The Execution

  The Old One stood in stunned silence. Avon sobbed once.

  LanCoste sat still, with his back to them, looking into the distance from which he had come. “Tell them, should even one of you be harmed, in the name of Ravan…” The horse shifted, as he paused, “I will drag them to hell.” He looked back at the three of them. “Remember my name. Tell them this and you will be safe; of this I swear.”

  “But, what of Ravan—will he come?” the Old One pleaded.

  “He…” The giant cleared his throat and stared down at his hands, as he moved the mammoth horse off. “Ravan is gone.”

  The Old One and daughter watched, as the giant rode to the edge of the orphanage, unsheathed his ax, and marked a massive black oak tree. The mark was unique, primitive and deeply engraved.

  Bark chips fell to the ground around the tree while the Old One and his daughter looked at each other, confused by the odd gesture.

  Done with the task, the giant hesitated and perused his work for a moment. As if he were finally satisfied, he rode back over the knoll without looking back.

  * * *

  Morning barely broke as Ravan swung up onto the horse, Nicolette again behind him. Ravan sat quietly, observing the last fade of starlight, enjoying the sweet wild scent of the forest. He set his bearings and made for the East. Satisfied, he breathed in deeply, a lung full of freedom.

  Ravan pushed the stallion hard. His plan was to use what he knew, the familiarity of home. He knew they would eventually catch up to him, but his intimacy with the forest of his youth offered him a tremendous advantage. Only on open ground could they overcome him in great numbers. However, from a strategic vantage point, he could take many of them down. Ultimately, he would have his chance to face Duval.

  It occurred to Ravan there was little chance he would survive, especially once Duval’s men joined the chase, but they would sacrifice greatly this time. It warmed him as he thought briefly of Pierre Steel, Renoir, Adorno and Duval. If the wind was calm, his arrows would fly true and these men would pay—dearly.

  Nicolette would be spared, he knew this. His heart was suddenly warm and sad as he turned to glance into the eyes of the woman who sat so elegantly on his horse, so pale and eloquent behind him. She only barely nodded, as their eyes held each other and Ravan’s heart softened. It pleased him that she was with him.

  Now he thought of LanCoste and it occurred to him the giant was, quite possibly, his only friend. This saddened him for a fleeting second, not for himself, but for the man he'd left behind. What of the giant? He wondered where he was, if he’d made it back to Duval and the encampment yet. Almost certainly, he had. His mood darkened as he considered the reception awaiting LanCoste. Duval would not show mercy for what he would consider negligent stupidity on behalf of the giant.

  Next, he thought of the Old One and smiled as the memory of the orphans danced across his mind. He would go to the orphanage first; there were loose ends to take up there. He must give them every opportunity to be safe.

  Presently, the Innkeeper’s wife entered his thoughts, and he wondered if she’d made it to the orphanage. His heart was warm and full, as her cheery face flitted in and out of his recollections. He was again relieved and grateful that she had been spared. LanCoste, his friend, had seen to that. He reached up to touch the ring and chain, still about his neck. It rested quietly now, in peace. There was no ‘whirr-whirr’ this time and never again would there be.

  Finally, his mother, vaporous and muted, stood silent upon the precipice of his memories, her face turned from him. She was nebulous and vague but the feeling which held his heart was as steadfast and concrete as though she had only passed yesterday. The moment was good, pure and kind—immortal.

  “Nicolette?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I’m glad you’re here—with me.”

  With finality, she asked softly, “Ravan, where else would I be?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  †

  The Dungeon: Five a.m.

  The cell lightened ever so slightly as dawn crept towards the sleeping town and across the windowpane high above. D’ata leaned his head against Ravan’s shoulder. The two sat quietly for a span, each considering the story of one another.

  It was a sweet and melancholy moment, raw in its honesty. There was an uncomfortable recognition that time was scarce. It would not be long before dawn counted the final minutes in the life of the mercenary.

  This was not what bothered Ravan now. “How do you live?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” D’ata countered.

