Risen (44 page)

No more words; he kissed her, the
simple embrace locking the pair against the backdrop of the
midnight moon. It was not a kiss of passion or even of need. It was
a kiss of two who were one, of a love that precluded the pain of a
lost child. It was the sweetest and most wretched embrace a couple
could ever make.

* * *

From the bow of the ship, Salvatore
leaned against the foremast. He pulled another draught of ale and
studied the couple on the pier, his eyes sharp as an ocean
hawk’s.

Samuel approached his elbow and
nodded at the pair below. “I can’t get a feel for those
two.”

“They are unusual to say the
least.” Salvatore slapped the flask against the chest of his first
mate and gestured toward his passengers with a sweep of his hand.
“But, I like them—very much.” He could scarcely take his eyes from
Ravan and Nicolette. “I can’t say I am not jealous of him, with his
fitting name and beautiful bride.” Drawing his hand down his short
beard, he added, “And there is something special about her…isn’t
there?” Shrugging, he drew his stare from them. “I’m not accustomed
to passing over one I set my eyes on. Yes, she is beauty of another
sort.”

His mate nodded his
agreement.

Salvatore gazed down the sleek body
of his ship, the Red Raven. “But this lady stirs in me something a
mortal never can.” A wide smile broke, his teeth flashing in the
darkness, and his eyes sparkled as though in anticipation of a
great adventure. “I have a feeling, Samuel. I believe this will be
an exceptional sail, my friend—one for the heart. Who knows what
might happen, eh?”

Salvatore watched as, on the dock,
Velecent approached Ravan, followed by his troop of men—seven of
them. These soldiers had been with the mercenary since he’d left
Sylvie’s farm, had endured the entire chase with him, and would
follow him to hell if it was their master’s wish. These were the
kind of men who attached themselves to Ravan for a lifetime…or
until their life was done.

Salvatore regarded the band of men
and murmured to himself, “Yes, who knows what might
happen?”

* * *

Ravan, his men, Nicolette, and Moira
boarded the ship under a perfectly clear sky. There was something
about it that called to Ravan, compelled him to believe what he
heard was true, that she was an exceptional craft. He did not know
that her captain had orchestrated the building of the Red Raven
from her very birth.

She was Salvatore’s dream. He’d
built several smaller vessels—dinghies really—as a child, for his
father was a great shipbuilder, boasting some of the fleetest boats
ever made. Young Salvatore had bobbed his small, self-made vessels
in an out of the surf on Spain’s southern shores. Like his father,
the ocean was in his blood, salt water coursing through his veins.
His father had joked that it was what leant longevity to their
clan.

Before he was ten years old,
Salvatore had committed his heart and soul to the sea and fell in
particular love with the waters of the Mediterranean, strongly
preferring her tides to that of the North Atlantic with its fierce
gales and unpredictable temper.

As years went by, he inevitably
invested everything he had to build his next ship. Each was better
than the last, and the Red Raven was his most splendid so far. He
was so proud of her, and would go on and on to Samuel about the
benefits of a long shoal draft keel, stronger, lighter woods that
tolerated the salt of the sea better, and greater sail
size.

Consequently, the Red Raven was
unequaled in her class and built off the profits of not always
scrupulous activity. But Salvatore could not help himself. His was
a life in bed with the sea, and she was a demanding mistress.
Always, he dreamed of his next ship. And he nearly had the
resources to build it, almost. He believed his new passengers would
provide just those resources.

Ravan approached the captain.
Leaning one arm lazily on the wheel, the Spaniard appeared a
fixture of the helm.

Salvatore grinned. “Hail, friend. I
have to make one more trip ashore. Would you and perhaps a few of
your clan care to join me?”

“Why?” Ravan wondered.

“A last bit of business. I owe the
harbor mooring fees. Nothing really. Only I cannot leave until they
are paid.”

Ravan eyed him suspiciously. “You
still owe fees?”

