†
By the time they reached the fortress, Ravan was much weaker, yet his wounds were healing remarkably well. He was dragged from the cart one final time and stumbled blinking into the light of day. The snow glistened on the slopes which seemed suspended nearly right above him.
It was a ridiculous sight, this man-boy, slumped, emaciated, weak and wild, staring blindingly up at the Rhone Alps. This was Duval’s great capture! Mercenaries gathered around to size up the boy. Most of them shook their heads in amusement and curious befuddlement. Our master has spent so much time and resource for this? Haven’t we lost dogs and men…for this?
They laughed and poked at the boy who stood shackled, silently staring at his feet with blood stained trousers sagging against his too thin frame. Duval, ignoring everyone, strode past his capture and his men to disappear inside the fortress.
* * *
Ravan hardly noticed their prodding or their callous curiosity. He was escorted, to his dull surprise, not to a dungeon but to a simple, comfortable room. The window was barred, but the slanted, cold sunshine of winter shone through nevertheless, and he was drawn to it. A settee, chair, and small bed completed the lonely room. The shackles were removed for the first time in weeks, and a boy brought hot water, a towel, and soap.
For a lost amount of time, Ravan sat on the edge of the bed staring at the window, occasionally rubbing the leathery, wrinkled calluses on his bony wrists. It’d been a long while since he’d touched those wrists.
The shadows finally stretched across the room, reaching for his feet. A dull headache, which was now very familiar to him, pressed inward on his temples. He tried to concentrate, blinking to clear his eyes. Struggling to his feet, he walked to the window opening and squinted, peering out into the bright, late afternoon. A few snow white clouds dotted the clearest blue sky he’d ever seen.
The walls of the barricade were stone, carefully fashioned, and a good seven meters high. The courtyard was large—forty or so acres. It held a variety of jousting, fighting, and exercise apparatus. Men fought with heavy pads tied about them, not the armor that was the battle uniform of the day. They were quick; the broadsword was nowhere to be seen while the longsword dominated. The horses were likewise exercised. The beasts were all in fine shape. Archers practiced against straw figures propped up to look like enemies. Their crossbows triggered in unison as their payloads released.
The barracks lined one wall and the stables another. The main structure—it might have been a castle at one time—was immense and fortified. All other structures seemed to extend from it, although it was hard to be sure from the boy’s point of view.
Ravan noticed, again, how the mountains rose steeply and rocky beyond the fortress walls. He was unable to make lay of all the buildings on the premises as the small, barred window only allowed forward sight into the courtyard. He might have been in awe of the monumental landscape had his situation been different, but his circumstances allowed little appetite for curious appreciation—only a numb tolerance of his environment.
His gaze rested on two figures hung from a cross timber. They were ghastly and surreal. At first, he thought they must be just more straw figures as the soldiers shot arrows into them and sliced at them with their swords. When the bodies fell heavily to the ground after they were cut free, a sick realization overcame him, and in his heart he recognized his own lack of worth to mankind. If Ravan had been disposed to prayer, he would have prayed for the two unknowns on the ropes’ ends.
Eventually, the clouds mushroomed, large and angry, and the sky frowned, dumping its wet apathy onto the courtyard. It was cold, and the snow was mixed with rain. The men ceased their training as gray shadows obliterated most of the light, and it was difficult to tell if it was twilight or not.
The gloom preyed further upon him, and his head sagged with fatigue. There was a rap on the door. A boy, not much younger than he, returned to find a cold basin of water with the soap unused. He looked quizzically at the prisoner. “Sir, do you not wish to wash?”
He didn’t answer, only waved the boy away. As the boy left, he noticed the guard outside the door and heard the “ka-chunk” of the crossbeam falling into its bed. Ravan stood and stretched. His body ached, but it was glorious to extend his arms and legs after so long in the crate. He savored the moment, even incarcerated as he was. Hobbling to the basin, he washed his face and armpits with the cold water, thinking still of the two hung and dismembered men.
Ravan scrubbed himself thoroughly, remembering when the old man at the orphanage had taught him how important it was to be clean, on the skin and in the heart—in the eyes of God. He wondered briefly and with all sincerity if God noticed him now.
He scrubbed his body first, and lastly, he washed his groin. The remnants of the blood—the evidence of what had been done to him—were all but gone from his thighs and buttocks, but the stains remained on his trousers. Even so, he scrubbed himself hard. The water in the basin was a muddy black by the time he was finished.
Examining himself in the looking glass, he ran his fingertip across his chin. Then, he ran his finger along the image of himself in the mirror. Glass. Rare enough, but it could be broken. And then, with a shard, he could…
Lingering, with his fingertip upon the mirror, he considered briefly the unthinkable. No—there are matters to be taken care of, no matter what my condition now. Ravan was learning his first, and possibly most crucial, battle skill ever—patience. Pulling his finger from the mirror, he peered again at his own reflection.
