James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

“As ready as I can be. Sanouk might not give me a chance to explain or bootlick. Far as I know, he might skip the part about walking fine lines and go straight to hacking off my manhood. After all, I did accuse his lackey of cowardice.”

“You also invited Treon to violate his bunghole with a flaming torch,” Loro chuckled. “Doubtless, battering the snake’s face will surely be frowned on.”

Rathe shrugged, feeling oddly optimistic about the whole affair. “I can only play the game as it unfolds.”

Outside the towering wall of the keep, they paused before two more guards, both as surly in countenance as the two at the Weeping Tower. Neither looked at Rathe or Loro, but one did deign to shove open the iron-banded wooden door. After they passed into the gloomy hall, the door slammed shut, blocking out the scant daylight.

The keep’s barrel-vaulted corridors of lifeless gray granite were only a touch warmer than outside. Of ornamentation, there was little. A tapestry here, dull armor and armament in a nook there, all lighted by guttering torches. For all the want of cheer and warmth, Rathe felt as though he were treading an ill-kept tomb. There were few servants going about menial tasks-cheerless old women and shy young girls, for the most. All wore the drab livery stitched with the ugly head of the Reaver.

“This way,” Loro advised, leading Rathe down a dank side corridor. “The keep, if you can call it that, was carved out of the mountain. Far as I saw, only Lord Sanouk’s chambers are exposed to the light of day.”

At the top of a broad stair ending at a door, Rathe and Loro halted before a third pair of impassive guards. After a tense moment, during which no one spoke or moved, Loro bristled. “Are you going to open the door for the legion commander of the king’s guard, or stand there like a couple of drooling fools?”

“Ain’t no legions here,” one drawled.

“Nor kings to guard,” the other sniggered. “Even if there was, all I see is Treon’s mangy dog.”

“Lord Sanouk is expecting him,” Loro said, fingering the hilt of his sword. “Open that door, or I will slice off your stones and stuff them up your bloody bunghole.”

“Who do you think you are?” the guard snarled, taking a step closer.

Loro laughed humorlessly. “I am the man your mother pleasured while your father was off buggering sheep and chickens.”

The guard lunged, dragging out his sword. “By all the gods-”

The door to Sanouk’s chambers flew open. “Enough!” Captain Treon bellowed.

The command froze the first guard, and the other pressed a fist to his heart in salute. Rathe and Loro followed suit, leaving the first guard fumbling to ram his blade into the scabbard.

Treon’s pallid stare fell on Rathe, and a thin smile touched his lips. “Enter … dog .”

Rathe steeled himself with a deep breath and strode into the stifling chamber. Loro stayed outside. After the door closed, Rathe half-expected some kind of commotion to ensue, but silence held as much beyond the door as within the chamber.

Clad in burnished mail and a black tabard emblazoned with the winged Reaver, his long white hair held back by a leather thong, Treon took up a position between Rathe and Lord Sanouk. The lord stood with his back turned, fingering a fan of parchments on his desk. Off to one side, logs heaped in the stone fireplace burned and crackled, driving back a chill that, as far as Rathe considered, had little to do with the weather.

Rathe saluted. “Your will is mine to do, milord.”

Treon scowled, perhaps having expected Rathe to attack the man, rather than show respect. Sanouk faced Rathe, and time slipped by a grain at a time under his impassive scrutiny.

Tall and lean in a green robe of fine wool, his idle fingers traced the curve of a jeweled amulet hanging from a thick silver chain about his neck. Rathe guessed women would find him handsome enough, would probably desire to run their fingers through his wavy, gray-shot locks. Of course, those affections might be reconsidered when they looked into the cold emptiness of his dark eyes.

“I was led to believe you would not be so amenable to anyone’s will, save your own,” Sanouk said at last.

Rathe bowed his head. “I must beg the forgiveness of Captain Treon,” he said, pleased that he had not faltered on words that would have choked him mere days before.

“Indeed?” Sanouk said, arching an intrigued eyebrow. Treon made a strange barking, retching sound in the back of his throat.

“As the former captain of the Ghosts of Ahnok and, for a far briefer time, the legion commander of the king’s guard, I found it difficult to adapt to the lowly station earned by my unpardonable actions against Lord Osaant.”

“A pity you have lost your ambition,” Sanouk said. “I have need of strong leaders in my ranks.”

“Milord?” Rathe stammered, even as Treon’s face reddened with angry disbelief. His eyes bulged, he made that terrible gagging sound again, but no words or protest were forthcoming.

Sanouk turned his cold stare on the captain. “Are you well, Treon?”

In answer, Captain Treon fell into a coughing fit.

Rathe shook his head and put on a dejected face. “I am unworthy to lead men any longer.”

“Nonsense,” Sanouk exclaimed. “All men under my authority stand guilty of one crime or another, and most are responsible for much worse than pleasuring the concubine of a puffed up lord who has far outlived his worth to the realm. As to killing a bastard … well, there are a great many bastards in the realm that need killing. For myself, I was accused of treason against the throne-by mine own blood. That betrayal was never proven, yet here I stand … a fallen prince.”

“My condolences for your father’s passing,” Rathe said, at a loss to say more in the face of Sanouk’s proclamation of innocence.

Sanouk shrugged. “All men must die. My father lived a worthy life … as counted by fools who make such judgments. But enough of that. We are discussing the future of the man who earned the name Scorpion .”

Trying desperately to maintain his ploy of a man beaten into submission, Rathe said, “I am that man no more.”

“Oh, I think you are,” Sanouk chuckled softly.

“My future is in your hands. You may call me as you will, and use me to whatever purpose you see fit. Again, your will is-”

“Is yours to do. Yes, of course,” Sanouk said, waving an indifferent hand. “As we both agree on that score, then it’s my will that you should gain the rank of lieutenant, and perform as first officer to my esteemed Captain Treon.”

Rathe could not believe what he was hearing. Where he had intended on the first steps of his plan taking months or longer to reach fruition, here Lord Sanouk had set him well on his path to destroying Treon in the only manner fit for such a cruel, arrogant fool.

“I must protest!” Treon blurted, the stubborn wad of phlegm lodged in his throat at last flying free. Sanouk glanced irritably at the mess glistening on the stone floor near his feet. Another inch, and it would have lit upon his boot. Treon did not notice his lord’s ire. “This wretched cur deserves death, not promotion! I cannot abide-”

Sanouk raised a finger, severing Treon’s tirade. “You can and will abide my wishes, unless you wish to apprentice with the master of hounds. It’s said Zarik enjoys the company of his hounds to men-or women, for that matter-but I am sure you two will get along splendidly.”

Treon fumed a moment more, then slammed his fist against his thin chest, making the winged Reaver on his tabard flutter. “As you command. Lieutenant Rathe is now my first officer. I will take him under my wing, train him to your standards.”