The Execution (26 page)

After an uncomfortable silence, Ravan
cleared his throat. “I’m hungry again,” he began
shakily.

“
Silence!” Duval
commanded.

Ravan was forced harshly to his
knees.

The mercenary king seemed to hesitate,
to pick his words carefully. “There is an order here, Ravan. You
will speak when I wish you to speak.”

Duval looked up from his text,
shuffling the papers aside before pushing away from the table. He
approached his young captive, studying him for a moment before
leaning casually against the timber of the massive table. “Ravan,
it is my intent that you work for me. You will—”

Ravan interrupted, “It is my intent
that you die a bad death, like the coward that you are,” he
whispered hoarsely,

Duval signaled and from nowhere,
LanCoste appeared.

Ravan glanced nervously behind as the
giant approached. He started to object, but was immediately and
mercilessly hoisted by the shackle about his neck. Despite his
struggling, he could not sustain himself and swiftly weakened.
Spots sparkled in front of his eyes like a swarm of angry
insects.

He clutched feebly at the metal as it
cut into his throat, trying to ease the weight of his own body.
Eventually, he discovered that he could not draw a breath, and his
strength dwindled. He briefly wondered if a hung man felt just this
way before death.

At last he was dropped to the floor in
a ragged heap. He gradually regained agonizing consciousness as
precious oxygen returned. Sputtering and clutching his throat,
unable to speak or to even lift his head from the floor, he was
forced to listen silently as Duval spoke.

“
Ravan, we can make this
as difficult as you wish.” He leaned back, creating meaty bridges
with his hands on the table. “It makes no difference to me. You
will obey me, or—you will die.” He walked slowly back to the head
of the table. Duval was not tall compared to some of his
mercenaries, certainly not nearly as tall as LanCoste, but he
seemed larger than he was. He was also not very striking, really
rather ordinary, but his essence was commanding, with a sinister
and fearful countenance.

Ravan’s breathing was still ragged,
but he was no longer lightheaded. He struggled to his knees,
feeling quite vulnerable as he knelt, peering up at everyone else
in the room.

Duval continued, “If you fail to
please me, your friends will also die.”

He left it up to Ravan to imagine who
his friends were. Ravan had no friends, really, but he knew exactly
of whom Duval spoke. This caused panic to seize his heart as he
knelt upon the stones.

“
If I kill you and your
pathetic friends, you lose and they lose. Of this I don’t care, but
also I lose.” Duval said this with ominous emphasis. He reseated
himself at the head of the table again. “If you obey me, you will
be treated well and fed well. I would not torture to death every
creature who ever meant anything to you. In return, you will do
anything and everything I ask of you, without
exception.”

Duval allowed his words to sink in
before he continued, “You don’t have much time to think about this,
Ravan. I am weary of your insubordination. You will obey me, or I
will count my losses and be done with you.”

“
And...” He allowed a long
moment of silence for emphasis, “Your death will be slow and
painful, but not nearly so much as those misfits you care so much
about.” He smiled generously as though it were a gift. All anyone
could hear was the ragged breathing of a broken boy, then Duval
motioned with his hand, returning to the greater significance of
his papers. “Get him out of here.”

He was led back to his quarters,
unshackled, and left alone for the good part of the day. Defeated
and weak, Ravan felt more alone than ever before. He curled up on
the floor at the foot of the bed, the simple comforts of the room
no longer seemed at all compassionate. He even wished he were back
in the crate where at least the crisp cold air would draw across
him and the pain would make it all real. He yearned to be back at
the Inn or the orphanage.

Ravan’s youth, however, gave him
unreasonable hope and he searched inside himself for the young,
blossoming hatred. He found its spark and clung to it, pulling
strength and warmth from it. It was enough to make one go insane,
to grasp at the unrealistic belief that somehow one could prevail.
And this maddening thought was tempered with the impossible
circumstances as to how.

As these thoughts drifted across his
consciousness, he dragged a fingernail back and forth along the
grain of a floor plank, slowly deepening it. He didn’t stop until
the groove was so deep that splinters pricked his nail beds. Only
then did he grasp the ring, sliding it smoothly up and down the
chain. He calmed at the gentle ‘whir-whir’ that whispered back to
him, the chain vibrating gently upon the back of his neck, torn and
raw from the shackles.

His hunger bit cruelly, and his thirst
burned by the time he heard the hollow ‘thunk’ that was the
deadbolt of the door sliding away and falling to the floor. Hours
had passed, but he was unaware, as it seemed like just minutes. He
pushed himself up and struggled to gain his footing, to meet his
visitors eye to eye.

* * *

Duval entered, preceded by his armed
escort, commanding and larger than life. He glanced, confused that
his captive was rising from the floor and not the bed or the chair.
Shrugging it off, he gave it no more consideration. Duval lacked
the capacity to empathize with any living creature—compassion fit
in neither with his disposition nor his agenda.

For a moment, Duval simply studied the
young man in front of him.

Ravan stood a good hands-breath
taller, his head thrown back in defiance as the much heavier,
stockier man looked him over.

Taking liberty to scrutinize his
newest recruit thoroughly, Duval approved of what he saw. The boy
was cunning and assertive, weak, but when he got his weight back
and grew a bit more, he would be strong. With proper conditioning,
the young man could be tempered into a killing machine, Duval was
sure of this. He had instincts about such things, and Ravan had
been a prize negotiation. He mused to himself that perhaps it was
quite possible he’d never encountered one like this. No one else in
the encampment saw it, but that was why he was the lord. It was his
genius about these matters that made him prosper in his position,
King of the mercenaries—god of war.

He scratched his chin absently as he
looked over his newest captor. He’d observed uncanny defiance,
determination, and courage in such a young boy, not to mention his
significant survival instincts. The trick would be to force
obedience without terminally breaking the spirit. Of this, Duval
was master. He knew he must breed hatred, but loyalty as
well.

