Risen (7 page)

“I’ll fetch plates now,” she said
swiftly and ducked as though she might return to the
kitchen.

“No, you won’t,” the big man shot
and stepped into her path, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.
This surprised him, certainly not in horror, for he’d likely seen
amputations before, but in mere surprise.

“The wench! She is handless as
well! How will the one handed bitch gratify me now?” He laughed
heartily, but there was no smile on the face of one as cruel as he.
His lips pulled into a loathsome leer, revealing an appalling
collection of teeth. “With her mouth, she will…” he said coarsely,
and reached for the girl’s good arm.

Ravan was straight out of his chair.
It was not his nature to do so, but he laid his hand on the
general’s shoulder and held him firmly at bay. “She was just going
for my dinner. You can toy with her later, but I wish to eat.” As
he spoke, with his other arm he swept the girl behind himself and
reached smoothly for the knife at his waist.

The general hadn’t seen the gesture,
subtle as it was, but chose to look Ravan up and down. Apparently
deciding the thinner man was no real threat, he said simply, “And
with what will you pay, for your dinner I mean, since your coin
will now buy mine?” The man laughed, drew his sword, and stepped
back, leveling the sword at the only-four-days-freed
mercenary.

“Go,” Ravan shot over his shoulder
to the girl, indicating the kitchen door.

“No!” the general commanded and
swung his sword to block her. “The girl stays. I am not done with
her, nor will I be for some time!”

Yeorathe glanced at the man behind
the bar but was answered with only a shrug. Obviously the inn owner
had no vested loyalty to the handless waif that worked his
establishment. The warrior would have no objection from him, and so
Yeorathe evidently believed he would have his sport with her as he
wished.

By now, the other three men were
gathering around their comrade. Tor stood wordless and with arms
crossed on his chest, seemingly only mildly curious, almost bored
of how his general would pillage his intended spoils of this
singular man and the handless maiden who was cowering behind the
stranger.

Modred edged his way forward, his
youth pulling him foolishly closer to the front of the fray. As
though from weary obligation, the fourth—the lame one—edged behind
Tor, naturally protecting the leader’s flank.

“She is my sister and will get your
food.” Ravan sneered as he shoved the girl toward the rear exit.
“She is hideous and otherwise worthless. She should be of no other
concern to you.”

“Sister or not, she will service
me!” The one-eyed general’s intent was clearly obvious when he
thrust his sword at her again, as though he would keep her from
leaving the room. He spat at the girl, “I am road weary, and you
will satisfy enough of what I intend to have tonight.” Yeorathe
stepped toward Ravan, perhaps expecting him to retreat.

This was a poor move, for he could
not know that even though the stranger was a solitary traveler, the
mercenary he challenged had not only battle hardened experience and
reflexes, he had the wits of a warrior—a supremely seasoned warrior
and one used to surviving the worst battle had to offer. The four
in front of him could not know this was Ravan, polished and honed
by Duval, tempered by death, driven by a lifetime of cruelty. This
mercenary had neither the patience nor the stomach for what the
band of men intended, and it was to their peril that they
challenged him now.

The fourth—the weariest one who
resembled the leader—limped forward, his hand loosely removing his
sword. Wounded though he was, he appeared to carry governance of
the group, and spoke to Ravan on behalf of Tor.

“You will stand down and concede
subservience. You shall also hand over the girl, for you are not
only outnumbered, you are now subjugated. Your assets are
henceforth ours. I command you, on your knees before Yeorathe.” He
motioned with his sword that Ravan should kneel before the one-eyed
lecher.

The brother of Tor evidently
expected no argument from the thin, dark stranger for his stance
was almost casual. His mistake could not be more mortal. With a
blinding flash, Ravan swept the blade across what he knew would be
the most vulnerable part of the man’s arm, intending to
straightaway disable him. The bladesmith’s talent displayed itself
perfectly as the knife cut easily through the leather buckles that
held the forearm plate to the upper arm. Into flesh the weapon
drove, severing in one swipe the tendons and, more critically, the
brachial artery.

