Risen (6 page)

But Poitiers had been too much. Tor
had lost his best steed and five of his dearest comrades—noble
warriors, all of them—in that dreadful battle. The Black Prince of
England had been brilliant. Flanking and re-flanking with a
surprise final attack, his troops had nearly slaughtered the
French. The losses had been that devastating.

Even now, it was enough to make
Tor’s tongue rancid with regret. It’d been a fiasco, and
afterwards, he broke away from Evan, striking out alone to campaign
across the French countryside and recoup some of his losses, both
in gold and pride. It was ruthless, but shouldn’t someone
pay?

This notion gave him not even an
ounce of discomfort for the indecency of it all. What of it? It was
simply the way of the world now, was it not? France’s King was
taken, France was at war, chaos was everywhere. People would suffer
and be plundered, should suffer and be plundered! But not him—no,
not he and his men. There would be sufferers and there would be
takers, and Tor was determined that he and his own would be
takers.

Tor glanced sideways at his first in
command, his closest friend. Yeorathe was not Norse, he was a
Seljuk Turk. Firmly committed to the rise of the Ottoman Empire,
Yeorathe ventured from his home country for foreign campaigns,
choosing to indulge in the prosperity of conflict in the
west.

In time, Yeorathe had discovered and
banded easily with the other three in the group, sharing their
general philosophy of pillage until you prosper no more. He’d grown
most accustomed to Tor, and their alliance ran nearly as deep as
blood, for this was not the first time the barbarian had availed
himself for Tor’s causes.

Of the four, however, Yeorathe
enjoyed barbarity just for the sake of it, perhaps more than the
others. This, Tor had observed. Yes, Yeorathe was a fierce warrior
and loyal to his leader’s wishes. But the man thrived on grievous
opportunity like fuel to a flame, and the result was sometimes an
inferno.

Yeorathe had been nearly broken at
Poitiers. The Turkish general had witnessed the horrid fate of his
finest steeds to the cunning longbowmen of the English. The animals
had thrashed on the bloody field, pierced cruelly through the gut
end, both of them. In the wicked battle, Yeorathe also sacrificed
an eye.

It’d been awful, and then Yeorathe
only narrowly escaped, resigned to flee on a pack animal with
barely his life and his skin. It was thoroughly demoralizing for
the general, and he’d consequently levied his losses against the
public at heavy costs, compassion frequently replaced by his
unreasonable need for revenge. This Tor also realized about
Yeorathe.

Poitiers was nearly four months ago,
and Yeorathe had long replaced the pack beast with another steed—a
fine enough animal—stolen from a villager. He long recovered his
losses and then some. His humor, however, had not improved but
seemed only to ferment. Tor hoped his friend’s vitality for
debauchery would soon be replaced with a vitality for life alone.
After all, many of the battle at Poitiers had not survived. Should
they not be grateful they could still campaign? Profit from a
favorable opportunity? He sighed for the depravity of his closest
friend.

To Tor’s left rode his brother,
Kenrick. He suffered in battle as well, pierced through the leg
with a spear. Fortunately the wound hadn’t proven fatal. Even so,
he’d been unable to walk for nearly three months as the gash had
refused to heal. It left Kenrick sallow and much weaker than he
normally was, with a permanent limp, his wounded leg having grown
thinner and more wasted as the days had gone by—he’d also grown
quieter. Perhaps, thought Tor, a respite from plundering would do
his brother good. Perhaps a layover in this small village…or maybe
it was simply time to go home.

He sighed again. The notion of
returning to the misty cliffs of his home and watching the sea roll
in and out tugged at him. He’d been on foreign soil for nearly a
year, and profitable as it was, there was only so much that gold
could buy. There was no denying that home called to him. He missed
his wife, his clan. Perhaps there was enough gold now. Perhaps his
blade should lay to rest for a while. Certainly the French had paid
dearly enough for the failure of Poitiers?

But then Tor noticed the fourth in
his party. Edging ahead of the rest of the small band was his son,
Modred. Barely twenty years of age, the young man had exhibited a
natural affinity for battle. Even now his eyes gleamed; he was
anxious for their next conquest, their next bout of plundering. He
fought brilliantly at Poitiers, taking down at least four of the
enemy before being pushed back to the Miosson River. Only a
hazardous swim across had spared him his young life, and yet he was
unbroken, ready for more. The young man seemed to bask in the
brilliance of his youth. His time was now, and he thirsted for
conquest. And who was he, his father, to deny it to his
son?

Tor struggled to remember when
battle had so gallantly called to him, and his heart swelled with
pride as he considered his only son. Nothing was dearer to him than
this child. The gods had been generous to give him Modred. As if he
reading his thoughts, Modred turned, giving his father a nod and a
smile.

Perhaps they would have one more
engagement…just one. This is what Tor thought. Perhaps this small
town would be the perfect place to pillage one last time before
turning and heading home. It was well after dark when the four of
them rode into the small village and stopped at the inn.

* * *

Four entered. They were strong—war
hardened, it would appear. All wore the utility of their
trade—battle armor, weapons, the stains of other men’s blood. And
there was an uncivil appearance to their demeanor as well, as
though the blood was not yet dry.

The obvious leader of the group took
a moment to pass his weary eyes over the room as though mapping an
image. As if satisfied, he turned to the bar, leaning a heavy
weight against it. By his side stood three more men, two older and
one younger…not much younger than Ravan. Their tyranny allowed them
immediate command of the humor of all present.

Everyone else in the room pushed
away from the energy the four radiated, for it was not inclined
toward the good, and no good could come of it.

