The Execution (47 page)

The Innkeeper stepped forward from
behind the bar. He made to reach for his sword, the one he kept
beneath the bar ledge—the one Ravan already knew was
there.

He started to object, as though this
were just another disagreement at the Inn. “I will have none of
this in my establishment—”

Ravan unsheathed his own sword with
such vicious and lightening dispatch that there were gasps from
those few who'd dared to remain and observe. “Silence!” Ravan’s
voice wavered with his passion, but his hand did not. In just
seconds, his sword was pointed level and mortal—and mere inches
from the face of the Innkeeper.

The owner stepped back slowly, hands
lifted and open, still not quite placing the stranger before him.
“Easy there; I’ve no quarrel with you, sir.”

“
Sir?” Ravan was
momentarily dumbfounded. “You do not recognize me?” He poked the
sword ever so slightly in the direction of the Innkeeper’s face.
“It’s me, you contemptible bastard—Ravan!” For only a moment, his
attention pulled from Pierre as he advanced a bit towards the
Innkeeper, continuing his rant, “The boy you sold! You stole my
childhood, you sick whore-son! You sold it!” Ravan blinked, rage
barely held at bay. Everything was red now, a dark and lovely
red.

Pierre was edging slowly towards the
kitchen door but Ravan swiftly cut him off, stepping across his
path. Well experienced in enfilade, or, ‘flanking fire,’ he easily
corralled Pierre and the Innkeeper alone to one side of the
room.

The crowd was pouring like flood water
from the room, fearful and shaken at the abomination who'd appeared
from nowhere to lay certain death over any who stayed. They sought
cracks and crevices, spilling from the wretched hall. The mercenary
who’d manifested before them was black from head to toe, his hair
long and tangled, his armor blood stained. His weapons were
terrible and his eyes the worst of all—there was no life to this
one, only blackness. Surely he had come from Hell itself, and
tonight would be doomed for them all!

Ravan turned his attention back to
Pierre, but continued to point the sword to the Innkeeper as he
spoke, “Move and I will kill you.”

The Innkeeper started to object, but
Ravan cut him off brutally as he looked him in the eye, teeth
clenched. “Make no mistake! You will suffer—eventually, but speak
or move and I will kill you now, as surely as you
stand.”

The Innkeeper froze, hands in the air.
He did not doubt Ravan’s promise in the least and could do nothing
but watch as Ravan exacted his revenge upon Pierre.

Ravan sheathed his sword with one
swift and skilled twist of his hand and pulled from his waist the
knife, the very knife he'd set as a child, antler handle worn
smooth from his own hand—Pig-Killer. The knife had come home to its
destiny. It seemed almost small in the hands of the one who wielded
it.

Pierre cowered at the end of the bar
and the double edge of the blade glistened brightly as Ravan moved
into him, arcing swift and brutal as he carved. Pierre fell to his
knees as the blade sliced. It was a murder of calculated rage. It
held years of venom in it and had been practiced in his mind, many
times before.

Pierre was blinded as the blade
crisscrossed his face. He staggered backwards, clutching his
ruptured orbs and tripped, falling with a crash against the wall
and sliding heavily to the ground. “Please! Oh dear God, please!”
Pierre begged, hand up to his severed eyes, blood streaming down
his face.

“
Do you remember me now?”
Ravan knelt on one knee, in front of him, almost studying him,
tilting his head sideways as he watched the man cower in blinded
terror. “There is no God where you now go,” Ravan whispered, his
voice hoarse and heralding with his deadly promise. The blade
entered Pierre’s chest slowly, caressed him gently. Ravan held
Pierre by the neck with his other hand, pushing hard so that Pierre
gurgled and sputtered, unable to speak or pull away from the slow
agony of the knife.

