James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

Loro, covered in blood and bits of yellowish hide, thrust Rathe’s sword and dagger into his hands. “If we survive this-”

“We will survive,” Rathe said.

With a curse on the gods, Loro barreled back into the fight. Rathe chose out a horse still tacked, and vaulted into the saddle. He caught up the reins, slashed his sword through the lead rope, and wheeled the blowing steed to face the madness of the Hilyoth attack. As though breaking free of a thick skim of filthy ice, his mind fully embraced the unspeakable truth of the moment. We are all of us dead.

Inflamed by that certain knowledge, released from any burden of fear, he kicked his mount into a charge through the camp. The pain in his sword hand a distant nuisance, he swung the blade overhand into the leaping face of a Hilyoth.

Flashing steel ripped through its blunt snout and sank deep into its skull. The howling creature’s limbs quivered as it shook its severed head, threatening to tear Rathe’s sword from his grip. He kicked a foot free of the stirrup, slammed his boot into the blood-slicked face of the devil-hound, and wrenched the sword loose. Before the beast fell, Rathe had heeled his trumpeting horse into another charge.

As he fought back and forth through camp, Rathe shouted commands to the remaining Hilan men, even as Loro berated his fellows for stinking cowards. Those soldiers who had taken flight did not rejoin the battle. Those who had stayed behind, or had been too slow to depart, either decided to test their courage and fight, or decided they had no choice. In the end, all that mattered to Rathe was that he and Loro did not stand alone.

Whirling his mount for another attack, Rathe spied Treon cowering, ratlike, behind a wheel of a prisoner wagon. He did not have time to consider the man’s cowardice. Rathe booted the charger, sword raised, eyeing his next target-a hellish hound buried to its neck in the open belly of a supine Hilan man.

The horse reared, its front hooves smashing the beast’s face. His mount leaped forward as another creature of slick, hot skin struck Rathe from behind, driving his chest against the pommel. Talons furrowed his back, and drove a scream through his gritted teeth. Growling, spraying hot slaver over the side of his face, the Hilyoth sank its fangs into the junction between Rathe’s neck and shoulder. Before it could rip loose a mouthful of flesh, Rathe rammed his sword into the creature’s bulk. With a whining growl, it leaped away.

Rathe hugged his mount’s neck as it spun in tight circles. His mind reeled at the magnitude of carnage filling his eyes. In all directions, blood sprayed from torn necks in lurid arcs, severed limbs fell to spasm in the churned mud, savaged bellies spewed coiling entrails. Cries of dying men joined with the baying of the Hilyoth to make a dire song foretelling the battle’s outcome.

Somehow, Aeden was still on his feet, now wielding a sword in clumsy, hacking strokes at a pair of circling devil-hounds. One blow chopped across a hideous face, driving back the snarling beast. Aeden raised his sword to strike again, but the second Hilyoth fell on him before he could bring the weapon to bear, tearing at him with gnashing teeth and ripping claws.

His back and neck afire, Rathe raised his sword, and kicked his horse into a plunging gallop. Aeden’s eyes, wide with keen awareness, found Rathe’s desperate gaze. Before Rathe could ride near enough to help, the Hilyoth tore out Aeden’s throat. Howling fury, Rathe drove the horse on, its front hooves crushing the monstrous creature’s blood-slathered muzzle, its rear hooves smashing the Hilyoth against the ground.

As he tugged the reins to turn, a pale shape dropped from above and landed on his horse’s head. Rathe recoiled from the Shadenmok’s hateful black gaze. Squealing, the horse began bucking. With hooked nails, the Shadenmok dug into the horse’s flesh and screamed into Rathe’s face, spraying him with droplets of reeking wetness. The horse heaved and kicked in a frenzy of terror, throwing Rathe from the saddle. He slammed into a tree and fell headlong to the ground.

Mane of red hair flying, the Shadenmok scurried over the bucking horse, its stubby claws rending hide and meat. Its round mouth gaped wide around a gurgling screech, baring rows of spiked teeth, then its head flashed down against the horse’s neck. Quivering, eyes rolling, the steed bolted, only to fall after a few short leaps, scattering the few soldiers defending against a handful of circling Hilyoth. The Shadenmok flung itself clear, rolled, then raced back and thrust it face into the lurid fount pumping from the dying horse’s neck.

As Rathe struggled to his feet, Loro charged out the gloom, drenched in mud and blood. His axe whistled as it fell. The Shadenmok flinched away, but the axe slashed down across one withered breast and through the creature’s cocked leg. Its black eyes bulged and its pale white flesh rippled. It slashed a clawed hand at Loro, driving him back. Before he could settle his feet, the creature leaped clear.

Loro eyed the scrawny leg twitching in the mud, then roared a victorious battle cry. All at once the Shadenmok surged back from the darkness beyond the camp, bowling over the fat man. The creature, ungainly on one leg and two arms, rushed toward Rathe, a mad fury lighting its eyes.

Dropping into a crouch, Rathe raised his sword at the last instant. The Shadenmok’s gaze darted toward the blade, calculating. Before those eyes returned to his face, his opposite hand ripped his dagger across the creature’s belly. The Shadenmok screamed, clutching its middle, and Rathe swung his sword with all his remaining strength into the she-devil’s neck, ending its cry. The remaining Hilyoth turned as one to face the killer of their master.

Loro retrieved his axe and joined Rathe’s side against the now cautious devil-hounds. Four remained, eyes glaring with the same bestial cunning their dead master had shown. Behind the stalking creatures, the last of the soldiers gathered.

The closest Hilyoth sniffed at the headless corpse of the Shadenmok and raised its muzzle, growling.

“Doesn’t seem happy,” Loro panted.

Rathe took a deep breath. “No, it-”

The beast sprang. Rathe dodged to one side, sword flashing low to high. Steel gouged through the Hilyoth’s underbelly, disemboweling it.

Another Hilyoth leaped for Loro, battering aside his axe, and striking him on the chest. They went down, rolling in the muck. Loro’s thick fingers sank into the pallid skin of the devil-hound’s neck. Its jaws snapped shut an inch from his face, splintering a fang.

Before Rathe could help Loro, the last two charged, one behind the other. He lunged aside, striking the first Hilyoth’s back with an overhand blow as it swept past. His blade sank deep, severing its knobby spine. The other rammed him from behind, throwing Rathe into a forward roll. Twisting as he came up, he slammed his dagger past the Hilyoth’s teeth and into its throat. The creature bit down on his forearm-weakly, for a hand span of bloody steel thrust out from the base of its skull.

Loro came up bearing the other Hilyoth by its throat. Face to face, each with teeth bared and snarling, he throttled the creature. Its hind legs kicked madly, talons shredding the leather jerkin covering Loro’s belly. Cursing, Loro sank his teeth into the creature’s misshapen muzzle and tore loose a portion of its snout. The Hilyoth yowled, and Loro’s powerful hands strained, fingers sinking deep into its wrinkled yellow hide. Skin parted, muscle ripped, bone cracked, and the Hilyoth died with a shuddering whine. Loro hurled the monstrosity away, then swiped at his mouth with frantic hands.

“If I’d known you were so hungry,” Rathe said, extracting his dagger from the dead devil-hound at his feet, “I would have spared you some bread.”