Risen (36 page)

Evidently Clovis hadn’t considered
this possibility. He sulked, turning into his own silence, and
William generously let the matter rest. After he allowed each
captive a long enough drink, he left them to themselves.

“Why would you say such a thing,”
Risen exclaimed under his breath, rebuking Clovis when the
Englishman was beyond hearing. “Yeorathe is one of my father’s
enemies. Odgar is no better! If you divulge who I am, they will
kill me…and Sylvie as well!”

“I care not what happens to you, or
her.” Clovis gestured at Sylvie with his chin. “It is not my fault
who you are; if your father hadn’t such enemies, none of us would
be in this situation.” The contempt in his voice was ugly, and had
Risen not been so angry, he might have pitied him.

“You would be a traitor if you
told! You do yourself no honor offering such a thing to
them!”

“There is no honor now. It is
simply survival, and if I survive because of your fall, so be it,”
the older boy scoffed. “And it was foolish to try to save her.” He
narrowed his eyes at Sylvie. “She is dead weight, and you’ll likely
die because of her.”

Risen was nearly speechless but
found his voice. “You are reckless with the things you say.
Careful, or you may suffer for those careless words!”

Clovis was perhaps fifteen years of
age and bigger than Risen by at least two hands. He was also
heavier as he was well into the adolescence of his years, whereas
Risen was just beginning his.

The boy crossed his stocky arms and
sneered. “Don’t believe that you are more valuable than me anymore.
You might have been special a few days ago, but today you are no
one, a common prisoner, and a weak one at that.” The look of
disdain on his face was enough to indicate Clovis’ true feelings
for the young heir to the Ravan Dynasty.

It was all Risen needed to push his
tolerance beyond what he was willing to endure. He lifted his arm,
swung his elbow hard, and connected squarely with Clovis’ nose,
knocking him awkwardly backward. Because they were tied next to
each other, Risen went down with him.

The older youth kicked clumsily at
him, tried to push himself back to sitting, but Risen swung his leg
around and launched a boot, connecting again with the traitor’s
face, this time with even greater effect. Sylvie was inadvertently
pulled into the perimeter of the scuffle, and skirts were flying
with arms and legs all around.

It was about then that one of the
soldiers saw the scuffle and broke it apart. Odgar watched for a
bit, appeared immediately amused by it, and was then
curious.

“What is it between the two of you
that could be worse than your current situation?” he laughed,
signaling for his guards to bring the two boys front and center as
his men gathered around. “Is it the girl? Do you fight over who
should have the girl first?”

Sylvie remained fettered on the rope
with the other captives.

“Speak of it, and you betray my
father,” Risen hissed at Clovis.

“Your father can go to hell,”
Clovis retorted. Then to Odgar he announced, “He is Ravan’s son!”
The youth said it flat out, chin defiant as though he’d won some
great victory.

Risen struggled to reach the
traitor, but the guards held him easily.

This news brought a look of intense
surprise to Yeorathe’s face, and the wicked man approached. He’d
been preoccupied with his own dinner, but was instantly much more
interested in what Odgar was overseeing. “Indeed?” Yeorathe peered
closely at Risen as he addressed Odgar, “He looks like anything but
the warrior’s son? Do we even know if Ravan has a son?”

Truthfully, if Yeorathe looked
closely, Risen bore a striking resemblance to everything that a son
of Ravan would be, but perhaps it was less evident because his
current condition lent itself to the appearances of more of a
street urchin.

“He is,” the older boy reiterated.
“Just ask him, and I know his father would pay a sincere ransom to
have him back. I know he would.” What sort of favor Clovis thought
he might gain from this small bit of gossip was
uncertain.

“A son,” Yeorathe murmured. “And
what were the odds of that!” Suddenly, he seemed entirely pleased
with himself.

As though comprehending the
intentions of the one-eyed commander, Odgar stepped in. “Nothing is
changed. The boy will be sold in Toulon. It is business as
usual.”

