Blood Legacy: The Story of Ryan Part 6

The boy pushed the sword away from his chin. "I will not yield to you," he said defiantly.

The man sheathed his sword, amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. "You already have."

Nearly faster than the boy could see, the man reached down and grasped his loose cotton shirt. With one hand he lifted the boy off the ground and placed him in front of him on the horse.

Derek was still on the ground on his knees so the man spoke to his second-in-command. "Make sure the woman and the girl receive safe pa.s.sage to their village."

Without another word, he whirled his horse around and kicked it into a sprint.

The boy was forced to cling to the man, otherwise he was going to get a much closer look of the ground racing by beneath him. The horse covered the distance to the forest quickly and they raced through the trees at what seemed a dangerous speed. But the man controlled his horse effortlessly and finally brought the panting beast to a halt in a small clearing. The boy struggled and the man dropped him to the ground with a thud. He dismounted his horse and tied the reins to a nearby branch.

The boy sprang to his feet, eyeing the man suspiciously. But the man walked away from him and settled on a boulder, his long limbs crossed in front of him. "Come here," he commanded.

The boy squared his shoulders as if to resist but for some reason, the man's voice were compelling. He hesitated, then reluctantly moved within arms reach of the seated man.

The man grasped his shoulders, squeezing them. He examined the boy closely and the boy was uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. The man's eye was again caught by the bloodstain on the boy's shirt, which he seemed fascinated by. The boy pulled away from him.

"You are well-formed. I am pleased."

The man's voice was deep and had a mesmerizing quality to it. But the boy had no idea what the words meant and wondered if he was about to be sold into slavery.

The man abruptly stood as if in some great internal struggle. "If only you weren't so young."

The boy stood there, feeling a strange sense of failure at his youth. He had no idea why he might want to please this man, nor why his youth should be the source of displeasure.

The man paced about, then returned to his boulder. "Come here," he commanded once more.

The boy obeyed the command but this time the man turned him bodily about and pulled him to the rock in front of him.

The boy sat stiffly, his back pressed against the man's chest. The man brushed his blond hair away from the nape of his neck. "I won't hurt you," he promised, his voice suddenly intoxicating in the boy's ear.

But the man lied because the pain did come, and it was intense. But it did not come where he expected as something sliced into his neck. The boy could not struggle in the man's iron embrace and his arms were pinned to his side.

The boy's vision began to swim and he felt light-headed. He stopped struggling and leaned back against the man, no longer feeling the pain. The feeling now was not entirely unpleasant.

The man held him for awhile longer, then violently pushed him away. He himself staggered to his feet. "I must stop. You are too young."

The boy lay on the ground, feeling the ache in the side of his neck. He did not know what the man had done to him, nor what was causing the man's intense, internal struggle. He began to drift in and out of consciousness. He had the impression the man sat him up and placed something to his lips, water, perhaps.

His next memory was of being upside down on the horse, jostled from side-to-side as the horse trotted into his village. He had an inverted view of his hut just prior to being dumped unceremoniously on the ground. After that, he remembered nothing.

Susan would not leave the woman. She had been sitting in front of the window for well over 12 hours, now. During that 12 hours, the right side of the woman's face had almost completely healed. All outward signs of her ordeal had disappeared. She had even lost the preternatural paleness in evidence earlier; her skin now glowed with health.

The sheet continued its slow rise and fall. Respirations were approximately 10 per minute, slow for an adult, but reasonable. Heart rate hovered around 40 beats per minute; again, extremely low for an adult but possible for a well-conditioned athlete in deep sleep.

Susan studied the woman's face. Now that it was whole, the high cheekbones, the full mouth, the slender nose all lent themselves to the striking beauty she and Mason had speculated on earlier. The woman truly had the face of a sleeping angel.

Susan crossed her arms on the console in front of her and rested her head. Her eyes drifted closed.

The boy recovered from his ordeal, as he had done before. But this time he seemed to be left with a craving, a hunger for something that wasn't food.

He could not explain it but the mundane life of the village began to chafe at him. The restlessness he felt invaded his entire world, and he realized how small that world was.

He thought about the Man often, but his questions to his mother were met with mute silence. This silence only added to his frustration, a frustration that finally culminated in his decision to leave the village.

He did not know why, but he did not wish to tell his parents he was leaving. He said nothing but made his plans in secret. Then, one moonless night, he packed everything he owned in his bag, took the horse, and set out in the general direction of the brightest star in the night sky.

CHAPTER 11.

WEEKS Pa.s.sED, PERHAPS MONTHS. The boy traveled from village to village, exploring the smallest part of a world he had not known existed. On this cool afternoon he saw smoke from one such village from a distance. He kneed his horse and the beast started in that direction.

His entrance into the town caused little interest; everyone seemed to be drawn to a commotion down the street. He tied his horse to a post and went to see what everyone was looking at.

A woman, blood running from a cut on her temple and a bruise on her cheek, staggered in the center of the throng. A man, evidently her attacker, kicked her again and she went to her knees.

