†
Adorno raged, his face reddened with poorly justified indignation. The giant turned his deaf ear to the din; it annoyed him, and now things were changed. Adorno seemed to hardly notice as the giant left the room. LanCoste made his way to go collect his few belongings from his quarters. Looking about himself, LanCoste saw no evidence that Ravan had even been there. Then he saw it, folded carefully and lying on the nightstand—a note.
There was something different about the giant now, something new—a feeling of confusion that had beset him recently. It was uncomfortable, almost painful, and he was gravely unfamiliar with it. He’d never experienced this sensation before. Seeing the note produced a sudden confounding of his already baffling ruminations. The immediate notion of loss was entirely new to him.
Silently gathering his belongings and heaving the axe onto his back, he tucked the hand scrawled note inside his vest. A short while later, mounting the Belgian horse, he rode from the castle. Alone, he made his way across the drawn bridge and into the night. He hadn't been dismissed—in truth, he simply left.
No one tried to stop him. Adorno had always considered him daft and thought little more of it other than to hurl a few insults from a balcony high overhead at the retreating mountain of a man. People stepped away, turning from him as he made his way to the edge of the castle grounds. No one at the portcullis even began to stop him as he rode through and crossed the moat, only to be swallowed up by the dark forest beyond.
The journey was long for the giant. Even though the rains started, he rode steady and hard, nearly fifty miles the first day. The roads, what roads there were, were muddy and treacherous. This, however, was insignificant as he focused only on his journey and thought only of Ravan.
He puzzled, and even brooded, but mostly questioned the wretched vacancy within his heart. He'd never felt this before and was driven by it. He required a greater understanding of it, and this is what he sought. Removing the note from his vest he stared at the words, unable to read them but comforted in a small way by the knowledge that it was from Ravan’s hand.
Duval’s forthcoming reaction to the news was scarcely even a concern to LanCoste. It would be what it was—no more, no less. Perhaps Duval would kill him for his inability to restrain Ravan and prevent his flight. This didn’t matter to the giant. Death was inconsequential. What only seemed to matter now was that Ravan was gone.
His massive forehead furrowed with consternation. The rain ran unnoticed down the scars and creases that were the roadmap of his face. It seemed his heart weighed too much in his chest, and a heavy sigh breathed forth from him. It was sixteen long days before he rode over the hill and into the orphanage.
* * *
The Old One gasped at the shadow cast by the man on the war-horse. It made one believe mountains could move, and as the brute descended the hill, his presence only seemed to increase. It was evening, and the Old One squinted into the evening glare at the horrible sight that rode over the knoll and down toward the orphanage. He shooed at the children, swooshing the air with his hands, scattering the orphans like scraggly chickens to the root cellar, barn, cookhouse, and woods.
They fled to wherever they imagined they might be sheltered from the horrible certainty of the one who now came upon them. In truth, there was no such place. Then the frail and bent man spoke a silent prayer, that God would protect them. He prayed that if the children should be found, the monster would take them quickly and without pain.
He didn’t know why the giant approached; only a few had purpose for the unwanted children who lived here. So the Old One thought it must not be good, whatever the reason. The barbarian approached, and the Old One took an unconscious step back. His granddaughter held fast beside him.
“Avon, go! Hide with the children!” he whispered.
“No, Papa. I stand with you. If the coward slays you, he will have to strike a woman first.” She swallowed dryly and took her grandfather’s leathery and worn hand into her own.
The old man prayed that the mercenary would know and harbor the code of chivalry. He hoped for a miracle, that despite his horrid appearance, the man would be a knight of honor. By the looks of the savage who approached, however, it was not a prayer likely to be answered for he wore no coat of arms.
He held tightly to Avon's hand. “My granddaughter, I love you, child, as I loved your mother.”
“I know, Papa.” Her voice trembled in fear, but her eyes remained fixed on the intruder who descended onto them. Taking a deep breath, she bravely stood her ground, squeezing her grandfather’s hand tightly.
* * *
LanCoste rode straight up to the pair and whoa’d the monster steed, the beast’s armor rattling briefly as the chinks found their resting places. No one spoke. It was an odd moment, almost as though all present had expected it.
The wind whistled lonely through the trees. The winters had been longer and colder than usual these last few years. He breathed in deeply of the late autumn. The wild cherry had already dropped their leaves, and days were shortening by strides now. Evening approached; it would be dark soon, and he had miles to go.
