James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

Captain Treon and the rest of the soldiers looked around at the thunder of hooves. Before Treon uttered a word, Eled began screeching, “Strike camp! We must flee. Now! ”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Treon demanded.

“Shadenmok!” Aeden cried, provoking a few startled outbursts.

Treon glanced at Rathe, for once his gray gaze showing something different than anger or hate. Fear leaped within them. “What did you see?”

Rathe shrugged. “I know not what I saw,” he admitted, then described the creatures as best he could. “Perhaps it was mist, or a dark fancy conjured after seeing the dead huntsmen.” He did not quite believe that, but then, he did not want to believe the alternative. He had been frightened as a child by tales of fell creatures lurking within the black forests of the Gyntors, things that stole flesh and mortal souls with equal abandon. He did not wish for those stories to become reality.

“Are you sure you did not see bandits?” Treon asked, voice trembling.

Loro shook his head at the same time Aeden blurted, “It could not have been.”

Eled shivered. “I saw nothing.”

Treon regained some of his composure. “Probably a pack of wolves-”

An agonized shriek rose from the south, stilling the captain’s words. Another cry followed, and abruptly cut off. The soldiers scanned the woods, goggling eyes twitching back and forth.

“That was Alfan,” someone muttered. “He went out to hunt.”

“Fool’s been drinking again,” Treon said unconvincingly, “and is toying with us.”

“Or the Shadenmok hunts him,” Aeden blurted.

“We must organize a search,” Rathe said.

“No,” Treon countered. “I will not risk good men for a single, buggering fool with no more sense than a stone.”

“Then I will find him on my own,” Rathe said. He was not keen on locating the man who might have ravished his backside over a barrel, had he misstepped the day he arrived at Hilan, but Alfan was a soldier under his command, and a brother-in-arms until he proved differently. Moreover, now was an opportunity he had waited for in which to begin implementing his plan against Treon. All the better that the cause was just.

Treon sneered. “The Shadenmok is a race of she-devils that fill their wombs with the seed of dead men, then give birth to Hilyoth, their hunting hounds. You would challenge such a creature alone … in the coming dark?”

Behind that derisive expression, Rathe saw the face of pure cowardice. “If I must,” he said, praying to Ahnok that no such hellish creature actually existed … or if it did, he prayed for his god to lend him the strength to defeat it.

“I will join you,” Loro said. “There are torches in the wagons.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then, hesitantly, a handful of the Hilan men stepped forward, then more. None looked to Treon for permission or guidance. Instead, all eyes fell on Rathe. I am the whipped dog no more.

Not waiting for Treon to argue, Rathe squatted, drew his dagger, and stabbed the tip into the churned snow and mud at his feet. “We are here. Alfan is in this area. And here,” he said, scratching a deep groove, “is the road where we will form up, with no more than ten paces between each man. At my word, the line will beat the forest until we find Alfan … or whatever hunts him.”

He looked up, marking each face. “If we do not find him before our torches fail, the forest may become his tomb.”

Treon scanned the soldiers around him, and Rathe could see his mind trying to work out a response. If Treon refused to allow the search, he would lose more respect than he already had. Moreover, he had to know Rathe would go, whether granted leave to do so or not, and that act of defiance would further bolster his standing.

“Take half the men, lieutenant,” Treon snapped, his face reddening. “The others and myself will remain here-to guard camp, and build fires to ensure you find your way back.”

“I would expect nothing more from you,” Rathe drawled.

Before Treon could register the insult, Rathe called for every man to take up a torch. After the torches were lit, the soldiers hurried down the road. Rathe came last, and Breyon halted him with a touch.

“Your captain has it only part right,” he whispered, one muddy brown eye hidden by a fall of disheveled hair, snowmelt dripping off his crooked nose. “The Shadenmok … she has a taste for the seed of men, aye, but she will slaughter anything with the blood of life in its veins. In the last moon’s turn, six have been taken from Hilan, and only two were men. The rest were womenfolk.”

Rathe looked after the soldiers, the need to hurry hard upon him. “I have not heard this before. Are you sure your people did not wander off, get lost?”

Breyon shook his head slowly. “We searched, but Lord Sanouk and his pet viper will not trouble themselves with the cares of the village. We could have used the soldiers, but most are from Onareth. The villagers are of Hilan and the northern forests. We know these lands, but we found naught. Besides, those who vanished are not folk who would have left without word. Something took them.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Rathe asked.

Breyon cocked his head toward Treon. “Because you are the Scorpion . Even in Hilan, we have heard of you and your deeds. I hoped you would listen … hoped you would help, where others will not.”

Rathe shook his head. “I am not sure-”

“I am sure,” Breyon insisted, and clapped him on the shoulder. When Rathe nodded, he spun away without another word.

Rathe looked after the lanky woodsman a moment, then ran after the soldiers. The plan he had revealed to Loro had been to rise above Treon, show the man for the brutal coward he was and depose him, all without shedding a drop of blood. In that way, Treon would suffer a disgraced life, lose the authority he held most dear. He still meant to do those things. Yet Breyon’s plea for succor changed things, for it placed upon Rathe the responsibility that should have been held by Lord Sanouk. Should he lend himself to Breyon and the folk of Hilan, he would be treading upon dangerous ground. But how could he turn away from them?

Rathe pushed aside matters that did not need addressing at the moment, and caught up with the soldiers. The snowfall had increased, the sifting white beating back the shadow of dusk, even as it obscured visibility. He positioned the searchers, then moved to the midpoint in the line, between Loro and Aeden. Feet shuffled and wide eyes peered through the burry gray veil of falling snow. No one wanted to be the first to step away from the protection of the road.

“Begin!” Rathe called, motioning the men forward with his torch.

After little hesitation, the soldiers stepped off. To the last, each had drawn his sword. Inside of four paces, the forest engulfed the searchers. Twilight marched rapidly toward full dark under the gentle, hissing voice of drifting snow. Trees loomed, muting forest sounds.

“See anything?” Aeden called, sounding a short step from panic. He waved his torch overhead, peering into shadowy undergrowth.

Rathe shook his head.

Aeden pushed forward, slashing the brush with his sword. He gave a startled squawk and disappeared. Snow-topped bushes shook where he had been, and the sounds of struggle intensified. Rathe’s heart lurched into a gallop, his hand tightened on the sword hilt. He had taken his first step toward the fallen soldier when Aeden popped up, covered in snow and wet leaves.

“I fell,” he said, looking morosely at his extinguished torch.

A gurgling howl rose up, not twenty paces ahead.

“Alfan!” Aeden bellowed. “Where are you?”

Rathe stared through the whirling white. Something shifted under a leaning fir.