James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

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?

“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!”