Risen (52 page)

“What do you want from—” he began
to ask, but Yeorathe silenced him with a tremendous
bellow.

“Be still slave!” He drew a fist
across his slobbering lips before adding, “You will speak when I
wish you to!” He was reclined and raised himself onto one elbow as
Risen’s bonds were released.

The boy rubbed his wrists, calloused
from days on end of bondage. The men pressed him closer to the
fire, forming a loose semicircle around him.

Yeorathe continued as though
preaching to his congregation. “They say you are worth more than
the others.” His wrist flopped in a disjointed fashion as he went
on. “They told me that you are special, that you have the heart to
be Devsirme.”

“I don’t know what
that—”

Before he could finish, Risen was
struck from behind by the man with the gaping maw, the one who
“knew his secret.” Stumbling forward, he fell. His hands nearly
landed in the fire, and a stray coal burned into his right palm.
Scrambling backward, he struggled to regain his feet but was kicked
on the back of the knees by the same lout before he could fully
regain his balance.

Again, down he went, this time to
his knees, and there he stayed—eyes wide, scanning the men around
him. Did they mean to kill him? Is that what Devsirme was—a
ridiculous ritual of a young man’s death?

One of the men called, “Let us see
the wit of such a smart lad as this! Let us see his
cunning!”

“Yes! A test, a test!” another
called in excitement. “Let us put him through his paces before he
is sold!”

There was a general amount of
laughter and animated discussion that took place around the boy.
The merriment faded, and Yeorathe pushed himself to
sitting.

“I’ve disputed your worth, though
the Englishman insists you will fetch better coin than the others
did. I will be rid of you, but first…” He indicated behind
Risen.

Risen struggled a second time and
regained his feet, craning to see behind himself. There, being half
led and half dragged through the cluster of men and into the inner
circle…was Sylvie.

“No!” Risen called out then
repeated himself. “No, don’t involve her! This test is for me
alone!”

“Ah, but it isn’t for only you.”
Yeorathe pushed his massive frame to one knee. “You see, it was you
who bid us bring the child with us. Now, her fate is woven ever so
magnificently into yours.”

Sylvie was silent, but Risen thought
he’d never seen her look so pale. Her eyes were enormous in her
face, her cheeks drawn, lips grey and grimly set. Her blond hair
hung in heavy ringlets about her face and almost appeared to be too
much for her to carry. She was the very definition of a waif, and
Risen suddenly believed that she was dying.

“Leave her be,” he hissed. “There
is nothing to gain from harming her except that I will kill
you.”

“And how would you orchestrate
that?” Yeorathe howled at the notion of it. Then he became much
more serious, the humor gone from his eyes. “Tell me, noble one,
how you mean to control your destiny now.” His countenance was
evil; blackness was all there was where he should have a heart—of
this Risen was certain.

“A man might look for a day, even
years, to discover a reason to live, but give him an ounce of
necessity, and he can drag an enemy with him to death’s door in a
single step,” Risen quoted his father.

Yeorathe scowled, and he seemed much
less amiable than he was moments before. “Who told you such a
thing?”

“My father,” he said
coldly.

“Your father was a
fool.”

Risen knew, without doubt, that
Yeorathe was a monster. At long last he’d identified the beast and
knew exactly what to do. Consequently, he stood his full height in
front of the wretched man and did just as Ravan taught him to do.
He took his own fear, turned it first into his heart and then into
his head, and used it instead to discover the monster’s
weakness.

He could see it now, see it awash on
Yeorathe’s face. It was complacency—foolish, ignorant pride. His
power was a myth—a trick—and these men were ignorant enough to be
fooled by him. Risen knew then that to defeat him he must simply
expose the fraud. And now, with all eyes on him, it was his last
chance.

“My father is Lord of the Ravan
Dynasty and has sent your troops running, scattered like the dogs
that they are. And…he is coming for you, for all of you.” Risen ran
his gaze over cluster of men.

There were a few chuckles but,
halfhearted, they faded away.

“There is a reason no one can
defeat my father, have you not heard?” Risen was utterly sincere,
and it was working. “He is not mortal. Cross him and you will see
the face of death. But if you chance to survive,” he indicated
Yeorathe now, “as this one did, do not sleep with both eyes shut,
for he is a bloodthirsty phantom. He will find you when you least
expect it, and it will be a very bad death.”

Risen meant to rattle the men, draw
Yeorathe closer to himself. Then…he meant to kill him with his
blade—monster killer. The blade finally had its name and begged to
be used.

Yeorathe was immediately on his
feet.

There was a great deal of confusion,
and one of the men asked, “What is this magic the boy speaks of?”
He looked at Yeorathe but pointed to Risen. “What evil do you draw
to us?”

“He lies!” the toothless one
exclaimed for all of them. “He is a liar; I can see it!”

Perhaps Yeorathe remembered the
night at the inn when the mysterious, dark mercenary had so easily
left them undone. The wicked man’s countenance sobered even
more.

Risen was fearless. “You have
invited death to visit you; God have mercy on your
souls.”

What he could not see was how
extraordinarily he looked like his father just then. He could not
know how much he resembled a fourteen year old boy who’d leapt from
an inn many years before, giving an entire band of men the chase of
a lifetime through a dark, winter forest.

One of the men—an obvious
warrior—stepped forward. “Who are you? I must know.”

Yeorathe began to object, but the
man held up a hand to the one-eyed barbarian. “You will have your
way, but first I must know of the infidel you’ve brought to our
land.”

The others mumbled their agreement,
and Yeorathe was forced to hold his tongue as Risen
spoke.

“My father was condemned to die in
prison. On the night before his execution, he was visited by a
man—a holy man.”

The men were silent as they listened
intently and leaned in as Risen continued his tale.

