Risen

by Sharon Cramer

  Now Sylvie did smile, and she was about to say something in reply but was interrupted by a ladder slamming against the edge of the loft. A man appeared, his face popping up over the edge of the rough boards as he struggled to keep the torch he held from falling. In his other hand was a sack of bread. He began to toss it out, and the other captives scrambled for it.

  “Stay,” Risen said urgently and entered the fray.

  In no time at all he secured two large chunks of his own and was returning to Sylvie’s side when the man called from behind him.

  “You. Come with me.”

  Risen turned, mistook the man’s intent, and resigned himself to the fact that he would not likely overpower this brute. He hesitated before tossing the bread to Sylvie.

  “Eat this, all of it. I’ll be back,” he said before turning to go with the man.

  “Not you. The girl.”

  It was a second before Risen processed what the man requested. “Her?”

  The man motioned for the girl to go with him, and Sylvie struggled to rise from the straw without her brace.

  “No!” Risen pushed her too roughly back onto the pile of straw. “No! She will not go with you!” He spun on the soldier.

  The man had a look of frustration on his face but clambered heavily the rest of the way up into the loft. He was large, as most of the mercenaries seemed to be, and seemed more apologetic than angry as he focused on the girl.

  “I’m sorry, little miss. Yeorathe wishes for you to come to him.”

  “She will not!” Risen protested again.

  The mercenary ignored him as he began to walk to the girl, to reach for her arm, but Risen pulled from his boot the knife—the one he’d hidden all this time. Never had the opportunity presented itself clearly for them to escape. Never had the captives been left unguarded, but he’d been patient. Father taught him this, and he knew that the moment would eventually arise.

  Now the moment was here, but it was not entirely as he wished. There was no obvious escape—not unless he could kill the man and be gone. This was not to be, however, for as the man leaned down and grasped Sylvie’s arm, he shoved Risen roughly aside to move him from his path.

  The knife flashed, swept over and hard, but the man’s battle leathers were decent and dulled the impact. Even so, the blade pierced through them and drove into the shoulder joint of the mercenary. Cursing, the man let Sylvie’s arm go, dropping her back into the straw. He pawed at the weapon with one hand as he swung the torch about with the other. Try as he might, he could not reach the blade, could not pull it from the back of his shoulder. It was as though a hornet had stung him, and swing for it all he wished, it remained where it’d been planted.

  The mercenary’s left arm weakened and hung helpless to serve him, and he was forced to leave the weapon where it was and move the fire to his only good hand. He was suddenly alive with rage and turned on Risen, swinging with the torch so abruptly that it cracked him hard, laying the boy out flat.

  Back onto the timbered floor of the loft he tumbled. Flashes of light sparked in front of his eyes, sweeping like tiny shooting stars, before all went dark. Risen would not see the man turn back to Sylvie, would not see him herd her with the torch and his own bulk as he shoved her toward the ladder. He would likewise not see the other boys move in to steal his bread.

  When Risen awoke, it hurt to move his head, hurt to blink his eyes. He scrambled for the edge of the loft and peered below. There stood a single mercenary, hand resting idly on the hilt of a sword. The ladder was gone, and so was Sylvie.

  He turned on the other boys, whispered hoarsely. “Where is she? Why did you let him take her?”

  Mute looks and sad heads bobbed their shameful replies. They turned from him, unwilling to involve themselves in the plight of the youngest captive. They’d all keenly observed the fight with Clovis two nights before, and ever since, the others had appeared to isolate themselves from Ravan’s son.

  Risen ignored them, scanned the floor for his knife. Gone. He was utterly without resource. Think, I must think!

  Back to the edge of the loft he went. Squinting he tried to make out the time of day. It wasn’t much later from when he’d engaged the soldier, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. He tried to focus on the man below him, tried to gauge the distance and height.