At the bar, Tor requested mead for
himself and his men. The fat man behind the bar poured liberally,
likely anticipating good payment for his efforts as these men
obviously had coin. Of that there was little doubt. One draught
drunk straightaway, the men slammed their mugs onto the wood,
demanding more.

Ravan began to rise as though he
would leave. The scene was of little consequence to him. He was a
seasoned veteran of uncomfortable surroundings and shrugged their
presence off with next to no concern. This was what he was most
skilled at, reading a situation and knowing when it was best to
distance himself from it. Besides, he was full, wanted no more of
his dinner, and was tired. The bed upstairs called to him, while
the atmosphere no longer did. Hungering for sleep, he stifled a
yawn and rose to leave.

Just then, the kitchen door swung
open, and the girl, the one who’d so kindly assisted him earlier,
walked in. Glancing at the four at the bar, she approached Ravan
instead.

She smoothed the scarred side of her
head with her hand as though she might take attention away from it,
and asked, “Cake? Would you care for some? It’s really very
good—the barley is without mold. I made it myself.” She seemed
almost proud.

“No, thank you, I—”

Ravan was interrupted by a bellow at
the bar. A big man, the one with only one eye and a grisly beard of
gray and black strands, had seen the girl.

“There it is! She has my other
eye!” the man bellowed.

Immediate laughter followed from the
other three. The rest of the patrons became even quieter, and
several edged their way to the exit, evidently deciding the night
and whatever secrets it held was a better companion than these
men.

The girl glanced away and appeared
to subconsciously hide the stump from her missing hand in the folds
of her skirt. These men obviously frightened her. Shaken, she spun
as though she would return to the kitchen before more attention
could be cast her way.

Stepping around her, with every
intention that he might shield her, Ravan turned his back to the
men and said to her in a low voice, “I will have the cake after
all. Perhaps if you went for it now.” He took her elbow, gently
directing her toward the kitchen before returning to his lone table
in the shadowed corner.

Motioning for another brandy, he
leaned back in his chair to study the four at the bar. His eyes
narrowed at what he saw, for he’d seen their like before, seen them
often enough. Ravan did one of the things he did best; he very
quickly analyzed and sized up his enemy, for that is what these men
had become—his enemy.

But Ravan was a mercenary without a
significant weapon, and he was particularly outnumbered. There was
no way to remedy that now, and it would not be the first time he
was outnumbered and outweaponed. Instead, he drew from deep within
himself his greatest weapon of all—his cunning.

Briefly, he was reminded of a long
night’s flight in the woods when he was only a boy. It’d been
horrible and magnificent all at once, what he did to the band of
men and what they’d eventually done to him. This caused the hair to
rise on his arms and the back of his neck. His breathing deepened,
his heart beat faster, and his blood coursed stronger through his
veins. If he’d been able to see his own face, he’d have seen his
pupils dilate. All the while, he studied the men at the
bar.

Tor and his men had focused their
attention on their second round of drinks. They were obviously in
high spirits and, for the most part, oblivious of all others in the
room. That was the first thing Ravan noticed, and he thought their
recklessness branded them as opportunists, not elite warriors. Even
so, they were formidable, for they had strength, weapons, and
numbers.

A few more travelers took the
opportunity to leave. The fire was inviting, but the mood no longer
was, and so they found their rooms or the stables if they could
afford no better. Few remained, only a couple clusters of men in
small groups. No one was immune to the disposition of the four who
invaded the serenity of the small inn. They were familiar in a bad
way, more a part of the mantle that France recently wore. It was an
unhappy state of the times, and these men were just more of the
destruction that was inevitable. Wait long enough and it would land
bitterly on the tongue of any who lived in this world.

Ravan nearly closed his eyes, dark
slits in the shadows. He peered sideways at the four, studying them
further as he took another sip of his second brandy of the
night.

The one-eyed man sported a double
handed Norse axe, and it was a brutal weapon. It reminded Ravan of
a friend he’d known some time ago, a warrior he’d seen cleave a man
in two with a weapon similar to this one, only much larger. No,
this man was not near the man the giant had been. For some reason,
the very presence of this one insulted the memory of LanCoste, and
Ravan’s mood blackened.

Tor, the leader—although Ravan could
not have known his name—carried a halberd as did the weaker of the
four men, the one who took up a spot directly at the leader’s elbow
and resembled him a great deal, only thinner. A brother, Ravan
thought, and less sound than the others. This man also had a sword
at his side.

The youngest had laughed the loudest
and swung his drink over his head before partaking. His eyes
carried the greatest vitality of the four, but he appeared
subservient to the wishes of the others, parroting them somewhat.
He had strapped at his waist a sword, nearly too long for his arm,
but more significantly, on his back was a longbow.

Ravan squinted to see the detail of
this weapon. It was a good bow, better than average, and had a
generous quiver of respectable arrows strapped beside it. This
interested him the most—this and the fact that all of the men chose
not to dismantle their weapons in the tavern.

These men were infantry, likely
seasoned, but not French. Their armors were above average and well
worn. They were hardened and had the stench to prove it. Even from
the distance, Ravan could smell it. He was not offended by it,
though. It was simply familiar to him and an indication of how
brutal these men could be should they wish.

The kitchen door swung open again,
and in swept the girl—a generous slice of cake balanced on a wooden
plate and hiding the stump of her arm. She seemed nervous as she
set the plate down, and Ravan thanked her with just his eyes before
again scrutinizing the four at the bar.

This set into motion a curious chain
of events, for the one-eyed general noticed and seemed to take
offense at being appraised by the thinner man sitting mostly hidden
in the shadows.

Yeorathe swung his girth to face the
stranger but focused his comment to the girl. “Come here. I need
food and will have that, or you will return to me the eye you’ve
stolen.” It appeared he would step toward her if she did not
comply.