†
It was three weeks before Duval reached Ravan. The horse was aware of the army long before he was. It heard them first, then its sharp eyes picked them out, snaking through the forest on the other side of the ravine. Ravan had tied the stallion barely within view just for that reason; he knew the animal would sense an army well before he saw or heard it and alert him.
The stallion stepped nervously in place, anticipating the battle to come, but a well-trained warhorse would remain silent. Now Ravan moved the horse farther back, hidden in the trees so that the army on the other side would not see them.
For the last three weeks, Ravan made arrows, fashioned them true as he ever had, setting the feathers from the grouse and geese that they ate for suppers. They were perfect and numbered more than a hundred.
A clear blue sky shone brilliantly, and the air was light and crisp without moisture. Ravan was thankful for this. He nodded to himself, calm and resigned to this moment. It was a good day, a perfect day, and his arrows would fly true. This was something that he knew, familiar and comforting to him, a companion who would not desert him. Today, Ravan would kill, and revenge would again be his…one last time.
He took the horse and Nicolette far back from the little clearing and the ledge, well into the brush and scrub trees where they would be safe from the blitz that was to come. As he adjusted his armor, settling it evenly upon his shoulders, he struggled with what to say to her. “Nicolette…the horse.”
“He will be mine. No other shall touch him.”
Of this one fear, at least, she laid his mind to rest. Ravan nodded, now at a loss of what to say.
She approached and stood near to him. “Ravan…”
He tried to recall when he’d heard her speak his name before.
“There is no right or wrong today. Regardless of what happens, nothing removes what we have been to each other.” She stepped even closer. “That is constant.”
She spoke as though they had suffered an eternity together, and Ravan wondered if they had. It was the closest he’d ever come to hearing Nicolette describe trust, in her perception of an otherwise wildly fluctuating universe. She said it with so much immaculate calm, and his heart swelled at the honesty of her words.
“Nicolette—”
She shook her head as though to stop him from shattering the mirror they looked into. “There are no words to be spoken now. You know what is—and what is not.”
Her words were flawless, consummate, unspoiled by emotion. The statement was devastatingly sincere and rang truer than anything anyone had ever said to him.
He kissed her, did not need to tell her to stay safe and away from the fray. He did not need to say that he loved her—didn’t need to say anything at all. Ravan turned and walked back out of the small stand of trees, back to clearing and the cliff side. He eased himself silently to the ledge, and waited.
It was several hours before the army negotiated the switchbacks down to the canyon bottom far below and another half hour before they pressed from the forest to the edges of the river. As the mercenary army emerged from the woods, approaching and entering the shallow current, and with the eastern sun still to his back, Ravan drew his first arrow.
* * *
Duval had brought one hundred men with him and forty of Adorno’s. He’d bargained with the little man, taking another twenty pounds of gold in agreement to hand Ravan over to him. Adorno would have his vengeance and exact it in as horrible a fashion as he wished.
It annoyed Duval, somewhat, that it would not be he who would give Ravan the final blow, but he would suffer, and it would be a grave lesson for his men. That, and a coffer full of gold, was enough for Duval. He was always swayed most by coin—it was a lust for him.
Twenty or so men scouted ahead of him, and he could hear the dogs’ excitement increase. He could also hear the mild roar of the river shallows ahead. He spoke to LanCoste as they approached the perimeter of the forest. “The dogs are restless. We must be closer.” He held an expression of sick satisfaction on his face.
The giant said nothing, but then again, he seldom did.
Moments later, it began.
* * *
Duval made a critical and strategic mistake. He'd heard his men talk about Ravan, about how he performed on the battlefield, but he neglected to really hear them. If he’d listened better, he would have known that Ravan was more than efficient, more than a profitable mercenary. Ravan was an artist, a master, and this was his consummate battle. It would be his magnum opus, his greatest symphony.
They fell as if ants stepped upon by a giant. Hardly an arrow missed as Ravan drew, launched, and drew again. He was methodical, calm, and tireless as the bow bent repeatedly, not shuddering or wavering under the great strength of the arm which drew it.