  Then, Risen did a very risky thing. Balancing on the edge of the loft, he took a chance and leapt feet first…onto the head of the soldier.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  †

  William was keeping to himself at the end of the wood slab bar. It was a raucous crowd, hard drinking, hard quarreling, and it was their men who contributed the most to the debauchery. The Englishman struggled to stay in the present, to keep himself from thinking about the girl, and…about Eleanor.

  Here he was, many years and countless miles from his past, and yet it made him intensely sad, for some reason, and seemed to be most of what preoccupied his mind now—the captive girl and the dark haired boy who was obviously in love with her. It was therefore a complete surprise to him when the stabbed mercenary, the one with the blade in his shoulder, came barreling through the tavern door with Sylvie in tow.

  “Bastard attacked me!” the man spat, turning around, showing all of them the knife that still protruded from his shoulder. There was laughter amongst the men, and the man shoved Sylvie roughly to the floor in front of him, ignoring her as he appealed for help from his comrades. She held her hands over her face and did not look up.

  Another man tried to pull the knife from the soldier’s shoulder. The joint had contracted, the tendons tightening in objection to the foreign invasion. The blade was stuck fast within the capsule of the joint, and the mercenary groaned as his mates struggled to pull the weapon loose. Ultimately, the third man who attempted to rid him of the knife succeeded, freeing him as he pulled it with a crunch from the shoulder. The wounded man moaned, flexed his fingers, gingerly reestablished mobility of the arm, swearing as everyone else ignored his plight and examined, instead…the blade.

  William stepped away from the bar, receiving the exquisite weapon as it was passed around. He’d never seen anything like it; it was extraordinary! But the mark—the one carved into the butt of the blade—it was somehow familiar. He passed his finger over it. Yes, he’d seen it before, and he squinted, turning the weapon over in his hands as he tested the edge with his finger.

  It surprised him how easily he cut himself, and he swept the other man’s blood from the steel onto his pant leg just to examine it more closely. This was not a boy’s device, and this was no weapon of opportunity taken by the child’s clever resource. No—this was a weapon from the heart, and seldom, if ever, had he seen one crafted as magnificently as this one was. This knife belonged in the hands of the boy; he could feel it. He believed this blade had been forged by the boy and…his father.

  There was something so alive about the knife that it drove home to William the belief that Risen was not only Ravan’s son, Ravan was Risen’s father, and the mercenary would never cease his search until he found the boy. He frowned.

  By now, most were focused on the girl, and William slipped the blade into his belt, behind the scabbard of his sword before anyone noticed. Yeorathe was in fine form, bellowing how they would profit from sale of one such as the boy, one with such fire—his enemy’s son.

  Sylvie remained unmoving, so small in comparison to all that went on around her, and still kneeling on the tavern floor. But, incredibly, William saw her resolve steady as she looked almost calmly about herself, her gaze settling on the single-eyed visage of the monster that postured before her. She wore an expression of acceptance, of how Yeorathe would be her undoing, and that would be the end of her.

  Yeorathe’s humor fell with this one, simple act…that she would look so calmly at him. “Think you will look at me as you do? Well, you will not look at me in such a way when I have finished with you.” He growled in a low voice and slowly, deliberately, replaced his drink on
the bar.

  Others dropped their din so that they might hear him better. Iwan leered, a flat grin creasing his weasel face, and leaned in closer, turning his head so that he could hear with his only good ear. It was a gesture that made him appear quite like a fleshed-out monkey.

  The one-eyed leader advanced on the child, prepared to take from her what he wished, but it was William who stepped between them.

  “I cannot allow this,” the Englishman said flatly.

  An immediate hush fell over the crowd. Odgar, who was by then more consumed of the food set before him than what might amuse his men, turned about in his chair to observe the exchange.

  Yeorathe seemed most surprised of all. The Englishman, his subordinate, had challenged him, and this he was not accustomed to. Pushing the stiffness of his already sprung erection from his crotch, he finally gathered his wits enough to challenge William’s insubordination.