The rapist clawed feebly at the hand
about his neck, and Ravan watched his face closely as he pushed the
knife in slowly, penetrating him with agonizing leisure. He finally
felt the handle throb as the tip of the blade engaged the beating
heart. Ravan snarled, rejoicing in the thump, thump, beating that
staggered and slowed, pulsing against his grip on the blade. He
savored the copper, acrid bitterness of the blood-scent that sprang
from around the blade as it sprayed, then flowed thick and hot down
the chest of the man. It was a perfect moment—a consummate requiem.
Ravan exhaled slowly.

Pierre gasped one more breath as life
withdrew from him.

With a final shove, Ravan threw the
corpse sideways so that it fell from his blade. It was vicious,
savage, and seemed to be over in mere seconds. He stood up slowly,
looking down at the man who lie twisted at his feet, obscene,
bloodied, and ruined. Casually wiping the blood from his blade onto
his pant leg, he returned Pig-Killer to his belt. He turned to see
the Innkeeper edging towards the door and he unsheathed his sword.
“Stop! You cannot escape me.”

“
Please, Ravan...please
have mercy,” he sputtered, “I did ill by you, I know, but I have
lost her because of it. Please—please spare me!”

There was something about his appeal
that made the mercenary hesitate; the Innkeeper spoke as a man
who'd suffered, and he spoke of her.

Ravan leaned his head back, peering
down his nose at the man he'd hunted for, cleaned stalls for,
chopped wood for. This was one whom he'd trusted with all the
hopes, dreams, and innocence of a child. This man had taken him
from the orphanage, brought him in, allowed her to love him only to
cast him away for coin. He’d foolishly thought he might become a
son to this man.

Curiosity suddenly overcame him, for
it was this man’s bride who'd treated Ravan with kindness and
compassion. She'd left her husband on account of a child
misused.

He approached the
Innkeeper.

To the credit of the man, he did not
cower at the fate that played out in all its apocalyptic reprisal
before him. On the contrary, he almost seemed to search the eyes of
the mercenary, looking with remorse for the child he’d
betrayed.

Curious of the metal of this man; he
remembered when the Innkeeper had stopped Pierre in the room up
above. He surely would have been raped that night, but then
again—he'd done so for his own sake, for his own gain.

Ravan recalled looking backwards as he
was forced into the cage. He remembered seeing the bag of coin the
Innkeeper had taken from Duval as she had been shoved to the
ground.

Just then, Ravan lunged viciously,
grasping the arm of the big man and dragging it almost effortlessly
onto the bar. The Innkeeper was stunned at the strength of the man,
being no slight man himself. He was easily overpowered.

Twisting about, Ravan locked the arm
under his own, forced it palm down, flat upon the dense, worn
surface of the bar.

The sword fell heavy, deadly accurate
and with cruel finality as the bar top inherited another flaw this
evening. Amongst the multitude of gouges and dents affected by
steins falling and being smashed onto the bar in episodes of
revelry, anger and drunken brawls, was another mark. The cut it
sustained now was of the deepest and most deserved intent of
all.

The Innkeeper's hand spun and fell to
the floor with a thud. It was severed so swiftly that there was
hardly pain.

He released the Innkeeper just as
quickly and turned to watch the big man stagger backwards from him
to lean heavily against the wall. His victim clutched at the stump,
staring at the blood that spurted foreign from it, finally feeling
the painful retraction of muscle and tendon.

Ravan casually released the catch on
his vest armor, swinging it open, and reached beneath to pull from
his shirt a lacing. He held it out, offering it loosely to the
Innkeeper. “Bind the wound tightly to stop the blood loss and you
may live.”

“
Why? Why did you—?” the
Innkeeper began.

“
So, that you will never
accept payment for such as you did to me, ever again—with that
hand.” Ravan nodded towards the stump.

“
Why do you spare me?” The
Innkeeper clutched his bloody stump to his chest. He was breathing
hard, his will broken down to absolute and raw honesty.

