Salvatore shrugged. “He appears disinclined to assist us.”
“What did he say?” Velecent asked.
“He suggests I do to you something a bit unsavory.” The Spaniard looked Velecent up and down. “Perhaps if you were more my type.”
Velecent snorted and asked Ravan, “His crew outnumbers ours significantly. How do you wish to pro—”
He had no time to finish the question for Ravan acted, pulling from over his shoulder his bow and arrow. On the dock next to a massive piling sat a tar pitch-pot. This was used to seal minor leaks of variable nature and to waterproof sodden wood. Ravan knelt, pulled from his waist pouch his flint and steel and, within seconds, into the bucket he sent a spark.
The spark caught the tar easily, and it burned happily, a faint blue flame rippling slowly back and forth across the surface of the pitch with the soft breeze. Into the bucket Ravan plunged the tip of an arrow.
The flame lapped at the point—burning droplets falling into the water with a hiss as he seated the arrow onto his bow. This was familiar to him. This was what Ravan knew, and Salvatore’s eyes widened as the mercenary released the arrow.
Away it flew, arcing the short distance before imbedding itself firmly in the main mast of the ship, five or so meters up from the deck. The sailor—the lazy one with the dice—leapt to his feet, eyes fixed on the burning arrow, mouth hanging open in surprise.
In no time, the fire would catch the stays and the sails strapped to them. In short order, the Virgin Wolf would become a floating hell of an entirely different sort.
“Tell him I must speak with his captain,” Ravan ordered Salvatore flatly.
Salvatore smiled wryly. “If you’re going to keep doing things like that…”
“Mmm?” Ravan raised an eyebrow.
“…We are perhaps going to have to remain friends when this adventure is done.” The Spaniard grinned broadly and yelled to the Virgin Wolf’s sailor again that they must speak to Demetrios.
Ravan’s assault created an immediate stir. The sailor called out something, and what had seemed like an almost deserted ship was now swarming with crewmen from apparently nowhere, flocking to the main deck, pointing and jabbering about Ravan and the burning arrow.
They appeared uncertain about which was the more important task, putting out the fire or taking down the assailant. They also had next to no time to consider their quandary for almost immediately Ravan launched a second arrow, this time onto the fore mast of the ship. Now two arrows burned on the Virgin Wolf.
Ravan simply waited, bow resting on the dock, his hands folded casually across it.
“You have a propensity for stirring up trouble; you realize that,” Salvatore offered wryly.
“Hmm.”
The captain of the Virgin Wolf surfaced in seconds and yelled at his crew, apparently giving them orders for something they appeared to already be doing—putting out the fire. Besides that, he commanded his crew to take up arms, and all along the railing sailors popped up, sporting whatever the weapon of choice was for them.
Most held blades, which was fairly absurd given they were so far away. A few were more creative. There were several maces, axes, and a single crossbow, although the man who held it struggled to load it. More critically, the ship had cannons, but port would be an unwelcome place to use them; this Ravan knew.
The captain of the Virgin Wolf called out a sharp command, and all were immediately silent. Nothing could be heard but the creaking of the ship against its massive ties and the overhead gulls vying for airspace. The fire was by then nearly contained, and a small plume of black smoke spiraled from the first mast, from the spot where the first arrow had landed.
The captain peered, one hand to his eyes, to see what arrogance dared attack his vessel at port. His ship was powerful, one of the most fortified of all that were moored and was manned with nearly a full crew, a small army of its own right!
He cast his eyes on Ravan and held his gaze, but a sailor at his side—perhaps his first mate—indicated them, stabbing a finger in Ravan’s direction as he whispered something into the captain’s ear. Perhaps this man had been present this day, had seen what Nicolette had done at the slave auction.
Demetrios cleared his throat and spoke in a rough, middle English. Ravan, Velecent, and Salvatore all understood him well enough. “I understand you require my attention.” He indicated with a wry expression and, with one hand, the slightly charred main mast.
“The one aboard who brought the child slaves—Yeorathe—I need to know where he is,” Ravan said simply.
Shrugging, the captain waved the question off. “I know not of whom you speak, nor do I care,” he said but then just as quickly contradicted himself, “His money spends all the same for me. You, however, have given me a sour stomach on this fine afternoon. Vex me further and I will hang you from my keel and let the sea have its way with you.”
Ravan was not in the least bit inclined to banter further with the captain who’d allowed his son to be transported across the Mediterranean Sea. Saying no more, he pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back with swift and deadly precision, this time launching it and taking down the first mate of the ship. The man had been standing directly next to the wicked captain, arms crossed over the generous expanse of his bare chest.
The captain spun, saw that the shot had gone through his first mate’s right hand, pinning it against the man’s chest as the arrow pierced the poor sot’s heart. The sailor lay flat on his back on the deck as though professing his heartfelt love to the gulls overhead.
Demetrios was immediately enraged and whirled to face Ravan. He was also instantly sober, however, for what he saw was another arrow, loaded and pointed directly at him.
Ravan asked flatly, “Where is he?”