Kenrick would rage briefly if he
chose, but weakness would come for him in moments, and death would
be his within minutes. The other three were, for and instant,
distracted by the arc of blood that sprayed from the man’s
arm.

Ravan knew he had only seconds, and
he instinctively focused on the three that remained. The halberds
and ax were a great concern, for he had no good defense against
them. But as the weakest was injured, he stepped in, swooped up the
man’s sword and spinning, pointed it at the youngest
soldier.

“Do you wish to die tonight?” His
voice held the cold promise of death, and it was enough to cause
Modred to pause, eyes wide as he stared down the blade.

Ravan hissed over his shoulder to
the girl, “Horse,” indicating she should be gone for the mare. The
maiden disappeared through the back door as the other three men
threw themselves at the mercenary. Ravan had only a second’s notice
to block the rage bent upon him. He feinted the weight of the
one-eyed general’s battle axe with the borrowed sword as he
stumbled backward, away from them and toward the fire.

Tor raged to the front, infuriated
by the mortal injury his brother had sustained. Sweeping his cup
from the nearby table, Ravan splashed the full brandy into the face
of their leader before heaving the table at all three of them.
Turning, he reached the hearth in two long steps. Grasping the coal
bucket, he swept it through the fire, and spinning, threw
it—bucket, embers, and burning wood—at Tor as they charged around
the overturned table.

Instantly, the brandy erupted on the
man’s face, lighting his hair and beard ablaze. This was enough to
give the other two further pause. The youngest was obviously thrown
off that his father was on fire.

The mettle of the dark man who’d
erupted like a demon from the shadowed corner of the room,
disabling two of them in quick order, had surely not been what they
expected. Even so, it was still two against one. Ravan took this
moment to plunge for the stairs, pulling in his wake another table
as he charged the steps three at a time. It wouldn’t be long before
three men would be after him, albeit one burnt
considerably.

Crashing through his door, he barred
it swiftly and set to work. He could hear the commotion working its
way up the stairs and down the hall as he swept up his longbow and
arrows, heaved the window ajar, and tossed the sword and bow out.
Then, dangling out the window himself, he let go and tumbled nearly
ten feet to the ground.

The earth was slick with frost, and
he slipped, falling heavily onto his back, the breath knocked hard
from him as he did. Ravan was leaner than he normally liked to be
and sucked wind as he groaned and rolled over. Trying to force
himself to his knees, he reached for his bow, arrows, and
sword.

Tor’s son was the first one to break
into the room. The door bar was weak, and the young man’s strong
shoulder broke through it easily. He ran to the window in time to
pull an arrow and seat it on the rest. As he drew back, Ravan
rolled and scrambled, desperately trying to get out of the man’s
line of sight. But the arrow Modred launched cut Ravan at the flesh
of his shoulder through and through.

Ravan was not even immediately aware
that he’d been hit and, fortunately, it connected neither with bone
nor tendon. He kicked, clambering farther out of range nearer to
the side of the building, and struggled to his feet, girding
himself at the waist and securing the sword and bow as he ran
behind the inn for the stables.

There she was, drawing his steed
from the barn with her only good hand, steadying the horse with the
stump of the other arm as she whispered to the nervous
mare.

“Whoa…there’s a good girl.” The
woman’s one eye was tear filled and wide with fear as the mercenary
sprinted up to her. She reached as though she would hand the reins
to Ravan. “Here you go. She’s ready to—”

“Up you go,” he said simply and
grasped the reins before reaching his other arm around
her.

Hoisting her easily, he heaved the
surprised girl up onto the back of the horse. He swung up behind
her, and the mare reared, not accustomed to the weight of two on
her back. Ravan drove his heels into her sides and pulled her head
about, effectively putting the steed back onto the ground. Then he
gave the horse her head, nearly running over a still smoldering Tor
as they stampeded from the establishment grounds and out onto open
road.