“He’d only ever seen this man once
before, on the day of his birth.”

An urgency overtook the ranks as
they hearkened to the quiet narration of the boy.

“Enough of this!” Yeorathe
commanded. Then, to Risen, “Your tale makes no sense, and I weary
of it!”

Ignoring his threat, for Risen was
fast chipping away at the monster’s complacency, he continued. “The
holy man was my father’s brother—his twin. After only one night
together, after sharing their tales with each other, my uncle went
to the gallows in my father’s stead.”

Gasps and murmurs rose amongst the
men, but Risen went on before he could be interrupted. “It was a
perfect sacrifice. My father was a free man. He believes my face to
be that of his brother’s.”

“You mean to say?” one of the
soldier’s exclaimed.

“I am my uncle risen…I am Risen. It
is my name and who I am.” He stared at Yeorathe alone. “It is
destiny.”

By now, dusk was fallen, and the
firelight lit the stand of trees in an eery way, the gnarled trunks
trussing the canopies like a legion of timbered warriors. There was
an awkward silence amongst the men, almost a reverence, which only
seemed to infuriate Yeorathe more. His pride stung at him, bit at
his heels. His control was fracturing, and he sneered, “But where
is your great father now?”

“Kill me, sell me, do your worst.
It will not matter. My father is fast approaching. You will never
be free.” Risen’s eyes passed over all of them. “And he has
condemned all of you.” He raised his hand to point a finger at
Yeorathe.

It seemed the men were of mixed
feelings whether they should believe the prisoner or not. He was,
after all, a foreigner on sacred soil. But was he not to be sold to
the Janissary? Didn’t Yeorathe and the Englishman see something
special about him, that he was worthy to die for the
Sultan?

Just then William rode up. He’d been
on perimeter scout and was fairly surprised at the proceedings.
“What is going on here? Why are the prisoners front and center?” He
swung from his horse and strode up to Sylvie, removing her from the
grasp of the man who held her.

“Silence!” Yeorathe commanded, his
eyes narrowing suspiciously, and he turned his anger on William.
“You insult me, with your deceit and foreign tongue! You knew…” he
seethed and took a step in William’s direction.

“Knew? Knew what?” William spat
back.

“You knew the boy’s father would
come for us! You knew that he was here. That is why you’ve so
intently kept the boy alive! Why?” He began to draw his sword. “Do
you wish Ravan to spare you? Have you bartered with him for your
own profit? For your own life?” Yeorathe was advancing on Sylvie
and William. “Have you bargained with his father?”

The one-eyed madman was working
himself into a substantial rage with his accusations, and the
others were becoming increasingly stirred up as well. What’d
started as a carefree evening on a happy path home was swiftly
turning into something entirely different.

William was fairly taken by surprise
by the sudden accusations and focused instead on Risen. “You told
them? You told them of your father?” His expression begged the boy
to follow the ruse.

Risen understood but said
nothing.

“And the girl? Is she important?”
one of the men interrupted urgently.

“She…” William looked at Sylvie.
“…she is the girl the boy loves. Harm her and you will as sincerely
have harmed his son.”

Sylvie held Risen’s gaze, reached a
thin hand toward him.

All of these proceedings were enough
to create a significant stir amongst everyone present. The dreaded
mercenary who’d thoroughly trounced an army, who’d sent Yeorathe
seven sails to the wind, was pursuing them!

Things were going bad very fast. The
horde regarded William as they’d not done before, with his pale
eyes and his light hair. He was English—a Christian—and swiftly
becoming their enemy. He was a foreigner on their land, an
infidel!

Paranoia wrapped around the band of
men in a very peculiar way, in a fashion that could only happen to
truly wretched souls. Their dispositions writhed like a nest of
snakes, snapping at their own tails. Sylvie was yanked from
William’s grasp as several men wrestled her away from him and held
him at bay.

Risen yelled, “He lies! William did
not know! I’ve told no one until tonight, I swear!”

Yeorathe considered this carefully
before approaching the boy. “You will be tested to see if you speak
the truth. Then, you will be sold…if you survive.”

The children were both dragged to
the edge of the fire and forced to kneel next to one another.
William was held behind Yeorathe, standing and held at saber point.
He continued to appeal to the monster and the other men.

“Don’t do this! It is a mistake!
You invite God’s wrath if you harm them!”

His was a tirade of reason but
seemed to gain no attentions from the rest. His cause was lost, and
he was largely ignored.

Yeorathe, in the meantime, was
setting into play the ‘test’ and was fast gaining approval from the
mob. He gestured dramatically.

“We will see if he is indeed the
son of the legend, Ravan!”

Into the fire he stabbed two blades.
When they smoked with the heat, he drew one from the fire and held
it up for all to observe. The tip glowed a brilliant orange. He
spun slowly in a theatrical display for all to see.

The children were pulled to their
feet. Approaching Risen, Yeorathe explained the terms of the test,
giving him an option. “Into your eye with it, or into hers. If you
have the courage to do this, perhaps your father is as great as you
claim, and we should free you.”

There were murmurs of agreement, and
this bolstered Yeorathe. “Choose, or all will know that your epic
tale is simply a myth, a fabrication of lies.” He was evidently
convinced Risen was unable to follow through and tossed the blade
onto the ground at his feet.

“No!” William commanded from behind
Yeorathe. The guards had loosened their grips on him, but he
remained at saber point. “This is insanity; you hurt yourselves if
you harm him! I can promise you this!”

His argument remained one of
futility. There was just enough alcohol and psychosis amongst the
men to make the test much more reasonable than anything the
Englishman might toss their direction.

As Risen neglected to pick up the
blade, Yeorathe drew from the fire the other blade.