†
The Inn
Ravan was confused. He'd been at the Inn for nearly two years but only minimally expected to work beyond the mundane list of chores. It had been difficult for him when he first arrived. The cadence of the Inn had overwhelmed him, and he’d become withdrawn. His silence was interpreted as idiocy, and unkind patrons pushed the child away, kicked at him, and threw cruel slurs his way.
There was little room for patience in the hearts and minds of most of the travelers, and the Innkeeper did not intervene. The dark child who spoke seldom was out of place and quickly learned the nooks and crannies into which he could disappear. He kept his head down, his face turned away, and escaped, again, to the woods.
He’d been invited to learn nothing about the business of the Inn, and he wondered about this. He thought often about the Old One, how he’d said that Ravan was such good help at the orphanage. Now, it was this good work ethic which kept him committed to the simple tasks that now lay before him.
One of Ravan’s details was to keep the wood chopped; it was a task he gratefully accepted as it kept him away from the raucous of the drinking guests. It felt good to work hard. He would split and carry the wood to each guest’s room and build the fires, leaving them warm and ready for retirement. Now he stood behind the Inn bent at this task.
He swung the double-edged axe easily, cleaving the timber with a crisp crack. His aim had improved significantly over the past few years. The pieces fell apart easily, and his arms no longer ached from the task. This was a chore he relegated himself to several hours every day, and his two hours were nearly done for today.
Even now he could hear the loud laughter and slurring voices of men drinking too much and the high-pitched shrieking of their female counterparts. He knew the moment would come when, in the late of the evening, things would break and the drunkenness would reach a staggering crescendo. Then the guests would stumble off to bed, and Monsieur LaFoote would collect the money, cap the kegs, and bar the doors.
Ravan’s breath puffed in white plumes as dusk settled over the Inn. Color and the sharp edges of daylight gave way to the muted, ghostly grays of evening. The wood stack climbed ever higher behind the building, a small mountain threatening to overcome the doorway. He would soon be out of a wood splitting job. Days ahead of this chore, he wondered what he might do next to pass the time. The axe made a dull thwack as he sank it into the chopping block for the night.
He paused, gazing at the heavens, trying to pick out stars, but the night was blanketed, and the clouds kept their secrets. Sighing, he shook his head to toss the dark bangs from his eyes and gave up his search.
Ravan ordinarily used the stairs behind the building to gain access to the second floor. It occurred to him that today he’d somehow forgotten to replace the spent candles in the guest rooms. He meant to do the task now and chewed his lip absently while his mind wandered away. Up the rickety steps he climbed and entered the top floor of the Inn from the outside service entry. He tapped on the first door, as was his way, even if he was certain the patrons were gone. His actions were mechanical, for his thoughts were elsewhere.
* * *
Perhaps in time the Innkeeper would feel it important to teach him the comings and goings of the business. Really, there was nothing but time. It crept, thick and smothering, threatening to consume his fourteen year-old mind.
At times such as this, he missed the orphanage terribly—missed the children and especially the Old One. His role there had given him a strong sense of responsibility and purpose. He knew that the Old One had depended on him for many things. A wonderful feeling it was to be needed. Somehow, his life there helped him to hold onto the memory of his mother. Lately, however, he struggled with it, the vision of her becoming increasingly vague. Sometimes he closed his eyes, forcing it, willing it to come back to him.
At the orphanage, he’d believed he might be one of the lucky ones—one who might remain there forever. But this was not to be. Some nights he would lay awake in the tiny room of the attic, wondering how they were managing.
He liked the little room, his private haven. He especially liked it at night, with the small dormer window stretched with hide that could be left open so that he might look out over the countryside. When the moon was out and it shone nearly bright as day, he would use the window to sneak out onto the rooftop. Then he would sit with his bare legs bent, his overcoat wrapped around them. If he got sleepy enough and stared long and hard enough at the familiar night constellations, he sometimes forgot he was at the Inn and imagined he was home, back with the Old One.
These thoughts were sad to him, and he shook his head as though he could shake them away. Ravan knew he must try hard to do well in his new surroundings. He didn’t blame the Old One. The orphanage keeper had tried to do right by Ravan, to help him find his way in the world. But Ravan sensed that his destiny was different from others, more complicated. Fitting in with the protective sanctuary of the orphanage was one thing, but now he was lost as though suspended in between worlds.
