†
Ravan left LanCoste to tend the shift the next evening. Adorno was uncharacteristically quiet during the tradeoff. He did not whine, as he usually did, about being guarded by the “monster, hideous fool, cursed creation.” He had many names for LanCoste.
The giant had no feelings about the verbal onslaught Adorno offered. It simply did not exist as a weapon that might injure him. LanCoste would obey Duval. The situation was appointed—no more, no less. He would do his job. Then, if Duval wished, he would just as quickly kill him and think nothing of it. Again, emotion did not factor into it.
LanCoste had no memory other than his indenture to Duval. He did not dream, did not consider tomorrow, and had no one that he called friend—except recently, after that day on the battlefield not so long ago. Something had happened to him, ever since then. LanCoste frowned as he remembered that moment in battle, and he struggled to sort out a new and unfamiliar feeling. It nagged at him, refusing to let go, and the giant was brought, once more, back to that incredible day.
* * *
Ravan snapped the arrow off close to the fletching. It had entered left, just below the scapula on the giant’s back, piercing even the plated armor. Such was the deadly nature of a longbowman’s arrow. Ravan had shot the enemy archer and secured the battlefield before coming to LanCoste’s aid.
The archer who delivered the barb was tall, for the arrow was long and weighty, indicating the man had an arm to match it in length and strength. It pierced the vast expanse of LanCoste’s chest all the way through. By the time Ravan stepped next to him, the giant knelt on one knee, his right elbow resting heavily upon the other bent knee, head hanging, massive and loose. His wound was mortal, and he steeled himself for what was to come
Ravan stepped up behind him, drew a sharp breath and snapped the arrow off close to the skin. LanCoste let out a deep groan. Then, the younger knelt in front of his wounded friend, the broken butt of the arrow in his hand. The shaft and barb still protruded from high in the giant’s chest.
“Do you want me to—” Ravan asked a moment too late.
LanCoste grasped the arrow about the shaft and drew if from himself before Ravan could finish. There was no cry in anguish, no plea of pain. But the eyes bespoke an understanding of what was to come.
As the weapon left the giant’s body, a rush of air and shocking amount of frothy blood poured forth, continuing to gush with every breath the man drew. Ravan had been alarmed to see the big man slowly draw the arrow out. His concern grew as he observed LanCoste’s struggle to breathe. In moments, he realized the giant was failing. Instinctively, he pulled the chain-mail from the mercenary. Then, he pulled a knife from his belt and swept it upwards, splitting LanCoste’s shift down the front in one swift movement.
“That was my best tunic,” the giant managed.
It was an uncommon attempt at levity, and Ravan might have been amused if he'd not been looking at the lifeblood running so alarmingly from the arrow hole.
“Shut up,” Ravan said urgently.
He probed the hole gently with his fingers, observing the rush of air that sucked in whenever LanCoste drew a breath and the subsequent spurt of bright frothy red spewing whenever he exhaled. It was a disturbing amount of blood, even for the size of the great man, and soon the ground they knelt upon was red with it.
“Something’s wrong,” Ravan murmured as he continued to probe the hole.
“Really?” LanCoste grunted as he lifted his head to regard his friend.
Ravan glared briefly at the stoic and rare stab at humor the giant displayed and noticed the cadaver blue tint on the lips of his comrade. The giant was weakening and struggling even more to breathe.
LanCoste could now scarcely take a breath and was fading fast. He braced both hands upon the ground but nearly faltered and fell. He gasped, too weak even to lift his head as the pneumothorax swelled.
Ravan grabbed from his saddle the food pouch, pulling from it the salt pork brick. He quickly whittled a narrow slab, using one piece for the hole in the front and one for the hole in his friend’s back. Slapping a fatty salt patch over each hole, he bound it securely against the giant’s torso with strips of the already ripped tunic.
Ravan instinctively did the right thing, without even realizing it—he sealed the wounds.
LanCoste swayed heavily, cyanosis getting the best of him, and Ravan supported him fearful that, should the man go down, he would never again rise. Almost immediately, LanCoste steadied. The seesaw breathing corrected itself, and the blue faded subtly from the man’s lips and massive fingertips.
Ravan murmured kindly, “Stay with me, my friend. I won’t let harm come to you. You deserve the sun upon your back another day.”
