Risen (37 page)

There were appreciative calls from
the crowd, and Clovis glanced nervously away.

Pausing, Risen stepped sideways,
falling into the perfect form that his father had taught him.
Clasping the blade with both hands, he held it first vertical and
close to his face. Then his stance changed, became wide, wider than
his shoulders, and he took a long slow breath in and out, clearing
his mind.

He circled his opponent, extending
the blade in a gesture toward Clovis’s throat. “You want this? Is
this what you want?” Risen baited the boy. “You’re so much bigger,
so much stronger. Go ahead. Show these men what you are made of, or
prepare to die trying.”

Clovis raged, stabbed clumsily at
Risen with a straight on jab. Swinging his opponent's sword around
and down, Risen trapped the blade, edge against the flat, and
pinned the point of Clovis’ sword to the ground. He leapt in,
closing the distance, and let go a knuckle punch to his enemy’s
throat. It was enough to stagger his attacker
considerably.

Dropping his sword, hands to his
larynx, Clovis’ eyes shot wide, his tongue protruding in a silent
howl, but nothing came from his mouth. The boy could not get his
breath. Risen, however, was not done with him. He backed the boy
up, sword to his face.

Clovis tripped and fell backwards,
landing with a hard thud, his eyes pinched closed. When he opened
them, he looked directly into the sword tip of the victor, inches
from the end of his nose. Terror filled his eyes, he found his
voice, and began to cry.

“There is a reason you are not like
me,” Risen sneered in a low voice. “You have the heart of a coward
and will never be anything more.” With that Risen brought the sword
up and sliced down hard, severing the boy's left ear cleanly from
his head.

Clovis howled and rolled over,
clutching the bloody hole where his ear used to be. Risen ignored
him, instead stabbing the severed ear with the tip of his sword
before walking over and offering it to Yeorathe.

“You want him dead? You will have
to finish him yourself.” Risen threw the blade with the ear still
attached into the dirt at his captor’s feet.

Hushed silence. Slowly there were
murmurs of approval from the gathered men, then applause and
cheers. Yeorathe’s single eye narrowed as he studied the son of the
man who’d destroyed Tor’s great army.

“Silence,” he howled at his men.
“He is no hero!”

When it seemed Yeorathe would have
issue with the outcome, Odgar intervened. “It is fair enough. The
coward is undone.” He nodded at Clovis first, then indicated to
William that he should take Risen back to the tree. The Englishman
took him by the arm and steered the boy away, returning him to
where Sylvie was tied.

Risen thought the event over and was
trembling with the aftermath of the emotional and physical effort
he’d just endured. He was victorious, his first battle ever, won!
His father would have been so proud of him, would surely have taken
him into battle that first terrible day had he known he could fight
so well!

He was almost in good spirits as he
approached Sylvie. Then he heard a squeal come from behind him. It
sounded as though someone was butchering an animal. When he went to
turn around, to see what the disturbance was, William diverted him,
pushed his head back around.

“Look on the girl you mean to save.
There is nothing more to see from the battle you’ve
won.”

It was too late. Risen had glimpsed
the demise of Clovis as Yeorathe took his wrath out on the defeated
boy. It was a bad death, the first blows he dealt were not quite
fatal, and Risen was mortified by the cruelty of it. He tore his
eyes away, hoped that Sylvie did not see, and covered his ears with
his hands, trying to block out the cries that weakened behind him.
He heard instead his father’s voice…

“In your life, there is only one
battle for you to lose, the one that will fell you. Then there are
no more. So, that is a battle you must never face. Remember, when
it is to the death, a bad victory is always better than a good
defeat.”

He did not see Odgar watch him as he
retreated. The true leader of the band perhaps noticed for the
first time the warrior in this particular captive. Yes, this was
one worth more than all the others. This one could be sold to the
Janissary. That night, Odgar checked Risen’s bindings
himself.

* * *

Two nights later, they rode into
Nevers, and Risen thought it a lifeline. No matter what their
circumstances might be, they’d been forced to ride for five days
straight with only short camps to rest the animals. He and Sylvie
had been allowed very little respite, even at camp. Moreover, he
was increasingly worried about her for, after the dreadful event
with Clovis, she spoke less, and when she did, it was very
pragmatic and almost calm. She also kept watch for him, seemed to
wish to have Risen in her line of sight always.

When the band of men marched into
the small town with the child prisoners in tow, Risen thought how
welcoming it might be to sleep somewhere other than the cold forest
floor. He considered how he’d taken his warm bed for granted, had
assumed it would always be there for him.

It was not that his father had not
made him endure cold nights and scarce resources at times, but home
and his bed had always been waiting for him at the end of these
adventures. It was just that he’d never really considered the
possibility that the everyday comforts he took for granted might be
finite. There were many things he wished he could say to his father
now.

He reflected on what his parents
tried to teach him, tried to instill in him to grow his strength
and his character. It was for a time like this, a time when he
would have to pull on his cunning and will to
survive…alone.

Ravan and Nicolette must have known
they might not always be there, and when the time came, would want
their son to be able to defend himself. It made Risen wonder more
deeply about his parents, wonder at the things they’d endured
before he was born. He decided that if he survived this, he would
try to pay greater attention, learn more of whom his parents really
were.

Now there was no guarantee of ever
getting home, but Risen was fierce in his belief that somehow he
could affect his own destiny. As it turned out, tonight there were
no beds for the young captives. Even so, the straw loft of the
livery was a welcome relief to the eternal damp and cold of the
ground.

“Here,” he murmured to Sylvie and
pushed more of the straw into a mound. “We can sleep on this. It’ll
be warm, and together we can gather our strength.”

