Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) Page 11

  “Long have I been away from Onareth, but not so long to have forgotten that few fools march within the ranks of the Ghosts of Ahnok. Fewer still have ever led them. Rathe has a recklessness about him, to be sure. However, I believe he will prove to be an asset to myself and Fortress Hilan.”

  Treon’s features molted from purple to ash. “By all the gods, you cannot be serious?”

  “You forget yourself,” Sanouk cautioned, growing weary of the captain’s tantrum, and more so of his easy insolence.

  “Forgive me, milord,” Treon said, biting off each word as if he were anything but repentant. “May I speak freely?”

  Sanouk spread his hands, relenting. Treon had his uses—trustworthiness, an abiding fealty, and his penchant for cruelty being the highest qualities—and as he planned to do with Rathe, Sanouk had carefully harnessed Treon’s valued traits, and would continue to do so, as long as they served his ends.

  Treon began pacing again. “I believe he may suspect that the three Maidens of the Lyre came north with his outcasts who, I am sure, he has seen by now, along with the Hilan men.”

  “He has no reason to ever suspect the women were brought here,” Sanouk said. “As to the outcasts, Rathe has likely learned by now that you lied about them dying in the battle. Trust that he will suspect you did so as a means of breaking his spirit.”

  “So I did, but he will likely seek retribution,” Treon said, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “He behaves as if there is no grudge, but I see it in his eyes.”

  “Ah,” Sanouk said in understanding. “Hate does not fuel your anger against him, but fear.”

  “I fear no man,” Treon said, gripping his sword hilt as if he meant to demonstrate his considerable prowess with a blade.

  “It’s of no matter,” Sanouk said. “So what if he detests you for the deception? He was the captain of the Ghosts of Ahnok, and surely knows such tricks are tools used in tempering recruits. As for the Maidens of the Lyre: I say again, he will never learn their fate.”

  “What if one of the outcasts mentions what really happened … or a Hilan man in his cups?”

  Lord Sanouk teeth flashed in a predatory grin. “Rest assured, none of them will utter a word—even among themselves—about the women they brought to me.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Would you agree that there are worse fates than death?” Sanouk countered. Treon nodded slowly. “And so, too, do they know … chiefly because I described a number of particularly gruesome dooms that will befall them, should they betray my trust.”

  “What of the girl who escaped?”

  “By now, she’s with child or dead—both ends meted out by the plainsmen.” Sanouk waited then, knowing Treon’s next question before it came.

  “What did happen to the Maidens?” He shook his head, showing his greater confusion. “I do not understand why you wanted me to capture anyone in the first place. In truth, had the Maidens of the Lyre not crossed our path, I would have been forced to raid a merchant caravan to find what you required.”

  Sanouk stood slowly. “What I now show you can never be revealed to another. Stand by my side in this and all future matters, and one day you will rise above a mere captain of this forsaken outpost….” He let that vague promise hang between them, trusting Treon’s lust for authority to fire his imagination. By the glassy light in Treon’s eyes, he was already dreaming of becoming a lord, or more.

  When Treon reaffirmed his fealty, Sanouk moved to the hearth, and there extended his hand into the flames. Treon’s eyes flicked between that hand and Sanouk’s face, each passing moment the dismay growing in his eyes. Long after his lord’s hand should have become a blackened bit of meat and bone, Treon lunged forward and caught Sanouk’s arm. Before he could drag him away, Sanouk struck him across the face, driving him to his backside.

  “Are you mad?” Treon wailed, scrambling to his feet. “Come away!”

  Sanouk withdrew his hand from the licking flames. Smoke rose from the smoldering sleeve, but his skin remained unblemished. “I tell you, Treon, I have discovered a means to escape death in its many forms … and in that lies power to raise thrones and topple them. Yet there is a price, and those women you sent me, and a few others, have paid it. More, still, will pay in the future.”

  “Milord?” Treon gasped.

  “Continue to serve me faithfully, and I will bestow upon your flesh the gift of invulnerability. And, as I said, one day you may rise above your birth, and don the mantle of high office.” Sanouk smiled at the astounded captain, having no intention of ever fulfilling any of those promises.

