James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

As the gap narrowed, he spied hump-backed figures harrying the wagons, firing arrows and throwing spears. The Maidens of the Lyre answered arrows with arrows, but the savage brutes were too eager to be driven off. Cries of alarm entwined with the gurgling screams of men dying with blood in their throats.

Rathe stretched his legs, feet flying over the uneven ground. He looked for Nesaea, but could not find her atop her galleon. In her place stood a man holding a beaked maul. The plainsman slammed the weapon against the false decking, shattering wood.

With a shout, Rathe hurled his sword like a dagger. Pommel and tip traded ends, throwing off glints of firelight, hissing as it cut air. The bestial man twisted aside at the last instant, allowing the sword to soar past his ear. Eyeing his new adversary, the figure leaped down with a roar and ran at Rathe.

The two crashed together. Stunned by the impact, Rathe went down, buckler soaring free of his arm. Dazed, he bounded to his feet, pawing for his dagger and looking for the vanished plainsman. Shadows danced beyond the fires, the Hilan men fell on other wildlings with clashes of steel, but of Nesaea’s attacker, there was no sign.

A noise alerted him a heartbeat before a stony fist slammed against his chin. Rathe reeled and fell. Before he could draw his dagger, his foe pounced, sending them into a rolling knot of flying fists and kicking feet.

Rathe came out on top, his fingers curled around a thick neck. Snarling, the plainsman drove his knees into Rathe’s chest, flinging him off. Rathe slammed against the ground, and an instant later the man’s smothering weight pressed down on his torso. The cloying odor of old sweat and rank meat poured off his assailant, stealing what little breath he had found. The ragged fingernails of one powerful hand throttled Rathe as the maul climbed above his face, the deadly iron beak poised for a killing blow.

Rathe lashed out, a desperate flailing that gained nothing. Fighting for breath, his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Nearly unconscious, Rathe wrenched his head to the side when the maul fell, and the murderous beak gouged deep into the ground. He thrust out his hands, fingers rigid. His thumbs found the man’s eyes and plunged deep, bursting the orbs.

Screeching like a fiend, the savage tried to scramble away, but Rathe held tight. Growling, he sank his thumbs deeper. The brute bounced his knees against Rathe’s chest, crushing the last of his breath and strength. The plainsman pulled free, leaving Rathe choking.

He rolled to his belly and tried to stand, but the blinded savage landed on his back. Shrieking curses in a harsh tongue, the plainsman dragged at Rathe’s hair, yanking his head back until his neck creaked, then brutally rammed his face against the ground. Blood fountained from Rathe’s nostrils, as his head was wrenched back again. Something popped in his neck, and a painful tingling spread over his shoulders and arms. Rathe gulped a last breath, his neck nearing the breaking point. He reached blindly over his shoulder, as the skin of his throat stretched taut and his windpipe closed. His fingers brushed the savage’s long beard … then fell back.

Sensing the weakness, the savage shifted. Hot, fetid breath tickled Rathe’s ear. “You take Uar’s eyes, but I eat your dead heart,” the man grated, each word spoken in a thick, barbaric accent. “Uar will feed your flesh to his children, little brown man. Before you die, Uar will make whores of your women.”

The imagery of that threat bored into Rathe’s mind, fueling him past overwhelming weakness to black savagery. His hand shot up, this time catching hold of the plainsman’s beard. He yanked with all his strength, and Uar’s weight disappeared.

Rathe staggered up and threw himself onto the man’s back before he could twist around. The next Rathe knew, he was flipping end for end. He struck on his head and shoulders, landing face-up, his shuddering limbs striving to do his will.

Uar stumbled toward him, arms outstretched and hands groping, his face a mask of blood and knotted black hair. Rathe’s breath rushed into his lungs, freeing his limbs from their terrifying paralysis. The toe of Uar’s hide boot struck Rathe’s leg. Grinning malevolently, the plainsman stooped, gnarled hands outstretched, forearms bunching under thick grime. Rathe drove his dagger into the man’s chest, stilling his heart, and Uar of the plainsmen fell away with a quivering smirk on his lips.

Rathe lay back on the ground, breathing deeply. Moans and the awful stink of brutal death fogged the night air. The sounds of battle, so loud before, were absent. The plainsmen, having tasted enough defeat, had fled.

“The Scorpion,” someone muttered. Then, louder, a yell of triumph. “The Scorpion!”

With shouts of, “Scorpion!” filling the camp, Rathe clambered to his feet, certain he suffered no broken bones, but bruised over every inch of his body. By the hot trickles of wetness coursing down his back, many of the scabbed stripes crisscrossing his skin had torn open. He smiled ruefully, thinking of his supply of the old healer’s revolting potion. If nothing else, a good dose of that concoction would help him sleep.

Before he worried overmuch about mending his hurts, he stumbled toward Nesaea’s wagon. Around him smiling, bloodied, dirty warriors continued to chant his namesake. He ignored them.

As he reached the wheeled galleon, Captain Treon materialized from the opposite direction. He alone of the small company looked untouched by the battle. Treon halted in his tracks, scowling at the whooping men. He glanced at Rathe, a look of pure hatred. “Seize him!”

The revelry cut off, replaced by confusion.

Vaguely aware of what was transpiring around him, Rathe focused on Nesaea’s wagon, which stood battered but whole … and far too quiet. He pushed aside his concerns, telling himself that she had locked herself away, and did not yet know the skirmish had ended.

“Damn you lot of goat-buggering fools,” Treon shouted. “Bind him!”

Men shuffled their feet, a few took reluctant steps forward.

Rathe kept going, too worried for Nesaea and too tired to care what the cowardly imbecile was raving about.

“Halt where you stand!” Treon bawled, his face purpling with rage, “or you will taste the lash!”

Rathe was reaching for the rosette under the winged leopard’s foot, when Treon issued the next command. “Put an arrow in him, or I will see that the headsman’s arms grow weary striking off your heads!”

The full import of Treon’s words fell on Rathe. He dropped his hand and turned. He stood weaponless, but he had killed men without steel before. “You dare stay my hand, Captain Treon,” he said, “when not a fleck of dust or blood mars your sword or uniform?” He had known such men, those who always managed to avoid battle, even when caught in the thick of it. Such cowards often hid behind their rank, using it to badger men into submission, rather than earning respect.

“I will have your hide flayed for this insolence,” Treon said in his rasping voice.

Upon hearing that the champion of the battle should receive such treatment or worse, a few men looked askance at each other … but not all, not by half. Such was a tyrant’s power, the ability to press a man to do what he knew in his heart was unrighteous.

“Crawl back to your nest, snake,” Rathe said, sweeping a hand over the arrayed men, “and leave be the true warriors in your ranks.”

Treon gaped.

Rathe turned the rosette. The hatch popped open, showing the same welcoming glow as before. It troubled him that Nesaea had not shown herself by now. He reached to ease open the hatch-

“Take him!” Treon ordered.