  A descendant of Vikings, and as his Norse ancestors did, Yeorathe preferred a two fisted axe as his weapon of choice. He deftly pulled the weapon from its rest as though he would use it on William. It was a brutal weapon and a reckless gesture.

  “You dare step in front of me?” he said. “Delay my intentions? You are my hireling! You have no say here!”

  William drew his own sword, his intentions sincere. “You harm the prisoner, and she is worth less to us. I have been appointed their care. I will not allow it.”

  Odgar’s eyebrow rose as he took another bite of the fish in front of him.

  “She will survive me,” Yeorathe snarled.

  “She will survive you impure,” William countered, unrelenting as he stood his ground. “You’ve already cost us one prisoner for your sport, and you mean to cost us another with your lust. Or, are you so impotent that you must have a girl? A cripple at that?” He baited Yeorathe further. “Cannot you find a real woman willing to lay with you?”

  Murmurs began amongst the men but not because this was a moral issue. The nature of their trade regularly offered itself up to cruelty. Child rape or even murder was sadly common but of little concern to men such as these. To have one of them express consideration would have been unusual to be sure. No, it was William’s financial pleas that affected them most.

  These men coveted one thing above all—profit. They were hired soldiers, mercenaries of gain. The girl, crippled though she was, could be sold as a slave servant for whatever purposes her owner desired. And all of these men were acquainted well enough with eastern culture to know that a female slave, pure, was ten times the worth of one defiled. Men of means would pay well enough for her, even if she was of a single use.

  The murmurs increased, and the lively atmosphere died away, for when it came to compensation, the soldiers were entirely serious. If Yeorathe did something to insult the profitability of their efforts, he would swiftly fall in his men’s eyes. This was evidently sensed by their leader, for he argued the point.

  “She is of no value pure. No one could want a cripple such as her!”

  “You do,” William said smoothly, fast to counter.

  He rested the point of his sword on the earthen tavern floor and crossed his arms across the butt of it. It was a gesture of finality. The Englishman recognized this was a dangerous path, to offend Yeorathe so openly, but perhaps it was the path he’d always wanted, he thought suddenly. This fortified him with unreasonable courage, and he remained steadfast between Sylvie and Yeorathe.

  “I will not have you pull from my pocket coin that is not yours to take,” William said with finality. Truthfully, the coin had never been William’s real concern. His had been a crusade of forgetfulness, a shrouding of his own humanity. Again, more stirrings from the crowd, and dissent began to surround the soldiers like a slowly rising flood. Funny how a room can close in on you when ill feelings grow, William thought to himself, collapse faster than a mud house in a flood.

  The conflict at the Ravan Dynasty had not gone nearly as well as the men had hoped, and Tor was probably still warm in the ground. Profits had been much leaner than expected, and so the sale of the slaves was supposed to right that somewhat. Yeorathe peered from one man to the next, but in the end he seemed to recognize that his rule of the small band was not firmly established, and the risk of mutiny could be great.

  William had bargained on this.

  Re-sheathing his weapon, Yeorathe spat on the girl. “Get the bitch from my sight. She sickens me,” he snarled.

  And with that, William knew the leader’s lust was one for the vulnerable and the weak. This was good to know, for if a man would rape a defenseless child, he would certainly plunder his own men, given the opportunity.

  Odgar nodded, said nothing, and returned to his dinner, obviously satisfied that his gains were secure if Yeorathe’s trousers were not. The other men seemed likewise pleased with the outcome, and appeared happy to return to their festivities.

  It was just then that William made the decision that this would be the last campaign he would sustain with these men, perhaps his last campaign ever. His heart was weary as he wondered what he would then do, where he might lay his withered soul to rest. Resentment clouded his mind in a way that he could not explain. It was as though he’d been instantly robbed of his capacity to bury himself, to cloak not only who he was but the memory of the woman he once loved. And all because of the girl!