"You adulteress!" the man shouted, kicking her again.

"Liar!" The woman screamed. She struggled to her feet. "Is there no one who'll stand witness for me?"

The woman was met with taunts and raucous laughter. Men and women threw clods of dirt at her in response. She struggled to protect herself from the missiles, but could not escape the man's meaty fist as he struck her in the side of the head. She moved out of his range, pleading with the crowd.

"Won't someone speak for me?"

When she was still met with nothing more than taunts, she pulled a bag of coin from her cloak. "I have coin!"

The crowd grew silent. It was common to challenge the veracity of witnesses by challenging them to combat. Mercenaries made good money selling themselves as champions of truth. One could literally buy one's innocence, if only someone would fight for them.

No one seemed inclined to accept the woman's offer. The man s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag from her hand and threw it in the dust. "No one wants your sinful money, you adulteress b.i.t.c.h."

"How much money is it?" the boy asked, stepping from the crowd.

There was a murmur from the townsfolk at the cloaked stranger. It turned to laughter when the boy pulled his hood down.

The woman eyed the beautiful youth uncertainly. He was small, but he had been the only one to speak up. She picked up the bag of coin and handed it to him. He hefted the bag, then handed it back to her.

"I will speak for you."

The crowd was now in high spirits. This was great drama, all the better because it would include violence and death, and probably humiliation.

The man spat contemptuously, barely missing the boy. "Choose your weapon, boy. I have no patience for these games. I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to kill my unfaithful b.i.t.c.h of a wife, and then I'm going to take her money and buy much drink to celebrate with."

This declaration brought loud cheers from the crowd. The man threw off his cloak, revealing a barrel chest and thickly muscled torso. The boy inwardly sighed. He carefully removed his own cloak, neatly folded it and set it in the dust. A man moved from the crowd and kicked the garment into disarray.

The boy removed a small dagger from his waist. It was the only weapon he had, and the only one his father had taught him to use. The barrel-chested man laughed loudly at the weapon. "You challenge me with that? It delivers only a little p.r.i.c.k."

The crowd laughed at the joke, but the boy cut the laughter short with his terse reply.

"You should know. Perhaps that's why your wife's eye wanders."

The man turned crimson as the crowd laughed even more at his expense. He drew his own dagger and stood ready. "Come on, boy," he growled, "I'll cut that sharp tongue of yours."

"Not likely with so dull a wit."

The man's face appeared apoplectic and he charged. The boy easily sidestepped him and he went barreling into the crowd, which caught him and pushed him back into the clearing.

The boy watched the man warily. He was large and strong, but he was clumsy and slow. He charged again and the boy easily sidestepped once more, this time snaking the knife outward and drawing blood from the man's side.

The man howled in fury and pain as the crowd laughed. The boy stood staring at the blood pouring from the man's side. It made him feel light-headed and strange, as if his body was suddenly weightless. He stood rooted as the man charged him.

It appeared to the crowd the boy was frozen in terror. They leaned forward expectantly, awaiting his comeuppance. The barrel-chested man charged forward, screaming obscenities at him.

The boy felt as if he were moving in slow motion. Indeed, his movements appeared almost languid to the mob as he gracefully side-stepped once more, this time slashing out and upward at the man's throat.

The big man stopped abruptly, clutching the suddenly gaping wound on his neck. Blood spurted between his fingers as he crumpled to his knees, then went facedown into the dirt.

Loud cheers erupted from the crowd and the boy was surrounded by congratulatory men and women who pounded him on the back. The woman he had spoken for pushed through the crowd and they all stepped back, creating a small clearing.

"Here you are, boy." She held the small purse above her head and eyed the crowd. "Let it be known I am innocent of all charges!"

"Yeah right, Gert, until next time!" someone yelled from the crowd. This comment was greeted by much laughter and the woman herself cackled as she handed the purse to the boy. She winked at him and smiled a toothless smile. "Perhaps a lad as handsome as you would like a greater reward."

The boy took the purse and simply nodded to the crone, then pushed his way through the crowd. It appeared Gert was immediately forgiven because everyone knew the Lord worked in mysterious ways. She went off to drink with her accusers-turned-exculpators.

The boy went to the stalls in the small marketplace to buy supplies. He eyed some fresh bread and was just about to make an offer when he noticed the proprietor.

The man was short and completely bald, but that was not what attracted the boy's attention. The boy was staring at the stump where the man's right hand used to be. The man was trying to hide it within his clothing, but the k.n.o.b protruded. The boy glanced back up into the man's eyes. He knew dismemberment was often the punishment for perjury; obviously this man had no one to fight for him, or the champion he had chosen had lost.

The boy looked back down at the bread. That was probably why the man had so much fresh bread. People were horrified by any type of deformity. Those unlucky enough to be deformed or dismembered were often killed; at the very least they were shunned.

