Ravan’s opinion they could not know too well where and what the English were recently wanting, considering how long the war had already lingered.