Risen (12 page)

For the first few years after Modred
died, Tor struggled with the notion of revenge. Logically, the
mercenary had every right to defend himself and perhaps even the
pathetic, one-eyed girl—the one he’d called sister. He thought his
general, Yeorathe, had been wrong to engage the dark mercenary at
the Inn, and they discovered the great mortality of this error much
too late.

But reasonable thought had slowly
dimmed as the months and years passed, replaced by grief, anger,
and a burning need for revenge. This was all that was left of his
terrible loss—the deaths of Modred and then his fair Madlen. There
was nothing else now.

Tor savored this moment. He was old
now, over five decades, and weary of life. And she was dead. His
bride—his beloved Madlen—was gone, tearing her own life from her
chest the very eve she learned of her son’s demise. It ripped Tor’s
soul apart to lose Modred and then, a mere month later, to lose his
beloved wife as well.

That had been a dreadful time. He
spent nearly a month laying in the bed they’d previously shared,
willing himself to die. Then he’d spent another there, willing
instead himself to live so that he could hunt the one who had done
this wretched thing to him.

A burning coursed through his veins
and narrowed his vision as he waited for the thinning blanket of
night to lift. Today would be glorious. His pain would be
extinguished, must be extinguished! And there were only two paths
that could provide relief. One was as good as the other, he
believed.

Today, he would take the demon
down—would take Ravan’s life—or would be taken of his own. Either
way, it would be perfect in that it would be at long last done. He
would be united with Madlen or would send Ravan to hell. There was
no hope, no expectation of good, no breath of compassion coursing
through the blackened channels of Tor’s mind now. It all came down
to this.

The stars were a bright blanket
against the black velvet that was the few, last hours of darkness.
His second in command, a man nearly as wide as he was tall and
solid as a bull, approached him from behind and peered into the
night, studying one last time the expanse of field that was all
that separated the village from their waiting army. Odgar’s beard
was a ruddy red, thick and cut square across the bottom. He ran
clawed fingers through it now.

“Are they in place?” was all Tor
asked of his commander.

He’d ransomed a lifetime of profit,
several generations of resource, and more than a few friendships to
establish the infantry that was at this very moment assembling in
the blanket of forest beyond the Ravan dynasty. He’d called on
every favor, coerced, bribed, manipulated—all for this one day. All
of Tor’s awful ambition was poured into this one moment. It was an
immense sacrifice, but it didn’t matter. All would be set right at
the break of dawn. Revenge would finally be his.

“They will be in place within the
hour, my Lord. It’s been a long night. I worry that fatigue could
be a factor. We’ve driven them hard.” Odgar rested his hand upon
the hilt of his sword, his eyes shining even in the
darkness.

“It isn’t an issue. We have the
element of surprise, and…” he shrugged, “…we outnumber his forces
by nearly half.”

Gathering ranks in the woods behind
him, their numbers swelled to nearly seven hundred. And although
the population of Ravan’s Dynasty had grown to almost five
thousand, of these only about three thousand inhabited the
immediate township, and of these, only four hundred or so were
suited defenders—soldiers who could and would readily fight at
Ravan’s side at any given moment.

Ravan’s army was a substantial
enough force and would ordinarily be perfectly sufficient to ensure
safety of the township and discourage an attempt at an overthrow,
ordinarily…except perhaps when confronted with the insane, revenge
campaign intended by Tor today. Truthfully, the Norseman cared not
if his own army fell, if every last one of them died. It didn’t
matter at all, not as long as Ravan was taken down with them. His
army was paid in advance. Let death serve them if it
chose.

Tor didn’t focus on Odgar. Standing
on a small, rocky rise, his full attention was focused instead on
the black horizon behind him. He willed the eventual lightening of
dawn to crease it, sure that the battle would be in his favor. His
second in command was more than capable. Odgar had been a machine,
manipulating the army superbly to set up the perfect front. Beyond
that, he was brutal. This man had battle skills that exceeded most,
but even more so, he had a gluttony for profit and opportunity.
And, he enjoyed what he did. War agreed with him in a supreme
fashion, and he’d been too long away from battle. This is what he
told Tor.

The general stood next to him,
rubbed the palms of his hands together as though in anticipation.
“It will be light soon.”

“Where is Yeorathe?” Tor
wondered.

“He is in place, positioned at the
North front, just as you wished.”

“Excellent,” was all he replied
before going back to his eternal stare of the eastern horizon. His
first in command would hold the flank. Of this he had no
doubt.

When the first glint of dawn creased
the profile of the distant clouds that lay behind them, Tor spun to
face the west, the direction of his enemy. The castle lay beyond
the population, but the town was not his priority today. They would
run over it, kill any who stood against them, and skirt through the
rest of it in the remaining cover of darkness. They would then call
siege directly on the castle at daybreak. Today, victory would come
with the death of only one, but if the entire dynasty fell it would
be glorious beyond measure.

Because every warrior in Tor’s army
was already amply pay-rolled, any plunder would only be incentive
for them to fight harder, longer. Let the village burn. If it hurt
him before Tor reached him, all the better. And his wife—Tor would
take her first and then plunge the blade into her chest himself,
and he would allow Ravan to watch.

The warmth that showed on the bare
hint of a smile did not come from the heart of the Norseman; it
came from a coldness in his belly, and with it the last shred of
humanity was gone. He peered hungrily at the castle as an animal
might consider prey. He imagined he could see the sleeping man
within. It would not be long now.

CHAPTER NINE

†

Ravan shoved his son toward the
castle. “Go! Find your sister, your mother. Get Moira and
Moulin!”

