“He says you are an ass—more foolish than a camel humping a horse.” Salvatore struggled with his own overwhelming odds.
“He said all that in only two words?” Ravan was back to back with Velecent and fairly surrounded.
The fat man yelled something further, and a new wave of soldiers swept in from seemingly nowhere, overpowering the small troop in no time and holding all of them at bay as Ravan, Velecent, and Salvatore—the obvious ringleaders of this fiasco—were forced to step up and onto the auction stage. With three soldiers on each of them, they were forced to their knees, facing the fat man sitting behind the stacks of gold.
Ravan began to speak, but a sword at this throat silenced him straightaway. The fat man jabbered on, sweeping his hand over the crowd before pointing dramatically to the strange invaders each in turn. He went on and on at length.
“We’re going to be executed?” Ravan offered.
“We are going to be executed,” Salvatore concurred, “unless I can persuade him otherwise.”
Then there was then an exchange between the fat man and the Spaniard that went on for a bit, the fat man becoming more and more animated, until the ship’s captain whispered, “I am getting nowhere with this one.”
The guards holding Ravan drew him to the center of the auction block before forcing him again to his knees. From the crowd appeared a large fellow with a blade that, for an instant, reminded Ravan briefly of an old friend—a giant.
Obviously, Ravan was to be the first victim, and the throngs crowded in, intent on a good look at the beheading. Salvatore was feverishly imploring the fat man at this point, speaking faster than Ravan had ever heard anyone talk. Velecent yelled something he missed, struggling against his captors.
Just when it seemed inevitable that the executioner would raise the awful blade, the crowd hushed. Ravan struggled and yelled, “You’re monsters! All of you, that you would sell another man!” His argument was not for his own fate but for the immorality of the people here.
The fat man spoke one more time then, with some struggle, forced himself up and out of his chair. All could clearly see the impressive robes the man wore, draped in stones of many colors and woven with strands of the finest filaments. He had an obvious flair for the dramatic and preached in short bursts, engaging the crowd in increments until nearly all murmured their agreements.
When the leader’s diatribe finally ceased, the executioner stepped into place, and the guards forced Ravan to bend forward, his hands bound behind him. Velecent kicked his objection to the awful display, and the crowd gasped, but not at him.
Onto the auction platform stepped a pale beauty like no one had ever seen. Her hair flew long and black about her, and she was paler than anyone else present. Fine and fragile as a bird, she looked at the fat man behind the ledger and spoke in her native, English tongue. “Let them go.”
The fat man was only further incensed, as though a mere woman had halted the execution. He gave a curt order of some sort, and the executioner went to lift his blade—a mistake.
Nicolette lifted a hand, one finger pointed, to the executioner. “Stop.” She gave the command with such clarity, and a sparrow flitted down from seemingly nowhere to perch upon her thin wrist.
The executioner hesitated, glanced at the fat man as though uncertain whether he should continue. The guards were evidently mesmerized enough by the peculiar display to rest their hold a bit, and Ravan was able to lift his head just enough to see Nicolette on the auction block. He began to protest, sure that they would strike her down, but as a free soldier stepped toward her, she lifted her other arm and reached, palm up and with her wrist severely bent, at the man. Down he went as though suddenly without legs, and he lay very still—breathing but not moving.
“Screw a siren whore,” Salvatore murmured, his eyes fixed on Nicolette.
The crowd hushed, obviously intrigued by the display. As Nicolette’s mouth opened, she next ushered a string of syllables unfamiliar to Ravan. The crowd, likewise, stood as if confused, with the exception of a hag standing at the corner of a stall of woven baskets and cradling a piglet.
By now, all were gravely silent, and the hag answered Nicolette’s tirade with one of her own, stepping forward and dropping the piglet where she stood. It squealed before disappearing between the legs of the crowd.
