The Execution by Sharon Cramer Page B

of him. His lip was curled
back in a vicious snarl, his eyes wide and fierce. The stress of
the moment caused him to break out in a cold sweat and his body
shone, sleek and wet. Wild and trapped, he would kill if he needed
to—or die trying.
    The savagely unpredictable and vicious
attack on Pierre had the desired effect on the other two, as they
were planted with shocked expressions stamped upon their simple
faces. They stared blindly at the butcher job of Pierre, obviously
surprised by Ravan’s attack and stunned by the incredible amount of
blood it produced.
    In his rage, Pierre pawed for his
sword, which had dropped away from his hip with his loosened
trousers. He finally found the blade and stepped forward, raising
it awkwardly towards the boy’s face, his bloodied hand shaking
uncontrollably.
    He seemed unsure of what to focus on,
whether he should run Ravan through right away or address his own
injury first. With his free hand, he pawed at his own distorted
face, trying to close the hideous wound and hold his nose more
closely to where it belonged.
    Ravan was shocked at his own
handiwork. It was a horrifying and ghastly image, but somehow it
made him feel strangely exhilarated. Quickly considering the
situation, he realized he could not reach beyond the sword with his
own weapon. He decided he must close the gap between them, before
Pierre gained enough composure to strike. He risked being run
through in the process, but as far as he could see, it was his only
option.
    “ Don’t touch him, Pierre.
He’s not mine—he belongs to Duval,” Monsieur LaFoote’s booming
voice shook the room.
    Through the corner of his eye, Pierre
spotted the Innkeeper holding a razor sharp dueling sword leveled
at his ear. “Look what the bastard’s done to me! Look at my face!”
he screamed.
    There was only raw silence in the
room.
    LaFoote continued, “We both know
you’ve had this coming for a long time, you sick pig. Down to the
kitchen. The wife will sew you up—or you can die right now.” He
stepped closer, the sword mere inches from Pierre’s head. The tone
of the Innkeeper’s voice carried with it the cold promise of
truthful intention. “Do what you will with the babes of others, but
touch this one and you will rape no more,” the Innkeeper
warned.
    Pierre knew Lafoote was capable of
this threat, but was evidently struggling with it, weighing the
gravity of it to the joy of killing Ravan. He hesitated. The razor
tip of the dueling sword pressed against his earlobe. “He was
trying to steal from me!” Pierre screamed. A long pause stretched
out in the room and only the ragged breathing of the boy could be
heard.
    “ You know I’ll do it,
Pierre,” LaFoote pressed him. “He belongs to Duval.” His words
landed like icicles dropping to paving stone.
    Sobbing and screaming revenge, Pierre
finally broke away and shuffled his bulk back through the door. He
kept one hand on his mangled face, the other clutched at his
trousers and the hilt of his own dull sword.
    His friends followed, leaving LaFoote
and Ravan alone.
    Ravan dropped his arm, the knife
dangling in his hand. He straightened, still breathing hard, and
blinked his eyes. He was dazed as though he was moving slowly in a
dream.
    LaFoote eyed Pig-Killer. He stepped
towards the boy, reached down and picked up the fallen shirt. “I’m
sorry, Ravan.”
    Bewildered, Ravan stared. “I don’t
understand, who is Duval?”
    The Innkeeper sighed, his arm
outstretched with the shirt, but said nothing.
    Ravan looked blankly at
him.
    LaFoote tossed the shirt onto the bed
and turned away. “Go to your room Ravan. I’ll be up to talk with
you in a bit. Bar the door until I do, and don’t come
down.”
    Ravan hesitated. “But, I
don’t—?”
    “ I said get to your room!”
LaFoote yelled at him. “Now do as you’re told, do you hear?” He
startled Ravan, his reaction too angry given the boy was just
moments ago defending himself from a rape.
    Still shaking,