  Pulling Sylvie roughly to her feet, the Englishman dragged her from the tavern and led the limping child back to the livery, saying nothing as they went. It left him sore, what Yeorathe had intended to do to her. All the same, he struggled with the liability Sylvie had placed upon his heart.

  The blade, the one that had been pulled from the guard’s shoulder, pressed into his hip, and he was reminded of it, thought again about the mark on the blade handle. He’d seen that mark before, he knew he had. Then it came to him. It was on the coat of arms of the soldiers that had defended the Ravan dynasty! And defend it they had, magnificently! They’d trounced Tor’s army both in might and strategy, their marksmanship stupendous as their longbowmen devastated the invading forces. Even outnumbered, Ravan’s men had dominated the battle from the outset. Tor had underestimated this one, had let his passion cloud his vision. William knew the story, had heard the tale of how the dark one set Tor on fire and killed his brother before finally felling his son, Modred.

  Of course, the tale had not been accurate, William assumed. There was always more than one side in a dispute. The truth, he believed, was generally somewhere in the middle. Nevertheless, he recognized the mark—a ring, threaded onto a cross.

  “Why did you spare me?” Sylvie’s question jarred him from his thoughts.

  “You heard; you know why.” He did not look at her only held firmly to her hand as he pulled her along.

  “We both know that isn’t true.”

  William stopped and spun on her, stooping so that his face was close to hers. “Why do you vex me? What is it you hope to accomplish?” He was unnaturally angry and stopped her where she stood, stared hard at her, meant to intimidate her, but it was not fear that he saw in her eyes.

  “You’re not bad, not like they are.” She swept one frail hand back from the direction of the others.

  His gaze was locked onto hers, his face twisted. “You have no sense of what I am! You believe you do, but you don’t.”

  “You’re not the man you were supposed to be. I have a sense of that.” She rested her hand softly on his shoulder, brushed a lock of his hair from it.

  It was a heart-rending gesture. This pushed William further than he was willing to endure, and he raised his hand, held it suspended as though he meant to strike Sylvie down. She did not cringe, only waited for the blow as though he was about to hand her a gift.

  Instead of focusing on her, he fixed his stare on his own hand and remained frozen, as though the world had ended, and this was his last position. His breathing steadied as she reached up to take his hand in hers.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You saved me.”


  He stared at her, studied the child that reminded him so much of his Eleanor. “You don’t know me,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “and be grateful that you don’t.”

  Then he lifted Sylvie and carried her the rest of the way to the livery. He said nothing more; he didn’t need to. She did know him, but how was completely lost to him. Sylvie knew his heart as sure as if she was his own daughter.

  * * *

  William stepped into the livery just in time to see a boy fall from the loft overhead. The guard standing beneath was caught totally unaware as Risen leapt and landed with his feet square on his head, snapping him face forward, and sending him sprawling hard onto the ground.

  Risen hadn’t yet seen William and Sylvie in the doorway. Instead he snatched at the sword still fastened to the fallen man’s waist but was unable to grasp it before the guard gathered himself and rolled over. With a heave, he kicked Risen, sending the boy flying away from him.

  Toppling backwards, he somersaulted but promptly found his feet. Leaping up, he searched furtively about as though for a weapon of any sort. It was then that Risen noticed Sylvie standing with the Englishman in the doorway. Completely abandoning his scuffle with the guard, he began to run toward them but was tripped when the fallen man grasped him by the heel, sending him tumbling again.

  He ignored his attacker, focusing instead on William. “Did you hurt her? Is she hurt?” He swung clenched fists down into the ground in a gesture of futility as he raged. “You’re a monster! Do you hear me? If you hurt her, I’ll…I’ll—”

  The guard continued to claw at Risen, scrambled to grasp hold of the boy’s kicking feet. William held up his hand to interrupt the brawl.

  “She is unharmed,” he announced with grave authority.

  The other captive boys peeked cautiously over the edge of the loft at the commotion below. The soldier had by then regained his feet and clumsily drew his sword.