Risen by Sharon Cramer

times, and these men were just more of the
destruction that was inevitable. Wait long enough and it would land
bitterly on the tongue of any who lived in this world.
    Ravan nearly closed his eyes, dark
slits in the shadows. He peered sideways at the four, studying them
further as he took another sip of his second brandy of the
night.
    The one-eyed man sported a double
handed Norse axe, and it was a brutal weapon. It reminded Ravan of
a friend he’d known some time ago, a warrior he’d seen cleave a man
in two with a weapon similar to this one, only much larger. No,
this man was not near the man the giant had been. For some reason,
the very presence of this one insulted the memory of LanCoste, and
Ravan’s mood blackened.
    Tor, the leader—although Ravan could
not have known his name—carried a halberd as did the weaker of the
four men, the one who took up a spot directly at the leader’s elbow
and resembled him a great deal, only thinner. A brother, Ravan
thought, and less sound than the others. This man also had a sword
at his side.
    The youngest had laughed the loudest
and swung his drink over his head before partaking. His eyes
carried the greatest vitality of the four, but he appeared
subservient to the wishes of the others, parroting them somewhat.
He had strapped at his waist a sword, nearly too long for his arm,
but more significantly, on his back was a longbow.
    Ravan squinted to see the detail of
this weapon. It was a good bow, better than average, and had a
generous quiver of respectable arrows strapped beside it. This
interested him the most—this and the fact that all of the men chose
not to dismantle their weapons in the tavern.
    These men were infantry, likely
seasoned, but not French. Their armors were above average and well
worn. They were hardened and had the stench to prove it. Even from
the distance, Ravan could smell it. He was not offended by it,
though. It was simply familiar to him and an indication of how
brutal these men could be should they wish.
    The kitchen door swung open again,
and in swept the girl—a generous slice of cake balanced on a wooden
plate and hiding the stump of her arm. She seemed nervous as she
set the plate down, and Ravan thanked her with just his eyes before
again scrutinizing the four at the bar.
    This set into motion a curious chain
of events, for the one-eyed general noticed and seemed to take
offense at being appraised by the thinner man sitting mostly hidden
in the shadows.
    Yeorathe swung his girth to face the
stranger but focused his comment to the girl. “Come here. I need
food and will have that, or you will return to me the eye you’ve
stolen.” It appeared he would step toward her if she did not
comply.
    “I’ll fetch plates now,” she said
swiftly and ducked as though she might return to the
kitchen.
    “No, you won’t,” the big man shot
and stepped into her path, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.
This surprised him, certainly not in horror, for he’d likely seen
amputations before, but in mere surprise.
    “The wench! She is handless as
well! How will the one handed bitch gratify me now?” He laughed
heartily, but there was no smile on the face of one as cruel as he.
His lips pulled into a loathsome leer, revealing an appalling
collection of teeth. “With her mouth, she will…” he said coarsely,
and reached for the girl’s good arm.
    Ravan was straight out of his chair.
It was not his nature to do so, but he laid his hand on the
general’s shoulder and held him firmly at bay. “She was just going
for my dinner. You can toy with her later, but I wish to eat.” As
he spoke, with his other arm he swept the girl behind himself and
reached smoothly for the knife at his waist.
    The general hadn’t seen the gesture,
subtle as it was, but chose to look Ravan up and down. Apparently
deciding the thinner man was no real threat, he said simply, “And
with what will you pay, for your dinner I mean, since your coin
will now buy mine?” The man