LanCoste paused, peering at the nearby forest, squinting as he struggled to gather words that came only with great difficulty on even his best days. His battle-scarred hands lay enormous, crossed and casual, across the pommel of the saddle. Surprisingly, for his great size and strength, the giant seemed almost tired.
Still, no one spoke. When finally it appeared that time had groaned to a halt, and they all stood as still as salt pillars, LanCoste peered down at the face of the Old One. Slowly and casually, he shifted only his eyes to look at Avon.
Her hand tightened upon her grandfather’s. The Old One began, “Please, she is my granddaughter. Have mercy on—”
“I know Ravan,” LanCoste interrupted, his voice thunderous and deep. It echoed in the sad wind, and even the earth seemed to shift as he spoke slowly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully.
The Old One’s eyes, aged with cataract, shot open in surprise. There was a moment of stunned silence. “Ravan? Dear God! You know the boy?” The Old One involuntarily dropped Avon’s hand and stepped forward.
LanCoste’s deep brow rose in mild surprise, and he shifted his weight on the great horse. “I know him. He is my…” He'd started to say confederate. “He is my…friend.”
Avon gasped and put her hands to her mouth.
Her grandfather stepped forward. “Oh, dear Father in Heaven! Is he well? Do you bring us news?”
LanCoste hesitated. He wanted to speak the truth; if Ravan was alive, it would not likely be for long—not after Duval knew of his flight. Instead, he said, “Ravan sends his…” He paused, looking again to the sad and bare fingers of the naked cherry trees, made even longer by the shadows they cast. He cleared his throat. “He sends his greetings.”
The Old One gulped, his old, blue eyes damp. His hands hung open and frail. “But is he well? Does he—”
LanCoste interrupted again, an uncommon gesture. “He is leaving, a great distance. I am LanCoste.” Before the old man could go on, LanCoste reached up to draw the hand-scrawled note from his vest.
Instinctively, the pair stepped back as the giant withdrew the note.
“Can you read this?” He held the note out to them, oblivious of their apprehension.
Avon shook her head. “No, we can’t, but…”
* * *
Just then, she stepped from the cookhouse, drying her hands on a towel. LanCoste squinted as he recognized her. Crossing the small expanse, the Innkeeper’s wife approached the giant, reached up fearlessly, and took the parchment from him.
She nodded her recognition of LanCoste as she opened the note. All eyes were on her. Unfolding the crumpled paper, she passed her fingers across the script, feeling the presence of the hand which had written it. Closing her eyes, she remembered the days at the Inn when the author would sit in the kitchen on a quiet evening and scrawl his letters.
“What is it? What does he say?” the Old One wondered for all of them.
Looking at the three of them, each in turn, she finally read. “It says, ‘LanCoste, I leave you to seek my way. I wish to be free, and the time has come. I would wish the same for you. Please know that I am always your ally, but even more-so—and I believe you know this by now—I am your friend. Ravan.’”
Hesitating, drinking in the familiar scrawling of the penmanship before folding it, she reached up to respectfully hand it back to the giant. She studied his terrible face but, for the most part, gleaned no expression from it. The giant nodded only slightly and took the note, tucking it safely, almost gently, back into his vest.
The Innkeeper’s wife continued, “LanCoste, we have been digging, preparing a hiding place—a cellar, just in case. Should we fear Duval’s wrath?”
“There is no need.” The giant pressed his spur into the Belgian, pivoting the mammoth war-horse on its quarters. As the gelding stepped away, the mercenary glanced back in all his horrid compassion, deep, sad eyes upon them. “If they come, you tell them LanCoste will find them—that he will kill them.”
The Old One stood in stunned silence. Avon sobbed once.
LanCoste sat still, his back to them, and looked for a long spell 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 briefly. “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 warhorse off. “Ravan is gone.”
The Old One, Avon, and the Fat Wife 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 those who remained stood, spellbound and confused by the odd gesture.
Done with the task, the giant hesitated, briefly perusing his work. As if he were finally satisfied, he rode away, 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 and the memory of a night with her in his arms. 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 it was inevitable, that 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 hoped, he would have his chance to face Adorno and 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 Adorno and Duval. If the wind was calm, his arrows would fly true and these men would suffer, 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, pale and mysterious 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. 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 warn them, 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’d 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. 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?”