James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

Rathe stared back, wondering if his doubts were treacherous weakness, or if simple exhaustion had sapped the fire and lust for battle from his spirit? It seemed possible, for fatigue was the destroyer of courage. Possible, but doubtful. Making war against farmers was abhorrent … yet, he had waged that war, and could not condemn the men under his command any easier than he could accuse King Tazzim, not without judging himself. Trapped between conscience and duty, he surrendered to the latter.

“Forgive me, brothers, I am simply weary in my bones,” he said. “It’s been a long expedition. More than anything, I yearn for shade, a flagon of sweet summer wine, and a woman with which to share both.” That last, at least, was true. The affections of women, he had found, erased the stains of furious, bloody battle from his soul.

Silence held as the words expected from the Scorpion, the Champion of Cerrikoth, the Captain of the Ghosts of Ahnok, sunk into the minds of his men.

“As you say!” Thushar boomed, his abrupt laughter loosening the tension as if it had never been. Looking more than a little relieved, the sergeants guffawed and whooped, then began a lively debate about the qualities of various slatterns they had encountered in Cerrikoth’s most sordid districts.

Rathe breathed easier. There were men he trusted and men he did not, but the Ghosts of Ahnok were brothers bound by blood and steel, and all the more dangerous for it. While the king’s law held sway, often a harder law governed the Ghosts. He held his position by strength and skill, cunning and victory-a custom as old as the first warrior-gods themselves. If the leader of the company showed weakness, he faced not banishment but death.

Sensing that his standing was still firm, even if his heart remained uncertain, Rathe poured a last pot of water over his chest and back, a lithe collection of corded muscle and sinew under smooth dark skin, then stepped away from the shaded wellspring to let the warm summer sunlight dry him. Afterward, he donned his undergarments, supple leather trousers, and a linen tunic under a shirt of black chainmail. He knelt to tug on his riding boots.

“We should find some of that wine you spoke of,” Thushar suggested. “Even goatherds must appreciate revelry.”

After he snugged into a black-scaled tabard, the big Prythian strapped Rathe into a breastplate of boiled leather, its chest emblazoned with a golden image of Ahnok. As they made ready, the crack of the scourge and the subsequent howl of pain floated over the conquered village.

“If ever there was a time to get good and drunk,” Rathe said, struggling to sound enthusiastic, “it’s now.”

“We should also feast the men after sundown,” Thushar hinted. “As you said, it has been a long, wearying expedition.”

“Just so,” Rathe agreed, buckling his sword belt. Already, sweat coated his ribs and chest, but as with the weight of the breastplate, it felt right to him. Despite his discontent with the king’s standing orders-and, more, his part in carrying out those commands-arms and armor made him feel whole, his purpose true. He did not crave the death and bloodshed that came with war, but when those things found him, he prevailed.

The last thing he retrieved was his bronze helmet fashioned into the head of Ahnok. A layer of dust dulled its gleam, and a smear of blood festooned one side. The woman who had left that maroon print had tried to take off his head with a cleaver, bare heartbeats after he had cut down the man he supposed was her husband. Rathe left the blood as a reminder to himself and his men that this day he had taken lives, innocent or not, the same as them.

Turning back to his sergeants, he commanded with forced joviality, “When you are finished primping, gather men to help in the search. If the queen or her lords have hidden anything hereabouts of worth or threat to Cerrikoth, I want it found before nightfall. We leave on the morrow.”

Nods of agreement met his orders, but quizzical expressions seemed to ponder the necessity of haste. Ofttimes, the company would spend a day looting the choicest plunder, before venturing off on another mission.

To that unvoiced question, Rathe said, “This place reeks of the blood of cowards.” The village did not reek of cowards, only blood. A thought occurred to him then, an answer to his troubles. “To keep our skill and honor, we will seek out worthy foes-Qairennor patrols have been denied us too long.” And in so doing, I will discover if the fight has fled from my heart, or if I have only grown weary of mindless, disgraceful slaughter.

The questioning looks vanished, and the sergeants cheered the coming challenge. They would follow the king’s orders to sack helpless villages, but a side mission to test their might and courage against a formidable enemy would serve as a welcome test.

If I have my way, Rathe thought, there will be no more villages. Going against the king might mean his head on a spike, but he would sleep easier between now and the day the headsman’s axe fell.

Rathe led Thushar toward the village green and the torturer performing his bloody work before an audience of threescore prisoners. Thushar held silent until they turned down a shadowed alley. One huge hand fell on Rathe’s shoulder. “As a friend,” Thushar began, “I offer you a word of advice.”

Rathe shot him a curious look. “As you will.”

“Each of us have our dislikes,” Thushar went on mildly, “things we loathe. Me, it’s razing a town, even if filled with enemies. There can be no greater waste.”

Rathe gazed deep into his friend’s eyes, silently demanding answers he would never receive. What of the women who plead for the lives of their children, before the falling blade silences them? What of the boys who have yet to fill their hands with the hilt of a sword, or to draw an arrow and fire it in anger-do you dislike wasting their lives as much as burning a village?

Aloud, Rathe said, “I have no stomach for slaying lowborn armed with shepherds’ crooks and crofters’ hoes. I long to fight warriors that test my strength and wits. Such battles make men of boys, and heroes of men.”

“Just so,” Thushar said. “But we have sworn the oaths of allegiance to King Tazzim. To betray that loyalty is to betray the god we serve. As such, I keep my mouth shut about what I dislike-as should we all, until our time of soldiering has passed, or until we have been called home to sit at the feet of Ahnok.”

“Should we hold our tongues even when dishonored by orders to raid and pillage, like a band of godless plainsmen?”

“You command the Ghosts of Ahnok,” Thushar said. “You know the answer to that question, better than most. If you have forgotten, brother, then the answer you seek is yes . We do as the king commands. If we do not, who can blame the loyal warrior for turning on his treacherous commander?”

Rathe understood that warning well enough, and thought to mollify his friend. His war of conscience was his to bear, not Thushar’s, and he had already made his decision to fight warriors, not villagers. “As I said earlier, I am weary in my bones. It’s long past our time to be relieved.”

“I agree, brother, but promise you will be more careful.”

“Is there a reason I should, beyond your liking of my head’s current placement upon my neck,” Rathe asked, smiling.

Thushar did not rise to the jest. Instead, he pitched his voice low. “ Girod . He is bastard-born, true, but carries in his veins the blood of nobility. If there is gain in it, he will not hesitate to report anyone he imagines is a traitor-even you, Scorpion.”

Rathe offered a sober nod. “I promise, Thushar, to be more careful. Like you, I mistrust him. He looks and acts the dullard, but his eyes are too knowing by far. Still, I cannot believe he is anything besides a nuisance foisted upon the Ghosts by his father, Lord Osaant.”