Risen (14 page)

Moulin said nothing. She did not see
him standing so close behind her, speechless, unable to pull his
eyes from her and the unusual ritual she performed on the frozen
orchard floor.

All at once, she pulled her head and
hand from the tree. She was on some level aware that he was there,
but it was insignificant. Spreading an expanse of her skirt on the
ground, she snatched up what she’d come for. Passing the handful of
materials back and forth over her skirt, she then cast the earth,
stones, leaves, and walnut shells across the fabric.

“No,” she murmured to herself and
stared, eyes wide, at the random pattern on her gown. Clawing at
all of it, she snatched it up again before recasting the elements
onto the fabric. Not willing to believe what she first saw, she
gasped more urgently, “No!” Pressing both palms upon her skirt,
either side of her castings, she dropped her chin to her chest and
closed her eyes, jaw gritted tight.

Moulin startled when she seemed to
come suddenly to life, flinging the earth and such from her gown as
she leapt to her feet and strode deliberately past him, back toward
the castle.

“Nicolette!” It was the first time
Moulin had ever spoken her name aloud.

“We must prepare for the battle,”
she snapped over her shoulder.

Running up the stone flight of
stairs, she was a striking image when she came crashing back into
the tribunal of advisors. They were still murmuring their concerns,
worries about the impending altercation and Nicolette’s sudden
disappearance. Her gown was damp, and she was quite earthy but
poised nonetheless.

“There will be a battle,” she said
flatly. A hush fell over the counselors.

“Yes, my Lady. Perhaps, but to what
gain? What is it they wish?” Sarto asked the burning question again
for everyone. “Have you discovered their intent?”

“They wish to draw out what it is
they want.” She rested her fingertips on the edge of the long
table, her gaze burning into each of them in turn. “They want
Ravan.”

There were gasps all around at this
news.

“But…why? What could they possibly
want of our master that simple correspondence couldn’t have
accomplished? Ravan would certainly have allowed their leaders in.”
One counselor rose to his feet in concern.

“What man would risk battle against
a defense such as his?” Another counselor pounded the table with
his fist as he implored his mistress.

Shaking her head, “I’m not sure.”
Nicolette wrenched her hands together in a gesture entirely
unfamiliar to the tribunal. They watched, obviously shaken as she
added, “Revenge…I think. I’m not certain why. I’m not…” she paused,
“…entirely clear.”

This was very unlike their leader.
She’d not even exhibited such emotion the day she left Ravan on the
cliffside—the day she’d released him to his own fate. Nicolette
nearly staggered with the premonition that she suffered.

“My Lady, please, sit.” Moulin
motioned her to a chair and helped ease her into it.

“Do we…” Sarto face was very grim,
“Can you see? Do we lose him?”

“No,” she shook her head violently.
“I do not see that we do.”

There seemed to be an audible groan
of relief from all present. “Then why do you torment yourself so?”
Moulin approached her, reaching for her, resting his hand gently on
her shoulder as though he might take the uneasiness from
her.

“I’m not sure.” She put her
clenched fists to her temples, earthen smudges marring the pristine
white of her skin. “We do not lose this battle, I know that. I can
see that. But…” She jerked her clenched hands down, stricken eyes
wet with fear. “…I feel as though I do.”

No one spoke. They just stared,
speechless at their mistress.

“We must take her, get her moved to
safety,” Moulin commanded straightaway.

“No!” She commanded. Rising from
the chair, Nicolette began pacing as though she could walk logic
into the scenario that ran through her head. Murmuring more to
herself than to them, she recounted, “It is not me.” She slashed at
the empty air with one hand. “Death does not frighten me. It is not
what gives me such trepidation.”

She spun on them. “I am not sure why
this gives me such foreboding. Ravan is saved; I can see this very
clearly. I can only tell you that what happens today culminates
what has troubled me so much as of late.”

Moulin swallowed heavily. “We don’t
know this, we don’t know—”

“This will be a bad day,” she said
flatly. “It is all I can share.”

There seemed nothing else to add as
each present silently turned their thoughts and fears into
themselves. Nicolette commanded quietly, “You all know your posts.
To them now.”

This was a bad hour for everyone,
for because Nicolette was fearful, all of them surely were as well,
as undeniably as if they stood within the very maw of
death.

CHAPTER TEN

†

Ravan had received advanced word of
the approaching forces in barely sufficient time. Even though his
reconnaissance scouts were well trained and extremely vigilant, the
enemy army had pushed in so rapidly, so stealthily, that Ravan was
nearly taken by surprise. This irked him not a small amount, for it
had always been a priority of his to never be taken by surprise.
Minimally, he was satisfied that the information the scouts brought
was accurate enough. Even so, the battle was upon him in what
seemed like minutes.

It was a desperate move by the enemy
to position such forces so swiftly. And it was exactly this that
troubled Ravan the most. He held the general assumption that it was
passion and not greed which inspired the recklessness that would
have been required to advance a force of this size with such
dispatch. Passion of this kind, he knew, invited death and was the
most dangerous of all.

He was of the belief that there were
but two obsessions which invited death—hatred and revenge—and Ravan
was intimately familiar with both. He was also convinced that
neither summoned a rational opponent. This would be an
extraordinary conflict, for it would be one of these. It would be
fought to a bloody finish, until one side could stand no more.
Ravan was determined that his realm would survive to see the end of
the day.

