†
Adorno was bent with fury. He knew Ravan had looked at her! He'd seen him force her into the alcove that night. He knew the barbarian 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, and was barely able to suffer the thought. No doubt, he had taken her, unclothed her, forced her, poured his seed into her! He was furious at these thoughts yet 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. Consequently, there would be terror and vengeance to pay. He would torture him! Yes, that’s what he would do. He would dissect him, penetrate him to his very heart before he would allow him to die! And just in case, he would make her watch.
It was nearly morning 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 his bride-to-be.
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. There on the ground were scarcely day old hoof-prints of the giant’s steed! He was thoroughly dismayed that his friend had been there first and 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! To beat him here! 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 who 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, himself, 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 very 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 if Duval knew of it, LanCoste could be killed for being a traitor.
“It is your friend who did this—the giant—is it not?” Nicolette gestured toward 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 new, 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. He 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 his old friend, 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—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. 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, 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 toward 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 stared at his feet. “She told me how you ran, how they caught you and took you away.” He glanced up at him with tears in his eyes. “She came here, Ravan, to help the children. We wanted to…”
Shifting his weight, Ravan 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 something to eat, 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 not 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, 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 ever so badly to just keep you with me, always. But I thought that would be selfish of me.” He stepped toward 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 has 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 also love you, 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 fear nothing. As LanCoste said, you are safe. You and the children can live here in peace.” He glanced 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 stream. To the west, 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’d bravely negotiated their way as close as they dared.
They'd seen the hugs, noticed the interchanges between their guardians 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 toward 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.
* * *
Ravan continued to run the horse hard. It was lean and hungry, but it ran strong and far into each night. At long last, he sat the stallion at the edge of the forest, looking across the damp, dark meadow to the Inn nestled in 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.
He drew a deep breath. The Inn was strangely warm and inviting, cozily lit 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.
Urging the stallion forward, he crossed the meadow, silently stopping in front of the Inn. They would both be here: Pierre, who'd raped him, and the Innkeeper, who’d sold him. He pulled the horse up, swung his leg over the animal’s neck, and slid to the ground.
Nicolette slid forward into the saddle and took up the reins. “I’ll wait for you here,” was all she said.
He only nodded and left her with a squeeze of her knee. Walking up to the entry, his head suddenly cleared as it always did before battle. However, this was no battle—this was a gift. He stepped under the porch and rested his head against the cold, damp wood of the thick front door, quieting his memories and savoring the moment at hand.
In his head, the sounds of the night left, and all he heard was the beating of his own heart. He listened to it, to the steady cadence of it. When it finally steadied to a very slow ka-thump, ka-thump, he instinctively withdrew into the temperament of what he knew best.
Throwing open the door, Ravan stepped inside. It was a full night. Revelry, music, smoke, and laughter filled the space. He stood in the midst of it, terribly out of place, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. There were gasps from the crowd as they gradually silenced and moved away, backing into nooks, ducking behind timbers, creeping up the stairs. A man had been hammering away on a dulcimer that was missing nearly every other string, and the music stopped abruptly. All who were present stared at the stranger in stunned silence. This one had not come for spirit, revelry, or rest. There was only one thing one such as this would seek.
The fire crackled loudly as the Inn became deathly quiet. Studying the room, Ravan knew he was here—he could feel it. Pierre was at the end of the bar, leaning heavily against it. His attentions were lost to a woman who sat next to him, portly and staggering, her bodice nearly falling from her as her breasts threatened to spill from it.
The ominous silence attracted both their attentions within seconds. The woman sobered enough to hitch her bodice and slink quickly away. Pierre seemed at first confused and uneasy. He only looked dumbly around himself at the crowd.
The mercenary remained where he stood, just inside the door. The prolonged quiet settled deafeningly upon the room, like volcanic ash—so hushed, so deadly. No one seemed to recognize him.
“Leave, unless you have an appetite for death.” Ravan spoke to everyone but stared only at Pierre. His voice was cold, carrying the weight of innocence lost and the futility of time spent trying to bury it.
The crowd dispersed rapidly. There was not one who wished to take this man on or be caught in the collateral damage that might ensue. Pierre started to move from the bar.
“Not you,” Ravan stated flatly.
Pierre squinted as he tried to make out the stranger who challenged him, and he snorted. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”
Ravan stared the man down with all the cold, vile hatred he’d stored for the past seven years. It coursed like a wonderful, burning acid in his veins, and the sensation surged tremendous within him. He felt alive, on fire; his senses were keen as he heard everything, felt the air on his skin, tasted revenge on his tongue.
* * *
Pierre stopped abruptly, swinging his girth to face the harbinger who confronted him.
“I have no business with—” He halted suddenly, squinting, poking his mangled nose out and forward.
