The Execution (33 page)

“
Protection?” Duval
smirked. “Are you so despised that you worry you will be killed
from one of your own?” He chuckled and continued, “Lack of such
control is a grave weakness. Would you not agree?” Duval was
enjoying baiting him, “It is reasonable that your employ might hate
you, but to sacrifice respect is a sign of...” He allowed his voice
to trail off and gestured dramatically with one hand,
“...impotence.”

Adorno clenched his fists behind his
back but his demeanor remained silken. He reached up to smooth back
his perfectly coifed, starkly white hair. Self absorbed, Adorno may
be, but he was not unobservant.

“
All men of power are
vulnerable,” he paused for effect, “even you—it would appear.” He
nodded towards Duval’s arm, at the horrible wound that rose
unnaturally from it.

The gash from Ravan’s arrow had
infected terribly and drained for several months, finally healing
as a raised and ragged scar. The proud flesh on Duval's arm had
gnarled shiny, purple, and hideously distorted. It had seemed, for
a time, that Duval might lose the arm, and it pained him even years
later. The defect also compromised his ability to draw a bow. No
matter—he hadn’t much need of hand-to-hand combat himself and
preferred the sword anyway. Still, it maddened him that Adorno
noticed. Duval instinctively pulled his tunic sleeve down to cover
the offending mark.

Ravan had been the only one of Duval’s
men to ever successfully attack and injure him, and the only one to
survive such a mutiny. It had been sheer luck that Ravan hadn’t
killed him. Duval knew by now the uncanny archery skill of his
favorite mercenary, and thought again of his own good
fortune.

At first, the assault had bothered him
terribly. He’d been violated and then came very close to destroying
the possession which he'd sacrificed so much for. He had no remorse
at having so quickly sent for the Innkeeper’s wife to be killed. He
was, however, alternately infuriated that she and Renoir had
evidently been taken by the plague before Renoir had a chance to
carry out the order. Damn the plague! It had marked more than a
handful of his own men every so often, and it pained him to have to
rid himself of them when it happened.

He’d let Ravan believe the act had
been done, though. Dead was dead, and it served him to allow Ravan
a degree of despair; his insubordination would not be tolerated.
His mercenary needed to be broken before he could be rebuilt, even
if it meant killing his kindred or leading him to believe that he
had.

Despite the grievous insult to his
arm, as time went by Duval had come to appreciate the killer Ravan
had become and the brilliance of the young mercenary. He had never
experienced a recruit like this one and prided himself in his
acquisition. Ravan, as a mere boy, had led his men on the chase of
their lives. He’d cost Duval precious resources, but had more than
liberally returned the losses with the skill with which he now
fought. Ravan was feared, and his reputation had begun to
grow.

Nevertheless, Duval always sent
LanCoste with him so that the younger man could be monitored. Ravan
appeared to carry a silent respect for the giant, and so it was
good security to keep them paired. LanCoste was faithful to Duval
at all costs. Duval knew this, and so it had become a subtle means
of controlling Ravan.

Even so, it troubled Duval that Ravan
remained such an enigma. He seldom spoke and never participated in
the revelries or camaraderie of the mercenary groups. Instead, when
not at battle or back at the camp, Ravan stayed to himself,
isolating himself in battle practice. He spent most of his spare
time refining his weapons or simply retreating to his quarters and
his damnable silence.

Once, Duval had surprised the young
man, walking in on him only to find him sitting in the corner of
his quarters, arms wrapped around his knees with his head buried.
He was clutching that simple silver chain with the copper ring on
it. Duval had observed how sometimes he idly slid the ring up and
down the chain as if mesmerized by the silky, grating sound it
made.

Duval would never understand Ravan
because he simply had no capacity to. It was enough for him to
believe that time would diminish and ultimately erase any chance of
rebellion. For now, he was satisfied that the young warrior had
fallen into a routine, obeying orders and carrying out his missions
as they were given to him.

As long as the campaigns he sent Ravan
on were successful and the coffers continued to fill, it was enough
for Duval.

He turned his attention back to his
guest. “I have no extra men at this time. I’m sorry but I cannot be
of help to you.” Duval stood up, closing his ledgers as well as the
conversation. It was pride that caused him to dismiss Adorno so
quickly; he just didn’t like him.

Adorno raised his hand before he could
be excused. He knew that even with his army he had no chance
against Duval’s forces, but he was also used to getting his way.
The army was simply a show of force. However, taking no for an
answer was not an option.

“
Perhaps we could sweeten
the arrangement.” Motioning to Moulin, he nodded towards
Duval.

Moulin, with the help of another man,
stepped forward with a heavy chest, depositing it with some
difficulty onto the table with a dull thud. The weight of the chest
was apparent as they set it down.

Pulling from beneath his laced vest
his thin, Rondel knife, Adorno created an immediate stir within the
room. Duval’s men all instinctively drew their swords. It was
almost comical, the massive show of force against the preening fop
with his little blade. Adorno looked dramatically from one of them
to another, seemingly quite amused and enjoying himself
immensely.

He casually started to clean his
fingernails with the delicate weapon, and then as if in
afterthought, motioned with the blade for Duval to open the
chest.

Duval’s expression remained serious,
unchanged. He did not like to be toyed with and this child-man was
playing with him, indeed a risky game. Duval’s instincts told him
Adorno was unbalanced, and this made him dangerous, like a small
creature that one doesn’t realize is deadly poisonous until moments
after it has stung.

Nodding, Duval motioned to the chest
and one of his men approached it, flipping the catch and tossing
the lid back heavily. There before them, even in the subdued light,
glistened close to one-hundred and eighty pounds of Spanish
doubloons—solid gold. The coins cast a bright and golden contrast
to the darkened room as though they seemed to radiate their own
light. All eyes focused on the fortune. It was an enormous treasure
by any standard and commanded the attention of all
present.