There were murmurs amongst the men.
There was another present, a soldier named Iwan. He was the same
fellow who had first seen the children when he scrambled across the
creek that fateful morning in the woods. Iwan sidled up to his
leader. Not a big fellow, really, he pointed a bony finger at
Risen.

“It may be true. Look, he does fit
the description of Ravan.” Then, more excited, “That one,” he
gestured at Clovis, “might be right! There may be a fair ransom to
be had for him!”

Yeorathe twisted a finger in his
beard as he studied Risen closely for perhaps the first time ever.
Maybe he was reminded of an evening many years before, when he met
the most harrowing foe of all in an inn, the day Modred fell.
“Hmmm…ransom or not, it would be none that we could spend well, I
would venture.”

“What do you mean?” Iwan
wondered.

Having since ceased his struggle,
Risen trembled, angered to his core and listening to the callous
exchange regarding his fate. He tried to look over his shoulder, to
see that Sylvie was unharmed after the scuffle.

“Yes, you might effect a ransom,
but you would be short-lived to spend it well.” Yeorathe dismissed
the possibility as he faced Iwan. “Tor is undone; he underestimated
the man, Ravan.” The general gestured to his other men. “Odgar
speaks the truth! We are vanquished after the battle, seeking our
damages in the sale of these captives.”

Yeorathe indicated the slave
children. “I have seen the whelp’s father, know what he is capable
of. Yes, he would pay the ransom for the boy. But then, he would
hunt us to his dying day until we were all dead.” He gestured
dramatically. “No…our fortune remains with his sale.” His gaze fell
on Risen. “And we will consign him as the son of a Nobleman. That
will fetch a decent penny indeed, and Ravan will be none the
wiser!”

There was nervous laughter amongst
the men as they all slowly realized the depth of their
indiscretions for, at that very moment, Ravan was surely chasing
after his son. And none of them had the slightest notion of how
close he might be to catching them.

“Is it true?” Odgar, snarling at
the complication and demanded of Risen.

“It is,” he said solemnly. “I am
his son.”

“And the bitch? Is she your
sister?”

Risen was instantly offended. When
he failed to answer, someone—another soldier—struck him sharply
between the shoulder blades. Down he went in the midst of them all.
Regaining his footing, he faced them, hands tied in front of
him.

“No! She is not. She is…someone I…”
He could hold any gaze but Sylvie’s just then. “…someone I meant to
save.”

Laughter again.

“Then you will prove to us you are
who you say you are,” Yeorathe demanded.

“I don’t understand—” Risen
began.

“You will fight,” the general
insisted and raised his arms up and down in an effort to incite
agreement from the rest of their clan. There were cheers all
around.

This prompted a look of confusion
from Risen. “Who?…but, why?”

“Your accuser.” Yeorathe indicated
with a flourish the older boy who first spilled the secret,
gathering yet another round of applause from his men. Clovis was
all at once uneasy at the prospect.

Risen’s eyes narrowed. He was
younger, and considerably outsized, and…he positively relished the
thought of trouncing the traitor. Yes, he relished it very
much.

“Agreed,” he said
outright.

This was a surprise to the older
youth. He’d obviously not bargained for the consequence of what
he’d shared. “I don’t want to fight him; I was just telling you who
he was, for…for your benefit.”

“Face me. You wished for them to
know who I am? Now you shall know without fail who I
am.”

“You will fight…to the death,”
Yeorathe interrupted Risen.

This was enough to cast a hush over
everyone, and curiously, Odgar seemed not at all concerned with the
certain loss of yet another one of his captive gains. Perhaps it
was as it was for the rest of them. The blood sport of it simply
took over.

As frustrated as Risen was with the
older boy's cowardice, having betrayed his father as he had, he was
even more mortified with the absurd request. “I will not,” he said
flatly. “Let us fight, but I refuse to fight to the
death.”

