The Execution (35 page)

They moved on slowly. D’ata’s heart
was tranquil; his mind, however, was not. It nagged with
trepidation. He recognized the seriousness of their situation and
the need to put miles behind them. He glanced behind again and as
miserable as it would be, he prayed for rain to obliterate the
scent from the hounds should they come.

* * *

Back at the dairy farm, Julianne’s
aunt had discovered the letter and run to her husband. They’d
feared the worst and the worst had happened. That impetuous young
man had come and taken dear Julianne from them, certainly exposing
her to untold dangers. And her with child—it was
preposterous!

Her uncle harnessed the mare to the
carriage and made his way to town, to send word to Monsieur the
Baron of Cezanne. As though the mare knew of the whole situation,
she objected, snorting her refusal to break from her ambling walk,
giving the escapees' precious minutes more.

Five evenings later, the Baron was
notified and an urgent conference was held.

The Baron, Julianne’s father, her two
eldest brothers, and her uncle were present.

The archbishop Leopold had also been
notified and entered in a whirlwind of robes, a good half hour into
the meeting. He was also flanked by father Leoceonne. The
archbishop’s primary concern, and the position of the church, was
in securing the young priest. The Baron agreed. Julianne’s welfare
was hardly mentioned and only in regard to securing the Baron’s
ward.

Archbishop Leopold gestured, palms up.
“I am afraid it is the work of the devil.” He paced slowly,
deliberately. “Satan has so afflicted our young D’ata so that he
knows not the tragedy of his actions.”

“
He should die, and I
would gladly run him through!” Julianne’s father was incensed. “My
daughter is a good girl and were it not for that heathen you call a
priest, she would be safe at home!” He continued quickly, gesturing
towards the Baron, “And were it not for gold, the fiend would be on
the gallows!”

Julianne’s eldest brother piped in,
“And there has been no one to tend the chores and cook since this
has all happened!” He stomped his foot for emphasis.

“
Perhaps, were it not for
your daughter and her promiscuous ways, D’ata would also be safely
at home!” Monsieur Cezanne rose from his chair to confront
Julianne’s father.

The tension in the room thickened and
settled over the small crowd like stench on forgotten
swill.

“
Gentlemen, please!” The
Archbishop stepped between the two men, dramatic in his
countenance. “The situation is delicate, and should the devil have
his way, harm could come to D’ata—and the girl. Let’s be
reasonable...”

He allowed a moment for his words to
sink in, then added, “None of us benefit from hasty decisions or
insensible behaviors. We are civilized men.”

He motioned to the chairs, encouraging
them to be seated, to regain composure. “Our primary concern is
God’s will. All must be placed in His hands.” He bowed his head in
feigned reverence as he spoke.

“
The Archbishop is right,”
Julianne’s uncle interjected. “Our priorities should be to get them
both home safely, as I believe God would want.”

There were murmurs of agreement from
the crowd. By nightfall, decisions had been made and a search party
had been organized. There was no indication which direction the
pair might have gone and it would take time to determine the
trail.

The Baron provided quick and sturdy
mounts for all. There was no time to be lost. Before long a search
party had been organized.

Henri wrung his hands as the party
stormed from the courtyard, scattering pigeons as they thundered
away.

Four weeks later, D’ata and Julianne
had scarcely a day and a half start on them—and the gap was
closing.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

†

Duval was surprised at how little
resistance he met from Ravan over his new and sudden
assignment.

The mercenary stood before his master,
outwardly the epitome of the savage he'd become. For all his
horrible countenance, none knew the man beneath the armor. No one
speculated upon the heart or the soul of this one. Blood and death
were the mantle this man wore. The child fleeing through the woods
was nowhere to be seen.

“
How long?” was all Ravan
asked.

“
Until I say that you have
finished.”

Ravan processed this, stoic, staring
at his feet.

Duval wondered if his mercenary had
even heard him.

At last, Ravan nodded, turning to
leave.

“
Oh—and Ravan?”

He halted, but did not turn back
towards Duval.

Duval drummed his fingers softly on
the table before he spoke, “He will be easy to hate Ravan, but he
is of no use to me dead.”

Slowly, Ravan looked back over his
shoulder. “I know my job. Do you think all I know is how to
kill?”

Duval was surprised by the question
and slightly unsettled by his mercenary’s expression. Ravan's face
was blank, but his eyes always seemed to speak of something else,
something Duval never quite calibrated. “No, it is just what you do
best,” then as if an afterthought, “and take LanCoste with
you.”

“
You waste your resources.
How many can it take to defend him?”

“
Do as I say, Ravan—it is
not your place to ask why.”

“
As you wish” Ravan
murmured and strode from the room.

Duval pulled absently at his beard,
watching his mercenary leave. Ravan always did just as he was
ordered, ever since the Innkeeper's wife had been disposed of. Why
then did Ravan feel the need to question this assignment? Surely,
he did not now prefer the slaughter of battle to standing easy
watch over a tyrant? Also, it was unlike Ravan to not prefer the
company of LanCoste; the two seemed to have developed a symbiosis
of late.

He started to question his decision to
send Ravan. Perhaps, he was too talented a warrior to waste on an
assignment such as this. Maybe the mercenary was right, sending
LanCoste was a waste of resources. Duval wondered if he made the
decision to send Ravan in haste, to shake the sniveling Adorno to
his core.

Prone to rumination, Duval argued
further with himself, playing his own devil’s advocate. Perhaps
Adorno was hated enough to require two bodyguards. Besides, Ravan
could not guard Adorno all the time—he needed to sleep sometime.
Duval came to the conclusion that the heinous little despot would
eventually be a sure target for assassination, and almost certainly
while he slept. It would reflect poorly on Duval if Adorno was
assassinated. Therefore, Duval concluded that he needed two
bodyguards.