From above and with flawless resolve, the arrows pierced armor easily, and Ravan’s skill allowed him to mostly miss the shields. When he could not, he took down the horses, the rider’s legs pinned to the animals as they fell, screaming, into the current.
Hell rained down upon them. The water reddened downstream as the bodies roiled, struggled, and died in the river. Still, the men pushed forward, struggling to gain a foothold along the base of the long climb that would lead them up the cliff—the only way to stop the slaughter pouring down from above. There was no other way, and Ravan mercilessly brought down even men who'd previously fought at his side.
As he squinted and drew the bow yet again, he was seconds too late as he recognized the cadence and size of a man he’d called friend. The arrow flew and found its mark. Ravan dropped the bow, paralyzed for an instant, and squinted hard.
LanCoste seemed to stop his horse in the shallows, to hesitate. Ravan could not tell. Perhaps the arrow deflected from his armor. Perhaps he'd missed. Nevertheless, the giant seemed ill-effected and started to press forward again, disappearing into the brush on the near side of the river.
Some time later, when sixty or so men swarmed Ravan’s small encampment, he laid down his bow and ran to his horse, taking up his sword. Another dozen fell before he was pressed back hard against the cliff. Finally, he succumbed to the sheer number of them and was pulled from his stallion.
Ravan was bent, beaten but alive, tied and pressed to his knees, when Duval arrived. The king of the mercenaries dismounted and approached the renegade. Ravan met his captor with a clear and calm eye, his body bloodied from battle but with a still and tranquil heart. He had one regret—he'd not taken Duval down with him. Nicolette stood close by, strangely calm as she watched the circumstances play out grim before her.
Duval’s losses were devastating. He’d traveled with an army merely because vanity had pressed him to do so. Never had he anticipated the casualties his army would suffer, and he was enraged at the cost, not in pounds of flesh but in what they represented in pounds of gold. Rage distorted his face as he neared the fallen man, and his fury precluded words. He simply roared, lifting his sword high overhead with both hands. He’d never in his life been so intent upon a task as he was at this moment, and his features were distorted in a sickening snarl. With a roar, the mercenary king swung to decapitate the traitor kneeling before him.
The blade swept heavy, clean, and ghastly true.
* * *
The air was cleaved by the massive weight of the blade. It made a dull and sickening sound as it met flesh, crunched through bone, and went true on its way. Blood sprayed in a glistening, red arc as the arteries were severed. The head twisted, flew terribly free from the shoulders, and hit the rocky ground beyond with an obscene thud. It spun in place then rolled, finally resting in all its surprise, sideways, staring back at them.
LanCoste was motionless, his great axe hanging loosely at his side as he stared, emotionless, at Duval’s decapitated body. It lay crumpled and lifeless at his feet. As he always did, he wiped the blood from the blade onto his thigh and heaved the weapon back into the scabbard on his back.
A stunned silence ensued. No one stirred. What was left of the battered army stood transfixed, shocked by the event as though a thunderbolt had struck that very spot. They were blinded, deafened, and dazed as though they were an army of stone. Ravan was most stunned of all. He stared in dumbstruck awe at his friend. LanCoste had just saved his life.
Duval’s body ceased to twitch. Without the head, the serpent lay futile and lost in the dust. Shock gave way to bewilderment, and confusion shrouded the faces of those who remained. Chaos ensued.
LanCoste was the first to speak. He looked slowly around himself, into the eyes of the other mercenaries, and finally into the eyes of the man on his knees before him. He spoke loud enough for all to hear, his voice thundering, commanding attention.
“It is finished. I am done.” He said it as though he had completed a task for which he'd toiled his whole life, as though he had shed from his massive shoulders the weight of all ages and laid it at their feet as a gift.
His face was sprayed with the wash of Duval’s blood. It found the creases and crags, dripped from the strands of his coarse beard. His deep-set eyes, bloodshot and hardened, gazed slowly about. The giant loosed his scabbard, and the battle axe dropped heavily to the ground. With one last look into the eyes of his kneeling friend, he nodded.