This time he did not remind her to
remove the leg brace but went straight to the task himself, his
hands swiftly undoing the buckles.

“Why?” her voice was
small.

He paused, glanced about the small
loft in confusion as he laid the brace aside. “Because, we need
rest and…”

“No. Tell me. Why do you care so
much for me, care if I gather strength?” She was not somber only
sincerely honest. “You are the one who must survive. You should not
worry so much for me.”

He was almost angry. “Sylvie!” He
knelt by her and took her hands in his. “You cannot be like that!
You cannot give up! We will both survive this. Do you hear me? Both
of us!”

She did something he quite did not
expect. She reached up and touched his cheek, almost smiled as she
did. “I want you to survive, Risen. Really, I do. But…I’m not sure
that I want to anymore. This world is too cruel for me.”

He choked back tears, looked away,
pretended to focus on the other captives who were finding precious
niches of their own for the night. His lips creased in frustration.
Finally looking again at her face, his vision blurred through his
emotions. “But…”

She waited, beautiful and poised,
her pale eyes so very patient. She was always like that, so
eternally patient.

“Risen,” she said, nearly smiling,
“it is all right. I have lost too much, don’t you see? You worry so
much when God simply may have another plan for me.” When his
expression was unchanged, she pressed him. “What? What is
it?”

He forced himself to stifle his
grief, glanced away then back at her. “Sylvie…” He swallowed hard.
“…I love you.”

That brought a look of mild surprise
and then composure to her face. “Risen, of course you do, and I
love you too, but—”

“No, not like that.” He stopped her
with a slice of his hand, then he took her hand from his face and
squeezed, fortifying himself. “Sylvie, I am in love with you. I
love you. Don’t you see?”

Her eyes widened even more, and
Risen thought she seemed pleased, a soft smile nearly crossing her
lips. He added, before she could say anything, “I have been in love
with you for…for a long time.” Looking away, he murmured, “I’ve
just not had the courage to tell you until now. But…I cannot
imagine life without you.”

Now Sylvie did smile, and she was
about to say something in reply but was interrupted by a ladder
slamming against the edge of the loft. A man appeared, his face
popping up over the edge of the rough boards as he struggled to
keep the torch he held from falling. In his other hand was a sack
of bread. He began to toss it out, and the other captives scrambled
for it.

“Stay,” Risen said urgently and
entered the fray.

In no time at all he secured two
large chunks of his own and was returning to Sylvie’s side when the
man called from behind him.

“You. Come with me.”

Risen turned, mistook the man’s
intent, and resigned himself to the fact that he would not likely
overpower this brute. He hesitated before tossing the bread to
Sylvie.

“Eat this, all of it. I’ll be
back,” he said before turning to go with the man.

“Not you. The girl.”

It was a second before Risen
processed what the man requested. “Her?”

The man motioned for the girl to go
with him, and Sylvie struggled to rise from the straw without her
brace.

“No!” Risen pushed her too roughly
back onto the pile of straw. “No! She will not go with you!” He
spun on the soldier.

The man had a look of frustration on
his face but clambered heavily the rest of the way up into the
loft. He was large, as most of the mercenaries seemed to be, and
seemed more apologetic than angry as he focused on the
girl.

“I’m sorry, little miss. Yeorathe
wishes for you to come to him.”

“She will not!” Risen protested
again.

The mercenary ignored him as he
began to walk to the girl, to reach for her arm, but Risen pulled
from his boot the knife—the one he’d hidden all this time. Never
had the opportunity presented itself clearly for them to escape.
Never had the captives been left unguarded, but he’d been patient.
Father taught him this, and he knew that the moment would
eventually arise.

Now the moment was here, but it was
not entirely as he wished. There was no obvious escape—not unless
he could kill the man and be gone. This was not to be, however, for
as the man leaned down and grasped Sylvie’s arm, he shoved Risen
roughly aside to move him from his path.

The knife flashed, swept over and
hard, but the man’s battle leathers were decent and dulled the
impact. Even so, the blade pierced through them and drove into the
shoulder joint of the mercenary. Cursing, the man let Sylvie’s arm
go, dropping her back into the straw. He pawed at the weapon with
one hand as he swung the torch about with the other. Try as he
might, he could not reach the blade, could not pull it from the
back of his shoulder. It was as though a hornet had stung him, and
swing for it all he wished, it remained where it’d been
planted.

The mercenary’s left arm weakened
and hung helpless to serve him, and he was forced to leave the
weapon where it was and move the fire to his only good hand. He was
suddenly alive with rage and turned on Risen, swinging with the
torch so abruptly that it cracked him hard, laying the boy out
flat.

Back onto the timbered floor of the
loft he tumbled. Flashes of light sparked in front of his eyes,
sweeping like tiny shooting stars, before all went dark. Risen
would not see the man turn back to Sylvie, would not see him herd
her with the torch and his own bulk as he shoved her toward the
ladder. He would likewise not see the other boys move in to steal
his bread.

When Risen awoke, it hurt to move
his head, hurt to blink his eyes. He scrambled for the edge of the
loft and peered below. There stood a single mercenary, hand resting
idly on the hilt of a sword. The ladder was gone, and so was
Sylvie.

He turned on the other boys,
whispered hoarsely. “Where is she? Why did you let him take
her?”

Mute looks and sad heads bobbed
their shameful replies. They turned from him, unwilling to involve
themselves in the plight of the youngest captive. They’d all keenly
observed the fight with Clovis two nights before, and ever since,
the others had appeared to isolate themselves from Ravan’s
son.

Risen ignored them, scanned the
floor for his knife. Gone. He was utterly without resource. Think,
I must think!