  “I mean, with the pain? How do you live with that?”

  There was hesitation when Ravan only heard D’ata’s quiet breathing. A strange and cool breeze blew across their laps as they sat next to each other in the cell.

  Both men peered down into the darkness of the hallway.

  Finally, the young priest looked back at his hands laying his lap and answered in a whisper, “I don’t…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  †

  Adorno was bent with fury. He knew the barbarian had looked at her! He'd seen him force her into the alcove that night. He knew Ravan coveted her and now—he'd stolen her!

  Adorno’s wrath was poured like candle wax onto his men, his hatred for Ravan bitter and vile in his throat. He seethed, knowing she was with him. No doubt, he had taken her, unclothed her, forced her, poured his seed into her! He was furious at these thoughts and oddly aroused as his mind conjured up the lustful events he imagined must be happening at that very moment.

  There was not an ounce of him which believed Nicolette wanted Ravan, wanted to escape with him. In his mind, the fiend had abducted her, forced her into submission and raped her. And there would be terror and vengeance to pay. He would torture him! Yes, that’s what he would do. He would dissect him; he would penetrate him to his very heart before he would allow him to die! And, just in case...he would make her watch.

  It was midmorning before Adorno dispatched the hunting party. Twenty-eight men, his eighteen knights included, riding their terrain horses with squires and war-horses in tow, had been sent to catch Ravan, to bring him and Nicolette back—alive.

  Adorno knew Nicolette would have to sleep; Ravan could not push her without respite. The knights, he commanded, would not sleep or rest. They were to press their horses until they or their mounts fell. There was to be no life spared that might thwart the capture of the barbarian and the return of Nicolette.

  As the party rode away, Adorno wrung his hands, not in despair but in glorious rapture of what he intended to do with the mercenary upon his capture. He played the scenario repeatedly in his mind. A special room would be prepared, and then? He wrung his hands again in eager anticipation.

  He readied himself to pay Monsieur Duval a visit. There were loose ends to settle. He would regain the gold, retain a new bodyguard, have the infidel to torture and have Nicolette back in his keep. All would be well. He was insanely gleeful now, so sure his way was won.

  * * *

  It was several days before Ravan and Nicolette rode into the orphanage.

  The horse shook its head, pitching against the reins when it noticed the buildings a short distance away, anticipating feed and rest. Ravan had pressed the animal hard and it had started to crave respite.

  As Ravan approached, he suddenly noticed the solitary oak tree and squinted at the familiarity of the mark on it. He was thoroughly dismayed that his friend had been there first! He knew for certain that it was LanCoste’s mark.

  He pressed the stallion to side pass closer to the tree and ran his fingers over the rough, recently cut grooves. Searching the ground, he noticed the wood chips scattered about. The giant must have sat his horse just as he sat the stallion now. And what a hard ride it must have been. LanCoste must have ridden nearly nonstop.

  The mark meant one thing, none would harm any at the orphanage or the giant would have his vengeance. All feared LanCoste, and Ravan knew no one would cross him.
This gesture was one of the rarest of a mercenary. It meant the maker of the mark would toil endlessly, to the end of his days, to avenge the transgression.

  Ravan smiled outright. This meant Duval would be the only threat to the orphanage, and he intended to take care of that threat in short notice anyway. He was deeply gratified by this turn of events.

  It touched his heart deeply; Ravan was moved by the gesture LanCoste had made. It must have been difficult for him to come and speak to the Old One, so unlike the giant to do such a thing. And once Duval knew of it, LanCoste could be killed for being a traitor.

  “It is your friend, the giant, is it not?” Nicolette gestured towards the tree with the toe of her shoe.

  It served to make him miss his friend even more. “Yes, it is my—friend.”

  In the distance, the orphans stopped in their tracks, frozen by the second sudden appearance of a terrifying stranger riding in amongst them.

