Satisfied, down the hall he went, descending next the narrow flight of stairs. As he approached the common room, he was overcome again with an unfamiliar feeling. He was a free man—free to choose his path, free to choose his dinner, free to choose his death. This prompted a true smile, bittersweet though it was, from the face of the mercenary.
The man who stepped from the stairwell into the main room resembled nothing of the creature who’d stood there a mere few hours before. The matted mane was gone, and the skin was no longer black with filth. More critically, the eyes glistened with a fresh spark of intent. For all practical purposes, a new stranger had emerged from upstairs.
Glancing around the room, he took in the lay of all the clientele. Most appeared to be travelers, perhaps some were local friends. None carried with them the promise of menace. They appraised him as well but only for as long as he held their gaze.
Ravan approached the bar only when the other patrons drew their attentions away from him, back to the mundane evenings of their own. Gone were the looks of repulsion and horror. It was as he expected it would be. There was no recognition of him as the man who entered not so long ago.
“Ale? Mead? What can I serve you?” the round man behind the massive wooden bar asked him.
“Food. I am very hungry.”
“The girl will bring dinner.” The man nodded to a small table, tucked into the corner behind a supporting pillar. “Sit if you like. You wish to drink?”
The last drink Ravan had enjoyed was the laudanum laced brandy he’d meant to share with his brother in the cell, and this thought pulled strongly at him.
“Sir? Are you ill?” the man wondered.
“Brandy—if you have it,” Ravan requested flatly with no further explanation.
The bartender grunted and sloshed a draught into a wooden cup before passing it to his patron. As Ravan made his way to the darkened corner, the girl—the one who brought his bath water—swept through the room. She glanced at the bartender, and when the man indicated the stranger in the corner, she simply nodded, disappearing back through a door in the distant corner of the room as though she’d read his mind.
It was an odd moment for Ravan…utterly unfamiliar. The fireplace blazed in its bed, and the brandy was placed before him. Light from the fire danced around the room, illuminating the space warmly, bouncing off the surface of the brandy in an agreeable way. People carried on happy conversations, fueled by their companions, dinner, and drink.
Ravan listened out of habit, used to paying attention to details. He heard conversations about livestock, weather, betrothals…life. It appealed to him very much, this human interaction.
Sipping the brandy, Ravan was pleased as the liquid fire lit the back of his tongue and throat. It ran hot and welcome into his empty belly, and his mood lightened somewhat. It was not good brandy—probably fermented there at the inn—but was flawless to the heart of a free man. It represented not just fire for his blood but freedom for his soul. His mood lightened even more.
He took another sip and contemplated the rest of the room. There were patrons in groups of two or more; he was the only isolated traveler. The others chatted and laughed, ate, drank…lived. None regarded him. There was no reason why they should. Gone were the blood and stench, the armor and sword at his side. He was simply a late evening traveler, stopped for respite for himself and a fine horse. Yes, he was alive, if only until this one last campaign was completed.
Listening with idle curiosity to the banter about him, he thought it was a very human moment and very good to be amongst them. He wondered briefly if he ever could become completely comfortable amongst the living—if there was a place for him. Perhaps the tide of the universe invited him; perhaps he belonged after all. This was a curious train of thought, and he freely allowed his mind to go there, to wonder what it would have been like if he’d been able to make a life with her.
Stretching, he extended his legs straight, crossed his boots—the ones his brother had stolen from him and worn to his death upon the gallows—and took another sip of the spirits. No, things would never be normal for one such as him. It was simply not in his fate. She’d said it once, when they first met. “The fabric of time does not care about us, Ravan…not at all. Careful that you should ever think that it would.” That was exactly what she said, and she’d been right. It did not.
It was just then that the door to the kitchen swung open, and the maiden approached with his dinner. He pulled himself from the somber direction his mind had wanted to go when she set before him a plate of porridge with boiled onion and roasted fish. There was also a thick slab of bread, generously buttered.