Prying another candle stub from its holder, he frowned. Perhaps there was no proper fit for him after all. Quietly, observantly, he’d watched the comings and goings of the Inn, assuming certain tasks without being asked. He collected the dirty dishes from the tables after the travelers retired and drew water from the well behind the Inn. Carrying it in buckets, he dumped them into the giant kettles to be heated for cleaning up.
Ravan also made sure the fireplace flues were always emptied and clean. The Innkeeper grunted his approval but said nothing beyond that. Likewise, the big man seemed pleased to discover the stables mucked, the patron’s tack soaped and hung neatly in rows next to the stalls.
The boy liked the stables and stood for long periods brushing the travelers’ animals. The horses displayed an immediate and strange kinship for the boy, which had nothing to do with the oats he tossed. They would nicker quietly in greeting whenever he walked into the barn, sniffing him up and down as though his presence agreed with them. He thought to himself that perhaps one day he would own such a fine animal to ride into the woods. Oh, how far he could run then!
The warmth of the kitchen was another favorite spot for him; it reminded him of the cottage kitchen at the orphanage. He didn’t mind standing at the kettles, washing the dishes, allowing the hot water to turn his tanned hands a deep red as he worked. Wincing, he plunged his hands into the hot water, refusing to submit to the pain. It amazed him how the Fat Wife submerged her own arms to the elbows, apparently oblivious of the heat.
Increasingly, Ravan found himself in the kitchen during the late hours of the evening. These were usually busy hours for the Fat Wife. She seldom tried to draw conversation from the boy; perhaps she sensed that he was not one for many words. It didn’t seem to matter to her, though, and for this Ravan was grateful. He spoke to her more with his demeanor—with his eyes.
On more than one occasion, when he’d first come to the Inn, it was she who stepped between him and an ill mannered patron. Making excuses to the guest, she would shuffle the boy away to a safer spot, usually the kitchen. There she would shake her finger at him, scolding him, “I told you, child. You stay away from the hall when you hear it get rough.”
After only a few short months, the two of them developed a strange, wordless dance in the kitchen, he moving aside as she hustled and bustled her bulk from here to there, tending the succulent meals she prepared. He was fascinated at how she would take the carcass of whatever he hunted and within moments be well on her way to creating a masterpiece of a meal.
Sometimes, he just sat on the stool in the corner by the pantry, his knees tucked under his chin, chocolate eyes following her around the kitchen. Occasionally, he would drift off to sleep like this, his arms crossed around his legs, fingers tucked under the balls of his feet, braced and balanced. Every so often, before he dozed and his eyes were not yet shut, he would notice her stop and watch him, rubbing the back of her first two fingers on the stubble of her chin.
At first, she seemed fascinated with him. Then, as several years passed, she became strangely protective of him. Over time, Ravan grew to greatly prefer her company to that of Monsieur LaFoote. Finding excuses for being in the kitchen, he busied himself sweeping the hearth floor, collecting the turnip peelings that mysteriously found their way to the corners of the room. Standing for hours, he would stir the cream puddings in their ash-blackened pots as they bubbled slowly over the coals.
He'd become familiar with the Fat Wife, with the way she twisted her long, graying, mouse-colored hair into a thin and tight braid, coiling it neatly on the back of her head so that from the front it appeared as though she had very little hair at all. Her faded bonnet framed her round cheeks like a happy sunflower. Her face was steamed and reddened, and despite her generous size, her feet were tiny.
Ravan grew exceedingly fond of her in very short time. He saw not a middle aged, obese, Innkeeper’s wife—he saw a friend. In his eyes and mind, it was only beauty.
With a series of grunts and glances, she approved or disapproved of this or that behavior, and so their extraordinary kitchen dance evolved. She became his safe haven. Sometimes when he struggled to hold onto his own identity, she seemed to sense this and would help to gently pull him back. Lately, he strongly identified more of who he was by what she meant to him and, had he been one to pray, would have given thanks for the grace of knowing her.
As time went by, she saw to it that the boy enjoyed the choicest scraps of meat, delicious pies, and stewed vegetables. On occasion, when she set the bowl in front of him, she would rest her hand for just a moment on his arm or his shoulder, and a smile would tug at her rosy lips. It gave him a happy and warm feeling when this happened, and his heart was more at peace than it had been for a good, long time.
It was true he provided the game that the Inn required, and this in itself was greatly appreciated by all. He brought goose, quail, duck, and venison. Some days he brought rabbit or delicious steelhead. His bounty became the method to her art—for the masterpieces she would create. But most of all, he provided an unwavering and sincere friendship to her that was without judgment. At first he thought she seemed surprised by this, but then she appeared to accept it for the gift it was.