  At the outside commotion, the Old One stepped from the cottage, squinting into the sunlight to focus on the strange visitor. Quickly, his expression went from curiosity to fear, recognition, and then joy. He hobbled hastily on unsteady legs toward the pair.

  The horse snorted, eyes rolling at the teetering figure who advanced upon them, but stood its ground, vetted warhorse that it was.

  “Ravan! Oh dear God, it is you!” He practically jumped up and down in place with excitement.

  Throwing his leg over the neck of the horse, Ravan slid to the ground, towering over his old friend. He was taken aback at how slight the Old One appeared to him, and overcome with joy at seeing him, but urgency took the best of the moment from him. “We need to talk,”

  Before he could continue, the Old One threw his arms around Ravan’s chest and squeezed him in a long hug. Ravan was surprised by the gesture and, looking down in dismay at the Old One, he patted him lightly on the shoulders. Finally, extending his arms slowly about the Old One, he encircled him completely, returning the hug.

  This had a strange effect. Like an avalanche, memories of Ravan’s childhood at the orphanage crashed down upon him, and he was overwhelmed with a sense of happiness and gratitude. “It is so good to see you.” His voice was husky and he cleared his throat. “Ah, it is so good...”

  “Ravan, the giant came—he said we would be safe,” the Old One held Ravan at arm’s length, his excitement overwhelming him. “He was so terrifying and we thought...” he paused, as though ashamed that he'd seen Ravan’s friend in such a poor light, “what I mean to say is—”

  “It’s all right,” Ravan said. “He is an honorable man—and good as his word, but alarming to most.” Ravan was still overcome by the gesture of LanCoste’s visit, but focused on what he needed to say. “I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m leaving and will likely not return. I just wanted to tell you—”

  The words were hard to speak, having just now seen him after so many years, and after so much had happened. How could the Old One know what he’d become?

  Just then, the Innkeeper’s wife emerged from the tiny farmhouse and quickly recognized the man who’d fished the knife from the bottom of the barley barrel not so long ago. “Ravan! Oh dear lord, Ravan, it is you!” She ran, her round figure bouncing and shaking as she crossed the yard as fast as she could. Reaching Ravan, she threw her arms around him.

  Ravan smiled softly and returned the hug warmly.

  Nicolette, still upon the stallion, gazed down at them, slightly bemused by the display.

  “Ravan, I’m so sorry! I—I—” the Fat Wife stammered.

  “Shh, don’t say that—it’s all right. You did the best you could.” He pushed her to arm’s length and gently released her.

  The Old One wrung his hands, gestured towards the Fat Wife. “I could not have known, Ravan. I thought I was doing the right thing. She came and told me what LaFoote did, told me of his intent—how he sold you.” He looked at his shoes and continued, “She told me how you ran, how they caught you and took you away.” He looked up at him with tears in his eyes, “She came here, Ravan, to help the children. We wanted to…”

  Shifting his weight, he was uncomfortable with the apologies. “I have no regrets. I am who I am because of it, and not unhappy.” He tried to sound convincing and to speak the truth. “You cannot be responsible for the bad things others do. You cannot be responsible for the unfortunate things that happen to others. Neither of you ever intended me harm and so have no fault of your own. You can’t blame yourselves for what has become of me.” He spoke from his own recently acquired belief system, so new and enlightened and it was oddly cathartic.

  “Come—come in; have tea and bring the young lady,” the Old One gestured to the farmhouse and waved at Nicolette.

  “I cannot, I have little time.” He hedged. “I must be somewhere.”

  The Old One shook his head, intuition filling in the blank spaces of really knowing. “What can I do, Ravan? To help I mean?”

  The Fat Wife nodded. “Yes Ravan, can we help?”

  “No—yes. I mean, there is one thing.”

  “Yes, yes. Anything!” They nodded their heads together in agreement.

  He glanced back and forth between the two before continuing. “You could tell me.” There was a long moment during which he seemed to struggle, searching for the proper words. He stared at the ground before going on.

  Both the Old One and the Fat Wife stood waiting, with kind expectation in their eyes.

