Risen (5 page)

The girl appeared to consider this,
the likelihood of one as wretched as this man having a steed such
as the mare, but she said no more about it. Hesitating, he could
feel her appraise him further. “Thank you for the water,” he said.
“I will be a bit longer.”

“I’ll leave you then. If you do not
eat, you will need to pay before you sleep.” She seemed to indicate
this would be the last of her visits to the room and turned,
pulling the door closed behind her.

Ravan used the last basin of
steaming water to finish his bath, rinsing thoroughly, finally
washing the remnants of a year’s imprisonment from himself. Rubbing
his skin nearly raw with the fresh towel she’d brought, he reveled
in the decency of cleanliness for the first time in so very
long.

It was only then that he caught his
dim reflection in the small window of the room. He could barely
make out the almost too lean outline of his body, the grim set to
the jaw. This was a man who’d known hunger—of that there was no
question. The bruises were already beginning to fade. But the eyes,
they were too dark, too deep to see clearly. He shrugged, brushing
it off as a poor reflection. Ravan was what he was, the mercenary
who’d cheated the executioner’s noose and stepped back from death’s
door. And now…he was a free man.

Leaving the soiled tunic with the
pile of hair, he donned the fresh shift and snatched his trousers
from the sash. He pulled them on and slipped back into his boots
before securing at his waist the belt, sheath, and knife. Then he
ran his fingers through his damp hair, sweeping it back and behind
his ears. If he could have seen his eyes, he would have seen that
they were bright and clear, with all the promise of a good destiny
dancing in them.

Feeling revived a great deal, he
unraveled the spool of linen, pulling a good length of it around
the footboard post. Meticulously, he twisted and at the same time
twined the two long threads, coiling them around each other before,
in the end, creating loops for either end. He lacked the wax to
finish the string properly, so he spit upon it until he had the
fibers just so. Finally, and because he’d done it so many times
before, Ravan created a good bowstring that would serve him well
enough.

Reaching for the bow that was
leaning dysfunctional in the corner, he looped the string on one
end of it—the one by his foot. Stepping through the ‘V’ he created,
he bent the bow around the back of his leg, pulling hard, arcing
the weapon so that he could hook the other loop end of the string
to it. The bow was bent as it should be, the string taut and
strong.

Holding it at arm’s length, it
warmed him somewhere deep within to have a functional bow again.
Next, he must find a suitable sword, but for now this would
suffice. Pulling on the bow, he tested the tensile strength of it
before he was ultimately satisfied.

“Good,” he murmured aloud to
himself.

Returning the bow to the corner with
the scabbard of arrows, he coiled the remainder of the linen
carefully back onto the spool. Then he decided he was very nearly
starved and that it was time to head downstairs for a meal. At
first it worried him, to leave his bow and arrows in the room, for
he was not given a key. Apparently the only one with a key was the
girl, and all rooms could be barred from within when the patrons
retired. But then he realized there was no obvious exit other than
the front of the inn, and so any who might try to steal from him
would have to pass him in the main room. It seemed reasonably
secure, and he did not wish to appear armed. So the bow remained
behind, and he left with only his blade strapped at his
side.

Satisfied, down the hall he went,
descending next the narrow flight of stairs. As he approached the
common room, he was overcome again with an unfamiliar feeling. He
was a free man—free to choose his path, free to choose his dinner,
free to choose his death. This prompted a true smile, bittersweet
though it was, from the face of the mercenary.

The man who stepped from the
stairwell into the main room resembled nothing of the creature
who’d stood there a mere few hours before. The matted mane was
gone, and the skin was no longer black with filth. More critically,
the eyes glistened with a fresh spark of intent. For all practical
purposes, a new stranger had emerged from upstairs.

Glancing around the room, he took in
the lay of all the clientele. Most appeared to be travelers,
perhaps some were local friends. None carried with them the promise
of menace. They appraised him as well but only for as long as he
held their gaze.

Ravan approached the bar only when
the other patrons drew their attentions away from him, back to the
mundane evenings of their own. Gone were the looks of repulsion and
horror. It was as he expected it would be. There was no recognition
of him as the man who entered not so long ago.

“Ale? Mead? What can I serve you?”
the round man behind the massive wooden bar asked him.

“Food. I am very
hungry.”

“The girl will bring dinner.” The
man nodded to a small table, tucked into the corner behind a
supporting pillar. “Sit if you like. You wish to drink?”

The last drink Ravan had enjoyed was
the laudanum laced brandy he’d meant to share with his brother in
the cell, and this thought pulled strongly at him.

“Sir? Are you ill?” the man
wondered.

“Brandy—if you have it,” Ravan
requested flatly with no further explanation.

The bartender grunted and sloshed a
draught into a wooden cup before passing it to his patron. As Ravan
made his way to the darkened corner, the girl—the one who brought
his bath water—swept through the room. She glanced at the
bartender, and when the man indicated the stranger in the corner,
she simply nodded, disappearing back through a door in the distant
corner of the room as though she’d read his mind.

It was an odd moment for
Ravan…utterly unfamiliar. The fireplace blazed in its bed, and the
brandy was placed before him. Light from the fire danced around the
room, illuminating the space warmly, bouncing off the surface of
the brandy in an agreeable way. People carried on happy
conversations, fueled by their companions, dinner, and
drink.

Ravan listened out of habit, used to
paying attention to details. He heard conversations about
livestock, weather, betrothals…life. It appealed to him very much,
this human interaction.

Sipping the brandy, Ravan was
pleased as the liquid fire lit the back of his tongue and throat.
It ran hot and welcome into his empty belly, and his mood lightened
somewhat. It was not good brandy—probably fermented there at the
inn—but was flawless to the heart of a free man. It represented not
just fire for his blood but freedom for his soul. His mood
lightened even more.

