Risen (50 page)

The fat man licked his lips,
offering up an explanation that had not yet been mentioned. “Our
auction is for swift return—sales that allow most of our buyers a
bargain. Those who might wish to buy a slave can come here to get
the most for their coin, and our sellers are mostly glad to be rid
of them. The majority are transporters, and only wish to be free of
their cargo and back to the sea. That is the nature of those who
choose a life such as that.” He harrumphed and shifted his generous
bulk in a chair that was very nearly too small for him.

The man glanced, glaring at
Salvatore who only shrugged and replied, “Fair enough.”

“Then why? Why would they not sell
my son?”

The fat man closed the ledger,
indicated to his aide that he needed a refill on his spirits, and
drank deeply before peering at Ravan with eyes that floated in
fleshy pockets, pinpoints of disagreeable practicality. He shook
his head and looked at his ledgers, sweeping a fat hand across
them. Then he said something to the Spaniard.

Salvatore translated. “If your son
is like you—if your son is the offspring of one such as yourself
and the dark enchantress you brought to my village—he is likely a
prize worth selling on the closed market.”

“What does that mean? The closed
market?” Ravan stood, arms spread, leaning on the table, his face
as close to the fat man as it could be.

The dealer did not fall away but met
Ravan’s stare full on. He babbled something more, fat lips oily
with spit, and all were quiet…even Salvatore. Ravan did not
understand the man’s words but could sense the full force of the
man’s contempt.

“What did he say? Tell me? What did
he say?” Ravan insisted quietly.

The sea captain shifted his weight
and looked away.

Velecent jumped in. “Salvatore? What
is it? Where have they taken him?”

“Your son is likely sold to the
Janissary—the Devsirme.” He seemed truly apologetic. “They have
taken him somewhere else, for a better price.”

“What does this mean? Janissary?
What is this?” Ravan demanded, vaguely remembering the livery man
talk of such a thing.

“It is enslavement of non-Muslim
boys. But he will be no ordinary slave. They will mold him with
strict discipline and training. If he is apt, he may even be sent
to the palace school.”

“And what happens to him there?”
Velecent appeared almost afraid to ask.

“He will train for his ultimate
role.” When Salvatore was met with only blank faces, he added as
though afraid to say it, “He will become one of them, one of the
elite. If all goes as planned, he will die for the Sultan—a warrior
of the sun, protector of the throne. Risen will be a child
sacrifice and fight until he can fight no more.”

Ravan slammed his fist on the table.
“WHERE?”

The fat man knew exactly what the
stranger asked and replied with four names, all towns inland of
Antalya.

Velecent asked questions
swiftly—questions all of them wondered. “Which one? How will we
know which one of the towns Risen had been taken to?”

The chieftain only
shrugged.

Ravan spun to leave. He answered for
all of them, “Yeorathe, and Demetrios. The captain of the Virgin
Wolf must know where this man has gone.”

Within the half hour, they were at
the docks again. There it was, the Virgin Wolf, a massive vessel by
any standards. It stood several decks tall above the docks, a
severe ship that had shipped much heartache in its day.

In long strides, Ravan ran down the
dock. He stopped and peered at the ship that had brought Risen and
Sylvie to this strange land. He tried to imagine his son within the
belly of this beast, and once more, it gave him a sick feeling in
his heart.

The gangway had been withdrawn so
that no one could board or leave the vessel, and a man lazily
guarded the mouth of the gangway, up on the deck of the ship. He
was a big fellow with a stubborn affect and dangled one leg from
the side of the deck as he played a solitary game of dice. He
glared at them, obviously annoyed by the small band of
men—landlubbers who were interrupting his idle boredom.

Salvatore announced their
intentions, explained that they wished to speak with the captain,
but the sailor said that Demetrios was detained, that there was no
one who would be allowed to disturb him at this time. Salvatore
pressed him regarding the urgency of their request, embellishing
his gestures with great charm.

Ravan could scarcely take his eyes
from the Spaniard, animated as he was. When the conversation
appeared to escalate, it included gestures of a different
sort.

Salvatore shrugged. “He appears
disinclined to assist us.”

“What did he say?” Velecent
asked.

“He suggests I do to you something
a bit unsavory.” The Spaniard looked Velecent up and down. “Perhaps
if you were more my type.”

Velecent snorted and asked Ravan,
“His crew outnumbers ours significantly. How do you wish to
pro—”

He had no time to finish the
question for Ravan acted, pulling from over his shoulder his bow
and arrow. On the dock next to a massive piling sat a tar
pitch-pot. This was used to seal minor leaks of variable nature and
to waterproof sodden wood. Ravan knelt, pulled from his waist pouch
his flint and steel and, within seconds, into the bucket he sent a
spark.

The spark caught the tar easily, and
it burned happily, a faint blue flame rippling slowly back and
forth across the surface of the pitch with the soft breeze. Into
the bucket Ravan plunged the tip of an arrow.

The flame lapped at the
point—burning droplets falling into the water with a hiss as he
seated the arrow onto his bow. This was familiar to him. This was
what Ravan knew, and Salvatore’s eyes widened as the mercenary
released the arrow.

Away it flew, arcing the short
distance before imbedding itself firmly in the main mast of the
ship, five or so meters up from the deck. The sailor—the lazy one
with the dice—leapt to his feet, eyes fixed on the burning arrow,
mouth hanging open in surprise.

In no time, the fire would catch the
stays and the sails strapped to them. In short order, the Virgin
Wolf would become a floating hell of an entirely different
sort.

“Tell him I must speak with his
captain,” Ravan ordered Salvatore flatly.

Salvatore smiled wryly. “If you’re
going to keep doing things like that…”

“Mmm?” Ravan raised an
eyebrow.