Then something remarkable happened. LanCoste smiled for the first time that Ravan had ever seen…just before he fell. Ravan saw the arrow, buried to the fletching, in the great man’s chest.
“No!” He cried and struggled violently, trying to regain his feet, to reach his friend, but the soldiers held him fast. “No!” he sobbed again.
Confusion erupted. The remaining mercenaries struggled with no purpose and a lack of direction. Their losses had been so heavy, the carnage nearly complete, and they had no leadership. Now LanCoste had fallen, and it was Ravan who'd killed him.
They allowed him to his feet, hands tied behind him, and argued as to his end. Some of them were intent on killing him straight away. Suddenly, Adorno rode into the encampment, striking upon a white horse, with all the trappings of a king.
“He’s mine! Do you hear?” he screamed. “Stand aside, or I will have you all killed! He’s mine, I paid for him, and I sacrificed for him!” He jabbed his chest with his thumb to emphasize his point.
There was only a modest settling of the crowd, but just then, Nicolette stepped forward. She was so quiet and calm but effortlessly took control of the carnage around her. A hush settled over what was left of the army as she spoke, all ears straining to hear her words.
“Take him, and I will never marry you,” she announced to Adorno.
For a moment, all were silent. Even the birds sang no more. Ravan, still devastated by the loss of his great friend, struggled and began to protest.
She held a hand up to him and continued to the surrounding throng of men. “I will return with Adorno only if Ravan is given to the state for trial.” She raised her voice for all to hear. “Only if!”
Nicolette must have known that with the state Ravan would be tried for high-treason, but at some point, it might allow him to orchestrate his own escape. If he stayed in Adorno’s jurisdiction, he would be put to death for sure, and not well. It was a risk she had to take.
She looked Ravan clearly and solemnly in the eye as she spoke softly again, as though to a lover, “And Ravan’s destiny becomes his own.”
Adorno's terrible addiction threatened, clawed at him, and ultimately got the better of him. He fidgeted and fretted, but Nicolette forbade him the luxury of time. She withdrew from her robe a dagger.
“Choose now, or have me nevermore.”
Wrapping both hands about the dagger, she pressed it to her chest. A trickle of blood welled and ran steady down her porcelain skin, marring the perfect snow white of her breast. This was no boast, no calculated threat. Her intent was sudden, real, and without condition. None present doubted her.
“No! Nicolette, No!” Ravan yelled at her, trying to move toward her, but he was held steadfast by the soldiers. He had no uncertain doubt that she would do just as she’d threatened.
Adorno held his hand up to quiet the crowd, as though his authority reigned above all else. “Don’t! Nicolette…don’t. Be reasonable, my love.” He smiled cajolingly. Beads of sweat broke out across the hook of his nose, and he pleaded. “You can have your way, darling. Just—just put the blade away.” His tongue darted nervously, snakelike, in and out of his small mouth. He turned his palms face up and extended one hand toward her as though to persuade her even more. “The state may have him, and he can rot for all I care. Just come home with me, my love,” he pleaded with her.
Nicolette's barter had forced him into a corner, but if this was how it had to play out, then so be it. Adorno had always feared Nicolette would never succumb to him completely, but with her barter she would have no choice, for now he had the bargain, and he intended to hold her to it forever. Finally, she would belong to him. She would be his for eternity!
She nodded solemnly, her decision immediate. Withdrawing the dagger from her chest, she allowed it to slip from her hand. It dropped with a soft thud to the ground. There were hushed murmurs in the crowd, most likely whispers of remorse for the sentencing of the ethereal beauty before them.
Ravan protested, “Nicolette, no! You can’t! I will go with him, but please…just don’t—”
Without acknowledging him, she turned away, rejecting his pleas. She walked over to the stallion, gathered its reins, and mounted Ravan’s horse. It tossed its magnificent head, and then, as though it knew the tide of the universe had changed, yielded to her, leaving its old master behind. As the horse moved away, Nicolette never once looked back. The steed walked obediently on, and they disappeared down the trail.