Ravan was surprised, taken aback at
the decency of the question. He thought for a moment before he
answered. “She does not deserve to have you die by my hand. It
would hurt her, and that is forbidden.” He paused, “You have her to
thank for your life.” Tossing the lacing onto the bar, he turned
and finally left the Inn, with all of its memories and ghosts now
behind him.

Nicolette sat quiet and serene on the
horse, her cape drawn close around her. She stared back at the
meadow as Ravan walked down the cobbled walk across the small front
yard of the Inn. She peered down at him, offered no questions, no
verdict. There was no solace for what she knew must have occurred
inside. She only slid back behind the cantle of the saddle to allow
Ravan to swing onto the horse. Then she reached both arms around
him, beneath his armor against his skin and hugged him
tightly.

He breathed deeply as he felt the
warmth of her skin against his. Spurring the horse, they made for
the darkness of the woods, his woods, and they disappeared into the
night.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT

†

From the nooks and crannies of their
hiding places, the Old One, his daughters, and the orphans peeked
and waited to see what their fate may be.

Duval’s scouts were approaching the
orphanage. As the five mercenaries rode down the hill, they saw
next to no movement from the small settlement below. It was early,
with the sun barely up and the air was very still. Hardly disturbed
by even a breeze, smoke ran straight up from the chimney of the
small cottage below.

They approached slowly, with caution.
If Ravan was here, he would not be caught by surprise. This they
knew, because he'd been one of them. But, he had not just been one
of them, he’d been better than them. And now he’d deserted them. He
was the enemy, and they feared him.

Scanning the rough outbuildings, they
spied the small lean-to barn occupied by a single cow. There was a
pigsty and an aged horse that hardly seemed fit to work. A few
sheep dotted the pasture behind the house. Nowhere was the
magnificent black war-horse.

The five of them were no match for
Ravan, all of them knew this. Their hopes were to find him, if he
were here, and quickly retreat to report back to Duval. They could
then return with an army.

They swept the forest’s edge looking
for the horse. The stallion would not likely identify their
presence; Ravan had taught the horse to be silent when others
approached.

It wasn’t until they were much closer,
near the flat of the grounds, that they saw the tree. It held the
markings of the giant. They hesitated, apprehensive and uncertain,
and seemed to quarrel softly amongst themselves. Each one of them
pointed in turn and nodded towards the marks on the
tree.

The children watched the soldiers,
knew what the mark meant, that it was ‘magic’ and would protect
them. They'd stood on each another’s shoulders to rub their fingers
across the deep cuts and recounted with amazement the one who'd
marked the tree in such a way.

“
If they come further, we
stand no chance,” Avon worried in whispers.

“
They won’t—Ravan and the
giant promised,” the Old One replied assuredly. “We must trust
them.”

“
How can you be sure?”
Avon sounded uncertain, unconvinced.

“
Of little else do I
believe, more than in the conviction of that child,” he spoke of
Ravan as though he were still a boy. He tried to explain, “No
ordinary man chooses death willingly. These men now face that
notion. If they are ordinary, they will leave. If extraordinary,
however, they will stay.” He looked at his daughter. “An
extraordinary man is truly rare, my dear.”

As though they'd read the Old One’s
thoughts, the five men turned, making their way slowly back from
where they had come. They disappeared over the knoll just as the
sun peeked over the ridge. Their report would be that Ravan was not
there and that no one remained at the orphanage—never mind the
smoke curling from the chimney.

The small and fragile reality that was
daily life at the orphanage would stumble quietly along, noticed by
few—and never again to have one taken from them.

* * *

The five next visited the Inn and it
was a disturbing stop. The one-handed barkeep and only a few
patrons were reluctant to speak of the devil who had visited them.
Finally, they told of the dark and horrible events which had
befallen Pierre Steele that night. They would tell of how the
monster had spent only moments there, before vanishing, casting
horror and fear on the entire village. Men no longer slept at the
Inn for the savagery that they'd witnessed, and business had been
very poor since the horrifying event.