“Ah, I see the look in your eye.
You’re wondering why, if she is so fast,” Salvatore indicated the
ship, “I do not make haste, for none could possibly catch me,
right?”

“I am wondering why your debt is
not already paid,” Ravan wondered flatly. It was a mystery to him
how the Spaniard could have such a magnificent ship and yet not be
square on his debts.

A bemused expression swept across
the captain’s face. “Ah, oh, that.” He stepped from the helm and
approached the gangway. “Not one of my strengths, really. And with
you and your hasty demands, I’ve simply not had the
time.”

Salvatore’s expression was one of
bemusement. “And I’m landlocked because of it. But now, with your
pressing mission and the funds to back it, we are,” he smiled
broadly, “as golden as your coin.” The captain waved a hand to his
mate, and Samuel trotted barefoot to his Salvatore’s
side.

“Ah, Samuel! We’re going to pay our
dues, and this one,” Salvatore indicated the mercenary, “is going
to accompany us.”

This brought an appreciative
expression to Samuel as well. He replied, “Good,” and nodded at his
captain. “He doesn’t always make the best first or last impression,
but he’s generally good in the middle.”

Salvatore seemed disingenuously
offended.

“I will wait here for your return,”
Ravan said.

With that, the captain turned his
head to one side. “Your choice, but I cannot guarantee my return.
Provided you will be satisfied if we leave tomorrow, however. That
will suit you well enough, won’t it?”

This ruse sat poorly with Ravan. He
was ill at ease regarding the mission ashore, but he appeared to
have no other choice but to accompany the captain and be done with
the task. And the sooner the better, he thought.

“Let’s be done with it,” Ravan
growled.

* * *

Moments later, Ravan bent and kissed
Nicolette on the lips. She was lying on the bed in their small
quarters. “I will be back soon, my love. We sail tonight.” He
glanced back at her as he left, “Rest if you can. Our journey is
not nearly over.”

“We will find him,” was all she
said.

It lifted his heart to hear these
words, for he believed it was not blind determination that forced
these words from her lips. If Nicolette did not believe this—know
this from the core of her being—she would simply not have said it.
He kissed her again, this time struggling to pull himself away from
her.

Stepping onto the main deck, Ravan
was met by Velecent. “I’m going with you.”

Ravan didn’t say it, but what he
thought was that this was good. Until the captain was vetted, his
character was still in serious question. The two men walked down
the gangway and met Salvatore and Samuel on the dock.

“Only two of you?” The captain
peered beyond the two warriors as though he expected to see a horde
following.

“The two of us should be enough,”
Ravan’s mood was blackening by the minute.

“Mmm. We’ll see about that,”
Salvatore muttered beneath his breath the group of four made their
way ashore.

The dock master’s shack was shut
down and dark. They had no choice but to go mainland to find him or
whoever was in charge of taking the fees for the Red Raven’s past
moorages.

“This way,” Salvatore gestured
dramatically. “I know where he can be found.”

Winding through the town, farther
inland and up a small incline, they came upon an establishment
marked with a single carved nail on the placard over the
door.

“The Rusty Nail,” Salvatore said
warmly. “It is the establishment for those who prefer to be locked
by the land.” When he was met with looks of confusion by both Ravan
and Velecent, the captain explained in more detail. “This is where
men of business convene—men who come to Toulon for gain but have no
desire to step beyond.” He indicated the sea, shining brightly
above the rooftops that lay below and behind them. “And please,
allow me to negotiate our debt.” He smiled wryly. “But I do
appreciate you standing by.” Salvatore glanced at the sword that
Ravan was now determined to wear, no matter what door they stepped
across.

Into the tavern they went. It was
dark, more so even than the moonlit night outside. Few candles lit
the tables, and a fire waned on the hearth in the corner of the
tight room. This, however, seemed not to deter the patrons, for
there was a significant crowd gathered. Scattered amongst them were
a few sailors, but Salvatore had been correct. Most of these men
made their living elsewhere of the sea.