Ravan’s young and growing body consumed the nourishment as fast as it was received, his appetite recently a roaring furnace. He removed the copper ring from his middle finger, as it had become increasingly too tight, and wedged it onto his pinky. She mentioned that she noticed this as one might notice such things about someone they’ve grown to love.
One late afternoon, the Fat Wife very matter-of-factly handed him a wrapped up piece of faded blue satin. In the same manner she might pass the heavy ladle to him to stir the stew, she shoved the small package into his hands without looking at him.
Taking her gently by the arm, he turned her back toward himself so he could see into her small, puffy eyes. Only then did he carefully unwrap the satin. It slipped softly in his hands, uncoiling by itself, and he nearly dropped from it the lovely, thick silver chain. His eyes widened with astonishment, and he looked at her in dismay.
Ravan shook his head and started to refuse the gift, but she chided him firmly. “Put that ring of yours on it, and wear it about your neck, under your shirt-clothes. And don’t be boasting of it. It is our little secret, you hear? Now off with you, and bring in some kindling.”
* * *
That had been nearly a year ago, when she’d given him the gift, and now the smooth silver chain slid against his skin as he sorted the candles in the upstairs linen room, gently filling a pillowcase with the fragile, elegant tapers. They clinked gently against each other—a strangely appealing sound which made him want to snap them in half just for the fun of it. He reached up and touched the dimple the copper ring created beneath his shirt, and his heart warmed.
The boy ventured into the main dining room seldom because his quiet presence was an odd contrast to the merriment of the guests. For the most part, he was invisible to the travelers. Sometimes the patrons got too boisterous, and he could hear the raucous fights coming from downstairs. Monsieur LaFoote was skilled at breaking up such disturbances. One night, Ravan watched the big man effortlessly toss two rowdy patrons, one in each hand, out the front door.
Crossing paths with the guests in the halls was something Ravan avoided, and he adopted the habit of taking the outside stairs down to the kitchen instead. He was like a child ghost when the Inn was busy, seldom seen by anyone. Preferring instead the quiet steadfastness of the Innkeeper’s Wife, it was she he sought out, and her presence in the warm kitchen kindled his soul as well as his body.
True to his promise, the Innkeeper allowed Ravan time to wander the forests behind the house, an opportunity the boy seemed to take increasing advantage of as the days went by. It settled him to wander deep into the woods, to smell the wild earth and learn the lay of the land. But, increasingly, it gratified him more to hunt.
The Fat Wife also seemed to watch him, as the Old One had, as Ravan disappeared into the woods for hours on end, to do that thing he did so well.
Monsieur LaFoote appeared genuinely surprised when one evening, shortly after his arrival, Ravan carried a wild pig through the back door of the kitchen, dropping the gutted carcass onto the stone floor. The animal was enormous—a dangerous and tasty prize.
LaFoote nodded in odd approval, not so much for the meat but perhaps for something else altogether. Ravan noticed the peculiar expression but was unable to decipher it, his adolescent intuition serving him better in the forests than amongst men. He shrugged it off as he felt he did not know Monsieur LaFoote well enough to gather upon his nuances.
After he’d dropped the large boar to the floor, the Fat Wife quickly turned away, and it was her reaction that perplexed him most of all. Now he puzzled over the distant event as he made his way to the second room, carrying the candles carefully lest he chip or fracture them.
As time passed, he continued to play out his existence at the Inn. The Innkeeper had little to do with him, other than an obsessive vigilance about his whereabouts. He was never unkind, just…indifferent.
Sometimes at night, Ravan could hear the couple arguing downstairs. He would try not to listen as he lay in his small room in the attic, his orphanage blanket tucked up under his chin, bare ankles and feet sticking out. Avon had woven the blanket for him, a birthday present, and now it was tattered, too small, and dearly loved by the boy.
Seldom did the orphans really know their actual birthdays. The Old One allowed them to pick a day. Most picked summer days, anticipating outdoor games, warm evenings, and swims in the stream. Ravan had picked January twenty-nine, the last day he could remember seeing his mother.
On the nights when the couple argued, Ravan lay very still, barely breathing, his eyes closed tight. Troubled, he wondered what he could be doing—what might create such discord. During the day, there seemed to be no disappointment from either of them about his work ethic. The big man nodded his approval whenever he happened to notice the boy at some task.