Nicolette’s eyes were no longer the deep, emerald green that drew from Ravan his very breath. They were no color at all, for they’d gone clear as glass, and her head snapped about, obviously focused on the words the hag spoke. Just as swiftly, however, she seemed unconcerned with what the other witch had to say. Nicolette’s unfamiliar eyes looked up at the sky as her head rocked back, her chin up.
The executioner, as though unsure what to do next, chose to ignore the babbling women. He lifted the blade, intent on finishing his task and having Ravan’s head. It was poor judgment on his part, for as he did Nicolette spun her hand—the one that was pointed at him—from palm up to palm down, her fingers hooked and claw-like.
The blade swung in a violent arc, missing Ravan altogether and burying itself instead in the thigh of the big man. He fell, and the blade disengaged, clattering across the auction block to directly in front of Salvatore.
The remaining guards, unsure of what to do next, released the men and stepped toward Nicolette. Out of her mouth coursed a string of further unintelligible words as she swept her other arm across her chest and then back…at them.
Down they went, several of them hard onto the stage, and stayed, unable to move, eyes wide with fear. Nicolette’s head tipped forward and turned sharply to the left as she considered the fallen men with her vacant, crystal eyes. Now her utterances were barely audible as though she whispered only to herself.
The crowd mostly dispersed. Some cowered and babbled, murmuring what, if Ravan could have understood, would have been words such as witch, sorceress, evil queen, vengeance upon us. There was chaos as they fell back, leaving in their stead a handful of women who stood their ground. All of these women remained motionless, having dropped whatever they held, and only stared at Nicolette.
Ravan staggered to his feet, followed by Salvatore, who snatched up the executioner’s blade as well, and Velecent.
“Nicolette…” Ravan spoke softly, reaching a hand toward his bride.
The fancy, fat man was the next to speak, bellowing first to Nicolette—to no effect—and then to the hag who’d uttered the similar syllables only moments before. Several guards came from nowhere, grabbed her, and dragged her to the stage.
Now the woman babbled in the tongue of the fat man and pleaded, hands together, fingers laced and up, begging mercy of him.
“What’s she saying!” Ravan hissed to Salvatore. “What are they saying?”
“What, for hell’s sake, was your bride saying?” he countered, fairly incredulous and with some display.
“I’ve never heard her speak in such a way,” Ravan admitted urgently but was then silenced by the chain of events to follow.
The guards began to beat the hag, and Nicolette appeared to take offense to that. She opened her mouth, and this time said nothing, but a sound—a terrible ‘screeing’ sound—funneled around everyone on the stage, taking up an awful momentum as it circled. All clapped their hands over their ears, and in one final bolt of noise, the guards who mistreated the hag were veritably blown from the stage as though a cyclone had bowled them over. Off they tumbled, out of sight of those who remained, and were not seen to rise.
The hag was unaffected by the blast and remained lying on the stage, hands over her ears. Still bound, Salvatore approached her, murmuring in her native tongue, urgent words as he looked between her and Nicolette.
She answered, indicating Ravan, the fat man, the solitary women who stood out from the crowd, and lastly Nicolette. Between her urgent babblings, she laid her palm to rest on her own chest and shook her head no.
Salvatore helped her to rise then approached Ravan. “Your wife is a witch,” he said s
imply as though he was commenting on the weather.
“Bloody hell, you say.”
“The hag concurs. She is, likewise, a sorceress, possessing an iota of what Nicolette evidently does. She tells me your wife has power that will not be denied, and it is strengthened by the proximity of others of her kind, of which there are several about.” He indicated the random women who were left in the crowd, all standing solemnly and exactly the same, hands folded in front of them. The pigless hag nodded as though she understood everything Salvatore was saying.
The fat man with the ledgers was apparently just then overcome with a need to be elsewhere and turned as though he would make his way from this insanity, disappearing out a rear exit.
Nicolette’s head snapped in his direction, and her lips curled back, revealing a snarl of exquisite proportion. He halted, hands to his throat, and staggered backward, back into his raised pavilion. Just when it seemed his significant mass would careen out of the elevated platform, possibly falling to his death below, Ravan called to Nicolette.