There was an utterance from the man down deck with the crossbow. He was at last loaded, and his question was if the captain wished him to shoot the intruder, but the captain wisely waved him off. If the man missed, the captain would bear the brunt of Ravan’s fury.
“I said, where is he?” Ravan repeated the question, drawing the purchase of the bow even more.
“Yeorathe. He lives in Isparta,” the captain said in haste, “one-hundred kilometers north. It is there that you will likely find him. He will be gone twenty days hence, and on his return will share passage with me to Italy.”
Ravan lowered his bow, eyed the captain with something akin to loathing. “You will be a fool to wait for him, for you will wait a very long time,” he spat at Demetrios and turned, stalking back down the long dock, leaving the man and his vast crew to ponder the solitary wraith who’d left them a ship-hand short and totally undone.
Enough time in this unfamiliar town, Ravan thought to himself. It suited him poorly with all its smells and the sweltering heat. It was his intent to be on a horse before dusk and gone, giving chase once more. He could feel the heartbeat of the one he sought in his throat—the one who’d taken his son. For the first time since Risen had been stolen, Ravan could taste the revenge that would soon be his.
Nearly two hours later, Ravan and his men had procured mounts and packed what provisions they needed. The man who sold them their horses shook his head and mumbled something in that maddening tongue that Ravan was growing to hate.
Salvatore translated, “He thinks we are crazy to chase someone into the Taurus Mountains. He says there is little water to be found and many ways to die.”
“Then let us be glad that we will not be there long,” Ravan replied. With that, they were off across the treacherous countryside in the direction of Isparta. Ravan had every intention of overcoming Yeorathe before he ever reached his home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
†
The beautiful, pristine countryside that surrounded Antalya changed almost immediately from a flat, seascaped ocean village to foothills and then to the rocky, parched hillsides of the steppes leading to the hostile Taurus Mountains. Beyond that was simply treacherous.
; The children spent one night in the noisy city of Antalya at Yeorathe’s insistence. He evidently had acquaintances he meant to catch up with. Sylvie and Risen were secured in a “slave shack” on the eastern margin of the market alongside other slaves, other men and women bound for wherever fate destiny meant for them.
With a single manacle about their right ankles, they were at least offered the respite of straw and the ability to lay down. It was early evening and swelteringly warm. Sylvie curled up in the straw like a fawn and closed her eyes, her cheek resting on folded hands. She looked as though she was praying as she slept.
Many of the other captives, miserable though they were, could scarcely take their eyes from her. Truly, she was painfully beautiful, and looked as out of place as a kitten on a battlefield.
William kept guard but was eventually relieved of his watch. However, he had ample opportunity to share a plan with Risen. He told them he would, that evening, scour the harbor for a ship leaving that very night…to anywhere. He meant to use all of his resources to get the children and himself aboard a vessel, to negotiate passage back to Europe, back to their home.
This, however, was not to be the case. There were only two ships leaving port—a cargo vessel bound for the orient, the other carrying soldiers and provision to the escalating front in Constantinople. That would have simply been a trip from bad to worse, in William’s estimation. Consequently, they left the next morning, early, for Isparta. Salvatore’s ship would come into port six hours later.
There were eight in Yeorathe’s band now—six adults, counting William, and the two children. Yeorathe’s village was normally a week’s ride from the sea. It would be a perilous journey through several high mountain passes, but the Turk was familiar with it, having taken the trek before. Even so, it was no easy journey.
Isparta would be the final destination for Yeorathe’s dealings with his last two slaves. Risen and Sylvie would at long last be sold. He meant to keep them alive only long enough to sell.
The Muslim Turks who traveled with Yeorathe were not of his band. They were, however, warriors returning to Isparta as well and were willing to take comfort in numbers by banding with him. By consigning themselves to the trek, they effectively fortified their own crusade north. The trail they traveled could be very unsafe for a solitary man. These men were simply opportunists, having also come to Antalya to trade.
The horses they rode were smaller, scragglier beasts than the warhorses of Western Europe, but they were exceedingly surefooted and agile as they clambered up the rocky trail single file. Risen and Sylvie sat together on one of the beasts, he with his arms around her. It was a treacherous and wonderful time, for he held her—held her as he longed to do so many times in his dreams, and yet it was not as it should have been, for they were so far away and still not free.
He whispered soft things into her ear, told her that he loved her, told her of William’s intent, that they should be rescued from their entrapment soon, and that he would help them when the moment came. He told her about the blade, the one he’d lost in the skirmish on the loft, and how brave he would be—his intent to use it soon to help orchestrate their escape. He was more optimistic than he’d been in days, and he rejoiced when she leaned her head back on his shoulder.
Sylvie listened to Risen but said very little. He could not see her face, but she traced his arm sweetly with her forefinger, ran her hand over his. Her fingers were so pale and thin against the strong, warmth of his—thinner than he believed they were before. Finally, she was quiet, and a lock of her hair lifted in the soft breeze, blowing silken against his cheek.
It was then that he murmured beautiful things to her, reminded her of how lovely the little white flowers that covered the meadow by her house would be just about now. There would be many splendid things to see when they got home, and he promised that their days would be spent in wondrous adventure together. He thought that they could reach out to Niveus together, pull his sister back from that place which threatened to take her away. Sylvie had always believed they should.