It wasn’t long before the three
remaining were mounted and giving chase. Tor’s brother was already
bled out and dead on the tavern floor, as Ravan had wished it.
Before long, they had their horses, but the warriors were out
matched for the mare ran frenzied, taken completely with her
superior breeding, and covered ground much faster than the ones who
trailed after her.

Even so, Ravan knew his horse,
already fatigued from their long journey, would tire first with the
weight of him and the girl. Consequently, he did a wise thing. He
took his mount to higher ground, pressing her to climb while she
still could. The knoll was only a mile or so away, and up, up they
flew to the top of the hill and into a small stand of trees. He
swung from the blowing horse, tossing the reins to the girl as he
did.

“Hold her,” he commanded as he
whipped his bow from his back.

The girl struggled to keep the mare
from bolting away with her and began, “But, I don’t—”

“Silence!” Ravan hushed her as the
maiden held the horse. The mercenary stood on the knoll, unmoving,
squinting into the blackness from which they’d come. He listened
intently until, in the distance, he heard the hooves of the
galloping horses. Then, he could pick out the three men as they
thundered up the long hill, following his trail. Evidently they’d
not yet seen him.

Pulling an arrow and seating it on
the guide, the mercenary rejoiced in the familiarity of what he
would now do. He drew the longbow, narrowed his eyes and picked his
target—the youngest one. Blood ran down his shoulder and arm,
dripped from his fingertips from the wound the young longbowman had
given him. His fingers were sticky upon the fletching of the arrow
as he pulled the bow, as the arrow feathers brushed his
cheek.

He would take this target first for,
youngest though he was, he was the most deadly of the three simply
for the skill he possessed. Then, the other two would have to catch
him—chase him down to engage him further.

Taking a deep breath, Ravan exhaled
slowly, allowing the urgency of the moment to sweep from him. This
he knew; this was as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart.
He picked his target, closed one eye, and let go.

The arrow soared, found its mark,
and killed the young man straightaway. It was as it always was. The
victim was moving, alive, and with purpose when suddenly he hit a
wall that knocked from him all things reasonable. Consequently, the
youngest toppled and fell, dead before he hit the ground. Ravan had
gambled on something—that the youth was the son of the burnt
leader, and he’d been right.

The leader pulled up short with a
cry of deep outrage and ran to the aid of his fallen, dead son.
That left only the one-eyed general in pursuit—the would-be rapist.
But his allegiance was evidently for the man who cradled his dead
son, and Yeorathe quit his chase in short order to return to the
side of Tor.

Ravan dropped the bow to his hip and
narrowed his eyes to evaluate, taking immediate stock of the
consequences. What burned through his thoughts were strategic clips
of what had happened, what he must do next, what was reasonable to
ensure his survival. It was the definition of what Ravan was, as
precise as a dying moment.

The youngest man’s horse bolted when
its rider fell and run back from where it’d come, but Ravan still
could not find a clear shot to either of the two men who remained
standing. The one-eyed general had cleverly positioned the
remaining two horses in front of them as cover. Yes, Ravan thought
to himself, these men have seen battle before. But so have
I.

No matter. He aligned himself and
struck the horses with two more shots. The first staggered as if in
slow motion, its neck bent around as it gnashed at the wound in its
side. Then, it tumbled to the ground. The other horse, lamed in the
shoulder by the arrow, limped in a circle around the men before
Ravan felled it with a final shot.

Horseless, the two remaining men
were quite vulnerable. Hiding behind the carcasses of the fallen
animals, they managed to remain fairly hidden and out of reach. Not
certain if either of the men had bow skills, Ravan realized that he
was now the greater target, standing in the open on the hilltop as
he was. He aligned one last shot, hesitated, and withdrew the
arrow, instead replacing it in the quiver. Turning away, Ravan
swung onto his horse, up behind the girl, gathered the reins, and
reeled the mare about. Off they galloped into the night, leaving
the grisly scene behind.