James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

Rathe recalled the night Treon had come from the darkness beyond Nesaea’s wagon to accuse him of colluding with the escapees. Rathe had no doubt that Treon had not only known they were alive, but guessed the man had sent them ahead…. But why the deceit? Treon surely knew that Rathe would eventually discover the men’s whereabouts, and in doing so would know he had been wrongly punished.

The answer came slowly, and with it Rathe’s mind became a cesspit of vengeful thoughts. Treon must have intended the discovery to be a final blow to his willfulness, a stark reminder that he was the Scorpion no longer, was nothing at all, save a slave to the whims of his master.

Rather than wild fury, peace fell over Rathe. Having Treon single him out marked him as the man Treon considered the greatest potential threat to the continued obedience to Hilan’s garrison. And a threat I will be, he thought, an idea of revenge taking shape in his mind that was not so much murderous as malevolent….

Rathe slept soundly that night in the litter of straw, and started awake at the rattle of a key. Loro flung open the door and bustled in carrying an armload of firewood, a large sack, and a plump waterskin. Seeing the fire had burned down to ashes, he built it back up. Only then did he turn, the sack dangling from his fist.

“Seems your master has decided to feed you after all. I think he sent me, in case you had it in your mind to bite him.”

“You have brought a feast,” Rathe said, feeling refreshed.

“A wedge of sour cheese, a heel of molded bread, and a skin of water is no feast,” Loro grumped. “The clothing, however, should suit you.”

Rathe considered Loro. “Was it you who brought me food and water on the road to Hilan?”

Loro looked surprised. “Had I gone so far, I would have cut your bonds. Seems you have an admirer or two amongst these Hilan dogs.”

With that knowledge, Rathe’s plan of bringing Treon low firmed in his mind.

Loro upended the bucket to use as a small table, and spread out the food while Rathe dressed in tunic, jerkin, and leather trousers. Most surprising was the new pair of boots, which fit his feet as if made for him.

Rathe picked up the cheese in one hand, the bread in the other, and took alternating bites from each. Between mouthfuls, long gulps from the waterskin washed it all down. He intended to get well as soon as possible. There were scores to settle, and he would need his strength.

While he ate, Loro sat cross-legged on the floor, his belly bulging over his wide belt like a small boulder.

“You are too kind,” Rathe said when he finished eating, and wiped crumbs from his chin.

“And you are so full of sheep flop, it’s dribbling out your mouth.” Rathe looked a question at him. Loro threw his hands up in exasperation. “Do you intend to suffer that snake’s abuses until he kills you, or do you mean to put that stump-buggering fool in his place? Say the word- I beg you -and I will sheath a dagger in his scrawny throat.”

Rathe sat across from Loro with a sigh. While he had indeed made up his mind, he did not want to tangle Loro in his troubles. The problem was, Loro was the rare type of man who, after tying himself to another, would fight and die with him, even if doing so proved to be wrongheaded. Only the harshest betrayals would turn his loyalties, and Rathe was not the betraying sort. The other problem was that he would need Loro’s backing when the time came. For the sake of his conscience, he had to make Loro understand the consequences.

“We are outcasts already,” Rathe began. “If we misstep here, our lives are forfeit. Even if we escape, we will be hunted until we are found, then drawn and quartered. Our other choice is to settle in, make our place here, and serve like honorable soldiers.”

Loro snorted in disgust. “I have never settled for anything I did not want, and I will not make a habit of it at this godforsaken heap of stone. Better to live as a brigand, even a beggar, than chained.”

Rathe nodded grimly. “Then we are of the same mind.”

Loro jumped up, a roguish glint in his eyes. As he reached the door, Rathe asked, “Where are you going?”

“We will need supplies, weapons. And do we climb the wall, or bribe someone to open a postern? These things and more need tending. Sooner done, the better.”

“Plan as you will,” Rathe said slowly, “but I am not leaving until I settle my debt with Treon. I could almost forgive him the abuses, but not the lie that earned me those abuses.”

“So you saw them too?” Loro asked.

“If you mean our five brothers from Onareth, yes.”

Loro considered that. “Better to escape first, then plan your revenge. Doubtless Treon leads patrols on occasion. When he does, we will be waiting and watching, and can feather his skinny shanks before he can hiss a word.”

“Perhaps,” Rathe allowed, liking the idea of firing an arrow through the serpent’s conniving heart. But he had something else in mind altogether, something that would destroy the man’s spirit, as Treon had tried to do to him. Vengeance was not in his nature, but justice was.

Loro listened while Rathe spoke, enjoying the ends, but not the means. “It will be difficult, and is unlikely to work as you hope,” he advised.

Rathe shrugged. “That’s my plan. You can join me or not, but I intend to carry it out. If it doesn’t work … well, then I suppose we will just have to ‘feather his skinny shanks.’ “

Loro nodded. “Your scheme is devious and beautiful, and properly sinister, but were I standing in your hide, I’d not be able to do it. A man has his pride. To lose it, even as a farce, is no small thing.”

“No,” Rathe said grimly, wondering if he could do that which he had proposed, “it’s not.”

At dawn of the sixth day in the Weeping Tower, pounding on the door woke Rathe. As Loro clumped in bearing two large buckets of water, Rathe sat up with straw in his hair.

“Lord Sanouk commands your presence,” Loro said in a grave tone. He hefted the water buckets. “These are for cleaning.”

“So you have seen him?” Rathe asked, as he set to washing away many days of dirt and old blood. The water was cold, the washcloth rough, but a bath had never felt so fine.

“Aye, me and the other outcasts met with him … together . Seems we are as much the wayward curs as you. Until told otherwise, we are to walk a thin line. Step left or right, and he will have off our cocks. Blunder again, we lose our heads.”

“Threats aside, what do you make of him?” Rathe asked, drying himself with his blanket.

“He’s an arrogant whoreson, like any highborn.”

After dressing, Rathe gulped a mouthful of the potion given him by the healer in Onareth. It had taken some doing, but the brew was about gone. Along with rest and food, it had done its work to heal his wounds.

He stalked out of the chamber ahead of Loro. The worn stairs spiraled down, and Rathe trailed his fingers on the graystone wall to keep his balance. He felt much better than the day he had arrived, but stiffness still troubled more of his flesh than not.

At the tower’s base, two guards bearing halberds cowered against an icy wind in the lee of a curving buttress. Rathe nodded in greeting. They responded with silence and squinty eyes, as if he were something foul smeared on the bottom of their boots.

Rathe strode out, stretching his legs. Clouds obscured the sun, casting the world in mourning garments of gray and black.

“Are you prepared?” Loro asked.

Rathe glanced a question at him, absently wondering how high summer could be so damnably cold.

“Your plan,” Loro elaborated, “calls for a fair measure of bootlicking. Are you ready for that, Scorpion?”