Risen by Sharon Cramer Page A

laughed, drew his sword, and stepped
back, leveling the sword at the only-four-days-freed
mercenary.
    “Go,” Ravan shot over his shoulder
to the girl, indicating the kitchen door.
    “No!” the general commanded and
swung his sword to block her. “The girl stays. I am not done with
her, nor will I be for some time!”
    Yeorathe glanced at the man behind
the bar but was answered with only a shrug. Obviously the inn owner
had no vested loyalty to the handless waif that worked his
establishment. The warrior would have no objection from him, and so
Yeorathe evidently believed he would have his sport with her as he
wished.
    By now, the other three men were
gathering around their comrade. Tor stood wordless and with arms
crossed on his chest, seemingly only mildly curious, almost bored
of how his general would pillage his intended spoils of this
singular man and the handless maiden who was cowering behind the
stranger.
    Modred edged his way forward, his
youth pulling him foolishly closer to the front of the fray. As
though from weary obligation, the fourth—the lame one—edged behind
Tor, naturally protecting the leader’s flank.
    “She is my sister and will get your
food.” Ravan sneered as he shoved the girl toward the rear exit.
“She is hideous and otherwise worthless. She should be of no other
concern to you.”
    “Sister or not, she will service
me!” The one-eyed general’s intent was clearly obvious when he
thrust his sword at her again, as though he would keep her from
leaving the room. He spat at the girl, “I am road weary, and you
will satisfy enough of what I intend to have tonight.” Yeorathe
stepped toward Ravan, perhaps expecting him to retreat.
    This was a poor move, for he could
not know that even though the stranger was a solitary traveler, the
mercenary he challenged had not only battle hardened experience and
reflexes, he had the wits of a warrior—a supremely seasoned warrior
and one used to surviving the worst battle had to offer. The four
in front of him could not know this was Ravan, polished and honed
by Duval, tempered by death, driven by a lifetime of cruelty. This
mercenary had neither the patience nor the stomach for what the
band of men intended, and it was to their peril that they
challenged him now.
    The fourth—the weariest one who
resembled the leader—limped forward, his hand loosely removing his
sword. Wounded though he was, he appeared to carry governance of
the group, and spoke to Ravan on behalf of Tor.
    “You will stand down and concede
subservience. You shall also hand over the girl, for you are not
only outnumbered, you are now subjugated. Your assets are
henceforth ours. I command you, on your knees before Yeorathe.” He
motioned with his sword that Ravan should kneel before the one-eyed
lecher.
    The brother of Tor evidently
expected no argument from the thin, dark stranger for his stance
was almost casual. His mistake could not be more mortal. With a
blinding flash, Ravan swept the blade across what he knew would be
the most vulnerable part of the man’s arm, intending to
straightaway disable him. The bladesmith’s talent displayed itself
perfectly as the knife cut easily through the leather buckles that
held the forearm plate to the upper arm. Into flesh the weapon
drove, severing in one swipe the tendons and, more critically, the
brachial artery.
    Kenrick would rage briefly if he
chose, but weakness would come for him in moments, and death would
be his within minutes. The other three were, for and instant,
distracted by the arc of blood that sprayed from the man’s
arm.
    Ravan knew he had only seconds, and
he instinctively focused on the three that remained. The halberds
and ax were a great concern, for he had no good defense against
them. But as the weakest was injured, he stepped in, swooped up the
man’s sword and spinning, pointed it at the youngest
soldier.
    “Do you wish to die tonight?” His
voice held the cold promise of death, and it was enough to