James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

The thought turned Sanouk’s bowels to water. His concern was not for Treon, or any threat Mitros might pose, but rather that without prisoners from Valdar to offer Gathul, the god’s insatiable hunger would turn on him. “… unless you would rather slake my hungers with the meat of your own soul?” so Gathul had asked of him.

It had been no question, rather a threat of a fate worse than any endured by his sacrifices, who lived on in their tombs under the fortress, suffering the pangs of various deaths, but undying. In his heart, Sanouk understood that Gathul would destroy his body, but that his soul would linger in eternal agony, a toy for the cruel god.

He glanced at a passing soldier carrying a spear slanted across his chest. Any sacrifice would do. Sanouk shook the thought away. He could not very well offer up his men … at least not yet. There was still some small time, a day, perhaps two, before Gathul grew restless. In truth, he did not know. I must hurry.

Sanouk scanned the village, filled with slovenly wretches with no real purpose in existing save to serve him. For now, he needed but one. But who would garner the least resistance?

A long thin face bearing the ravages of a childhood pox showed itself in his mind, dull muddy eyes, hanks of greasy gray hair. The master of hounds … Zarik . Yes, he would do.

An accusation of treason or thievery would suffice to place him in Sanouk’s custody without worry of protest. No one, even among the villagers, loved Zarik. The man’s sacrifice would purchase Sanouk another few days to find more offerings … unless, that was, Gathul once again changed their agreement. Already, what had been a month between sacrifices had become a fortnight, had become a meager handful of days. And what if it comes to pass that the demon demands multiple sacrifices in a single day?

Sanouk told himself that would never happen, for such a demand would lead to his inability to provide the sustenance the god desired. Another question rose up, one that had started him from a deep sleep some nights past. Needs aside, what of Gathul’s deeper cravings?

When first considered, he had convinced himself that Gathul wanted nothing more than the occasional offering in return for his rewards. Since then, the idea had begun to trouble Sanouk that Gathul considered the sacrifices appetizing morsels, but actually desired to glut upon the flesh of just one soul-that of his servant and conjurer-even if that feeding locked the god within his realm for another long age.

Sanouk swallowed, his mouth and throat dry as bones bleached white under the desert sun. The unholy words he had used to summon the god, also bound him to Gathul. Agreements could be met between the god and the summoner, Undai had told Sanouk, but never coerced. And I agreed to every word Gathul has suggested.

Sanouk swallowed again, almost gagging on a sudden wave of terror. Had Gathul been manipulating him all along, pressing him to accept more and more difficult measures … measures that if not met assured that the final, most sought after sacrifice, would be his own?

“What’s that?”

The whispered question intruded upon Sanouk’s terrorized considerations. Two soldiers stood nearby, pointing. Following their fingers, Sanouk detected stealthy movement within the wooded murkiness west of the village, where the forest grew closest to the wooden palisade. With movement came sounds, ponderous groans and creaks.

“Siege engines,” someone gasped.

Sanouk frowned, denying what his eyes showed him. No force had dared attack the fortress of Hilan in generations. Denial or not, a dozen or more wheeled ballistae and mangonels trundled from the edge of the forest toward the village. The warriors pushing the light weapons wore raiment out of a bard’s tale, all of bright colors and burnished helms. No banners led their advance, and the distance was too great to make out the devices on the glimmering breastplates worn by the assaulting force.

Instead of panic spreading through the village, the western gate scraped open, disgorging a stream of folk to surge toward the rolling weaponry, all cheering like a band of lackwits. After a brief consultation with the garishly clad soldiers, the villagers lent their strength to pushing the siege weapons. Those who had remained in the village began dousing the bonfires, torches, and all else that provided light within the village’s walls. In moments, the cleared land beyond the fortress lay under the blanket of night. The sounds of wooden wheels clattering nearer mingled with the chant of, “ Heave! Heave! Heave! ”

“They mean to attack the keep!” a soldier cried in disbelief.

Sanouk turned his mind to the dusty chambers below the keep, where waited throwing arms, wheels, and all else needed to construct a half dozen catapults. Years and termites had rendered them unusable, long before he had found himself the Lord of Hilan. The curtain wall had once supported hoardings from which soldiers could drop stones or pour boiling oil, but like the catapults, they had long since been deemed unnecessary and dismantled. That left the curtain wall itself, and the dry moat filled with slanting wooden spikes and barbed caltrops.

“Duras!” Sanouk called to the sergeant serving in Treon’s stead.

The old soldier, who had lost and eye and half his nose in some bygone skirmish, trotted near. “We are under attack, milord!”

“I know that, you imbecile! I want archers placed-”

The thunder of hooves crossing the drawbridge cut off his command. The drawbridge!

Sanouk peered down, fearing a column of cavalry had come upon the fortress unawares. Instead he found a small cluster of riders. Has the enemy sent a representative to treat with me?

“Open the gates,” Captain Treon called out.

“Let him pass!” Sanouk shouted.

He wheeled and ran, all thoughts of the defending the fortress pushed to the back of his mind. He was standing before the gatehouse, surrounded by torch-bearing soldiers, before it struck him that Treon had returned without the prisoner wagons, and his company was half the size it should be.

“Milord,” Treon said, climbing out of the saddle, “I fear that-”

“Where are the prisoners?” Sanouk demanded, heart fluttering in his chest. If he had no sacrifices to offer Gathul, his life was forfeit.

“We were set upon by a Shadenmok and her hounds.”

“Where are the prisoners!” Sanouk shrieked. A Shadenmok attack might have merit at any other time, but not now. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel the stirrings of a presence rising up from the stones underfoot and caressing his skin. And was that the cold, dead breath of the god in his ear? Sanouk felt clamped inside a great, invisible fist. His inner thoughts, usually cool and calculating, began to gibber. Someone, any soldier or servant, must soon be offered up!

“During the battle-” Treon faltered, then regained his composure “-they escaped.”

“Escaped?” Sanouk blurted, thrusting his nose against Treon’s, forcing the man to step back. “I warned you how vital these prisoners were. That you have failed means only one thing!”

Treon stepped back farther, shaking his head. “No. Not me. Take him -take Rathe! He freed the prisoners, then set upon me!”

Sanouk took in the hooded figure bound to the saddle, and the uncomfortable shifting from the other soldiers at Treon’s accusation. “Is this true?” He had hoped to turn Rathe to his needs. A man of renown would serve well as his voice and hand of authority.

The hooded head shifted in his direction, and a tired but proud voice said, “It is.”