“Nicolette! No!”
Her face snapped his direction, and her snarl disappeared, her mouth open as though she might speak, but with no words coming forth. The fat man teetered against the railing, a thin row of slatted wood all that prevented him from plunging to his peril.
“Don’t hurt him, my love. I hate him too, but he may know where our son is. Risen, our son—he may know who has taken him.”
The glass eyes faded, replaced straightaway with the beautiful green eyes Ravan knew and loved. She appeared at first confused, then she staggered as she murmured, “Ask of him what you will.” It seemed the most reasonable request in the world as she lowered both hands to her sides.
There were more hushed comments amongst what was left of the crowd, but no one further challenged the strange beauty who’d commanded their stage. The fat man regained his composure, whirled, and sat heavily in his chair. His tanned features were reddened, and his turban was dangerously close to sliding off the side of his head. He spoke in a hoarse voice to Salvatore.
“What does he say?” Ravan was by then free of his bonds and standing by Nicolette, his arm around her shoulders. In his embrace, she looked suddenly so frail that anyone might break her if they so chose.
“He says he will look at the ledger with you, but only if you agree to be gone and take the evil one with you, to vex his city no more.”
“Tell him I will leave and take my men and Nicolette with me, but first…we will talk.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
†
Nicolette was exceedingly weakened by the event. The hag explained to Salvatore how what the beauty had done was unusual, even amongst witches. She told them that Nicolette’s extraordinary gifts had been compounded because the “others” had been present with her. She’d pulled from them, other sorceress’…their strength, and unleashed terror of a kind she might not have otherwise been able to command.
Now, quite spent by the whole affair and with only a marginal memory of it, Nicolette was escorted back to the Red Raven by the hag and several of Ravan’s men. She would be too weak to travel farther, and the remainder of the chase fell onto Ravan’s shoulders.
“Rest,” Ravan kissed his bride before she returned with half his men to the boat. “I will return soon…with our son.”
Next, Ravan conferenced with the fat chieftain. It was a tight fit—Ravan, Velecent, Salvatore, and the fat man in a ridiculously small hut near the center of the village. Four of Ravan’s men waited for him just outside.
It appeared the fellow could not be rid of the foreigners fast enough—his mannerisms bespoke this—and he forbade Nicolette’s presence, explained that he would die rather than poison his soul with the evil of one such as she. Truly her display had rattled him thoroughly, and it seemed most of the town would simply be happy to have the dark mercenary and his group gone from them. It even took some persuasion for the harbormaster to allow the Red Raven to remain in port.
The chieftain sprawled behind a table, some sheaves of parchment laid before him. Weighting down the bulk of the papers was a gorilla’s hand, preserved almost as perfect as the day it was taken from the beast. Velecent eyed the strange paw, but Ravan ignored it entirely, focused instead on the task at hand. Strange formalities and conventions were nothing to him. He’d suffered the wicked indulgences of many over his years and was surprised by nearly nothing.
He pressed the fat man, and Salvatore translated. When all was said and done, the information that could be gleaned was as follows. There were eight boys sold in the auction, none of them of the age or resembling the description of Risen, and no female children had been sold at auction.
This raised the question of whether Risen and Sylvie had perished on the journey, something nearly impossible to consider but must be ruled out nonetheless. Ravan would not allow the chieftain pardon from their meeting until a courier was sent to retrieve the harbormaster.
Within the hour the harbormaster came huffing into the small hut with his records. A nervous fellow, although it could have been the compelling circumstances, recounted that, besides the crew and adult slave cargo, there were five children that went land side from the Virgin Wolf. All were European, but only three of the child slaves were branded as cargo when taken from the vessel. He showed them the brand, and it was confirmed. These three were sold at auction, their brands matching those of the Virgin Wolf, leaving two…unaccounted for. But why? Why would Risen and Sylvie not have been sold?