Risen noticed just then the chopped spot where Sylvie had given a lock of hair to the boy on the boat, and he briefly wondered what the boy did with it now. It’d been a gesture of benevolence on her part, but it angered him that she should be defiled in any way, and his frustration drew him to silence. He struggled to be a better man, to go instead where his mind was a moment before, to go where Sylvie would have him go. Compassion…mercy…love.
The sun was hot; it seemed closer to the earth here in this strange land. Dust swirled around their mounts and was thick on his tongue, drawing from him any inclination to speak further. Ahead, he could see a mountain range rise up in front of them, snow white peaks etched against a brilliant blue sky, announcing their beauty and treachery to all who might dare scale them.
Risen thought the men traveled in much less of a hurry than when they were fleeing France. The horses picked their way lazily through the scrub brush and short trees. Yeorathe appeared satisfied to allow this.
All the while, the boy tried to make mental notes as they rode, tried to familiarize himself with this strange land, memorize the landmarks and the path they took. One could get lost very easily in these mountains, he thought to himself. It was hostility of a very different sort.
As the day wore on, he felt a pinch between his shoulder blades, felt the weight of his weariness full upon him. But Sylvie’s fatigue was even greater, for she slumped heavily against him. As her head leaned back on his shoulder, he saw full well that she was asleep, saw how red her nose and cheeks were from the sun.
They were given very little water today; Yeorathe had ordered it so, to weaken them, and there’d been no good instance when William could sneak his flask to them. Risen hugged her more tightly, struggled to negotiate his sleeping beauty and the rangy horse they rode, fearful that she or both of them might fall from it.
Pressing his face against her, he smelled the dusty fragrance of the girl he loved, rubbed his cheek against her hair. As miserable as they were, he thought he would cry tears of joy, just to have her close to him again, for he’d believed she would die on the ship.
The day turned even hotter even though it was still spring, and Ravan could feel the sweat run down his chest and abdomen, a furnace between them from the heat of their bodies. The trail widened, and William rode up next to him, reaching to take Sylvie.
“I’ve got her,” Risen began, but the Englishman shook his head.
“It will be steeper ahead. Let me have her; I can carry her better.” William’s expression was one of kindness as he glanced furtively from Yeorathe to the others, careful not to allow them to see too much of his compassion for the slave children.
The angel’s eyes flitted open as the Englishman swept her from Risen’s grasp and laid her across his lap, shielding her face from the sun with his shoulder. Her arms reached around his neck, and she buried her face into his chest. The softest, fleetest smile threatened to cross William’s lips.
Risen could scarcely take his eyes from them and, for the briefest instant, he remembered a day gone by—Herluin—that summer’s day when Sylvie had crawled into her father’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck in exactly the same fashion.
The Englishman pulled his flask and dripped water between Sylvie’s lips. Still, onward they rode. It was very late afternoon when the canyons gave way to a few scraggly thickets of trees, and they wound about in them for a span before coming to a massive ledge beyond. This would be a tricky part of their journey to negotiate, for although the trail was wide enough, it was solid rock with a sheer drop to one side and a flat wall of stone to the other.
Yeorathe decided that a small meadow tucked in a thin stand of trees, just before they took to the ledge, would be a good place to take respite for a short while before moving on. He was in fine spirits, perhaps because he was approaching his home after being gone for such a long time, and…he was drinking.
The more he drank, the louder
and ruder he became. Also, his judgment, which was ordinarily not the greatest anyway, was becoming less grounded. This could work for the captives or against them.
They dismounted, and William cast a glance to Risen. Perhaps he meant it would soon be the right time. Perhaps this would be the opportunity they were looking for if Yeorathe continued to drink, and it looked as though he might.
“Let’s camp,” William offered almost cheerily to Yeorathe. “We are in no hurry and have scarcely enjoyed respite from the sail. My head still swims as though at sea, and I crave a campfire.” He gestured to the massive ledge beyond. “And that is simply a stretch I’ve no desire to tackle half in the bottle.” Laughing heartily, he raised his own flask as though he was also well on his way.
The other men echoed his sentiment loudly, and it was hardly a task to persuade Yeorathe that to venture farther was simply out of the question.
William hissed at Risen beneath his breath as he secured them beneath a tree, “Be quiet, for he will become more agitated as he drinks. I don’t want to draw you into a fight we are not prepared to win. Mind me,” he cautioned. Motioning over his shoulder toward Yeorathe with a flip of his chin, he handed Risen his water flask, then fairly ignored them for some time.
Before long a fire blazed even though the early evening was very warm. From the panniers was pulled goat meat and more ale, and the revelries escalated. A short distance away, Risen sat in the dried grass, Sylvie’s head in his lap as she rested. She seemed so tired these last few days, as though she needed to sleep most of the time. He took a stray lock of her hair and lifted it behind her ear so that he could better see the profile of her face.
Her eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened. She moaned softly as she turned onto her back and looked into Risen’s eyes. He noticed for the first time the hollow of her cheeks, the paleness of her lips.
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