The Execution (49 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE

†

It was three weeks before Duval
reached Ravan. The horse saw the army first. It was snaking through
the forest on the other side of the ravine. Ravan had tied the
stallion barely within view just for that reason; he knew the
animal would sense an army even before it saw or heard
it.

The stallion stepped nervously in
place, anticipating the battle to come, but a well-trained warhorse
would remain silent. Ravan moved the horse quickly, so that the
army on the other side would not see them either.

For three weeks, Ravan made arrows,
fashioned them true as he ever had, setting the feathers from the
grouse and geese that they ate for suppers. They were perfect and
numbered more than a hundred.

A clear blue sky shone brilliantly,
and the air was light and crisp without moisture. Ravan was
thankful for this. He nodded to himself, calm and resigned to this
moment. It was a good day, a perfect day, and his arrows would fly
true. This was something that he knew, familiar and comforting to
him, a companion who would not desert him.

Today, Ravan would kill, and revenge
would again be his.

He took the horse and Nicolette far
back from the little clearing and the ledge, back farther into the
brush trees where they would be safe from the blitz that was to
come. As he adjusted his armor, settling it evenly upon his
shoulders, he struggled with what to say to her. “Nicolette—the
horse.”

“
He will be mine. No other
shall touch him,” she said.

Ravan nodded, now at a
loss.

She approached and stood near to him.
“Ravan,” she started.

He tried to recall when he’d heard her
speak his name before.

Nicolette spoke. “There is no right or
wrong today. Regardless of what happens, nothing removes what we
have been to each other.” She stepped closer. “That is constant.”
She spoke as though they had suffered an eternity together, and
Ravan wondered if they had. It was the closest Ravan ever heard
Nicolette describe trust, in her perception of an otherwise wildly
fluctuating universe. She said it with so much immaculate calm, and
his heart swelled at the honesty of her words.

“
Nicolette...”

She shook her head, slightly, as
though to stop him from shattering the mirror they looked into.
“There are no words to be spoken now. You know what is—and what is
not.” Her words were flawless, consummate, unspoiled by
emotion.

The statement was devastatingly
sincere and rang truer than anything anyone had ever said to him.
He kissed her, did not need to tell her to stay safe and away from
the fray. He did not need to say that he loved her, didn’t need to
say anything at all.

He turned and walked back out to the
small clearing, eased himself silently to the ledge, and waited. It
was several hours before the army negotiated the switchbacks down
to the canyon bottom far below, and another half hour before they
pressed from the forest to the edges of the river.

As the mercenary army emerged from the
forest, approached and entered the shallow current, Ravan drew his
first arrow.

* * *

Duval had brought one hundred men with
him, and forty of Adorno’s. He’d bargained with the little man,
taking another twenty pounds of gold in agreement to hand Ravan
over to him. Adorno would have his vengeance and exact it in as
horrible fashion as he wished.

It annoyed Duval somewhat, that he
would not give Ravan the final blow, but Ravan would suffer, and it
would be a grave lesson for his men. That, and a coffer full of
gold, was enough for Duval. He was always swayed most by coin—it
was a lust for him.

Twenty or so men scouted ahead of him,
and he could hear the dogs’ excitement increase. They could also
hear the mild roar of the river shallows ahead. He spoke to
LanCoste as they approached the perimeter of the forest. “The dogs
are restless, we must be closer.” He held an expression of sick
satisfaction on his face.

The giant said nothing, but then
again, he seldom did.

Moments later, it began.

* * *

Duval made a critical and strategic
mistake. He'd heard his men talk about Ravan, about how he
performed on the battlefield, but he neglected to really hear them.
If he’d listened better, he would have known that Ravan was more
than efficient, more than a profitable mercenary. Ravan was an
artist, a master, and this was his consummate battle. It would be
his magnum opus, his greatest symphony.

They fell as if ants stepped upon by a
giant. Hardly an arrow missed as Ravan drew, launched, and drew
again. He was methodical, calm and tireless as the bow bent
repeatedly, not shuddering or wavering under the great strength of
the arm which drew it.

From above and with flawless resolve,
the arrows pierced armor easily, and Ravan’s skill allowed him to
mostly miss the shields. When he could not, he took down the
horses, the rider’s legs pinned to the animals as they fell
screaming, into the current.

Hell rained down upon them. The water
reddened downstream as the bodies roiled and died in the river.
Still, the men pushed forward, struggling to gain a foothold along
the base of the long climb that would lead them up the cliff—the
only way to stop the slaughter pouring down from above. There was
no other way, and Ravan mercilessly brought down even men who'd
previously fought by his side.

As he squinted and drew the bow yet
again, he was seconds too late as he recognized the cadence and
size of a man he’d called friend. The arrow flew and found its
mark. Ravan dropped the bow, paralyzed for an instant and squinted
hard.

LanCoste seemed to stop his horse in
the shallows, to hesitate.

Ravan could not tell. Perhaps, the
arrow deflected from his armor, perhaps he'd missed.

Nevertheless, the giant seemed
ill-effected and started to press forward again, disappearing into
the brush on the near side of the river.

When sixty or so men swarmed Ravan’s
small encampment, he laid down his bow and took up his horse and
sword. Another dozen fell before he was pressed back hard against
the cliff. He finally succumbed to the sheer number of them and was
pulled from his stallion.

Duval’s losses were devastating. He’d
traveled with an army merely because vanity had pressed him to do
so. Never had he anticipated the casualties his army would suffer,
and he was enraged at the cost, not in pounds of flesh but in
pounds of gold.

Ravan was bent, beaten but alive, tied
and pressed to his knees, when Duval arrived.

The King of the mercenaries dismounted
and approached the renegade. Ravan met his captor with a clear and
calm eye, his body bloodied from battle but with a still and
tranquil heart. He had one regret—he'd not taken Duval down with
him.