Struggling, his mind twisted in
loops as he tried to make sense of it. Who could possibly seek him
now? Who held a grudge so insufferable to assemble in the night an
army such as this? Who might hate him so deeply? Were his enemies
not all put asunder? He and Nicolette had long ago destroyed all
who might have malice toward them. Or…had they?

The mercenary’s past had been one of
war. He’d fought many campaigns, killed many, but it had never been
personal, had it? And why now? Why twelve years after he’d
commanded his realm long enough to develop a steadfast peace—a
peace supported by supreme power? Could another simply wish to take
this from him?

At last, he decided there was simply
no good explanation. It gave the leader a sense of finality, a
direction to take himself and his men. He would fight this battle
and discover on the other side of it the intent of his enemy.
Then…he would destroy them.

With that, Ravan allowed something
long ago rested to rise from its barbarous bed—the ferocity of the
warrior within. This was not practice. This was not training. This
was war.

With meticulous purpose, he strapped
on his armor and girded himself with his battle sword. He knew the
greatest enemy was one who could not be understood. And this one
was exactly that. But it didn’t matter. He knew war, knew the art
of it, and as he walked from his battle quarters to greet his army,
he glanced at the eastern wall of the castle grounds.

Ravan knew the enemy would wait
until they had the sun just over the eastern treeline before they
would advance their first attack. They would want the sunrise in
Ravan’s eyes to tip the first wave of battle favorably in their
direction. However, the dark leader would not allow this
advantage.

He checked the cinch of his
warhorse, the stallion. “We fight again,” he murmured to his old
friend. Patting the steed on the neck, he prepared to meet his
army. His intention was to draw his troops together to prepare for
a counter attack—a first strike—before the sun was over the
trees.

The stables were at that moment a
whirlwind of activity as was the armory. Ravan had long ago
modified this area of the castle grounds so that it would be
strategically efficient in the event of a sudden clash such as
this, a surprise attack.

The barracks were next to the
armory, tucked in between it and the stables. These three buildings
were arranged, semicircular, around the training area so that quick
mantling of the forces was very organized. Ravan had considered
this of primary importance, and drills were accomplished just to
make sure the militia always remained in top form.

Now, the army did just exactly as
they’d so often practiced. Silent sentries were already alerting
the townspeople and calling forth additional men and horses.
Already assembled were the foot soldiers, mounted cavalry, and
archers—of which there were many specifically trained by Ravan. All
were outfitted, tacked up, and deployed, ready to fight in less
than half an hour. It was an epic preparation for the battle to
come and impressively efficient. Yes, the Ravan Dynasty was a
formidable target.

The village, unfortunately, lay
between the castle and forest in such a position that the enemy
would have to go nearly straight through it to reach the castle.
There was no reasonable attack from the rear because the river
arced around the western grounds. And if they were attacked from
the sides, it would effectively bottle neck an enemy, making them
easy targets to pick off. No, the first wave would come through the
little town.

Ravan often wished the village had
been positioned next to the river, with the castle and its great
might between it and any advancing forces. But Adorno had wanted
the highest vantage for his view, and so this was the layout Ravan
and Nicolette inherited.

On the castle walls, longbowmen were
already lining up, baskets of superb arrows at their disposal—a
last line of defense should the enemy break through the front. Even
more archers were deployed on the edges of the village, in rooftop
perches, on strategic scaffoldings, and in designated fortified
tree perches. They were hidden amongst any elevated spot, ready to
attack, ready to rain down a sweeping wave of terror at the first
rush of an enemy’s army. This would be their first line of
defense.

After the initial resistance by the
longbowmen would come the foot soldiers, shield to shield with each
other, to press forward, advancing on the enemy to push them back.
Lastly, the mounted cavalry would strike to back up the foot
soldiers and quell those enemies who had gotten through.

It was a solid first strategy for
defending the domain, and between the river and the moat that
encircled the castle, Ravan believed it gave his smaller army a
fairly modest edge. This they would need today, for it would be a
fierce battle.

As Ravan swung onto his battlehorse,
he called down the row of his army. “My legion! We have an enemy
gathering at our gates, and this one is grave, for we don’t know
the purpose of this battle. This we will discover only as the fight
unfolds.” He lifted his sword high above his head. “But I promise
you this—I will lead you and stand by you until this day is
done!”

The army yelled in unison, raising
their weapons above their heads, encouraged by their leader’s
words.

Ravan loped his steed down the long
line of his men. “Your families will be defended!” He spun the
magnificent horse about and galloped back. “Our enemies fight for
gain! We fight with our hearts! All across the kingdom people will
hear of this battle, and I will not rest until the last of our
enemy are destroyed!”

There was a roar from the troops.
They pounded upon their shields, called their allegiance to their
magnificent leader. These men were battle readied. Many were from
the village—sons, fathers, brothers. They’d come to recognize the
code by which this unusual ruler commanded his domain and grown to
trust his compassionate might. These soldiers would fight fiercely
and with conviction, standing by their Lord at all costs. Now, with
the bare glimpse of daylight, the time for war had come.

Motioning to the archers overhead,
Ravan received signal that they were ready, and the white flag, the
one with Ravan’s coat of arms in starkly black contrast on it, was
replaced with a black flag—the coat of arms emblazoned in bloody
red.

Then, as the opposing army slunk
across the narrow field that separated them from the village,
Ravan’s army left the castle grounds…and the battle
began.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

†

Several hours went by and Moulin
could stand it no longer. He left Moira in the care of the
children, deciding he would post a guard at the mouth of the
catacombs as an extra precaution, and this would be enough. He was
simply compelled to see what was transpiring above.