Ravan blinked, allowing his eyes to
adjust to the darkness within. Not nearly as raucous a crowd as the
tavern where he’d met Salvatore, he was much better able to size it
up. The largest group of men, seven of them, gathered in the near
center of the room. With fish already devoured and evidently well
beyond their first round of ale, they were a jovial lot, toasting
and celebrating their obvious good fortunes. The mercenary took in
the details of their group without even consciously thinking about
it.

Turning his back to them, Ravan was
standing as a representation of strength behind Salvatore, who was
by then negotiating his fees in a subdued voice with the man behind
the bar. The conversation wasn’t necessarily heated, but Ravan
could hear that there was an edge of dispute.

He overhead Salvatore say to the
man, “I have the currency right here.” The captain glanced at his
waist, to the small pouch secured there. He then nodded over his
shoulder at the crowd of patrons behind him. “Let us get some
privacy, and we will settle our charges.”

The man whom Salvatore bartered with
was unconvinced but eventually indicated that Salvatore could join
him behind the end of the massive slab of wood that was the bar.
Concealed on the small, dropped table behind, the captain appeared
content to share his good fortune and make good his account. The
two men were entrenched in their quiet dealings when Ravan heard a
name, spoken from the group of seven behind him.

“Yeorathe…”

A sweeping chill settled across the
mercenary’s shoulders in a terrible yet familiar way. Everything
else diminished to nothing as he heard only the conversation of the
band of men. He stood motionless as could be and listened. Ravan
heard them speak of the profits that would soon be theirs, of how
angry Yeorathe had been that the Englishman had thwarted his
intentions with a girl. He heard talk of someone named William
insisting he accompany Yeorathe, to make certain their “shares”
were brought safely back.

It was enough.

Turning slowly, Ravan’s vision
became all at once much clearer. In an instant, he appraised each
of the seven men, observing size, weapon, the set of their
expressions. And it was brighter now with a lovely red that swept
across his sight, lighting the room in a beautiful, bloody tone.
This was familiar. This was good.

“You invade our privacy? Wish to
hear our conversation?” one of the men snorted at the dark
mercenary. “Go back to your own evening, back to your own sorry
life.”

* * *

“Yeorathe,” was all Ravan
said.

There was something in the air,
now—something very somber, and the other patrons quieted as though
they sensed it too. Odgar’s eyes narrowed, and the other six
sobered significantly.

“I know not that name,” Odgar
lied.

“You said it, just then. I heard
you, and I have business with him.” Ravan’s voice
deepened.

Iwan blurted, “Well it is too late.
He is gone, taken his cargo and sailed.”

“Ahh, his cargo, that is my
interest.” Ravan basked in the red, set his feet just so, dropped
both hands close to his blades. “I’d hoped to acquire some of the
slaves.” It was Ravan’s turn to lie…somewhat. He played the ruse
superbly. “The younger ones, for they are my…” he lifted one hand
lightly, “…my inclination.”

With that, the group relaxed a bit,
and one laughed. “Well your fancy would have been well served for
there were several boys and a girl—crippled, but a
beauty.”

It was all Ravan needed to hear. By
now, Velecent was turned, had obviously heard the end of the
peculiar conversation. Velecent was fully aware that his friend had
stumbled upon the group of men who’d contributed to the theft of
the children, and he was right behind as Ravan unleashed a fury
that few had ever known.

Such rage sprang from him.
Blindingly, he unsheathed his sword in one sweep and with his other
hand secured his knife. Two fisted and with a weapon in each one,he
attacked the seven men. Ravan’s first swipe with his sword severed
Iwan’s head while, with his other hand, he drew his short blade up
and over to cut the throat of the man seated next to him. His
sword, however, lodged into the shoulder joint of the beheaded man
for, in his wrath, his accuracy suffered.