“
I’ve brought you dinner
and all the water you desire.” He gave the boy an insincere smile.
“If—we have come to an agreement.”

Ravan remained silent, but his
expression spoke volumes.

Duval observed the body language, the
tense readiness, the slow clasping and unclasping of the elegant
and deadly, young hands. Most of all, he saw the molten black fire
in the eyes of the boy. He held Ravan’s gaze for a few seconds
longer than he intended, for it evoked in him something unfamiliar,
something he'd not felt for some time. It was visceral and
reflexive. He couldn’t immediately place it and once more shrugged
away what he could not comprehend.

“
Good—I’ll take your mute
tongue as a yes.” He motioned to a guard and food was brought in,
thick slabs of pork roast with gravy, fresh steamed onions and
boiled turnips. Dried Mediterranean apricots, a flask of water and
hot tea with honey completed the meal.

It was an amazing feast and the
righteous spoils of an unrighteous way of life. The guard set the
food on the settee, turned and left.

Duval motioned to the food. “I expect
you to eat well, sleep, and be ready for training in the morning.”
He turned abruptly on his heel and left as the door was bolted
shut.

* * *

Suddenly the room fell quiet. Frozen,
Ravan trembled confused and smoldering in his hatred. He was
violated again, his precious freedom sold, and he allowed the burn
within to warm him.

He finally recognized that he was
Duval’s, a possession, an asset, and no more important than a fine
weapon or animal. He swallowed this bitter knowledge and his jaw
tightened. ‘And why shouldn’t it be so?’ He thought. ‘Men were
imprisoned everyday! There was no righteousness. There was no
morality—no justice! God was not here, did not walk with man. He
was absent, only watching man make his mistakes.’

Tossing his dark locks away from his
eyes, he blinked back tears of rage. His anger made the pit of his
belly burn and he had clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw
ached. There was a nagging sting between his shoulder blades from
the tension.

Ravan’s neck and throat were raw and
torn from the shackles, and he couldn’t take a deep breath. He
tried, but agonizing coughing beset him once again. He was acutely
aware that he wanted to fill his lungs, breathe a sweet sigh,
inhale peace and happiness into his being again, but he didn’t know
where to even look for such an elusive thing. Even the air seemed
acrid.

Not moving from where he stood in the
tiny imprisoned room, he tried to let the memory of the Old One,
the Innkeeper’s wife, and the orphans drift back into the
foreground of his thoughts and memories.

Ravan remained like this, closing his
eyes, allowing the faces of each of them to play before him like a
sweet song. He struggled to etch into his mind the details of them,
so that he might not forget them. They seemed so sadly far away
now.

He recalled the Old One with his
shiny, almost-bald head, how tanned it would become in the summer,
only a few sparse and wiry hairs sprouting out in all directions.
His hands had seemed so ancient and kind.

This made him remember when the Old
One had used those hands. The distant memory surfaced so clear and
bright of when the Old One pried from his fingers the bloody
plowshare. Ravan had been standing knee deep in the bloody muck of
the pigsty. The Old One lifted Ravan from that gruesome, filthy
scene and hugged him close. He'd whispered into his ear that the
little girl would be okay—and so would he.

The faint notion of a sigh relaxed
Ravan’s face and his breathing deepened.

He thought of the way the Fat Wife’s
face reminded him of the moon. Taking a deep breath, he recalled
the sweet glowing oval of her expression, the smile that made him
feel the very same way the stars did on a warm summer’s night. He
thought of the forest floor, gazing at the most remarkable beauty
that was the moon and remembered the day the Fat Wife had cut his
hair. His hand slid up to his neck as he looked back upon the day
when she’d given him the silver chain. She had been kind, like his
mother.

Deeper breathing quietly overcame him
and he was just a bit calmer.

Finally, he remembered the orphans,
the ebb and flow of their life as they toiled and played, and
sometimes, with only great effort, they survived.

The whole lot of them blended, seemed
to become a single lovely creature, purity and love as sure as
there ever was such a thing. He had been one of them, an integral
part of this perfect thing. It very much surprised him to have such
a warm feeling so quickly overcome what was, only a short time ago,
anger and hatred.

This very unexpectedly made Ravan’s
eyes damp again, this time for a different reason. With surprise,
he reached the heel of his hand up to sweep the tears away. He
looked about himself, almost startled of his own whereabouts.
Taking another small and shallow sigh, the coughing fit stayed at
bay while the air flowed into him with the peace of his memories,
forgiving and healing.

Then, the sweet aroma of the roast
pork teased his nostrils and he rationalized that he needed to
become strong, and so he ate—every last scrap.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

†

“
D’ata, what has possessed
you, son?” Monsignor Leoceonne raised his voice to an
uncharacteristic timbre, making him sound almost female. “You
disgrace me, you disgrace your father, and most of all you disgrace
God and the church!” He paced the floor, his robes whirling as he
spun in front of D’ata.

The abbey was dark and quiet and the
father’s voice rang hollow down the empty rectory halls like a lone
cow bellowing the loss of her calf. The other clergy prayed in the
private confines of their own chambers, silently.

Never had there been such a scandal as
this. The lovers had been caught naked in St. Aloysius, and the
ornamental rug was now stained with the virgin’s blood! It was so
unbearably scandalous! They had been separated, ripped from each
other, wet with their sweat, blood, and carnal
fornication.

D’ata’s chamber was small with low
ceilings and a heavy wooden door. A single window was the only
other access. A lone candle burned on the simple timbered
nightstand and the narrow bed sported a solitary woolen blanket
with faded cotton sheeting. A bible lay on the nightstand, opened
and flipped over to hold the place.