“…
We are perhaps
going to have to remain friends when this adventure is done.” The
Spaniard grinned broadly and yelled to the Virgin Wolf’s sailor
again that they must speak to Demetrios.

Ravan’s assault created an immediate
stir. The sailor called out something, and what had seemed like an
almost deserted ship was now swarming with crewmen from apparently
nowhere, flocking to the main deck, pointing and jabbering about
Ravan and the burning arrow.

They appeared uncertain about which
was the more important task, putting out the fire or taking down
the assailant. They also had next to no time to consider their
quandary for almost immediately Ravan launched a second arrow, this
time onto the fore mast of the ship. Now two arrows burned on the
Virgin Wolf.

Ravan simply waited, bow resting on
the dock, his hands folded casually across it.

“You have a propensity for stirring
up trouble; you realize that,” Salvatore offered wryly.

“Hmm.”

The captain of the Virgin Wolf
surfaced in seconds and yelled at his crew, apparently giving them
orders for something they appeared to already be doing—putting out
the fire. Besides that, he commanded his crew to take up arms, and
all along the railing sailors popped up, sporting whatever the
weapon of choice was for them.

Most held blades, which was fairly
absurd given they were so far away. A few were more creative. There
were several maces, axes, and a single crossbow, although the man
who held it struggled to load it. More critically, the ship had
cannons, but port would be an unwelcome place to use them; this
Ravan knew.

The captain of the Virgin Wolf
called out a sharp command, and all were immediately silent.
Nothing could be heard but the creaking of the ship against its
massive ties and the overhead gulls vying for airspace. The fire
was by then nearly contained, and a small plume of black smoke
spiraled from the first mast, from the spot where the first arrow
had landed.

The captain peered, one hand to his
eyes, to see what arrogance dared attack his vessel at port. His
ship was powerful, one of the most fortified of all that were
moored and was manned with nearly a full crew, a small army of its
own right!

He cast his eyes on Ravan and held
his gaze, but a sailor at his side—perhaps his first mate—indicated
them, stabbing a finger in Ravan’s direction as he whispered
something into the captain’s ear. Perhaps this man had been present
this day, had seen what Nicolette had done at the slave
auction.

Demetrios cleared his throat and
spoke in a rough, middle English. Ravan, Velecent, and Salvatore
all understood him well enough. “I understand you require my
attention.” He indicated with a wry expression and, with one hand,
the slightly charred main mast.

“The one aboard who brought the
child slaves—Yeorathe—I need to know where he is,” Ravan said
simply.

Shrugging, the captain waved the
question off. “I know not of whom you speak, nor do I care,” he
said but then just as quickly contradicted himself, “His money
spends all the same for me. You, however, have given me a sour
stomach on this fine afternoon. Vex me further and I will hang you
from my keel and let the sea have its way with you.”

Ravan was not in the least bit
inclined to banter further with the captain who’d allowed his son
to be transported across the Mediterranean Sea. Saying no more, he
pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back with swift and deadly
precision, this time launching it and taking down the first mate of
the ship. The man had been standing directly next to the wicked
captain, arms crossed over the generous expanse of his bare
chest.

The captain spun, saw that the shot
had gone through his first mate’s right hand, pinning it against
the man’s chest as the arrow pierced the poor sot’s heart. The
sailor lay flat on his back on the deck as though professing his
heartfelt love to the gulls overhead.

Demetrios was immediately enraged
and whirled to face Ravan. He was also instantly sober, however,
for what he saw was another arrow, loaded and pointed directly at
him.

Ravan asked flatly, “Where is
he?”

There was an utterance from the man
down deck with the crossbow. He was at last loaded, and his
question was if the captain wished him to shoot the intruder, but
the captain wisely waved him off. If the man missed, the captain
would bear the brunt of Ravan’s fury.

“I said, where is he?” Ravan
repeated the question, drawing the purchase of the bow even
more.

“Yeorathe. He lives in Isparta,”
the captain said in haste, “one-hundred kilometers north. It is
there that you will likely find him. He will be gone twenty days
hence, and on his return will share passage with me to
Italy.”

Ravan lowered his bow, eyed the
captain with something akin to loathing. “You will be a fool to
wait for him, for you will wait a very long time,” he spat at
Demetrios and turned, stalking back down the long dock, leaving the
man and his vast crew to ponder the solitary wraith who’d left them
a ship-hand short and totally undone.

Enough time in this unfamiliar town,
Ravan thought to himself. It suited him poorly with all its smells
and the sweltering heat. It was his intent to be on a horse before
dusk and gone, giving chase once more. He could feel the heartbeat
of the one he sought in his throat—the one who’d taken his son. For
the first time since Risen had been stolen, Ravan could taste the
revenge that would soon be his.

Nearly two hours later, Ravan and
his men had procured mounts and packed what provisions they needed.
The man who sold them their horses shook his head and mumbled
something in that maddening tongue that Ravan was growing to
hate.

Salvatore translated, “He thinks we
are crazy to chase someone into the Taurus Mountains. He says there
is little water to be found and many ways to die.”

“Then let us be glad that we will
not be there long,” Ravan replied. With that, they were off across
the treacherous countryside in the direction of Isparta. Ravan had
every intention of overcoming Yeorathe before he ever reached his
home.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX

†

The beautiful, pristine countryside
that surrounded Antalya changed almost immediately from a flat,
seascaped ocean village to foothills and then to the rocky, parched
hillsides of the steppes leading to the hostile Taurus Mountains.
Beyond that was simply treacherous.

The children spent one night in the
noisy city of Antalya at Yeorathe’s insistence. He evidently had
acquaintances he meant to catch up with. Sylvie and Risen were
secured in a “slave shack” on the eastern margin of the market
alongside other slaves, other men and women bound for wherever fate
destiny meant for them.