“Thank you.” His belly growled.
“Yes, and there is cake, after, if you wish.”
“Perhaps.” He picked up the wooden spoon and motioned at the simple feast before him. “I’ve not dined this well for some time. We will see how well I fare with this.” He almost smiled…almost.
She lingered as though she wanted to say something more but then appeared to change her mind. Leaving him to his dinner, she returned to tending the rest of the room, and he began to dine. Fish was very common fare in roadside inns. Finer cuts of meat were uncommon and enjoyed mostly by the very wealthy. But Ravan strongly preferred fish—always had, and this was to him a feast of the grandest sort.
He was again reminded of the inn he worked at in his youth. There, they’d had an abundance of all kinds of meats—stag, boar, fish, fowl. He’d been an uncanny predator and had hunted, providing rare and delicate cuts of meat for the Two Fish Inn. But that was another time, another life. He was no longer that boy. Since then he’d hunted animal of a much different sort.
Pulling his knife from his belt, he flaked the skin and bone from the fish, turning aside a glistening, white filet. For the first time in months, Ravan ate a wholesome meal, void of vermin or mold. Sipping again of the brandy, he savored every bite, eating slowly, testing how the meal would agree with his gut, reminded of what a sudden, rich diet had done to him in years past. But the meal seemed to be sitting well, and he worked his way through nearly all of it before the front door of the inn slammed open.
CHAPTER FOUR
†
Tor was tired. Not from plundering, for he still had some spirit for that, but from the long day. His horse was fatigued as well, it appeared, for he continually had to pummel at the animal with his heels to push it onward. Perhaps they’d lately ridden too hard, but it was necessary. Their last plunder had been a narrow escape, the villagers’ men intent on chasing them for nearly a day before giving up the pursuit. It’d proven worth it, however. It’d been a lean few weeks, but they had more gold to show for it.
But tonight was late enough, he thought, and he wanted—yearned—for respite from his travels. Tomorrow he and his men would rally, for fortune was theirs for the taking, and they’d already amassed a sizable one as it was. This thought was enough to fortify the leader for the last mile’s ride into the small village that lay nestled in the pristine valley below them.
There were three who rode by his side—three who’d survived to prosper after the killing was done. They were not turncoats; nor were they English or French. No, these men, all except one, were Norse mercenaries and the progeny of the battle at Poitiers. That had been a battle like no other, and it had proven a convincing failure for the French, which placed Tor in a bad position all around.
After the defeat, it was difficult to stand by a King who’d been taken during the siege. Yes, King John II had been taken prisoner. It was a blunder of epic proportions, and plundering erupted all over France as a consequence, and not just English against French. Native Noblemen fell from grace as they turned their backs on even their own villagers, and once stable domains fractured and fell to whoever the stronger hand was at the moment. It was a terribly precarious time but profitable for those willing to take advantage of its instability. And there were plenty of those.
These four men were left over from a Sca
ndinavian free company under Evan the Red, who’d fought for hire for the French against the English at Poitiers. They’d since disbanded; Evan had sought war farther north after the terrible battle. Defeat was never easily shrugged off but for a victory in its wake, especially if it was profitable, and so this small clutch—his progeny—were enjoying a barbaric aftermath.
This group had chosen to remain in France, and they plundered small French communities on a grand scale. And why shouldn’t they? They’d been commissioned by the French—told they would enjoy victory and the spoils that went with it. But then they’d been thoroughly trounced in the battle; the English archers had flanked them and devastated the French troops, even though they’d been outnumbered by the French nearly two to one. These four men—Tor and his company—swallowed the failure poorly.
Of the three who were Norse, their ancestors were fierce Vikings. They relished battle and feared next to no one, and the defeat at Poitiers, especially as generously as it had been handed to them, was at first worn as an ill fitting skin. They’d crawled into holes and crevices to lick their wounds and gather their ambitions, and it hadn’t been long before their true ambitions were made very clear.
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.
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