The fat man licked his lips, offering up an explanation that had not yet been mentioned. “Our auction is for swift return—sales that allow most of our buyers a bargain. Those who might wish to buy a slave can come here to get the most for their coin, and our sellers are mostly glad to be rid of them. The majority are transporters, and only wish to be free of their cargo and back to the sea. That is the nature of those who choose a life such as that.” He harrumphed and shifted his generous bulk in a chair that was very nearly too small for him.
The man glanced, glaring at Salvatore who only shrugged and replied, “Fair enough.”
“Then why? Why would they not sell my son?”
The fat man closed the ledger, indicated to his aide that he needed a refill on his spirits, and drank deeply before peering at Ravan with eyes that floated in fleshy pockets, pinpoints of disagreeable practicality. He shook his head and looked at his ledgers, sweeping a fat hand across them. Then he said something to the Spaniard.
Salvatore translated. “If your son is like you—if your son is the offspring of one such as yourself and the dark enchantress you brought to my village—he is likely a prize worth selling on the closed market.”
“What does that mean? The closed market?” Ravan stood, arms spread, leaning on the table, his face as close to the fat man as it could be.
The dealer did not fall away but met Ravan’s stare full on. He babbled something more, fat lips oily with spit, and all were quiet…even Salvatore. Ravan did not understand the man’s words but could sense the full force of the man’s contempt.
“What did he say? Tell me? What did he say?” Ravan insisted quietly.
The sea captain shifted his weight and looked away.
Velecent jumped in. “Salvatore? What is it? Where have they taken him?”
“Your son is likely sold to the Janissary—the Devsirme.” He seemed truly apologetic. “They have taken him somewhere else, for a better price.”
“What does this mean? Janissary? What is this?” Ravan demanded, vaguely remembering the livery man talk of such a thing.
“It is enslavement of non-Muslim boys. But he will be no ordinary slave. They will mold him with strict discipline and training. If he is apt, he may even be sent to the palace school.”
“And what happens to him there?” Velecent appeared almost afraid to ask.
“He will train for his ultimate role.” When Salvatore was met with only blank faces, he added as though afraid to say it, “He will
become one of them, one of the elite. If all goes as planned, he will die for the Sultan—a warrior of the sun, protector of the throne. Risen will be a child sacrifice and fight until he can fight no more.”
Ravan slammed his fist on the table. “WHERE?”
The fat man knew exactly what the stranger asked and replied with four names, all towns inland of Antalya.
Velecent asked questions swiftly—questions all of them wondered. “Which one? How will we know which one of the towns Risen had been taken to?”
The chieftain only shrugged.
Ravan spun to leave. He answered for all of them, “Yeorathe, and Demetrios. The captain of the Virgin Wolf must know where this man has gone.”
Within the half hour, they were at the docks again. There it was, the Virgin Wolf, a massive vessel by any standards. It stood several decks tall above the docks, a severe ship that had shipped much heartache in its day.
In long strides, Ravan ran down the dock. He stopped and peered at the ship that had brought Risen and Sylvie to this strange land. He tried to imagine his son within the belly of this beast, and once more, it gave him a sick feeling in his heart.
The gangway had been withdrawn so that no one could board or leave the vessel, and a man lazily guarded the mouth of the gangway, up on the deck of the ship. He was a big fellow with a stubborn affect and dangled one leg from the side of the deck as he played a solitary game of dice. He glared at them, obviously annoyed by the small band of men—landlubbers who were interrupting his idle boredom.
Salvatore announced their intentions, explained that they wished to speak with the captain, but the sailor said that Demetrios was detained, that there was no one who would be allowed to disturb him at this time. Salvatore pressed him regarding the urgency of their request, embellishing his gestures with great charm.
Ravan could scarcely take his eyes from the Spaniard, animated as he was. When the conversation appeared to escalate, it included gestures of a different sort.
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