Nicolette stood close by, strangely
calm as she watched the circumstances play out grim before
her.

Rage distorted Duval’s face as he
neared the fallen man and his fury precluded words as he simply
roared and lifted his sword high overhead with both hands. He had
never in his life been so intent upon a task as he was at this
moment, and his features were distorted in a sickening
snarl.

With a roar, Duval swung to decapitate
the traitor kneeling before him. The blade swung heavy, clean, and
ghastly true.

* * *

The air was cleaved by the massive
weight of the blade. It made a dull and sickening sound as it met
flesh, crunched through bone, and went true on its way. Blood
sprayed in a glistening, red arc as the arteries were
severed.

The head twisted, flew terribly free
from the shoulders and hit the rocky ground beyond with an obscene
thud. It spun in place, then rolled, finally resting in all its
surprise sideways, staring back at them.

LanCoste was motionless, his great axe
hanging loosely at his side as he stared, emotionless, at Duval’s
decapitated body. It lay crumpled and lifeless at his feet. As he
always did, he wiped the blood from the blade onto his thigh and
heaved the weapon back into the scabbard on his back.

A stunned silence ensued. No one
stirred. What was left of the battered army stood transfixed,
shocked by the event as though a thunderbolt had struck that very
spot. They were blinded, deafened, and dazed, as though they were
an army of stone.

Ravan was most stunned of all. He
stared in dumbstruck awe at his friend. LanCoste had just saved his
life.

Duval’s body ceased to twitch. Without
the head, the serpent lay futile and lost in the dust. Decapitated,
Duval appeared much smaller than in life.

Shock gave way to bewilderment and
confusion shrouded the faces of those who remained. Chaos
ensued.

LanCoste was the first to speak. He
looked slowly around himself into the eyes of the other mercenaries
and finally into the eyes of the man on his knees before him, and
he spoke loud enough for all to hear, his voice thundering,
commanding attention.

“
It is finished. I am
done.” He said it as though he had completed a task for which he'd
toiled his whole life, as though he had shed from his massive
shoulders the weight of all ages and laid it at their feet as a
gift. His face was sprayed with the wash of Duval’s blood. It found
the creases and crags, dripped from the strands of his coarse
beard.

His deep-set eyes, bloodshot and
hardened, looked slowly about. Then, he removed from his back the
battle axe and dropped it to the ground. With one last look into
the eyes of his kneeling friend he nodded.

Then something remarkable happened.
LanCoste smiled, for the first time that Ravan had ever seen—just
before he fell.

Ravan saw the arrow, buried to the
fletching, in the great man’s chest. “No!” He cried and struggled
violently, trying to regain his feet, to reach his friend, but the
soldiers held him fast. “No!” he sobbed again.

Confusion erupted. The remaining
mercenaries struggled with no purpose and a lack of direction.
Their losses had been so heavy, the carnage nearly complete, and
they had no leadership. And now LanCoste had fallen and it was
Ravan who'd killed him.

They allowed him to his feet, hands
tied behind him, and argued as to his end. Some of them were intent
on killing him straight away.

Suddenly, Adorno rode into the
encampment, striking upon a white horse, with all the trappings of
a King. “He’s mine! Do you hear?” he screamed. “Stand aside or I
will have you all killed! He’s mine, I paid for him, and I
sacrificed for him!” He jabbed his chest with his thumb to
emphasize his point.

There was only a modest settling of
the crowd, but just then, Nicolette stepped forward. She was so
quiet and calm, but effortlessly took control of the carnage around
her. A hush settled over the crowd as she spoke, all ears straining
to hear her words. “Take him and I will never marry you,” she
announced to Adorno.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Ravan, still devastated by the loss of
his great friend, struggled and started to protest.

She held a hand up to him and
continued, “I will return with Adorno, only if Ravan is given to
the state for trial.” She raised her voice for all to hear. “Only
if!”

Nicolette knew Ravan would be tried
for high-treason, but at some point, it might allow him to make his
escape. If he stayed in Adorno’s jurisdiction, he would be put to
death for sure, and not well. It was a risk she had to take. She
looked Ravan clearly and solemnly in the eye as she spoke softly
again, “And Ravan’s destiny becomes his own.”

Adorno's terrible addiction
threatened, clawed at him, and ultimately got the better of him. He
fidgeted and fretted, but Nicolette forbade him the luxury of
time.

She withdrew from her robe a dagger.
“Choose now, or have me nevermore.” She wrapped both hands about
the dagger and pressed it to her own chest. A trickle of blood
welled and ran steady down her porcelain skin, marring the perfect
snow white of her chest. This was no boast, no calculated threat.
Her intent was sudden and real, and without condition. None present
doubted her.

“
No! Nicolette, No!” Ravan
yelled at her, trying to move towards her, but he was held
steadfast by the soldiers. He had no uncertain doubt that Nicolette
would do as she threatened.

Adorno held his hand up abruptly to
quiet the crowd, as though his authority reigned above all else.
“Don’t! Nicolette—don’t. Be reasonable my love...” He smiled
cajolingly. Beads of sweat broke out across the hook of his nose
and he pleaded. “You can have your way, darling. Just—just put the
blade away.” His tongue darted nervously, snakelike, in and out of
his small mouth. He turned his palms face up and extended one hand
towards her as though to persuade her even more. “The state may
have him, and he can rot for all I care. Just come home with me, my
love,” he pleaded with her.

Nicolette's actions had forced him
into a corner, but if this was how it had to be, then so be it.
Adorno feared Nicolette would never succumb to him completely, but
that wasn’t necessary, for now he had the bargain, and he intended
to hold her to it forever. Finally, she would belong to him—she
would be his forever.