He shrugged his feelings of
apprehension off, going back to the ledgers that lay before him.
He'd enjoyed the spectacle Ravan created when he’d walked in with
Adorno here, and pride kept him from changing his mind. He smiled
for a brief moment at the memory and told himself it would only be
for a while, until Ravan selected and trained one of Adorno’s own
soldiers to the task. Then, Duval would have him back. Until then,
Adorno’s gold could not be denied.

* * *

The next morning, Ravan and LanCoste
set out for the township of Adorno’s estate, LanCoste leading.
Ravan seemed particularly reticent this morning, and the giant did
not press him about it.

For as much as they worked together,
Ravan and LanCoste spoke very seldom. They did, however, develop an
implied language. It was efficient and not without a certain
camaraderie. LanCoste glanced back at his companion and Ravan made
eye contact only briefly. He shrugged and then squinted, as if to
search the hills about them.

It was en route to their new
assignment that they deviated somewhat from their designated
course, to a small lodge along the way.

Ravan stood on the crest of the little
knoll overlooking the Inn. He paused, trying to swallow a thickness
which had formed in the back of his throat since seeing the
familiar building, smaller than he remembered. He saw the blanket
of forest that spanned behind the Inn, remembered hunting, running
and playing there. It all seemed a very long time ago. LanCoste
rode up next to him, but Ravan’s thoughts were somewhere far away
by then.

His memories flooded back to him and
wrapped around him like a warm blanket as though it was only
yesterday. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes and was
confused by the heaviness on his chest. Bewildered, he brushed the
tears away. ‘It must be the wind,’ he thought to
himself.

The wind shifted and Ravan could
suddenly smell the familiar aromas of succulent roast pork and
sweet bread pudding. It was unexpectedly nostalgic and comforting
to him. He briefly wondered who cooked for Monsieur LaFoote now
that she wasn’t there anymore.

Reaching absently into his vest, his
fingers wrapped gently around the thin silver braid of hair tucked
in his tunic pocket. He gritted his teeth. He was here for one
reason alone, to re-claim Pig-Killer from the bottom of the barley
barrel. She had hidden it there, nearly five years ago, and he had
unfinished business to take care of. The knife would be needed for
this unfinished business. It had its own destiny.

LanCoste said nothing, only sat his
horse without words or questions. His eyes squinted deeply,
studying the young warrior at his side, and then he simply
nodded.

Ravan knew the giant would wait for
him here, for hours if need be.

He approached the Inn stealthily from
the north side, and to the rear—the direction from which he'd so
often dragged his kill when he had hunted for the LaFoote’s. The
splitting axe was resting against a small heap of firewood, split
by another’s hand now. He paused at the heavy door, laying his palm
against the rough hewn wood encasement. Closing his eyes and
leaning his head against the door, he allowed the memories to wash
over him.

Time ceased. The cyclone of the past
swept abruptly against him and for a good long while he was lost.
When he was all of a sudden startled back to the present by the
boisterous laughter erupting from within the tavern, it occurred to
him that the sun had sunk another hand’s breadth deeper. He shook
his head, clearing the hauntings from his mind, and focused on what
he must do.

Pushing the iron catch, Ravan eased
the door open and slipped quietly into the kitchen. He was
overwhelmed as he looked about himself. Nothing was changed! The
enormous stew pots hung as always upon their heavy iron spits. One
bubbled slowly with what must be a leek and turnip stew. The pig
he'd smelled from the distance lay wrapped in wet cheese cloth in
the fire pit, roasting slowly, the damp smokiness of its own casing
rising in threads up the chimney flu. Ravan knew the meat would
literally fall succulent and sweet from the carcass when it was
done.

He turned and saw the stool he used to
fall asleep on, still in the corner near the blackened iron stove.
He remembered sitting on that stool as she cut his hair,
and—

No! This served no purpose! He shook
himself from the heavy wrappings of his past, setting himself
firmly to accomplish his task and be away from here. He was
surprised that he trembled. There was nothing to be afraid of
anymore as Ravan no longer feared his own mortality. Death would be
a welcome visitor at any time.

So what was it that made him tremble
now?

He stepped to the pantry and slid the
wooden lid from the barley barrel, second one from the left, as
always. His arms sunk easily to the bottom as he plunged them down,
almost to the shoulders.

There was a time not so long ago when
he wouldn’t have so easily reached the bottom. He fished around for
only a moment until his fingers palmed the old, familiar friend,
just where she said it would be.

Smiling briefly to himself, he did not
expect the gasp and crash that came from behind him. Jerking his
arms from the barrel, he spun around, barley kernels flying
everywhere, showering down about him like cherry blossoms on a
wedding day. Wielding his knife instinctively, he stared at the
figure standing before him, a tray of broken clay steins
dangerously decorating the floor at her feet.

* * *

She had collected the evening beer
steins. The pork was almost roasted and dinner would be available
to those who could pay. They would need more glasses and she'd
hastened to the kitchen to wash her bounty. Turning the corner to
the pantry, she was surprised to see the man bent over and, for
some reason, immersed into the grain barrel.

His long black hair hung glistening
down between the shoulder blades, braided thickly. The face was
only partially visible, turned away from her, the beard and
mustache were trimmed short. His garments carried the oily, purple
stains of battle and he was shrouded with the thick stench of
death. He was a big man, and fierce. A sword was belted at his
side, a heavy bow and quiver of arrows lay across his back. The
only men who sported such weapons were soldiers—or
mercenaries.