Eyes closed, wretched head sagging heavily, LanCoste heard Ravan, felt the steadying arm around his shoulders, and was bewildered at the kindness.
Men feared the giant, even the other mercenaries. His sheer size made him a formidable warrior, and his fearsome appearance and stonewalled stoicism effectively kept others from becoming familiar with him. As a result, LanCoste was isolated—a lone warrior, more so even than the other mercenaries. He truly had no one of significance in his life.
An arrow through the chest was strongly considered a terminal event. Others would have left a mercenary where he fell with such an injury. Yet Ravan patted him gently on the shoulder and steadied him, whispering words of encouragement and kindness. This stunned the giant more than the injury ever could.
After he recovered, LanCoste paid closer attention to Ravan. He noticed, with an impassive disengagement, how Ravan watched the other mercenaries, positioned himself to aide in battle, and defended a man down. It was uncommon the allegiance he displayed, even to ones who had been unkind to him. He also watched as Ravan forbid the harm of innocents, the elderly, infirm, women, and children.
LanCoste observed Ravan run a man through for the rape of a woman after battle; one of Duval’s mercenaries had committed the crime. Ravan launched the arrow and shot the man through the back at fifty paces, causing the attacker to fall from the girl. The maiden knelt and exalted thanks onto him, hands raised and head bowed. Ravan turned and walked away as though not knowing what to say, offering no comment for it all.
None had ever spoken of the killing to Duval. Death of another mercenary by the hand of one of Duval’s own was forbidden, but no one exposed Ravan for the event. This meant one of two things, allegiance…or fear.
On another occasion, LanCoste saw Ravan sever the carotid of a man who’d been crushed by his fallen horse. The man lay paralyzed, twisted and bent, unable to move arms or legs and struggling to breathe. The giant watched Ravan cradle the man and speak softly as he drew the blade sharply across his neck, speaking in comforting whispers to him while the lifeblood ran mercifully quick into Ravan’s lap.
* * *
Therefore, it was this evening, as LanCoste took his place at watch, that he felt nothing as Adorno tossed a single insult his way. Instead, his thoughts were of the unlikely mercenary which fate had brought to him. He recalled again the memory of Ravan saving his life and then struggled with a notion that had haunted him more frequently as of late.
What to call him…Comrade, ally, partner-in arms? What was this feeling he struggled with? He wondered, was this his first and only…friend?
* * *
Ravan, on the other hand, had more pressing feelings tonight, feelings of a different sort. He also had other plans. He'd received more than his fill of Adorno and was tired of being the misguided weapon of others. The mercenary was finally prepared to come to terms with his own fate. Ravan was no longer a child, and with some thanks to Duval, he'd become stronger than even he could have ever imagined.
No more could he carry the destiny of others upon his shoulders. Ravan was ready to make another run—a run for a life of his own. He was no longer the boy who fled the Inn, stumbling through the cold forest, chased by men and hounds. He was Ravan—mercenary, warrior, and harbinger of death. Most significantly, he was finally a man possessed of his own free will. It was time—time to make his stand, to get away, and it would be a run like never before.
These were his thoughts as he approached Nicolette’s room late this night. She'd made him realize this over the past few months. Words, looks, a touch of her hand. Even as her wedding approached, it was she who’d changed things.
The guards at her door glanced quizzically at each other as he approached. His black countenance, his eyes murderous with fire, his heart full and ready to be damned, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he strode purposefully toward the door. Glancing briefly at one another, the guards stumbled wordlessly away as though unable to object.
Slamming the door open, he swept into the room. She wasn’t there, but her window was open, the curtains gently swaying in the frosty breeze. He stepped toward the window and stopped in his tracks when he saw her. She was standing on the balcony railing four stories up, hands outstretched in the night’s cool breeze as she gazed upward at the full moon. For a moment, he just stood frozen, watching her. He could not tear his eyes from her.
“Nicolette…” his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
Slowly, she turned. Without saying a word, she seemed to float down from the banister and reached a hand out to him. Ravan took it and pulled her to him, embracing her deeply, the kiss more urgent than anything had ever been.
She started to reach for the ties of his trousers, but he grabbed her hand. “No—we are leaving.”