A striking young man gazed back at him, cheekbones hollow and with a jagged red scar sliced over the left eyebrow. He started at the unfamiliarity of himself, the scraggly dark growth on his chin. He was dreadfully thin, but his bruises were gone, and his eyes glistened like wet onyx.
He raised an eyebrow at the reflection that greeted him. Staring hard at himself, he allowed the memory of the rape to wash over him again. He shuddered, and bile rose in the back of his throat as he recalled the horror of that night. Thoughts of God were quickly replaced with an increasingly familiar emotion—hatred. He reached deep from within, eagerly pulling strength from it, and pushed thoughts of his defilement away. He had other thoughts on which he must now focus.
Looking at his reflection, he whispered his first words in nearly a month. “Do I know you?” Then, he walked to the massive timbered door and banged on it with his fist. “You, out there! Tell Duval I am hungry.”
There was no answer.
“I said, I’m hungry!”
Still silence.
He sighed and gave up his assault on the door. Turning, he walked back and stretched gingerly out on the bed, testing its worth. It was ecstasy, almost to the point of pain, to stretch out full upon the blanket. His cage had not allowed him to extend his whole body. He could sit with his legs straight or lie with his legs bent. His tendons were taut because of this. Ravan had been careful to vary his position frequently in the cage. When allowed out, he’d stretched liberally…until the rape. Then he’d lain curled up too long for too many days.
The whole trip had left him weak, sleep fatigued, and a good twenty pounds lighter than was his normal, healthy weight. He felt vulnerable. He was vulnerable. Duval had intended it so, and now he could see this.
He was just about to doze off when there was another rap on the door. The boy returned with bread, butter, and a pitcher of scalded milk. He took the soiled water and left without words.
Ravan drank deeply, the hot milk burning as it poured down his throat. It was good to drink something hot—to feel it from the inside. He had been given only water to drink for such a long time, and he briefly remembered how the Fat Wife used to give him bowls of meat broth with wedges of buttered bread to soak in it. He almost smiled at what seemed like such a far away memory. His sadness deepened; he missed her. His hand went to the ring, and he wondered if she missed him as well—if she worried about him. Surely she did!
Finishing the milk completely, he then gorged on the food, his body craving the calories. Leaving his worn and soiled clothing on the floor, he crawled into bed naked. Curled and warm under the blankets, he slept for a lost amount of time, quiet and undisturbed for the first time in weeks.
Some hours later, he awakened with gripping abdominal pain and diarrhea. It was dark in the room with only the faint light of night coming through the window. At first he forgot where he was, believing he was still in the hold. Gathering his senses, he scrambled clumsily across the room to evacuate his bowels into the receptacle in the corner.
Ravan had never before experienced such pain as now gripped him so violently from within. He was certain that he could endure it no more, that he would pass out and die before his body ceased with the crippling waves of pain. Doubled over, he clutched the edges of the chamber pot, unable even to sit up straight.
Eventually, the diarrhea ended. Sitting upright, he waited, lightheaded and afraid to leave the receptacle for fear the waves of pain might start again. He stuffed the dirtied towel from his earlier bath into the opening of the latrine to stifle the vile stench.
On his hands and knees, he crawled trembling and naked across the rough plank floor, back to bed. He was cold and shivered as he pulled the blankets over his head, welcoming the utter darkness and closing his eyes. When next he woke, the shadows in the courtyard cast the opposite direction. Morning, he concluded but stayed where he lay.
Very soon, there was a noise at his door, and two guards entered. “Monsieur Duval wishes to see you.”
The men brought clean clothes—leather trousers, a tunic, and coat. Ravan was dressed, shackled, and escorted through a maze of corridors—exiting and entering buildings twice. The men did not speak, and neither did he.
Finally, he was deposited into an immense hall and brought to stand at the foot of an enormous table. Duval sat at the table head, poring over some papers. A cartographer sat next to him with maps spread out before them, and there were four guards to his flanks. Duval did not look up.
After an uncomfortable silence, Ravan cleared his throat. “I’m hungry again,” he began shakily.
“Silence!” Duval commanded.
Ravan was forced harshly to his knees.
The Mercenary King seemed to hesitate, to pick his words carefully. “There is an order here, Ravan. You will speak when I wish you to speak.” Duval looked up from his text, shuffling the papers aside before pushing away from the table. He approached his young captive, studying him for a moment before leaning casually against the timber of the massive table. “Ravan, it is my intent that you work for me. You will—”
Ravan interrupted. “It is my intent that you die a bad death like the coward that you are,” he whispered hoarsely.
