James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

“Are you thinking what I am?” Loro muttered, eyeing the ten-foot palisade surrounding Valdar. Four weathered wooden towers rose at the corners of the pathetic wall, stark against the clear morning sky, each with a pair of archers standing watch.

“Yes,” Rathe answered, “if you are thinking that a mining village nestled within the wilds of the Gyntors, with the constant threat of marauding brigands, hunting Shadenmok, and gods alone know what other creatures lurking about in the forest, should have heavier fortifications.”

“This would barely hold off a pack of starving urchins. A modest siege engine would bring the wall down in a quarter turn of the glass.”

“You are right,” Aeden said, riding up next to them.

“So what keeps dangers at bay?” Rathe asked, genuinely curious.

Aeden pointed to the winged Reaver banner at the head of the column. The same banners hung from the watchtowers. “Once, that banner meant nothing. Then Lord Sanouk came to Hilan.”

“Why should a fallen prince matter to bandits, let alone a hunting Shadenmok?”

At the mention of that hellish creature, Aeden paled. “Shadenmok attack those who are alone or are in small groups, but never a village … at least, not usually. As for bandits, Lord Sanouk did not come to Hilan a broken outcast, like the rest of us. He came with fire and authority. He came to rule as would a king of a troubled realm.”

“Not much of a kingdom,” Loro snorted. Aeden continued as if he had not spoken.

“After arriving, Lord Sanouk led a company of Hilan men on the hunt for lawbreakers and the like. In less than a fortnight, he had captured three dozen of the most notorious brigands and smugglers, and ordered them impaled outside the gates of Hilan, Valdar, Noerith to the west, and more along the Shadow Road to the south. On the pole below each man, he wrote a warning in blood that the same would happen to all who flouted his laws.”

“Still,” Loro said, “brigands are not known for heeding threats or laws-that’s what makes them brigands.”

Aeden shrugged. “There’s only one obligation any lord of Hilan must do to avoid the king’s ire-help fill the king’s coffers. None have done a finer job of it than Lord Sanouk.” Despite his words, there was no note of praise in Aeden’s voice.

“That answers nothing,” Rathe said.

Aeden cast his gaze left and right, then lowered his voice to a hush barely heard over the horses’ hooves and the wagons’ rattles. “He allows bandits to raid a select few caravans passing through his holdings. Should that same band make the mistake of touching any shipments of ore bound for Cerrikoth they, and anyone they are suspected of associating with, are hunted down and taught that having a spike thrust up through your bowels is an easy death. In the end, Sanouk gets what he wants, as do the rogues.”

Loro shook his head. “Sounds like the bandits are getting shorted.”

“Mayhap they are,” Aeden allowed, “but they keep their lives and gain rewards, all without fear of Lord Sanouk’s wrath.”

“I wonder,” Rathe said, “does Sanouk receive a share from those raided caravans?”

Aeden shrugged. “I would expect so.”

Rathe was of the mind that Sanouk was more calculating than he had imagined. Making such a pact with brigands allowed Lord Sanouk to gain a favorable reputation both in the north and in the king’s court. All the while his brother, the foppish King Nabar, was seen as a weak and ineffectual leader unworthy to sit his father’s throne. One way or another, Rathe considered, Lord Sanouk might yet win his crown. The question was, did he have such aspirations? While he had been cast out from Onareth for plotting to seize reign from his brother, it had never been proven.

As the last riders of the company rode into the broad, frosted clearing surrounding Valdar, a single blast of a ram’s horn alerted the village to the newcomers.

“I suppose I should do my duty,” Rathe said, and kicked his mount into a canter to the head of the company. Aeden joined him, but Loro stayed behind.

Captain Treon eyed Rathe when he came abreast. “You will keep your mouth shut, lieutenant. I will deal with Mitros.”

“Of course,” Rathe answered. The command suited him, for it made observation all the easier. As before, it struck him odd that a cohort of traitors might reside in Valdar. To what purpose would civilized men have in treating with plainsmen?

Before they reached the gates, Mitros, the village reeve, strode out through a postern gate, braced by two men-at-arms wearing grimy tabards embroidered with the image of the Reaver upon their chests. As the voice of Lord Sanouk’s authority in the village, Mitros wore his badge of station as poorly as his men. Grubby furs and dark leathers covered his corpulence from throat to toe.

“Treon,” he called with mock joviality, whiskered jowls florid from the chill air. He held a flagon in one wine-stained fist, though it was morning. “Come to collect the rubbish of Valdar, have you?” A clump of straw fell from his thin black hair when he laughed.

“Have you been bedding swine again, Mitros?” Treon said with a disapproving sneer.

“As ever,” Mitros said, the smile on his lips belying the glassy anger in his eyes, “your wit unmans me. As it happens, I was interrogating one of the prisoners. Seems she disliked my methods, and put a boot to my stones.”

“She?” Rathe said, startled. It was hard enough to imagine any man fool enough to deal with the plainsmen, but a woman was unheard of.

“Aye,” Mitros answered, rounding on Rathe. His eyes, dark and bloodshot, narrowed. “I know you from somewhere … or have heard spoken your likeness.”

Rathe did not bother to explain who he was, so Treon filled the silence. “This is the Scorpion of Cerrikoth,” he snickered, “now bereft of his stinger.”

“You are the one who bedded that highborn’s concubine!” Mitros said, bellowing roguish laughter. “By all the gods, you are either more foolish than you look, or have a pair of stones the size of my fists!”

Rathe smiled thinly.

“Take me to these prisoners,” Treon said. “Once loaded into the wagons, we will depart. Too long was the journey here, what with all that damnable snow and flooding streams.”

“So soon?” Mitros drawled. “Surely after coming so far you will let me feast you? What can one night hurt? Of course, if it’s not a feast you want, the tavern has the finest ales in the north … and I encourage the serving wenches to gladly trade their wares for coin.” He looked down the line and raised his voice. “What say you, men of Hilan? Would you rather not remain in Valdar this day and night, and taste the bounty of the north?”

A cheering roar erupted from the company. Rathe never looked away from Mitros. He is not so much the steward of Valdar, but a whoremonger.

Treon thought briefly about the offer. “Very well,” he said, eliciting a cry of approval. “We leave on the morrow. Be forewarned, any man not armed and ready for duty will suffer.”

Rathe let the eager shouts wash over him, eyeing Mitros and his men, the dilapidated fortifications, and wondering just what he would find within the village.

“Four women and a pair of codgers,” Loro mused, sipping ale from a wooden mug. “That dark-haired wench seems feisty, to be sure, but the rest are addled. Hard to believe anyone, especially the plainsmen, would strike a bargain with such a motley group.”

Rathe propped his elbows on the aged bar and leaned in close, raising his voice above the raucous merriment stirring the tavern’s rafters. “I am going to talk with the prisoners.”