* * *
The wedding was extraordinary. Spring came unusually early, and the trees were dressed in magnificent lime green, the color that new foliage wears in celebration. The birds were courting and tussling for nesting spaces, and the town was alive with anticipation of this most extraordinary event.
No expense was spared for the ceremony of this unlikely pair. There was reason for festivity; the town had grown attached to the strange beauty who walked so quietly amongst them, and they welcomed any match for the tyrant that was Adorno. Many believed the unity would calm him, soften his hand upon the afflicted, temper his rage, and spare their daughters.
It was a beautiful day, and Nicolette was barely showing with child as she and Adorno followed tradition, promising their souls and lives to each other on the front steps of the church. They stood together and spoke their vows and the sacrament of marriage, giving final consent.
Adorno was in his most resplendent—white satin with a robe entirely of snow white ermine. It was a creature that symbolized purity, humility, and commitment. The decadence of an entire robe of such was unheard of, even amongst kings.
Their will was given and accepted, one to the other. They answered the matrimonial questions in turn as the priest droned. After they confirmed their consent, they entered the church for the wedding mass and communion.
Within the lovely cathedral, which stood inside the confines of the castle walls, their family and only a few nobility and servants gathered to share in the mass. Nicolette’s mother sobbed softly as her daughter was given to the tyrant. Her father hugged her mother, and all gathered pretended they were tears of joy.
There were no friends present. The closest friend one could figure was Moulin. He stood guard at the door, as was expected, and grieved the wedding of the fragile beauty for whom he’d fallen so deeply. His armor shone brilliantly. He’d polished it to perfection late into the night out of respect for the sacrifice Nicolette made. Now, he watched the couple as they knelt in the sanctuary.
Moulin’s mind wandered, and he imagined the flight the mercenary had taken her on. He speculated about the many nights they'd spent together in their magnificent exodus, the horrible things Nicolette must have seen. He wondered about the demise of Ravan, how he’d met his death. No one spoke of it; Adorno forbid even mention of the name.
Strangely, Nicolette seemed unchanged at all; she was the same bewildering beauty who was swept away from them months ago. Only now her belly swelled with child, and Moulin was certain that it must belong to the barbarian.
Outwardly, however, she acted as though nothing had even happened. This confused Moulin, and he looked up from his silent thoughts to see her standing motionless in her bridal gown. It stopped his breath and stilled his heart. Moulin would have given anything to have a bride such as this.
Nicolette was as still as stone, exquisite in the midnight blue, satin wedding gown. Her skin almost seemed to glow beneath her veil as a single sunbeam cast down on her. She knelt upon the altar steps in the front of the sanctuary. Her hair was pulled back, covered by an exquisite embroidered henin, woven with jewels, the veil shrouding her face and back. The words that came from her lips sounded peculiar, incompatible with the nature of the joyous event, and they echoed hollowly in the mostly vacant sanctuary.
Outside the walls of the estate grounds, bells rang in the township, and people rejoiced. There were few excuses and little reason to ever celebrate under the rule of the tyrant, Adorno. And so, this particular celebration lasted late into the warm, spring night. Kegs were tapped, goats and pigs roasted. The feasting and revelry continued around the blazing of bonfires through to the dawn.
When the wedded couple eventually retired from the castle celebration, Nicolette walked placidly in front of her husband to their wedding chamber door. Adorno staggered drunk behind her and engaged Moulin as they neared.
She stepped into the chamber, but Adorno hesitated and slurred to Moulin. “Guard this door and listen closely if you wish.”
He gestured with a goblet of spirits, masturbating himself and sloshing the drink almost entirely over the pikeman. He barely caught himself on the jamb before lurching away, slamming the massive door behind himself.
Moulin grieved.
* * *
Inside, Nicolette glanced over her shoulder as she slipped immediately from her bridal gowns. They rustled as they fell to the floor, and she stepped carelessly onto them, crushing the beautiful satin, the pearls marred against the cruel stone floor. She stood before Adorno in their wedding chamber, naked and gleaming, as ivory white as a winter moon.