  Ravan hesitated before pressing them. “Was I a good person? I mean—worthy. Did you; did my mother...?” He drifted off.

  “Oh, Ravan,” The Old One sighed, sadness and regret causing his shoulders to sag even more. He spoke slowly, gently, “Ravan, you were a wonderful child—so kind, so compassionate. I wanted so badly to just keep you with me, always. But I thought it would be selfish of me.” He stepped towards Ravan, hands out, palms up. “I sent you away because I thought it was the right thing to do for you. I grieved your absence because truly I loved—love you.”

  The Fat Wife nodded her agreement and added, “Life has been unkind to you Ravan, but despite everything, we have loved you dearly, as your mother must surely have.” She spoke honestly, her happy sunflower face affirming her statements. “You are the tragic victim here; you were the one to be protected and fate failed you.”

  Ravan seemed relieved. He exhaled deeply and his shoulders relaxed. “Good. That is good. I needed to know—it’s important.”

  Nicolette spoke for the first time since arriving at the orphanage, “Ravan, I believe many have loved you. Your family here, the giant, and...” She gazed into the distance, her head tilted to the side, as though something had suddenly occurred to her, “I love you too, Ravan,” she spoke soberly, not trying to convince him, just stating fact. Then, she shrugged. “It should not surprise you.”

  He nodded, happily considering their words. “I see. That’s good. I’ve never really known I was worthy. It helps to hear you say so.” He regarded his friends warmly. “Thank you. Then I am at peace, and do not fear. As LanCoste said, you are safe. You and the children can live here in peace.” He looked around, at the barracks and the wood shack. He remembered kindly the butcher shack, where so long ago, the Old One washed away the muck and blood from his encounter with the boar hog.

  Nicolette leaned down and tugged gently at his sleeve. “It’s best we leave soon.”

  He nodded, but took the liberty to hug the Old One and the Fat Wife, each in turn. Before stepping onto the stallion, he took one last moment to gaze around, allowing himself the luxury of his memories.

  There to the North, was the bank of woods; it’d been a preferred path when he took to the forest. The dense woods had welcomed him on so many occasions. It had harbored him and provided a sense of identity at such a young age, when he possessed little. It was those days in the forest which disposed him to become the man he was now, and it was there that he would return.

  To the South was the meadow, the children’s cemetery, pond and strea
m. To the East, the house, with all the kindness and comfort that love could afford. They were right; he had been loved, he was worthy. It was warm and complete and had the finality of a closing book.

  He said no more, just looked again at those who cared, his friends—his family. Then finally, he pretended to suddenly notice the children, the orphaned small ones who were also lost and loved. They were hiding here and there amongst the shrubs, grass, and outbuildings. He squinted, scanning the perimeter.

  Holding his hand up to his eyes, he pretended to scout for the next victim who would meet their destiny with his sword. He focused on a small cluster of children who had bravely negotiated their way as close as they dared.

  They'd seen the hugs, noticed the interchanges between their guardian and the stranger. They were curious about him, no matter how frightening the dark visitor might appear. Even so, Ravan was harrowing to them.

  “Boo!” He thrust his arms quickly towards the brush. The horse tossed its head at the ridiculous human outburst.

  The Old One and the Fat Wife laughed as the children squealed, bolting from their hiding places, sprinting back to the safety of the cottage.

  The mercenary laughed outright. It was glorious.

  * * *

  Some miles later, Ravan continued to run the horse hard. It was lean and hungry, but it ran strong and long into each night. At long last, they sat the stallion at the edge of the forest, looking across the damp and dark meadow to the Inn across the small valley. The three of them, two human, one beast, were hardened and gaunt, bent upon their own destiny.

  And it all began here.

  Ravan drew a deep breath. The Inn looked strangely warm and inviting, cozily lit and with spirals of smoke curling from the chimneys. His memories were pallid, however. She was safe and gone from here, and now he sought the one who'd defiled him that cold night, years ago.