“Then this will be a short fight,”
Yeorathe smirked and tossed a sword to Clovis.

The boy picked the blade up from the
dirt and sawed at it, severing his own bound hands. Then he
smirked, swinging it back and forth as he advanced slowly on Risen.
It appeared that, now that he was armed and his enemy was not, he
was more willing to accept the terms of the fight—to the death. He
slashed the air with the blade to cheers from the crowd. He was
obviously empowered by the weapon in his hands.

Risen lifted both hands, not yet
accepting the sword that another soldier was holding out for him to
take. He spoke to Clovis, tried to reason with him. “Don't do this.
It is a mistake. Don't let them make something of you which you are
not.”

“What do you know of who I am? You,
your castle, your noble family and name!” He snorted and swung the
sword lazily back and forth in front of himself, crossing and
flexing his arms as he did.

He swiped the blade two-fisted in a
wide circle, behind himself and over his head, as though he wielded
an axe. His unfamiliarity with the weapon was fairly obvious, but
he was like a rogue beast, simply dangerous for the brute effort of
necessity. No one had any way of knowing what talent the smaller,
younger child—Ravan’s son—might possess.

Risen backed away from him. “If you
wanted for something, you only needed to ask. You know my father
would have helped you. This…” He motioned with tied hands to the
jeering circle around them, shook his head at their captors. “…gets
you nothing. It's only a game to them. Don’t you see? We’re the
players. And we both lose.”

“I didn't need anything. What I
wanted is what you had, your life, your precious adoration,
everything! The whole township thinks so highly of you! Like you’re
something special!”

“These things you wish for, you can
have them! You just have to—”

Yeorathe was evidently tired of the
conversation between the boys. He motioned to one of his men, and
the soldier hit Risen sharply in the small of his back with his
fist, sending him sprawling toward his opponent.

Clovis took the opportunity to
advance on his prey. He swung the sword awkwardly, but Risen rolled
to his side, barely dodging the overhand slice. Pushing himself to
his feet, he skipped sideways in the circle the men had formed
around them. He could see Sylvie behind them, still trussed to the
stand of trees and with the other captives. She was struggling to
stand.

“Risen!” she called. “You must
fight!”

Clovis swung the sword again,
clumsily, a wide sweeping blow at Risen's abdomen. Risen pulled his
arms up and sucked his gut in, but the blade connected, leaving a
shallow slice nearly eight inches long across his abdomen. It
surprised him, the sting of it, and made the fight seem immediately
real.

Everything his father had taught him
about fighting, everything Ravan had tried to instill in his young
son regarding situations just such as this, came instantly to the
forefront of his being. He was in danger and needed to defend
himself, needed to survive.

Risen had already been struck. He
was already disobeying what he’d been taught. Then something,
something instinctual surfaced, and largely because of simply who
he was. He was Ravan’s son, and this was his first battle. Now, he
didn't hesitate.

As Clovis swung through, over
correcting and spinning around with his back to his foe, Risen ran,
jumped, and planted both feet into his shoulders sending the larger
boy sprawling forward onto the ground. Risen took this chance to
snatch the other sword—the one he was initially offered—from the
soldier’s hand. He swept his wrists over and pulled them down the
blade, deftly severing his own bonds.

Running at Clovis, he closed the
distance and struck the boy with the butt of his sword on the back
of his head. He was not yet ready to impale another human being, so
this seemed reasonable for now. He should have hit him
harder.

The older boy was faster than his
size suggested. He flipped onto his back and kicked Risen, sending
him flying backward. Up into the air he went and down hard onto the
ground. He dropped his sword but, hearing his father’s words in his
ears, scrambled to retrieve it.

The blade was much too big for him,
but he twisted, was up on one knee and able to feint Clovis’ next
blow. Hopping swiftly to his feet, he surprised his opponent,
parrying with an offensive set of moves that pushed the bigger boy
back a few steps.