“Come to me, my love,” she murmured and backed slowly toward the bed. She sat and stretched out on the silk coverlet, inviting him to join her there. Her skin shone iridescent as she spread her legs, enticing him.
She had forbid his advances since their return, told him that she would renege on her promise to wed should he touch her at all before their wedding night. Maidens had consequently suffered at the hands of Adorno because of this promise, but true to his word, he did not touch her, and it made him want her even more. When her belly swelled ever so slightly with child, no mention was made of it. Adorno convinced himself that the mercenary had abducted and raped her, and he intended to abort the bastard child after they were legitimately wed.
He swayed, determined to have her at once, and tossed the silver goblet aside. It landed with a clank onto the granite tile, bent now, and imperfect. He reveled in his capture; Nicolette was finally his…forever. His excitement mounted as he loosened his trousers and advanced on her, grasping his penis, coaxing it to life. He mounted her quickly, awkwardly, sprawling drunkenly on top of her.
Adorno never felt the silver dagger as it slipped between his shoulder blades. The alarm of his own body telling him that he’d been betrayed was what he knew first. He startled, placing his hands against the bed on either side of her. He tried to push himself up from her, but Nicolette held fast with both hands around him, fixed upon the handle of the blade.
Their eyes were but inches apart. She stared without emotion at the surprise in his, clutched him tightly, holding him on top of her, even as he struggled. She grimaced, twisted the blade more, and held firmly, even pulling him deeper into her. Smiling almost sweetly, she gazed curiously at the expression on his face. Saliva drooled from his mouth onto her cheek, and still she held strong, giving one final thrust with the blade.
As he weakened, Nicolette pulled the dagger from her husband. She eased him from her gently, almost lovingly, so that he lay face up and neat upon their wedding bed. She tossed the bloodied weapon onto the coverlet beside him.
He appeared so comfortable, so serene…except for the terrible horror in his eyes. He tried to talk but only gurgled and choked, spraying bloody spittle into the air so that it showered back onto his skin with a peppering of red. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and ran in a small river down his cheek, behind his neck.
She leaned close, straightening his pillow. “What is that? What? Nothing to say?” she whispered softly into his ear as he agonized in his final death throes. Then, her voice turned cold and hollow. “Know this, Adorno, that it is Nicolette who shed your wickedness from this world. All whom you have hurt are now vindicated, and I will raise my child without you. This realm will, once more, know a kind hand, and your lineage will be no more.”
His eyes followed her as she rose and went, naked and bloody, to her armoire. She ignored him as she reached, taking from the wardrobe a robe and wrapping herself warmly in it. Retrieving a decanter from on top of the dresser, she poured a draft of brandy for herself before turning to regard her husband.
As his eyes flitted and started to close, she remarked, “Yes, look at me as long as you can, for I am the witch who has murdered you, and all are now free of you.”
Adorno breathed for the last time, and she walked out onto the balcony to sit for a while and watch the stars slide across the eastern sky. Tomorrow morning, she would watch the sun rise on a new domain, and she was fine with that.
After some time, she came in from the balcony and went to her chamber door, pulling the massive ring until the clasp eased and the door creaked open.
* * *
Moulin was still at guard and seemed genuinely surprised to see Nicolette standing before him. In his mind, he'd already played over the events in the bedroom parlor, and none of them resulted in her standing in front of him as she now did.
He swallowed thickly, confused, and as always, overwhelmed by Nicolette in a way that he could not explain. He’d been uneasy about their wedding night, about what might be transpiring from within, having seen the swell of Nicolette’s belly. He grieved her betrothal to Adorno and tried to wipe from his mind the images of past episodes in Adorno’s chambers, when Nicolette had needed set loose from her bonds. Strangely, though, even then she never really seemed captured.
She gazed blankly up at her guard for a second before speaking. “Someone has killed my husband,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a lie. It was the truth, and she said no more.