Staring up into his eyes, curiosity tugged at the edges of her blood red lips. Nodding and without saying a word, she moved toward the door without even stopping to pick up a cloak. Ravan held firmly to her hand and stopped her. Looking about the room, he walked to her armoire and threw the doors open. Rifling through the gowns, he finally snatched from a hook a thick hooded cloak lined with wool and edged with fur. He flung it over his arm and started for the door.
“You are with me now,” he stated matter-of-factly as though the whole world already knew this to be true.
Nicolette swept from the room with him, half running, half dragging along behind him, her face stoic and altogether calm. The guards simply stared at each other—dumbstruck—confusion on their faces.
As fast they could, the couple ran down the back stairs of the castle, spiraling down, taking the servants route to the ground floor. From there, they bolted for the stable, and Ravan approached his warhorse. The magnificent animal stomped its hooves nervously as though with eager anticipation while Ravan quickly bridled and saddled it. By then, there was noise from the castle as people came awake with the alarm.
The stallion tossed its head, eyes wide, impatient that they'd so recently ceased their murderous campaigns to only stand about in a stall. Then, strangely, it calmed as Nicolette reached a small hand out toward its muzzle. As he pulled the cinch tight, Ravan glanced over his shoulder at the animal’s strange and suddenly docile behavior, but by now, nothing surprised him about Nicolette. The stallion stood prancing in place as he swung onto it, his arrows quivered, his sword in its scabbard.
“I want you, Ravan,” Nicolette said, looking up at him, so small, so peculiar, and so utterly at peace.
He nodded and leaned over, reaching one arm around her waist. Hoisting her up and behind him onto the great stallion, he said simply, “Hold on tight.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. Ravan dug his heels into the sides of his warhorse. The animal snorted, eyes rolling white and wild. It lunged like a deranged beast from the stable into the courtyard. Its iron hooves pounded the stone beneath, sending sparks flying up behind them as though from a forge.
By now, word of Nicolette’s abduction was beginning to spread throughout the castle as fast as a bad rumor. The alarms were sounded all around, and the four guards at the gate stepped hesitantly into a nightmare’s path as the murderous wraith charged down upon them.
“Do not hinder me!” he called as he approached but to no avail.
Several of them held up spears, uncertain how to stop the black demon, but senselessly, they were compelled to try. It was a fatal mistake. Ravan’s sword was finely saw-toothed, its edges splintered from the limbs it had severed, and it remained true to its master tonight. He halted the horse, maneuvering it easily. The stallion reared, front legs violently pawing the air, and when it came down, Ravan decapitated one of the men.
In one clean motion, he’d unsheathed the sword and swept it swiftly and cleanly before returning it just as efficiently back to its scabbard. The others guards fell away in horror and dismay. The corpse stood headless for a stunned moment before falling obscenely to its knees and tumbling, chest forward, onto the ground. The guards tried to stop them no further, only stood back, looks of terror upon their faces.
For Ravan and Nicolette, it was a minor inconvenience. The horse thundered from the courtyard, across the drawbridge, and onto the open road as the decapitated head rolled upright on the stones behind them, eyes still open with surprise.
Back in the castle, Adorno shrieked at his newly discovered violation, and LanCoste now had serious problems of his own.
Flying on the wings of freedom, Ravan chased the wind that night. The warm breath of a short Indian summer unexpectedly acquiesced to the cold of autumn, and the flight stripped tears from the corners of his eyes. Nicolette held tightly behind him, her face buried into the back of her lover.
The magnificent horse frothed from its mouth and lathered its chest, its master pushing it mercilessly into the night. They hammered on like this for what seemed an eternity, the moon lighting their way. From the distance, they appeared as a phantom, black and marauding, thundering over hill and across valley.
They’d easily evaded the initial group of men who led halfhearted pursuit after them. Ravan was trained in maneuvering and tactics, incredibly sophisticated at just such juxtaposition, and no horse matched the stallion. More than that, he was born to this, and it was more than natural for him. This was what Ravan knew. It raced through his blood, flooded his soul. There was not a single man alive who could give chase onto the wildness of this mercenary tonight.
Finally, as the night closed, he slowed the horse to a walk and rode on until the animal breathed more slowly. He brought the horse into a dense thicket of evergreens, the branches almost completely obscuring the sky. Ravan slid from the horse and pulled Nicolette down into his arms. Then, he turned and walked a very short distance away.