Ravan wondered if they might eventually see him as a son of sorts. But he only thought this on very rare occasions, when the distant memory of his own mother tapped softly upon the doorway of his mind, reminding him that he'd once been somebody’s son.
His hair grew long and one quiet afternoon, shortly before Christmas, the Fat Wife sat him on the stool in the kitchen. With a pair of spring scissors, she snipped the thick locks away until they again rested above his shoulders. The dark tufts fell silently, like a first winter’s snow, to the floor.
The child sat, feeling the gentle tug as her fingers worked with the comb, wonderfully comforted by the basic grooming. He closed his eyes and absently wondered if mothers combed their young ones’ hair with their fingers, or if lovers combed each other’s hair in such a way. The moment was warm and complete; it’d been a good day. He closed his eyes while she hummed and worked. Perhaps there was a place for him in this world after all.
Quite abruptly, she was done, but before she could busy herself with another chore, he pulled from beneath his tunic a gift. He possessed no money to buy proper wrappings, but it was beautiful the way he presented it—wondrous as earth’s treasures often are.
He had enclosed the treasure in late autumn leaves, having picked them carefully for their most brilliant color. They were still soft and leathery, not yet having had time to dry out. Weaving their stems carefully into each other, he created a lovely, colorful wrapping paper. As a finishing touch, he tied the bundle neatly in braided horsehair. The tail hairs were gently plucked from a white, brown, and black animal, woven so each colored strand gratified the others beautifully.
With a soft smile and bursting with pride, he handed the package to the big woman. She gaped at him in surprise, her small mouth rounding with a silent Oh. She turned the package over in her hands, loosening the twines. The leaves unfolded and between them she discovered the loveliest pair of fox fur mittens. The leather was a smooth suede with the fur turned in for warmth. They were made to carefully fit the thickness of her plump hands.
Holding them near, her small eyes peered closely at the detail of his work. The stitching was magnificent, and in between the mittens was a darning needle and skein of thread. These had disappeared some time ago from her sewing cabinet. Slipping the mittens onto her hands, her eyes flew wide. She smiled despite herself and he beamed.
Ravan had tried them on himself before wrapping them. It had been like plunging his hands into softened butter. He’d noticed how she went to market without mittens. When the late autumn chill became bitter with the first snows, he watched as she held her hands between the folds of her skirts to keep them warm. He also noticed how the wealthier townswomen sported lovely, warm, fur-lined cloaks and mittens. This was something he knew the Fat Wife would never seek, for it she would think it vanity to request such a thing for herself.
Society demanded such fine fur be worn only by royalty, nobility, or wealthy aristocracy. Ravan knew nothing of this and would have cared even less, but he noticed how she held her chin high and poked through the produce, her roughened, scalded, red hands instinctively picking the best when she filled her basket.
He’d worked tirelessly on the gift, trapping eight fox alive and releasing them before two of just the right animals found their way to his snares. They were a matched pair with perfect coats. After carefully pelting the animals out, he roasted the fox on a spit and spent the whole day in the forest, eating fox and meticulously scraping the hides.
Using fire-ash and fox brain to tan the pelts, he stirred them gently, finally weighting the pelts down into the water with river stones. No one missed the barn bucket he tanned them in, and it was some days later when he pulled the hides from the buckets and staked them into the creek to rinse for a full day.
Later, back at the Inn, he painstakingly rolled the hides gently back and forth across the foot rail of his bed, softening and pulling the skins to and fro until they were dry. The result was an immaculate suede on one side with the fur kept on the other—the loveliest fawn color with black tips.
After carefully preparing the hides, he laid them neatly on his bed, comparing their color and size. They were a perfect match. All the while, he’d paid particular attention to her hands, measuring in his mind the dimensions before cutting the leather. When she was baking and pushed the dough down, shoving the balls toward him to form and lay onto the oven peels, he held his hand next to the imprints, gauging widths and lengths. Her hands were smaller but fatter in every way.
Once the Inn was silent for the night, he sat quietly in his room, guiding the needle, each stitch perfect as he fashioned them. He turned the cuffs out so the roll of fur acted as a windbreak at the wrists. Truly, there were no finer mittens in all of France, and of this he was utterly oblivious. Finally, he wrapped them in the leaf wrapping with the ties arranged perfectly, the little horsetail tufts positioned like a bow.
This woman had been kind to Ravan, and he would remember her kindness always. He'd grown quite fond of her, comfortable and happy whenever her great form plodded into a room. It gave him such happiness to present the gift to her, his mouth widening into one of his rare and glorious smiles, his chest puffed out with pride.