  “How … how can it be?” Treon asked, covetous of the hidden knowledge.

  And so Sanouk confided in the man, if revealing only a little of the truth, just enough to whet his desire. As well, he told of the conditions demanded by Gathul, although without mentioning the god. That was his secret alone.

  “… and so that is the real reason I am sending you to Valdar,” Sanouk said, “to collect the prisoners who Mitros has set aside for my purposes.”

  Treon’s eyes took on a cruel gleam. “Surely there are worthy choices within your own village? I could name ten scoundrels without thought.”

  “Only a blind fool would beggar his own keep by sacrificing those who supply the food.” Sanouk did not admit that besides the two Maidens of the Lyre, Aleena and Undai, he had already abducted others from the village, for fear of failing Gathul.

  Thoroughly humbled, Treon asked, “But what of Rathe? He’s canny. If he learns what you are about, he will seek to upset your goals. You must kill him.”

  He is persistent, Sanouk thought. “I leave it in your hands to ensure he learns nothing. Besides, as you say, Rathe is a commoner by birth, yet he has tasted glory reserved for men of noble blood. Now that he has been stripped of all honor and prestige, he will do my biding in order to redeem what he has lost.”

  “Why should you care to have him at your side?” Treon said, all but whining.

  “He’s a born warrior, a weapon to be used. And use him I will, where I see fit.”

  “What if he fails in his usefulness … what if he turns on you?” Treon asked. Again, a question lay buried under his words, and was perhaps his only true concern.

  “Should he fail,” Lord Sanouk said slowly, tossing his wearisome hound a treat, “I will grant you the privilege of killing him at my command.” In his heart, he suspected he would rather have Rathe as a subject than Treon, but decided to let each man’s fortunes determine which of them would remain standing.

  Treon grinned. “Forgive me, milord, but I pray for the day you see his true nature.”

  Sanouk dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. In Treon’s eagerness to bring Rathe low, he might well provoke the Scorpion to a fight in which either man might perish. Who, I wonder, will return to Hilan from Valdar?

  Chapter 17

  “I cannot believe this plan of yours is working so quickly,” Loro said, riding beside Rathe on a treacherous mountain road barely deserving of the name.

  He had said as much several times in the days since Captain Treon had led the twenty-man company from the gates of Hilan into the Gyntors, mountains of grim granite and deep vales choked in evergreens. It took little imagination to understand why the mountains had such dire repute. More than once, Rathe had been sure he spied creatures flitting amongst the deep shadows, as though stalking.

  “It’s not working so well as you think,” Rathe answered, tugging forward the coarse black hood of his woolen cloak. A soaking rain had changed over to wet snow around midday, frosting the dark woods around them. To his mind, a land that could feel winter’s bite no matter the true season in hospitable realms, was a land cursed.

  Loro arched a dubious eyebrow. “One day you are a whipped dog, the next you are a lieutenant. From where I sit, that is no small feat.”

  “Until I prove otherwise,” Rathe said, “I am still the dog to these men. You notice that I do not ride with Captain Treon
, nor does he confide in me. Instead, he positions me behind the prisoner wagons, back amongst the rabble—present company excluded, of course,” he finished with a wry grin.

  “Of course,” Loro grouched good-naturedly. “Still, I believe you are well on your way to succeeding.”

  “Perhaps,” Rathe allowed, eyeing the forbidding wall of trees bracing the road. Beyond a few paces, he could only make out a few details for the tangled undergrowth. A rocky stream, high from recent rains, whipped itself to a dirty froth to one side of the road, and in some places murky eddies submerged the unforgiving path.

  “I am looking forward to Valdar,” Loro said loudly, scowling up at the damp gray sky. “All this wet is like to make me sprout fins.”

  “After three days,” Rathe said, “a proper roof, a blaze, and a cup of mulled wine would lift my spirits.”

  “Mulled wine?” Loro scoffed. “I have a taste for strong ale, and a longing for pair of plump women to warm my bones.”