Duval signaled, and from nowhere LanCoste appeared.
Ravan glanced nervously behind as the giant approached. He started to object but was immediately, mercilessly hoisted by the shackle about his neck. Despite his struggling, he could not sustain himself and swiftly weakened. Spots sparkled in front of his eyes like a swarm of angry insects. He clutched feebly at the metal as it cut into his throat, tried to ease the weight of his own body. Eventually, he could no longer draw a breath, and his strength dwindled. He briefly wondered if a hung man felt just this way before death.
At last, he was dropped to the floor in a ragged heap. He gradually regained agonizing consciousness as precious oxygen returned. Sputtering and clutching his throat, unable to speak or even to lift his head from the floor, he was forced to listen as Duval spoke.
“Ravan, we can make this as difficult as you wish.” He leaned back, creating meaty bridges with his hands on the table. “It makes no difference to me. You will obey me, or…you will die.”
He walked slowly back to the head of the table. Duval was not tall compared to some of his mercenaries—certainly not nearly as tall as LanCoste—but he seemed larger than he was. He was also not very striking, really rather ordinary, but his essence was commanding with a sinister and fearful countenance.
Ravan’s breathing was still ragged, but he was no longer lightheaded. He struggled to his knees, feeling quite vulnerable as he knelt upon the stones, peering up at everyone else in the room.
Duval continued, “If you fail to please me, your friends will also die.”
He left it up to Ravan to imagine who his friends were. Ravan had no friends, really, but he knew exactly of whom Duval spoke. This caused panic to seize his heart.
“If I kill you and your pathetic friends, you lose…and they lose. Of this I don’t care, but also I lose.” Duval said this with ominous emphasis. Reseating himself at the head of the table, he continued, “If you obey me, you will be treated well, fed, clothed, sheltered. And I will not torture to death every creature who ever meant anything to you. In return you will do anything and everything I ask of you, without exception.”
Duval allowed his words to sink in before he finished. “You don’t have much time to think about this, Ravan. I am weary of your insubordination. You will obey me, or I will count my losses and be done with you. And…” He allowed a long moment of silence for emphasis. “Your death will be slow and painful, but not nearly so much as for those misfits you care so much about.” He smiled generously as though it were a gift. All anyone could hear was the difficult breathing of a broken boy. Then Duval motioned with his hand, returning to the greater significance of his papers. “Get him out of here.”
He was led back to his quarters, unshackled, and left alone for the good part of the day. Defeated and weak, Ravan felt more alone than ever before. He curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, the simple comforts of the room no longer seemed at all compassionate. He even wished he were back in the crate where at least the crisp cold air would draw across him, and the pain would make it all real. He yearned to be back at the Inn or the orphanage.
Ravan’s youth, however, gave him unreasonable hope, and he searched inside himself for the young, blossoming hatred. He found its spark and clung to it, pulling strength and warmth from it. It was enough to make one go insane, to grasp at the unrealistic belief that somehow one could prevail. This maddening thought was tempered with the impossible circumstances as to how.
As these thoughts drifted across his consciousness, he dragged a fingernail back and forth along the grain of a floor plank slowly deepening it. He didn’t stop until the groove was so deep that splinters pricked his nail beds. Only then did he grasp the ring and begin to slide it smoothly up and down the chain. He calmed at the gentle “whir-whir” that whispered back to him. The chain vibrated gently upon the back of his neck, torn and raw from the shackles.
His hunger bit cruelly, and his thirst burned by the time he heard the hollow “thunk” that was the cross timber of the door sliding away and falling to the floor. Hours had passed, but he was unaware as he’d lost track of time. He pushed himself up and struggled to gain his footing, to meet his visitors eye to eye.
* * *
Duval entered, preceded by his armed escort, commanding and larger than life. He glanced, confused that his captive was rising from the floor and not the bed or the chair. Shrugging it off, he gave it no more consideration. Duval lacked the capacity to empathize with any living creature; compassion fit in neither with his disposition nor his agenda.
For a moment, Duval simply studied the young man in front of him. Ravan stood a good hands-breath taller, his head thrown back in defiance as the much heavier, stockier man looked him over. Taking liberty to scrutinize his newest recruit thoroughly, Duval approved of what he saw. The boy was cunning and assertive. Yes, he was weak, but when he got his weight back and grew a bit more, he would be strong. This was only secondary to why he’d bought the boy. It was the skill he coveted—what Ravan could do.
With proper conditioning, the young man could be tempered into a killing machine. Duval was sure of this. He had instincts about such things, and Ravan had been a prize negotiation. He mused to himself that perhaps it was quite possible he’d never encountered one like this. No one else in the encampment saw it, but that was why he was the lord of this domain. It was his genius that made him prosper in his position—King of the mercenaries, god of war.