Her eyes became instantly damp as she turned her hands over, admiring the beautiful gesture, her rosy face reddening. Suddenly, and without warning, she pulled the mittens from her hands and stuffed them carelessly into her apron pockets. She turned, averting her eyes from Ravan, perhaps to disguise her feelings. Casting her attention to a venison roast on the nearby butcher block, she hastily took up a cleaver. She had been happy with them, he'd seen it! She seemed to like the gift, but then, why?
Confused, Ravan stood up and reached out to touch her elbow.
She pulled abruptly away. “Be gone now; enough of this nonsense. I’ve work to do, and you’ll be needing to chop the wood.” She stabbed with the clever toward the back door of the Inn, where the firewood already threatened to consume them.
* * *
While the usual revelry from the patrons took place downstairs, Ravan moved to the third room to change the candlesticks. He pried the stubby nubs from their holders and replaced them with the long, hand-dipped tapers he'd helped the Fat Wife make the week before. The spent candle nubs went into his pockets to save for re-melting later.
Replacing them was a task Ravan usually tried to do earlier in the day, after the travelers of the previous night had gone but before the evening’s crowd poured in. Somehow, he’d let time get away from him today.
He never heard the commotion from downstairs. Instead, he was deeply lost in his thoughts, pondering that particular afternoon when he’d given her the gloves. It was all too much to assimilate for one so young, and as a child will do, he imagined his own flawed reasons why she might have been displeased with the mittens.
The thick wood carpentry of the Inn made for a very quiet dwelling, and as a result, Ravan was caught totally by surprise when the door crashed open behind him. Spinning about, he dropped the candlestick he held in his hand. It fell with a smack to the wooden floor, cracked and imperfect now.
A big man filled the doorway, flanked by two friends almost equal in size. The man seemed genuinely surprised to see Ravan in his room and halted for a moment, swaying, taking up nearly the entire expanse of the door.
Mumbling a quiet apology for his intrusion, Ravan scooped up the broken candle and ducked toward the door, head down as though to leave. He could smell the liquor on their breaths as he stepped closer and paused, unsure what to do next as they remained fast in the doorway.
He recognized Pierre Steele, a trader who was a frequent guest at the tavern. Robust in size, Pierre had big red cheeks and a fat, pockmarked nose which spoke of frequent drinking. His small pig eyes were closely set, sickly yellow, and permanently bloodshot. His personality was loud, and his enormous girth seemed to fill a room.
Not surprisingly, Pierre was often responsible for brawls at the Inn, and he was frequently accused of petty crimes. Slippery as a butcher room floor, however, he always seemed just out of reach of proper retribution. He also possessed coin and not an ounce of ambition, so most evenings, the Inn was where he could be found. The Innkeeper was generally happy to negotiate Pierre’s drunkenness as long as the man had money.
More darkly, however, Pierre also had a very nasty history of perverted sexual exploits, which he kept only poorly hidden. Ravan had even overheard a tale of how Steele had been shot once by the father of a girl barely ten. The girl had evidently identified Steele as her rapist, and then she’d mysteriously disappeared. It was a few months before someone found the bent and tortured body in the river. It was terribly decayed, twisted horribly in the massive roots of a fallen tree, with a stone tied around the neck.
The monster had survived his wound, little worse for wear; the arrow tip was still lodged in a fat pad that festered on and off. The father faded away into a grief stricken hollowness. Steele, undaunted, remained as cruel and foul as ever, having gotten away with murder. Only now he kept a clumsy sword strapped to his side, the hilt practically hidden by his massively draped, oily flesh. This was what Ravan had heard about this man. And now he had the misfortune to be in the evil man’s room.
Moving aside in an attempt to skirt past them, he was cut off as Pierre stepped into his path. “Well, well, what have we here? If it isn’t the maid!”
Ravan instinctively backed away, and Pierre followed, stepping toward him.
“No doubt he meant to rob me!” The big man reached down to unbuckle the heavy belt that tightly girded his enormous gut. “And look, he’s broken a candlestick. I think he should be punished, don’t you?” he asked his comrades.
Pierre’s mouth, unnaturally small for his massively meaty head, twisted into a sickening grin. The two other men laughed outright, goading him on as though anticipating a show.