  “You will find naught but piss and hags in Valdar,” one of the two wagon drivers muttered sourly. Wizened by an abundance of years and toil, he had been so quiet up to that moment that Rathe had not noticed him. Of that last, he could say the same for Carul, the other driver farther back, who slouched on his plank seat beneath a pea-green cloak, his face hidden under the wide brim of a floppy leather hat.

  Loro eyed the driver who had spoken. “Breyon, is it, from the village?”

  “ ‘Tis the name my mother saw fit to give me,” the man grunted, tucking a hank of gray hair behind his ear. “And, aye, I was born in Hilan. I serve as Lord Sanouk’s woodsman.” Unlike the others in the company, the long-faced fellow endured the weather without a hood or a hat, and his oft-patched brown cloak looked to have more holes than a sieve.

  “To hear it from my brothers,” Loro said, “Valdar is full to brimming with lusty wenches who serve the finest ales in all of Cerrikoth.”

  “Fools all,” Breyon disagreed, peering at the two riders from his high perch, the reins held loosely in big, knotted hands made for swinging an axe. The wagon, more a rolling iron cage, creaked and groaned over the uneven roadway.

  “They say Valdar is so rich with gold dust,” Loro persisted, “the gutters glitter, even in the night.”

  “Aye, there’s gold in the mountains, but it’s for the king’s coffers. For the likes of you, it’s piss and hags,” Breyon said once more, cracking a smile to show each of his four remaining teeth. The smile became a leer. “O’ course, after a few days bunked in with those scoundrels in Lord Sanouk’s barracks, I will grant even a one-legged trull with a set of leathery dugs might seem a rare find—mayhap you will even find one to pinch a lump of gold for you.”

  Loro’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot be serious—”

  “Piss and hags,” Breyon cackled. He withdrew a leathern flask from his cloak, pulled the cork, and took a long, grimacing swallow. Hooting gleefully at Loro’s disappointed frown, he added, “Better off findin’ a knothole to dip into—or mayhap a lively sheep!”

  “Have your knotholes and sheep, you toothless, uncouth wretch,” Loro growled, absently hiking a leg to scratch his backside. “You’d not recognize a fine woman if she fell in your lap.”

  Rathe burst out laughing, only to be stilled by the call to halt. He heeled his mount past bedraggled soldiers, thinking it early to make camp. Still put out by Breyon’s estimation of what they would find in Valdar, Loro trailed after, casting rude aspersions on their cohorts. Sullen glares met his ridicule, which only served to encourage him.

  At the head of the company, Rathe found Captain Treon conferring with two riders. Behind them, the stream curved, its breadth spanned by a rutted stone bridge just wide enough to accommodate the wagons. On the far side, the road cut through a soggy glade with a broad muddy knob dotted with rock fire rings. Firs and pines leaned over the clearing, their boughs hung with moss and dripping icicles.

  Treon turned at the sound of approaching hooves, his cheeks rosy for the cold, his stare emotionless. An unexpected grin turned his lips, alerting Rathe to trouble.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, managing to twist the title into an insult, “Aeden and Eled found something upsetting.” His gaze shifted to Loro. “They will lead you and that slovenly dung heap at your side to their find.”

  Loro hawked and spat, then passed wind, not once looking away from Treon’s snaky glare.

  Rathe glanced at Aeden and Eled, paying particular attention to the latter, a wan fellow with stringy black hair and an unfortunate potato nose. Fingers of steam rose from their cloaked shoulders, and both peered between Rathe and Treon with affrighted stares.

  “What did you find, Eled?” Rathe asked.

  “There’s ... it ... it’s,” he mumbled, before doubling over and spewing his last meal.

  “By all the gods,” Loro growled in disgust. “Did a witch harvest your stones for potions, or are you that much the craven?”

  Rathe looked to Aeden. “Can you tell me?” he invited.

  The soldier blanched. “Best see for yourself, lieutenant. It’s not far.”

  “Have a care,” Treon said lightly. “Wolves, lions, and bears make their homes in the Gyntors. Also, there are creatures beyond the ken of man, the progeny of demons and sorcery, evil given life and flesh. And brigands are as common in these parts as rocks and trees.”

  Rathe bristled. “Then I would request a larger party.”

  “No,” Treon said. “Four are enough.”