“But, I could—”

“Risen, go!” the mercenary’s battle
voice was terrifying, something the boy had never heard before.
“Get them to safety, now!” his father charged.

Risen obeyed, taken with urgent
alarm and running fast as he could, glancing over his shoulder only
once as he did. The mounted scout galloped across the courtyard
toward Ravan and slid a drained horse to a skidding stop. The boy
could not hear the conversation but knew it must be serious, for
the rider never dismounted, only spun his horse and whipped it
viciously, galloping next toward the main stables and
barracks.

The boy lingered at the doorway,
stunned, held transfixed by the odd turn of events. What if
something was wrong? What if she was in danger? This thought pulled
immediately at his gut in a terrible way. Never before had he felt
such an awful feeling, not even in the frozen pool, and he disliked
it immensely.

Seeing his father glance over his
shoulder, even as he sprinted toward the main stables, Risen leapt
back behind the door, keeping it cracked open only enough that he
could just see out. It would not do to disobey his father. He’d
learned this on many occasions. But even so…what if?

Risen was driven by a need to know
that everything was all right. Perhaps this was just an exercise?
Surely that was the likelihood of it. Father had drills frequently
and was never satisfied with them, no matter how perfect his men
performed. But that was a good thing. The result was that his
legion was fierce, cunning, and intensely loyal to their leader.
And it wasn’t just the army. The entire township outside the gates
of the castle was loyal to Ravan.

But this time had been different;
the look on the scout’s face, the dreadful state of the bone weary
horse, and something about his father’s expression, were all things
he’d never before seen. The boy chewed his lip as he squinted
through the crack in the castle door. What truly nagged at the boy
was the dream he had of late. It was fire, only fire. From within
it she walked to him, unburned, hand held out toward him, but upon
her face was a look of such sorrow, an expression he’d never before
seen in the real light of day.

Risen shook the memory of the dream
from his head and convinced himself he would have a better vantage
point from the tower. And so he obeyed, sprinting for his parents’
wing first.

As he bolted across the rough marble
floor, he spied his mother just coming from her room. At her side
was Moira, the handless maiden his father had rescued from the inn
the year he was born, and in tow was his younger sister,
Niveus.

“Risen, what is it?” Moira stepped
toward the boy, dragging Niveus behind her, but Nicolette
interrupted her.

“Come with me. There will be a
battle this morning. We must alert the guards, secure the
castle.”

How his mother could already know
this was a mystery to Risen, but neither was it a surprise. She was
nearly always right, and the events of just moments before
supported her claim. Risen’s heart dropped heavy within his chest
with his mother’s words. So it was true; forces were advancing on
them. She might be in harm’s way after all.

“Mother, I have to go to the
village,” he said urgently, “I need to help.”

“No,” was her flat
reply.

“But people…might be in danger,” he
argued. What he was really thinking was that Sylvie might be in
danger. “I can help. I know I can. You must let me go.”

“No. I will not have you at risk.”
Nicolette motioned for him to follow Moulin and instructed him,
“Take them to the cellars. Hide them in the library chamber. Stay
with them.”

“But you don’t understand,” Risen
persisted, “I can help Father! I know I can! I just need to get to
the—”

Nicolette snapped harshly, “Go with
Moulin! Do as I say. You cannot help the villagers now, Risen. You
must trust your father to take care of the townspeople.”

He was deeply troubled but not for
his mother’s severe words. He was stricken with worry for her.
Sylvie was, oddly, Risen’s blossoming best friend. But what Sylvie
didn’t realize was that she’d become much more than just a friend.
She had slowly replaced his male counterparts as his primary
interest. It wasn’t that Rowan, Tobias, and Cedric were no longer
at his side, one imaginary battle after another. It was just that
recently this uncommon girl seemed to engage his mind more…much
more.

Sylvie was Risen’s first love, and
no one knew—not his parents, not even Sylvie. He guarded his secret
perfectly, letting his parents believe it was Tobias he meant to
spend so much time with. And it was true, Tobias was his best
friend. But Tobias’ sister…was even more.

It was a perfect secret, the most
precious of all, and Risen meant to wait for just the right moment
to tell her. Only then would he allow Tobias or his parents to
know. The circumstances must be just right, for Risen believed he
and Sylvie should always be together. He believed it was
destiny.

Risen hesitated; he had strong
reservations about his mother’s observation, to simply trust that
everything would be for the best. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe
his father could defeat the fiercest of any foes. On the contrary,
he believed him to be the most formidable warrior ever, and Ravan
certainly had the army to back him up. They were all superbly
trained and with weapons that rivaled any others.

No, what gave him reservation was
the dream, the awful fire, and he’d never shared it with anyone—not
his mother, not his father, and especially not her.

Risen did as he was told; he
followed Moulin, Niveus, and Moira to the hidden chamber beneath
the castle. His heart, however, was elsewhere.

Close to the center of the cellars
was the massive, circular room dubbed the library. Snaking through
the catacombs, the small group eventually found themselves
sequestered away.

He looked about. Truthfully, it was
hardly a library at all. Instead, the cloistered chamber, with its
pillars and curving stone walls, had more the feel of a clandestine
meeting room, the nature of which important matters regarding such
things as strategy and espionage might be discussed at
length.

The walls were lined with
tapestries, crests, and flags, some representative of France’s
regions and the rulers who governed them. Ravan had, overtime,
developed diplomacy with all of them. Maps were also hung here and
there with more of them rolled up and stashed in open chests or
spread upon the great table. More of the heavy wooden chests were
pressed up against the walls, and a few chairs were scattered about
for any who might choose to spend time in the library.