James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

“To the Abyss with you,” Loro snarled, running the back of his hand over his lips. “All that aside, Hilyoth do not taste that bad.”

They laughed, long and loud, wounded and battered, but alive. It was more than Rathe could have hoped. The Hilan men looked on with stunned expressions, or knelt beside fallen companions.

Treon crawled from under the wagon. Besides some mud smeared over his chest, he might not have been anywhere near a battle. “You there, Remon, get my men back here on the instant. I want this traitorous dog back in his cage,” he hissed, pointing at Rathe.

Friend to poor buggering Alfan, presumably the first soldier taken by the Shadenmok days before, Remon studied Captain Treon, the scattered dead, the wounded. “Captain, Rathe killed the Shadenmok. He saved us-”

“Shut your festering hole and obey me!”

The lean-faced soldier looked to his brothers, each bloodied and disbelieving, then glanced at Rathe, indecision warring in his eyes. Though Remon did not want to, Rathe feared he would do as commanded.

“You cannot stand for this madness,” Loro said, leaning in close to Rathe’s ear. “It’s time to leave. I will stand with you, but we need to go now.”

Rathe sighed. Treon was a hateful fool with a passion to see him dead or chained, and of course Lord Sanouk would side with his pet snake, no matter how many supporters Rathe had amongst the Hilan men. Upon returning to the fortress, any chance of taking his freedom in hand would disappear. Yet, to escape the headsman’s axe, he would have to fight the survivors of the Shadenmok attack. Still, he did not mean to be taken prisoner, which meant more men would die this night.

As he prepared to attack, his searching eyes wandered to the cage he had so recently escaped. His heart froze. The barred door to the wagon stood open. Erryn was gone.

A quick search revealed Erryn was not among the dead or wounded. As well, the second wagon’s lock had been broken, and all the prisoners were gone, suggesting she had freed them and fled. Does Treon know? Rathe imagined the captain might not. Any man who would cower behind a wagon wheel, while others fought and died for him, was doubtless ruled by a fear so great that he had missed all else going on around him.

Rathe almost cursed Erryn’s imprudence, but reconsidered. She had run the moment she was able. As I should have done. He glanced at Treon, who glared at Remon, and decided to buy Erryn and her fellows a bit more time.

“If you want to cage me, Treon,” he called, “you will have to do it yourself.”

Treon turned slowly, lips moving without sound, pale face going red with fury.

“Did you take a blow to the head?” Loro murmured.

“Erryn and the others escaped,” Rathe whispered from the side of his mouth. “I need to make sure she gets as far away as she can. Besides, these men will heed Treon … unless I kill him, here and now.”

“Before you make the attempt,” Loro said, gaze darting to the blood oozing over Rathe’s boot, “you might want a little more life in your veins.”

“You will need to flee,” Rathe continued, having barely heard Loro’s concern.

“You are mad,” Loro said.

“Seize him!” Treon bawled.

No one moved, save a foursome of soldiers creeping out of the forest trailed by Carul, the second wagon driver. There was no sign of Breyon among the dead or the living. Rathe supposed he might have fled with Erryn, or fallen in the forest beyond the camp. Dismayed, the newcomers took in the charnel scene littered with their friends, dead Hilyoth, and the Shadenmok.

Remon turned back to Captain Treon. “I cannot- I will not -allow this man to be bound. Not after what he did for us.”

“You will obey,” Treon hissed, his gray eyes flickering from face to face, pale lips twitching with unease.

Remon raised his chin in a defiant jut and addressed his fellows. “The Scorpion could have run, but he fought and killed the Shadenmok. He chanced his life, when half our number ran into the trees, and-” he stabbed a finger at Treon’s face “-while this craven pile cowered under a wagon. The rest of you choose as you will, and let gods and demons judge your souls. For me, I stand with the Scorpion!”

A few agreeable mutters met this.

“The Scorpion!” Remon bellowed. “The Scorpion and the Reavers! Stand with me, here and-”

A foot of sharp steel ripped through Remon’s sternum, ending his defiant shout. Before anyone fully registered what had happened, Treon gave his sword a brutal twist, cracking bone, forcing Remon up on his tiptoes. The soldier shuddered, and his eyes rolled to show the whites.

A reckless fury burst to life in Rathe’s chest at the cowardly, senseless murder, and his fist clenched hard on the hilt of his sword, and he made to step forward.

Loro dropped a restraining hand on his arm. “That might have been his undoing,” he advised, but Rathe did not believe it.

Treon shoved Remon away, wrenching his blade free as the man toppled into the mud. “The rest of you gabbling idiots can join Remon,” he announced, bloody sword held before his eyes, inspecting its edge, “or you can bind this traitor. The choice is yours.”

Unspoken words seemed to pass between the Hilan men. A dozen against one . Rathe could almost hear them weighing the odds, but he knew their decision, and the why of it, before the first man drew his sword. As he had surmised before, these men had used up their chances through whatever crimes had sent them to Hilan. To stand against Treon would earn them a hunted, miserable life.

Twelve men edged toward Rathe and Loro, all refusing to lock eyes with their quarry, mouths turned down in regret. Rathe sighed. Unless fortune favored him, he would never get to Treon, let alone kill him. I will make my own luck, he thought.

From the corner of his mouth, Rathe said, “I have to distract these fellows so Erryn can flee deeper in to the forest.”

“Were I you, I’d worry less about Erryn,” Loro muttered, “and more about myself. End up back in that cage, and you are lost.”

“Do what I tell you, and there will be no cage to ride in,” Rathe said. “If I live, I expect you to free me between here and Hilan.”

“How am I supposed to manage that?” Loro sputtered.

“You will,” Rathe said, “or mine will be a crow-picked head on a spike above Hilan’s walls.”

“But-”

“Before you go, fire the wagons, and scatter as many horses as you can. Treon will not want to recapture the prisoners without a means to get them back to Hilan.”

“You witless fool,” Loro said, as Rathe dashed forward.

Taken off guard by his unexpected charge, the Hilan men stared as he swept around them, bearing down on a gawking Treon. Rathe struggled to free his sword from its scabbard, and his movements told him he had miscalculated his ability to fight. He had lost much blood, and with it his strength. The sword weighed down his arm, his feet clumped rather than danced. Gritting his teeth, opening himself to blind rage fueled by the need to see Erryn safely away, he pressed on, swinging the sword in a sidearm strike at Treon’s throat.

The captain scampered back, just deflecting the blow. Steel rang out as Rathe stumbled past. He whirled, nearly lost his footing, and parried Treon’s deft thrust. Then another, and another, until he was in full retreat.

Rathe stumbled away from Treon’s attacks, worried more than ever. Coward though he was, Captain Treon knew swordplay. At his best, Rathe judged that he might have held his own against Treon, but it would have been a close thing. Now, his back torn, shoulder and neck ravaged by the Hilyoth, weakened from his beating in Valdar a few days before, the odds were stacked against him.