A small meadow opened before them. Quickly stripping the tack from the animal, he placed a sling hobble on one foreleg of the beast and freed it. It wasn’t a real concern to him that the stallion would run, but best not to take chances since it had been stabled for so long.
Ravan took Nicolette gently by the hand and walked into the meadow. The moon shone bright, low, and silver on the soft fern beds that bowed gently before them. He looked across the valley, shimmering and softened by the velveteen of night, and swallowed, deeply overcome by the emotions which seized his heart.
He was free! Life, death, poverty, riches, companionship, or loneliness—they all belonged to him now, were his to hold or let go. His destiny was, for the first time, his own. He could live for those he loved, but no longer would guilt make him own their fate. This knowledge was difficult, heart-rending, and incredibly liberating. It gave him extraordinary power, for it had been the shackle Duval held him with.
Feeling her hand light upon his arm, he turned to see Nicolette looking not at him but across the meadow as well.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” She didn’t speak about the meadow. “…to break the bonds and breathe of the free world?”
Peering down at her, he wondered about her power, her strength. It suddenly occurred to Ravan that Nicolette had also been a prisoner, a captive of her station and the time in which they lived. Only, she had not possessed the means to escape…until now.
Finally, he understood where her resolve sprang from; she controlled her destiny with her mind, with her soul. As captured as she'd been, she was astonishingly unfettered, even when tethered to Adorno’s bed. He was very much affected by her composed power.
When he reached to touch her gently on the cheek, she turned to look up at him in mild surprise as though she'd forgotten she was there with him. He smiled at her, only barely beginning to recognize her queer response to the universe—her perpetual flow of soft surprise and quizzical observation. She was beautiful, pale as the moon, and so incredibly fragile. He marveled at how she controlled the space around her so completely, even here, far from the comforts of any village, in the remotest wild.
“I’m happy you are here,” he said.
Tilting her head, she studied him, her expression one of faint confusion, and she almost smiled back. Loosening the cape from her shoulders, she spread it upon the thick bed of ferns which bent softly at their feet. She lay down on the cape and slowly, deliberately, eased her crystalline white body from its shroud and remained there, gloriously naked and unashamed.
Nicolette stretched bare before him, and yet it was Ravan who felt vulnerable, exposed. He stood spellbound. He could not take his eyes from the raven black hair strewn about her, the milky white of her skin, and her eternally captivating eyes.
She allowed herself a long, luxurious moment to absorb him, hypnotizing him with her shamelessness. “Undress,” she said simply.
“I’ve…” He paused, looking briefly across the meadow again. “I haven’t ever…”
Nicolette moved to her knees, hands resting lightly upon them. She looked like a porcelain sylph, mythical and magic, kneeling naked in the meadow. “I know…but I have, and this will be faultless inasmuch.”
He gazed at her, allowing her words to penetrate and soothe the secret, fearful corners of his being.
“No mistakes—there's no such thing,” she murmured softly.
Apprehension faded and was replaced by a new and growing feeling. It was exciting and inviting. Ravan heard the night more acutely, could feel so well the beating of his own heart. He could smell her and was alarmed at the flush of warmth that tumbled across him, denying the cool night air.
Purposefully and slowly, he removed his armor—first his weapons, then the chain-mail, armored plates, and finally the thick leather, allowing each of them to fall heavily from his hand to the ground. He pulled the wool and linen shift from over his head. Last of all, he slid the soft deerskin trousers down and stepped naked from them.
Standing over her, he was spellbound and, for the first time ever, supremely comfortable in his nakedness. She shamelessly scanned his body before fixing her stare on his eyes. He was drawn into them, by the dark depths of them, without realizing how much they were like his own.
Kneeling beside her, he kissed her, a long and devouring embrace as their breathing became one. Then, he lay down, drawing the cape around them. As he wrapped his arms around her, they stepped for a while from the tragedy of this world into the ecstasy of another. They were paired in a most perfect way, nature’s supreme intention.
She matched his lovemaking, wild and desperate, guiding him, and seemed to delight in the faultless capacity of her lover. Night birds took flight from the treetops, and the horse pawed nervously in the distance at the carnality of it.
By and by, he was spent and eased his sweaty body from her. It had been wordless and raw, imperfect and flawless. Above all else, it had been consummate in its genesis. He pulled her close, and slept a dreamless sleep…one ear listening.