James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

“Good idea. I will stay here and keep an eye on our sulking brothers,” Loro said with a sympathetic grin.

As Rathe reached Treon, a woman riding sidesaddle topped the rise ahead and drew near before halting. Her horse, pale as morning mist, had a regal bearing and fine lines. Rathe had seen a thousand such horses. He had not seen a thousand such women. A breeze played with her emerald green riding cloak, showing the silken folds of a pale yellow gown clinging to a figure that dried Rathe’s tongue. She noted his appraisal, and returned the favor with a lingering glance of her own.

He told himself to look away, but neither his eyes nor his head obeyed. What finally convinced him of his folly was a vision of Lisana as she had died. She had betrayed him, but he found it difficult to hold her to account, as she had been deceived herself.

“I am Lady Nesaea,” the newcomer said to Captain Treon. Sable ringlets tumbled over one shoulder, looking freshly washed and glowing in the sunlight. “In trade for your protection on our way north to the Shadow Road, the Maidens of the Lyre will gladly provide your gallant men our services.”

Nesaea glanced from Captain Treon to the other soldiers, her eyes so deeply blue as to look violet. When her gaze fell again on Rathe, she offered a smile seemingly meant for him alone, and he knew trouble had found him once more.

In his whispering rasp, looking as if he had stumbled across a hidden chest of gold, Captain Treon readily agreed to Lady Nesaea’s proposition. Rathe noted the man’s eagerness, though he did not share it. A pretty face, Rathe accepted, was one of those weaknesses Commander Rhonaag had mentioned. If he would have any sort of meaningful life, Rathe knew he would need to put his head down, follow orders, and behave as a green recruit eager to serve.

He told himself that and more, but when Nesaea wheeled her mount and rode back to her companions, Rathe could not look away from the curves of her figure nestled in the saddle, nor forget the enchanting expressiveness of her eyes. I am a man cursed, he thought without humor.

Within the hour, without slowing the march, the Maidens of the Lyre had merged their caravan with the column of soldiers. For the first time since setting out from Onareth, the Hilan men rode with something more than bland indifference to the world around them, and the outcasts shed some of their misery. Music and song helped, rising from the backs of a score of wagons that bore the look of broad-bellied ships, all painted gaily. The melodies were pleasant, but the beauty of the singers made the soldiers sit straighter in their saddles. Some even attempted to wipe off the dust coating their mail.

Captain Treon seemed to suffer their presence, but Rathe noted that he took a keen if furtive interest in Lady Nesaea. For her part, she returned his glances with coy looks of her own. A dagger of jealousy prodded Rathe’s heart, but he pushed it aside. If she would rather have a filthy snake for company of an evening, then so be it.

When Treon called a halt for the night a full two hours before they had ever made camp before, the Maidens of the Lyre wheeled their mule-drawn wagons into a broad circle.

“Well,” Loro said appreciatively, dismounting with a weary grunt, “they are not fools.”

“Because they know how to defend themselves does not make them wise,” Rathe countered, dropping his saddle next to a bush where he had chosen to sleep. “It’s known that brigands and plainsmen rule these lands, yet this Lady Nesaea saw fit to bring her troupe here? If that’s not a fool’s errand, I don’t know what is.”

“Gods, man,” Loro snorted, “did a spider nest in your breechclout, or are you in love?”

Rathe cursed the man for a dolt and stalked away, leading his mount to the picket line.

Some hours after setting camp, Rathe stood alone in the darkness beyond the company’s firelight and jubilant noise. After a fine meal prepared and served by the Maidens of the Lyre, Lady Nesaea herself had spun the heroic tale of Alendar the Valorous and His Ten Thousand, an old story about a great king battling evil men and the gods they served. With the deft weaving of a skilled bard, she had managed to subtly link the tale of Alendar to Captain Treon, of all things ridiculous.

Afterward music, merriment, and dancing ensued. It had been going on for hours, and while the liveliness offered a pleasant distraction from the normal routine of eating goat soup and lintels before posting the night’s watch, Rathe had listened and watched enough. His body ached head to toe, his wounds itched with healing, and he wanted for sleep.

A soft tinkling turned his head. Lady Nesaea glided near, and his tongue withered anew at sight of her. Now she wore only a few swaths of cream silk and a girdle of small medallions that accentuated her figure to a startling degree.

“Do you find our entertainment objectionable?” she asked with a hint of smile.

“Not at all,” Rathe answered gruffly, unsure how he should proceed. Before Lisana, such had never been a question he entertained. Now all had changed. He decided sternness would suffice, but keeping his eyes to himself proved difficult.

Nesaea casually settled a hand on his arm. He let it stay, drawing the scent of her perfume into his nose. “Perhaps you found my dancing disagreeable?”

“It was splendid,” Rathe said, trying not to think of the way she had leaped and swayed to the rhythmic thrumming of zither and the beat of tambour. He had never seen the like, even from the dancing girls of Trem.

Nesaea looked out into the night. “Then why did you leave?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

Rathe took a deep breath and answered honestly. “It was the allure of a beautiful woman that set me on the path of the banished. If I want to live to long enough to see gray in my hair, reforming my character is the wiser choice.” The sentiment was pure, but holding to it was another matter. He felt Nesaea’s pull on his will, and feared he would not be able to resist.

Nesaea seemed to dismiss his subtle praise of her attractiveness. “So it is true: a set of pretty eyes brought low the Scorpion of the Ghosts of Ahnok,” she mused. “And now he fears all women? I assure you, hearts will break at word of that.”

“My former commander would say my downfall came from an inner weaknesses, not Lisana. I must agree.” Rathe found Nesaea looking into his eyes. She was taller than he had guessed, barely a hand shorter than him. Her full lips parted in a wide grin, mere inches from his own.

“I might ask how you recognized me?” he said, knowing full well how she had known his face. Do not wait for an answer. Tell her you need your rest. Flee now, while you still can.

He did not budge.

Nesaea looked into his eyes, her own gaze steady. “It’s the rarest hermit who does not know the face and exploits of the Champion of Cerrikoth,” she said. “For everyone else, the Scorpion is a figure of countless legends, many of which my companions have been known to spin, especially for our female audiences.”

“Did you intend to seduce me this night?” he asked bluntly, and tried to ignore the tingle of arousal he felt at her nearness. Perhaps he did have a weakness for beautiful women, but having fallen as far as a man could, what did it matter now?

When she laughed, she deftly hooked a hand under his arm, and began caressing his shoulder with the other. “In light of what you said, the art of seduction is wasted, as you have apparently foresworn your ‘inner weaknesses.’ I’d rather know why men of war are so easily charmed by a pair of pretty eyes?”

Rathe shrugged, his skin heating at her touch. “Carousing can bury the horrors soldiers see and feel on battlefields. What I know for certain is that after a man kills another, he must seek out life and light and joy in order to steal away the taint of death from his soul, before it sinks too deep. Women, more than wine or revelry, provide the only lasting escape to such a man.”