The boy did not share this horror, but he was not above taking advantage of it. He offered the man but a few pence for the lot, knowing the man had little choice but to take it.

CHAPTER 12.

SUSAN THUMBED THROUGH VARIOUS CHARTS, glancing at the woman through the gla.s.s. She had found so many unique things about her anatomy that just about any randomly performed test would yield a surprise.

"Mommy, what are you doing?"

Susan glanced over at her red-haired son patiently. She felt so guilty about being away from him on the weekend that when he asked to come to work with her, she consented after only a little cajoling. She packed a bag full of toys and books and brought them to the lab with her. He had spent the last few hours alternately napping, playing, reading, and asking her what she was doing.

"I'm trying to find this woman's digestive system."

Jason wrinkled his brow. "Oh," he said thoughtfully, "she's pretty."

Susan glanced at her son fondly as he returned to his blocks. He had a 5-year-old's gift of understatement. She glanced at the woman sleeping peacefully in the other room. She was strikingly beautiful. Susan turned her attention back to the doc.u.mentation of the woman's internal anatomy.

Although she could find little that was identifiable in the digestive system, the renal system was remarkably similar to what it should be. Both kidneys were functioning, although they did not appear to be doing what normal kidneys did.

To Susan's knowledge, the woman had absorbed no nutrients from the feeding tube and therefore elimination had not been necessary. Beyond the fact that Susan had no idea how the woman survived without eating or eliminating waste, she could not decipher exactly what the kidneys were doing.

Until she had glanced at the charts in front of her. The levels of erythropoietin were sky-high in the woman's kidneys. Erythropoietin was a substance synthesized by the kidneys to increase red blood cell production in bone marrow. This rather p.r.o.nounced increase of red blood cells would boost endurance by promoting elevated oxygen delivery to muscles. It was the theory behind "blood doping" which athletes often attempted to increase performance.

The problem was that the level in the woman's body should have created too many blood cells. She should have "polycythemia vera," or in layman's terms, blood the consistency of glue. Susan glanced at the sleeping woman. Her blood should be too thick to supply oxygen delivery and thick enough to at least cause a stroke, if not death.

But instead, she just slept peacefully on.

Susan sighed and sat down.

Susan glanced at the EEG. It was the same pattern as always; the only difference was the degree. The glowing line traced out alpha waves, signaling alertness. Susan glanced in at the woman, who appeared asleep as always. Rarely did theta waves show up on the monitor, and never beta waves. Susan sat down heavily. What she wouldn't give to know what was going on in that woman's head.

It was nearly three years before the boy returned to his village. He was taller, though still slender, and he had been hardened by the life he had led. His sword had been instrumental in many battles, and although he was but 18 years old, he was proclaimed a man among men.

He was dusty and tired, and his horse was thirsty. Judging by the position of the sun, his village should be another hours ride.

He stopped at a stream and allowed his horse to drink. He waded into the water, fully clothed, and doused himself. He remounted his horse and continued on his way.

Although his senses were always keen, perhaps it was the stench of battle still in his nostrils that at first caused the scent of smoke and death to elude him. The smell finally intruded upon his awareness and a look of concern crossed his features. He kicked his horse into a gallop.

He topped the rise above his village, but the familiar sight of the huts was not what greeted him. Instead, he was welcomed by burned out hulks and smoldering ashes. His jaw clenched, he rode slowly down into his home. He had not missed this act by more than a day.

Bodies were strewn amongst the wreckage, and although he had seen carnage in battle, none of it affected him the way this did. He moved to where his hut had stood, and although he did not recognize the burned corpses, he knew them to be his mother and father.

The cry of a nearby winged scavenger attracted his gaze and he dismounted and chased the bird away. The body the bird was attempting to feed off was that of a young woman. It took the boy a moment to recognize the young girl he had saved from the priest seasons ago. Her body was not burned, but she had been run through with a sword. Judging by the blood between her legs, she had been run through by more than a sword before dying. The boy clenched his jaw tighter.

The sun was nearly setting by the time the boy finished. He buried the young girl; everything else he burned to the ground. His fatigue left him, replaced by an icy coldness much stranger than the fierce anger he felt in battle.

He examined the immediate area. It was not difficult to find the trail of the men who had committed this act; no one in the village owned horses. He started out in the black of night, following a spa.r.s.e trail that seemed as clear as day to him.

The sun rose and set twice more before the boy caught up with the men. He had not slept and did not feel the need to. It was early morning and the men were breaking camp as the boy peered at them from the bushes. Their laughter increased the coldness inside of him.

He recognized one of the men. It was the one called Derek who had tried to kill him when the Man had stepped in and taken him away. The boy knew he had found the band that had destroyed his village.

As a soldier, he had learned to count the number of the enemy. He counted twelve now. One man approached the underbrush near the boy and began to relieve himself. The boy slipped up silently behind the man, placed his hand over the man's mouth and then slit his throat from ear-to-ear with his short sword. He quietly lowered the dead man to the ground.