Recognition of this man vexed him. There was something very familiar about him, but he just could not put his finger on it. Then, all of a sudden, it was apparent. Pierre’s mind struggled to grasp the images and memories that now flashed before him. He'd sprung at this boy-child, half-naked over a bed at this very Inn. This was the one who’d defiled his face so horribly with that god-awful knife of his—the same boy he and Renoir had stuffed face first into the snow bank, before they'd sodomized him thoroughly!
That had been glorious to Pierre, one of his most memorable desecrations. It had seemed they’d left the boy crushed beyond repair that night. He'd lain in silent anguish, curled up and bleeding, naked in the snow with his pants about his ankles.
How wonderfully prevailing Pierre’s urges had been over the boy; how wickedly superb it had been to degrade and violate him. Now, however, Pierre was overwhelmed by the presence of the man, altogether an odd mixture of arousal and apprehension. He struggled to place a man from the memory of the child, and foolishly, his arrogance disallowed fear.
How has he survived? How has Duval—or another—not killed him? Why has Renoir not finished him as he’d said he would, and why is he here? But, mostly, how has he become so…different? This is not that boy! No, not that boy at all!
“I do not know you!” Pierre exclaimed, the first seed of trepidation planting itself.
* * *
Ravan delighted in this moment, savored it. He could see slow recognition spread across the mute, mangled face of Pierre and delighted in the man’s slow-wittedness. He started to advance, very slowly, so that he could allow comprehension to settle over his foe completely before he exacted his revenge. This was something he’d planned for a very long time, and it would be unspeakably perfect by the time he was done.
“Ah, but you do, Monsieur Steele,” Ravan informed him. “You do know me, and we have much unfinished business. But you are a busy man; I know this. Busy defiling and desecrating those who would be weak around you. Not to worry, however. This will not take long.”
The Innkeeper stepped forward from behind the bar. He made to reach for his sword, the one he kept beneath the bar ledge—the one Ravan already knew was there. He started to object as though this was just another disagreement at the Inn. “I will have none of this in my establishment and—”
Ravan unsheathed his own sword with such vicious and lightening dispatch that there were gasps from those few who'd dared to remain and observe. “Silence!” His voice wavered with his passion, but his hand did not. In just seconds, his sword was pointed level, mortal, and mere inches from the face of the Innkeeper.
The owner stepped back slowly, hands lifted and open, still not quite placing the stranger before him. “Easy there. I’ve no quarrel with you, sir.”
“Sir?” Ravan was momentarily dumbfounded. “You do not recognize me?” He poked the sword in the direction of the Innkeeper’s face. “It’s me, you contemptible bastard—Ravan!” For only a moment, his attention was pulled from Pierre as he advanced a bit toward the Innkeeper, continuing his rant. “I am the boy you sold! You stole my childhood, you sick whore-son! You sold it!” Ravan blinked, rage barely held at bay. Everything was red now, a dark and lovely red.
Pierre was edging slowly toward the kitchen door, but Ravan swiftly cut him off, stepping across his path. Well experienced in enfilade, or “flanking fire,” he easily corralled Pierre and the Innkeeper alone to one side of the room.
The crowd was pouring like flood water from the room, fearful and shaken at the abomination who'd appeared from nowhere to lay certain death over any who stayed. They sought cracks and crevices, spilling from the wretched hall. The mercenary who’d manifested before them was black from head to toe, his hair long and tangled, his armor blood stained. His weapons were terrible, and his eyes were the worst of all. There was no life to this one—only blackness. Surely he had come from Hell itself, and tonight would be doomed for them all!
Ravan turned his attention back to Pierre but continued to point the sword to the Innkeeper as he spoke, “Move and I will kill you.”
The Innkeeper started to object, but Ravan cut him off brutally as he looked him in the eye, teeth clenched. “Make no mistake! You will suffer—eventually—but speak or move and I will kill you now as surely as you stand.”
The Innkeeper froze, hands in the air. Ravan’s promise was to be believed and the man could do nothing but watch as Ravan exacted his revenge upon Pierre.
Ravan sheathed his sword with one swift, skilled twist of his hand and pulled from his waist the knife, the very knife he'd set as a child, the antler handle worn smooth from his own hand—Pig-Killer. The knife had come home to its destiny. It seemed almost small in the hands of the one who wielded it.
Pierre cowered at the end of the bar, and the double edge of the blade glistened brightly as Ravan moved into him, arcing swift and brutal as he carved. Pierre fell to his knees as the blade sliced. It was a murder of calculated rage. It held years of venom in it, having been practiced in his mind many times before.
Pierre was blinded as the blade crisscrossed his face. He staggered backwards, clutching his ruptured orbs and tripped, falling with a crash against the wall, sliding heavily to the ground. “Please! Oh, dear God, please!” Pierre begged, hands up to his severed eyes, blood streaming down his face.
“Do you remember me now?” Ravan knelt on one knee in front of him, almost studying him, tilting his head sideways as he watched the man cower in blinded terror. “There is no God where you now go,” Ravan whispered, his voice hoarse and heralding with his deadly promise.