Ravan edged backwards against the bed, its wool duvet pressed against the backs of his thighs. The hair bristled on the nape of his neck, and an icy shiver arched across his shoulders. A sudden memory came upon him, of when a she-bear and her cubs stumbled across him while he was cleaning the roe deer in the forest. She’d had strong feelings about the human, and as a consequence, Ravan spent the night in a tree. He still bore the scars on his left calf. The bear had taught him his first lesson in primal fear, lashing at him while he clung just barely out of reach in the small tree.
Now, as with the encounter with the bear, his breathing grew faster and his body tensed. He knew this was a very, very bad situation.
“Come my friends.” Pierre motioned to his cohorts, slurring only slightly. “This pretty little boy is mine, and you can hold him while I see that he is properly punished.” The men laughed again, eager for an exhibition.
The awful and sickening intent of the man settled abruptly into the boy’s awareness, and he became intensely alert, thinking very fast. The room seemed all of a sudden too warm and small. He knew if he called out for help, it would probably prove futile. Most noise would be easily drowned out by the revelry below, and the man would be upon him in an instant. He didn’t have time to consider much beyond this thought.
Steele suddenly and clumsily snatched for Ravan’s arm but managed only to grasp the sleeve of his tunic. Candle nubs scattered to the floor as the boy ducked and wriggled free of the shirt, leaving himself half naked and breathing hard.
Shirtless, Ravan scaled the bed and lit lightly on the other side. Deep red scratches ran the length of one arm from where Pierre’s long, sharp nails had clawed for him. Blood beaded in scarlet drops down one particularly deep cut and dripped unnoticed from the tips of his fingers to the floor. Without hesitation he reached into his boot for the familiar blade—Pig-Killer.
Standing with the limp tunic in his hands, Pierre was aroused by the sudden nakedness of the boy, the silver necklace and copper ring shining bright against Ravan’s amber skin.
“That’s a start, you pretty, little bitch,” Pierre leered. He circled the bed slowly, hands up, claw-like, as though to catch the boy. One of his comrades chuckled and started to crawl across the bed, effectively trapping Ravan in the far corner of the room.
The boy glanced beyond the man to the window, his only obvious means of escape. It seemed inaccessible, sheltered behind the advancing Pierre. The third man blocked the door. Ravan was entirely trapped. There was no means of escaping what was to come.
Pierre lunged clumsily, his eyes glistening with excitement and eager anticipation. The big man was slow and awkward, but his sheer size made him acutely dangerous. If he managed to get hold of Ravan, he could easily overpower him and stifle the boy’s screams, consummating the rape. But Pierre had grossly miscalculated his prey, and this was a strategic error on Steele’s part.
Ravan made a calculated and desperate decision. His thoughts were blindingly fast, and he acted with enormous resolve. Suddenly twisting his body, Ravan swept the blade in a wide arc, with all the strength and commitment he could summon. He brought the knife blindingly and viciously across the face of Pierre. Pig-Killer obeyed effortlessly, leaving behind a ten inch gash. The vicious slice went from below the man’s left ear, across the bridge of his nose and down his jaw, glancing off bone as it finished just short of his throat.
For the briefest of moments, Pierre seemed only stunned. The blade was so sharp and quick that Steele didn’t appear to comprehend the extent of his wound. Seconds later, he shrieked in rage, his hands clutching at his face as blood streamed down both arms. His nose was nearly severed, the cartilage cut completely through, and it flopped loosely down onto his upper lip. He was a grotesque, horrible figure, and his voice rose to a shrill pitch as he wailed, stumbling backwards. His trousers had fallen, and his erection retreated back beneath his apron of pubic fat.
Startled, his friends stood stock still, unable to take their eyes from their comrade’s sudden mutilation.
Ravan, his back wedged into the corner of the room, wielded Pig-Killer in front of him. His lip was curled back in a vicious snarl, his eyes wide and fierce. The stress of the moment caused him to break into a cold sweat, and his body shone, sleek and wet. Wild and trapped, he would kill if he needed to…or die trying.
The savagely unpredictable and vicious attack on Pierre had the desired effect on the other two as they were planted—shocked expressions stamped upon their simple faces. They stared blindly at the butchery of Pierre, obviously surprised by Ravan’s attack and stunned by the incredible amount of blood it produced.
In his rage, Pierre pawed for his sword which had dropped away from his hip with his loosened trousers. He finally found the blade and stepped forward, raising it awkwardly toward the boy’s face, his bloodied hand shaking uncontrollably.
He seemed unsure of what to focus on, whether he should run Ravan through right away or address his own injury first. With his free hand, he pawed at his own d