“What?” Moulin was stunned. For a moment he thought he’d misheard her. He stared at the frail beauty before him and saw the dried blood on her hands.
“My husband is dead; someone has killed him.” She gestured inside, toward the bed.
Taking her arms and moving her gently aside, Moulin threw open the chamber door and rushed to the bedside of his lord. He saw the crushed wedding gown on the floor, the dagger, darker now with the blood dry, next to his master. There was Adorno, eyes staring blankly, blackened maw open in a silent scream as though he'd some terrible story to tell but just couldn’t muster it.
Moulin didn’t try to rouse his master; the significant pool of coagulated blood on the coverlet was proof enough that it would have been futile. He looked over at Nicolette. There she stood, hands clasped casually in front of her, looking placidly down at her husband from the foot of the massive four-poster.
“See…” was all she said.
“Mmm-hmmm.” Moulin's stunned gaze swung from the Nicolette to the corpse and back.
“Well, and what do you propose we should say about this?” She pushed Moulin gently.
He shuddered at the ghastly expression on the face of his lord and couldn’t help himself. Pulling the throw from the bedside chair, he tossed it over Adorno, obscuring the awful face. It was bizarre how rapidly the tyrant no longer resembled a man. He had become some horrid abnormality, some twisted, contorted freak.
The whole scenario was grossly obscene—Adorno deformed upon the bed, his mistress covered in blood. Moulin glanced back at Nicolette as though for guidance. She remained silent with only a queer, calm expression on her face.
Moulin finally spoke. “It is terribly unfortunate and…sad,” he swallowed thickly, “to have happened on your wedding night.” He gestured slightly for emphasis, still in shock and awe.
She only peered at him, waiting. Of patience, Nicolette commanded oceans.
He cleared his throat before continuing. “You must be devastated; I must call the constable. The township will surely come to your defense, support you in such a difficult time as this.”
“Do not call the constable. I can govern quite well during this…transition, so to speak.” She faced her sentry directly, studied him thoroughly, and said, “Assemble my knights first thing tomorrow and…thank you.” Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “I was hoping that compassion and wisdom would persevere during these terrible circumstances. The townspeople are surely going to be shocked by the news as I most certainly will be as well.”
“Most certainly,” he agreed.
“I believe assistance is in order; I will need help. Perhaps we might assemble my advisors late tomorrow afternoon, after the initial outrage of the incident has passed.”
“Yes, my lady, but there will be details to be attended to.” He gestured toward the bloodied wreckage hidden beneath the throw.
“Good—of course, but the meeting cannot wait.” She said it almost perfunctory and pressed on. “I wish to repeal the harvest tax and set aside an emergency supply of barley, for years of pestilence.” She continued before Moulin could interrupt. “I assume we have enough gold to accomplish such a thing?”
He nodded. “Yes, my lady; I believe we do, but the scribes will know better. I…I don’t believe my lord has ever met with them.”
“Mmm, of course not. Pity, isn’t it? We will have to change that now, won’t we?” She glanced from her dead husband to Moulin, and her face brightened. “Well, all right then. Let’s be done with this mess, shall we?” She continued, almost cheerfully. “Can you clean this up? And move me to a southern exposure suite, please. I wish to see the southern sky from my new room.”
He nodded.
“And Moulin?”
It was the first time he had ever heard her say his name. “Yes, my lady?”
“Seal this chamber. Seal it from the light of day, and leave him there.” She continued, despite the look of dismay on Moulin’s face. “Any who take vexation with this can speak to me. This is no longer the Bourbon Dynasty; do you understand? It is now the Ravan Dynasty, and it belongs to me.”
There was nothing Nicolette could do for Ravan; he was a prisoner of the state, and his fate would become his own. She could, however, martyr his memory for the sake of their child.
“Make that announcement immediately. And I wish for you to stay on as my personal castellan.” She lifted her chin as she finished.
His face lit up with the prospect of such an obligation. “Yes, my lady.” He bowed deeply before following her, leaving the murder bed and the legacy that was Adorno behind them.