The blade entered Pierre’s chest slowly, caressed him gently. Ravan held Pierre by the neck with his other hand, pushing hard so that Pierre gurgled and sputtered, unable to speak or pull away from the slow agony of the knife.
The rapist clawed feebly at the hand about his neck. Ravan watched his face closely as he pushed the knife in, penetrating him with agonizing leisure. He finally felt the handle throb as the tip of the blade engaged the beating heart. Ravan snarled, rejoicing in the thump-thump beating that staggered and slowed, pulsing against his grip on the blade. He savored the copper, acrid bitterness of the blood scent that sprang from around the blade as it sprayed, flowing thick and hot down the chest of the man.
It was a perfect moment—a consummate requiem. Ravan exhaled slowly.
Pierre gasped one more ragged breath as life withdrew itself from him. With a final shove, Ravan threw the corpse sideways so that it fell from his blade. The entire ordeal was vicious, savage, and seemed to be over in mere seconds. He stood up slowly, looking down at the man who lay twisted at his feet, obscene, bloodied, and ruined. Casually wiping the blood from his blade onto his leg, he returned Pig-Killer to his belt.
He turned to see the Innkeeper edging toward the door and unsheathed his sword. “Stop! You cannot escape me.”
“Please, Ravan—please have mercy,” he sputtered. “I did ill by you, I know, but I have lost her because of it. Please…please spare me!”
There was something about his appeal that made the mercenary hesitate; the Innkeeper spoke as a man who'd suffered, and he spoke of her. Ravan leaned his head back, peering down his nose at the man he'd hunted for, cleaned stalls for, chopped wood for. This was one whom he'd trusted with all the hopes, dreams, and innocence of a child. This man had taken him from the orphanage, brought him in, allowed her to love him, only to cast him away for coin. He’d foolishly thought he might become a son to this man.
Curiosity suddenly overcame him, for it was this man’s bride who'd treated Ravan with kindness and compassion. Ultimately, she'd left her husband because of a child misused. He approached the Innkeeper.
To the credit of the man, he did not cower at the fate that played out in all its apocalyptic reprisal before him. On the contrary, he almost seemed to search the eyes of the mercenary, looking with remorse for the child he’d betrayed.
Intrigued to know the mettle of this man, Ravan remembered when the Innkeeper had stopped Pierre in the room up above. He surely would have been raped that night. But then again, the Innkeeper had done so for his own sake, for his own gain. Ravan recalled looking backwards as he was forced into the cage. He remembered seeing the bag of coin the Innkeeper had taken from Duval as she had been shoved to the ground.
Just then, Ravan lunged viciously, grasping the arm of the big man and dragging it almost effortlessly onto the bar. The Innkeeper was stunned at the strength of the man, being no slight man himself. He was easily overpowered. Twisting about, Ravan locked the arm under his own, forcing it palm down, flat upon the dense, worn surface of the bar.
The sword fell heavy, deadly accurate, and with cruel finality as the bar top inherited another flaw this evening. Amongst the multitude of gouges and dents affected by steins falling and being smashed onto the bar in episodes of revelry, anger, and drunken brawls was another mark. The cut it sustained now was of the deepest and most deserved intent of all.
The Innkeeper's hand spun and fell to the floor with a thud. It was severed so swiftly that there was hardly pain. He released the Innkeeper just as quickly and turned to watch the big man stagger backwards from him, leaning heavily against the wall. His victim clutched at the stump, staring at the blood that spurted foreign from it, finally feeling the painful retraction of muscle and tendon.
Ravan casually released the catch on his vest armor, swung it open, and reached beneath to pull from his shirt a lacing. He held it out, offering it loosely to the Innkeeper. “Bind the wound tightly to stop the blood loss, and you may live.”
“Why? Why did you—” the Innkeeper began.
“So that you will never accept payment for such as you did for me, ever again—not with that hand.” Ravan nodded to the severed member, lying still on the floor.
“Why do you spare me?” The Innkeeper clutched his bloody stump to his chest. He was breathing hard, his will broken down to absolute and raw honesty.
Ravan was surprised, taken aback at the decency of the question. He thought for a moment before he answered. “She does not deserve to have you die by my hand. It would hurt her, and that is forbidden.” He paused. “You have her to thank for your life.” Tossing the lacing onto the bar, he turned and finally left the Inn, with all of its memories and ghosts now behind him.
Nicolette sat quiet and serene on the horse, her cape drawn close around her. She stared back at the meadow as Ravan walked down the cobbled walk, across the small front yard of the Inn. She peered down at him, offered no questions, no verdict. There was no solace for what she knew must have occurred inside. She only slid back behind the cantle of the saddle to allow Ravan to swing onto the horse. Then she reached both arms around him, beneath his armor against his skin and hugged him tightly.
He breathed deeply as he felt the warmth of her skin against his. Spurring the horse, they made for the darkness of the woods—his woods—and disappeared into the night.