He took another sip and contemplated
the rest of the room. There were patrons in groups of two or more;
he was the only isolated traveler. The others chatted and laughed,
ate, drank…lived. None regarded him. There was no reason why they
should. Gone were the blood and stench, the armor and sword at his
side. He was simply a late evening traveler, stopped for respite
for himself and a fine horse. Yes, he was alive, if only until this
one last campaign was completed.

Listening with idle curiosity to the
banter about him, he thought it was a very human moment and very
good to be amongst them. He wondered briefly if he ever could
become completely comfortable amongst the living—if there was a
place for him. Perhaps the tide of the universe invited him;
perhaps he belonged after all. This was a curious train of thought,
and he freely allowed his mind to go there, to wonder what it would
have been like if he’d been able to make a life with
her.

Stretching, he extended his legs
straight, crossed his boots—the ones his brother had stolen from
him and worn to his death upon the gallows—and took another sip of
the spirits. No, things would never be normal for one such as him.
It was simply not in his fate. She’d said it once, when they first
met. “The fabric of time does not care about us, Ravan…not at all.
Careful that you should ever think that it would.” That was exactly
what she said, and she’d been right. It did not.

It was just then that the door to
the kitchen swung open, and the maiden approached with his dinner.
He pulled himself from the somber direction his mind had wanted to
go when she set before him a plate of porridge with boiled onion
and roasted fish. There was also a thick slab of bread, generously
buttered.

“Thank you.” His belly
growled.

“Yes, and there is cake, after, if
you wish.”

“Perhaps.” He picked up the wooden
spoon and motioned at the simple feast before him. “I’ve not dined
this well for some time. We will see how well I fare with this.” He
almost smiled…almost.

She lingered as though she wanted to
say something more but then appeared to change her mind. Leaving
him to his dinner, she returned to tending the rest of the room,
and he began to dine. Fish was very common fare in roadside inns.
Finer cuts of meat were uncommon and enjoyed mostly by the very
wealthy. But Ravan strongly preferred fish—always had, and this was
to him a feast of the grandest sort.

He was again reminded of the inn he
worked at in his youth. There, they’d had an abundance of all kinds
of meats—stag, boar, fish, fowl. He’d been an uncanny predator and
had hunted, providing rare and delicate cuts of meat for the Two
Fish Inn. But that was another time, another life. He was no longer
that boy. Since then he’d hunted animal of a much different
sort.

Pulling his knife from his belt, he
flaked the skin and bone from the fish, turning aside a glistening,
white filet. For the first time in months, Ravan ate a wholesome
meal, void of vermin or mold. Sipping again of the brandy, he
savored every bite, eating slowly, testing how the meal would agree
with his gut, reminded of what a sudden, rich diet had done to him
in years past. But the meal seemed to be sitting well, and he
worked his way through nearly all of it before the front door of
the inn slammed open.

CHAPTER FOUR

†

Tor was tired. Not from plundering,
for he still had some spirit for that, but from the long day. His
horse was fatigued as well, it appeared, for he continually had to
pummel at the animal with his heels to push it onward. Perhaps
they’d lately ridden too hard, but it was necessary. Their last
plunder had been a narrow escape, the villagers’ men intent on
chasing them for nearly a day before giving up the pursuit. It’d
proven worth it, however. It’d been a lean few weeks, but they had
more gold to show for it.

But tonight was late enough, he
thought, and he wanted—yearned—for respite from his travels.
Tomorrow he and his men would rally, for fortune was theirs for the
taking, and they’d already amassed a sizable one as it was. This
thought was enough to fortify the leader for the last mile’s ride
into the small village that lay nestled in the pristine valley
below them.

There were three who rode by his
side—three who’d survived to prosper after the killing was done.
They were not turncoats; nor were they English or French. No, these
men, all except one, were Norse mercenaries and the progeny of the
battle at Poitiers. That had been a battle like no other, and it
had proven a convincing failure for the French, which placed Tor in
a bad position all around.

After the defeat, it was difficult
to stand by a King who’d been taken during the siege. Yes, King
John II had been taken prisoner. It was a blunder of epic
proportions, and plundering erupted all over France as a
consequence, and not just English against French. Native Noblemen
fell from grace as they turned their backs on even their own
villagers, and once stable domains fractured and fell to whoever
the stronger hand was at the moment. It was a terribly precarious
time but profitable for those willing to take advantage of its
instability. And there were plenty of those.

These four men were left over from a
Scandinavian free company under Evan the Red, who’d fought for hire
for the French against the English at Poitiers. They’d since
disbanded; Evan had sought war farther north after the terrible
battle. Defeat was never easily shrugged off but for a victory in
its wake, especially if it was profitable, and so this small
clutch—his progeny—were enjoying a barbaric aftermath.

This group had chosen to remain in
France, and they plundered small French communities on a grand
scale. And why shouldn’t they? They’d been commissioned by the
French—told they would enjoy victory and the spoils that went with
it. But then they’d been thoroughly trounced in the battle; the
English archers had flanked them and devastated the French troops,
even though they’d been outnumbered by the French nearly two to
one. These four men—Tor and his company—swallowed the failure
poorly.

Of the three who were Norse, their
ancestors were fierce Vikings. They relished battle and feared next
to no one, and the defeat at Poitiers, especially as generously as
it had been handed to them, was at first worn as an ill fitting
skin. They’d crawled into holes and crevices to lick their wounds
and gather their ambitions, and it hadn’t been long before their
true ambitions were made very clear.