He scratched his chin absently as he considered his newest captor. He’d observed uncanny bravery, determination, and courage in such a young boy, not to mention his significant survival instincts. The trick would be to force obedience without terminally breaking the spirit. Of this Duval was master. He knew he must not only breed hatred but loyalty as well.
“I’ve brought you dinner and all the water you desire.” He gave the boy an insincere smile. “If…we have come to an agreement.”
Ravan remained silent, but his expression spoke volumes.
Duval observed the body language, the tense readiness, the slow clasping and unclasping of the elegant and deadly, young hands. Most of all, he saw the molten black fire in the eyes of the boy. He held Ravan’s gaze for a few seconds longer than he intended, for it evoked in him something unfamiliar—something he'd not felt for some time. It was visceral and reflexive. He couldn’t immediately place it and, once more, shrugged away what he could not comprehend.
“Good, I’ll take your mute tongue as a yes.”
He motioned to a guard, and food was brought in—thick slabs of pork roast with gravy, fresh steamed onions, and boiled turnips. Dried Mediterranean apricots, a flask of water, and hot cider with honey completed the meal. It was an amazing feast and the righteous spoils of an unrighteous way of life. The guard set the food on the settee, turned, and left.
Duval motioned to the food. “I expect you to eat well, sleep, and be ready for training in the morning.” He turned abruptly on his heel and left as the door was barred shut.
* * *
Suddenly the room fell quiet. Frozen, Ravan trembled, smoldering in his hatred. He was violated again, his precious freedom sold, and he allowed the burn within to warm him to the very center of his heart. He finally recognized that he was Duval’s—a possession, an asset, and no more important than a fine weapon or animal. He swallowed this bitter knowledge, and his jaw tightened.
And why shouldn’t it be so? he thought. Men are imprisoned everyday! There is no righteousness. There is no morality—no justice! God is not here, does not walk with man. He is absent, only watching man make his mistakes.
Tossing his dark locks away from his eyes, he blinked back tears of rage. His anger made the pit of his belly burn, and he clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. There was a nagging sting between his shoulder blades from the tension.
Ravan’s neck and throat were raw and torn from the shackles, and he couldn’t take a deep breath. He tried, but agonizing coughing beset him each time. He was acutely aware that he wanted to fill his lungs, breathe a sweet sigh, inhale peace and happiness into his being, but he didn’t know where to even look for such an elusive thing. Even the air seemed acrid to him.
Not moving from where he stood in the tiny imprisoned room, he tried to let the memory of the Old One, the Innkeeper’s wife, and the orphans drift back into the foreground of his thoughts and memories. Ravan remained like this, eyes closed as he allowed the faces of each of them to play before him like a sweet song. He struggled to etch into his mind the details of them so that he might not forget them. They seemed so sadly far away now.
He recalled the Old One with his shiny, almost bald head—how tanned it would become in the summer with only a few sparse and wiry hairs sprouting out in all directions. His hands had seemed so ancient and kind. This made him remember when the Old One had used those hands. The distant memory surfaced so clear and bright of when the Old One pried from his fingers the bloody plowshare. Ravan had been standing knee deep in the awful muck of the pigsty. The Old One lifted him from that gruesome, filthy scene and hugged him close. He'd whispered into his ear that the little girl would be okay…and so would he.
The faint notion of a sigh relaxed Ravan’s face, and his breathing deepened.
He thought of the way the Fat Wife’s face reminded him of the moon. Taking a deep breath, he recalled the sweet glowing oval of her expression—the smile that made him feel the very same way the stars did on a warm summer’s night. He thought of the forest floor, of gazing at the most remarkable beauty that was the moon, and remembered the day the Fat Wife had cut his hair. His hand slid up to his neck as he recalled the day she’d given him the silver chain. She had been kind…like his mother.
Deeper breathing quietly overcame him, and he was just a bit calmer.
Finally, he remembered the orphans, the ebb and flow of their life as they toiled, played, and sometimes with only great effort survived. The whole lot of them blended, seemed to become a single lovely creature, as pure and loving as sure as there ever was such a thing. He had been one of them—an integral part of this perfect thing.
It very much surprised him to have such a warm feeling so quickly overcome what was, only a short time ago, anger and hatred. This very unexpectedly made Ravan’s eyes damp again, this time for a different reason. With surprise, he reached the heel of his hand up to sweep the tears away. He glanced about himself, almost startled of his own whereabouts. Taking another small, shallow sigh, the coughing fit stayed at bay as the air flowed into him along with the peace of his memories, forgiving and healing.
Then, the sweet aroma of the roast pork teased his nostrils, and he rationalized that he needed to become strong. And so he ate…every last scrap.