  Rathe’s sword flashed from its scabbard. Treon flinched back, belatedly groping for his own blade. By then, Aeden had spun his mount and clattered across the bridge, followed by Rathe and a chuckling Loro. Eled hung well to the rear, his tight features tinged an unpleasant shade of green.

  The foursome rode through the glade, crested a rise, then left the road and plunged into the forest, following an overgrown game trail. After a few hundred paces scrambling their mounts over downed trees, crossing muddy brooks and bogs, the way opened on a grassy meadow. A stag bounded away when they came into the clearing, its antlers crashing through the brush. After a moment, silence fell.

  “Over there,” Aeden said, pointing at a distinct silhouette hovering amongst a stand of white-skinned birch.

  Rathe gradually detected the contours of a wagon hidden within the murky greenery.

  “What’s that stench?” Loro asked, raising an arm to his nose.

  Rathe had smelled the same many times over, on countless fields of battle. “Death,” he muttered, a finger of unease coiling through his insides.

  Loro cast a baleful look at Aeden. “Has a dead huntsman’s camp so unmanned you?”

  Aeden dismounted. “See for yourself.”

  Rathe climbed down, tied the reins to a bush, and followed Aeden, their boots sinking ankle-deep in the miry ground. Cursing the damp under his breath, Loro came along as well. Eled stayed put, glancing nervously from shadow to shadow.

  The wagon stood empty and missing one wheel. A pillar of rock stacked under the bed kept it upright. The spare wheel leaned against the bole of a nearby tree. Rathe squatted, studying the wagon’s route that led to its final resting place. The driver had wended his way between the trees, following a path that might have been a road long before, but was now choked with low bracken and grass. For the most part, the grass had sprung back, but faint ruts remained. “Hasn’t been here long.”

  “A fortnight, no more,” Aeden said.

  A bitter gust fell off the misted spires of the Gyntors, pushing before it the cloying reek of corruption. Raising his face into the wind, Rathe spied a ragged tent hunkered a little deeper into the forest. He looked a question at Aeden, and the man’s jaw tightened in answer.

  The closer they came to the tent, the stronger the stench of rot grew. Skin prickling with unease, Rathe halted several paces away, tried to get an image of what had happened. Animals had scattered stores of dried goods around the tent, and its sides had been shredded to flapping tatters. By the p
ile of wood shavings and kindling next to the blackened fire ring, it looked as if the huntsman had been about to start a cookfire. On a nearby stone, flint and rusted steel waited for hands that would never pick them up. From a picket line, four ropes fell to a cluster of carcasses—oxen, by their size.

  “Is this all?” Rathe asked.

  Aeden pointed to a place of dense undergrowth, the murk made deeper, more substantial, by the coming dusk. Fresh footprints in the slushy skim of snow showed where Aeden and Eled had already walked.

  Wanting to get back to the company before full dark fell, Rathe moved to the spot, searching, and halted mid-step. The legs of a pair of corpses clad in woolen trousers poked from under the brush, as if they had died trying to find cover. As scavengers had been at the camp’s stores, so too had they been at the dead, savaging rotten meat and strewing entrails. Beetles and grave worms, sluggish with cold, churned through the soupy corruption.

  “Fever must have taken them,” Loro said.

  “No fever did this,” Rathe said, nodding toward two rounded lumps covered in strands of dark hair. Heads. While a wolf or bear might have torn the skulls from the dead men, neither animal would have placed them upright and side-by-side, as if to grant the gaping eye sockets leave to watch the slow decay of their bodies. Such as that took the calculating mind of a higher order of creature.

  “Something watches,” Loro warned, looking back the way they had come. The trio moved together, brandishing swords. The forest gazed back with bland menace. Shadows lay thicker than before.

  “By all the gods,” Aeden whimpered, the wavering tip of his sword pointing at a group of pale shapes flitting between tree trunks. A moment later, the creatures vanished into forest.

  The three men stood mute, still as iced statues.

  “What—”

  “We must get back to camp,” Aeden said. “Come!”

  Chapter 18

  They ran to their horses, all looking in different directions for another glimpse of the elusive creatures. The forest revealed nothing. Eled sat his mount where they had left him.