Remaining seated and to his credit,
Duval’s face did not betray his surprise. If his mind could have
been read, however, it was another matter altogether. This was a
king’s ransom! He was completely taken aback. So, the dandy backed
his rhetoric with coin and with Spanish gold at that.

The treasure was enough to feed his
troops for several winters, buy the raw ore necessary for many
weapons, or pay for the armors and clothing needed for many
battles. Adorno could have simply taken the gold and employed for
himself a serious army. Duval was faintly impressed, which
irritated him not a small amount. The weakling man was to be taken
very seriously. Duval was then aware that should he deny Adorno,
the man could put together with this coin an even greater army, and
cause him not a small amount of grief.

Adorno’s smile, for the first time
during their encounter, faded, and over his face was cast the
shadow of depravity.

It was surprising to Duval how quickly
the fair, little man’s face became an object of menace. His guard
went up instantly, his instincts telling him that Adorno was no
child-man. He was insidiously dangerous in a very nasty way, like a
viper, and should be taken with utmost gravity.

“
You see, I have need of
your service, monsieur. I am not prepared to leave...unsatisfied.”
As Adorno spoke, he dangled the knife between forefinger and thumb,
allowing it to swing lazily. His eyes, however, leaked
venom.

For a quick moment, Duval pondered
just killing the bastard on the spot, keeping the gold and
massacring the army waiting outside the fortress. The thought was
faintly amusing to him and he held onto it, relishing it, turning
it over in his mind. Of course, this was just fantasy. It would not
serve to incite a war of French against French, and that would
surely be the consequence.

Adorno may be a despot but his
township would object to such a massacre, especially from a
condottiere such as himself. Duval was a great power, and greatly
feared, but he was neither royalty nor nobility. His power has been
gleaned from consigned murder, and his reputation depended on
discretion.

It was Duval’s turn to smile at what
happened next. All present were startled when the heavy doors of
the hall slammed suddenly open. An altogether bizarre creature
strode purposefully into the room.

His beard was long and coarse,
particles of grass and leaves clinging to it as a permanent
feature. His hair was coal black, coarsely braided and long, tucked
into the tunic collar beneath the armor. His face was lethal,
expressionless and smeared liberally with old, dried blood. He
smelled of sweat and death, for there was no warmth to this man. To
behold him was to feel fear—to breathe loss. Most remarkably, his
eyes held no evidence of color, only the glint of the darkest
fractured obsidian.

The light archer’s armor clinked
softly like stacking coins as the figure swept like a juggernaut
past the surprised Adorno, overshadowing the delicate little man.
The warrior almost knocked Adorno from his feet, completely
oblivious to the smaller man’s presence.

Adorno straightened himself and
immediately started to sputter his objections.

The apocalyptic creature ignored him,
stopping instead at the head of the table, facing Duval. He heaved
a severed head, his fingers entangled in the hair, and deposited it
with a heavy thud onto the table.

The eyes of the trophy were still
open, sunken, and opaque blue with decay and filth. It reeked of
rot, and the impact caused it to ooze out the open mouth onto the
table, one final insult for the fate it had endured.

Duval was more than a small bit amused
and glanced casually up at his mercenary. He waited—enjoying
Adorno’s sputtering indignation, rage and appall.

“
They are all dead,” the
mercenary offered. His dark face was impassive. “We have lost
seven. LanCoste is injured but will recover.” The man reached up to
his neck, gently reaffirming that a silver chain was still there.
He hesitated, then as though realizing he remained in the presence
of others, he stated simply, “I will be in my quarters,”

“
Ravan—” Duval
said.

The ghastly harbinger had turned to
leave, but stopped on his heel only as his master addressed him.
There was a long pause as the room settled like old dust. Ravan did
not turn back around but looked over his shoulder, his hand resting
casually on the hilt of his bastard sword. One eyebrow rose ever so
slightly as he waited. He was confused, and his ebony eyes turned,
just barely, to a deep chocolate brown.

This was not the usual manner of
things. Normally Ravan was allowed at least several days to himself
before being sent on another mission. Duval knew this was how Ravan
favored it.

His most profitable mercenary asked
for almost nothing, but his short reprieves of privacy were
necessary for him to walk the fragile line of sanity that Duval had
come to recognize the man treaded. Ravan balanced the precarious
shift of life and death with a mind-numbing instability, and Duval
sometimes sensed when he was shifting towards the cliff’s
edge.

Duval looked directly at the
sputtering man at the end of the table who held a satin-gloved hand
across his mouth to staunch an obvious impulse to wretch. A faint
smile appeared on Duval's face.

“
Ravan...meet
Adorno.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

†

D’ata urged the old mare into a slow,
labored trot as he approached the small farm that belonged to
Julianne’s aunt and uncle. Henri had been invaluable in helping
D’ata find directions to the modest little farm.

Julianne’s aunt and uncle, like her
father, were also dairy farmers. Their cattle were similarly well
known for quality.

He had only gotten off track twice but
had garnered help from some of the local farmers. Because D’ata had
a kind face, strangers were naturally compelled to assist him and
since most knew of the good dairy farmer he sought, he was
considerately shown the way. Finally, he found himself at the edge
of the farm and his long sought-after destination.

His excitement mounted at the thought
of seeing her again. The old gray mare tossed her head, snorting
her objection as D’ata thumped heavily on her ribs with his
heels.

The horse was almost twenty-five, her
eyes milky with cataracts, her back swayed, and her hooves long and
wide like shovels. It was not in her disposition to do anything
more than amble and she pinned her ears back in frustration.
Despite D’ata’s insistence, she lumbered back into a plodding walk,
tossing her head again in protest. D’ata gave up pushing
her.