James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

At his gentle tone, she opened her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured, her initial terror melting away. “Just moments past, he ran through the halls, raving and dressed like a beggar, striking down any who blocked his way.”

“He fled the keep?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” she said, dropping her gaze. She made a startled little squawk, and looked away from his unclothed loins.

The keep under attack, Sanouk fled, and I am naked as newborn. “Do as I say,” he commanded, and set off down the corridor.

He did not go far before coming to the lord’s chambers. He ducked in and squandered precious moments rifling through a wardrobe, before finding leather breeches and a long blue coat embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and collar-attire suited for feasting rather than battle, but better than having everyone he encountered look at him like a madman. Besides, if he had to mount a horse, doing so with a bare backside would be painful at best. A little more searching found him a pair of tooled leather riding boots.

He ran from the chambers, out of the keep’s open doors, and into the arms of a pitched battle highlighted by raging fires. Pained screams and shouts of command filled the bailey. A pretty woman bearing a long spear with a serrated tip darted past, her cloth-of-gold cape flying out behind, and sliver-chased bronze breastplate glinting with the light of a dozen blazes. Without hesitation, she joined two other women in equally garish armor, who fought against a handful of Hilan men.

Maidens of the Lyre … why are they here?

The shriek of a crossbow bolt flashing past his ear forced Rathe to dive behind a hay cart, scattering a trio of chickens in a feathery burst. With the chaos spreading, he took account of the battle.

The fortress gates stood open, blocked from closing by a discarded timber ram. What might have been an organized assault had degenerated into a dozen separate skirmishes. Some few Hilan men and Maidens of the Lyre tried to organize into battle formations, but the mad confusion of combat had tightened its grip over the hearts and wits of the opponents. Enough, Rathe saw, that some Hilan men were actually fighting each other.

None of that mattered. He sought only one man … and found him. Sanouk, clad in a mix of Rathe’s clothes and his own, shouted orders to a few soldiers ringing him about, defending against both Hilan men and Maidens of the Lyre. In that moment, Rathe realized the Hilan men had split their loyalties between Sanouk and the invaders.

Rathe came off his belly and sprinted across the bailey, weaving through clutches of soldiers and Nesaea’s counterparts, avoiding spear thrusts and slicing swords. He angled toward the widest opening in the ranks arrayed before Sanouk, and leaped.

Like an animal sensing danger, Lord Sanouk spun, glaring. Before Rathe’s feet lit upon the flagstones, Sanouk swept aside Rathe’s strike with his own blade and, still turning, slashed with the dagger held in his other hand. The blade sliced through Rathe’s coat, scoring his ribs. An instant later he crashed into Sanouk, and they went down in a struggling heap.

Rathe slammed his head on the flags, his teeth snapped tight on his tongue. He lurched to his feet, spitting blood, backpedaling. Sanouk came up a breath slower, but no less ready. His protective wall of steel and warriors, fragmented by Rathe’s brazen assault, could not help their lord for the press of their unrelenting foes.

“Even your most loyal hounds have abandoned you,” Rathe panted, circling just out of Sanouk’s reach.

“You will die, Scorpion.”

Rathe laughed. “Seems you have already tried to kill me. Yet here I stand, while your pet snake rots in the gullet of an avenging god.”

Sanouk’s faced hardened. He attacked, sword flashing in a deadly weave, dagger held in reserve. Rathe parried the blows, but he had suffered much abuse over the last many days, and his strength was already fleeing his limbs. If he did not end the contest quickly, he would die spitted on the end of Sanouk’s blade-

A blinding thrust flashed past his neck, bringing his mind to keen focus. Rathe jumped to the outside of Sanouk’s next lunge, and slashed at his face. Sanouk ducked, threw himself into a forward roll to gain distance, and came up in a guarded stance mirrored by Rathe.

They circled each other. The tip of Sanouk’s sword flickered once and again, quick as a serpent’s strike, leaving a gash on Rathe’s belly, another high on his chest. Rathe schooled his face to calm, but his heart quickened. Where he had barely bested Sanouk in a crude brawl, the man knew swordplay with a greater intimacy than had Captain Treon.

“You look worried, Scorpion,” Sanouk said, smiling now.

“Why should I have concern for a man who can now die as easily as any other?”

Around them, the fighting raged, a bedlam of shouts and the clangor of clashing steel, but there seemed to be a turning in favor of the Maidens and their allies. Rathe hoped it was so, for he did not think he could beat Sanouk, and the lord would never leave him alive.

With a shout, Lord Sanouk lunged. The two men beat their swords together, once, twice, and again. Rathe knew Sanouk was trying to force him to lock blades in order to bury the dagger in his ribs. After his last parry, Rathe retreated, feinted, then drew back farther.

Sanouk laughed. “Ever have I heard tales of your prowess, Scorpion, but you are more a chittering rat than a deadly foe.”

“Perhaps you have the way of it, milord,” Rathe said in a self-deprecating tone that was as much a lie as the smile on his face. He thought on the way the man had tried to gouge the dagger into his ribs at the first sign of his false attack. If he could-

He feinted before the strategy was fully formed, tossing his sword from one hand to the other. Sanouk reacted too late to the ploy, already hooking the dagger toward Rathe’s ribs, angled to drive cold steel into his heart.

Rathe caught the lord’s wrist in his free hand and slammed his sword against Sanouk’s, locking the cross-guards. They struggled, chest to chest. The dagger inched closer, eager to drink Rathe’s blood. His shoulder creaked under the strain, his sword arm began to shake. Sanouk’s dagger edged closer … closer … until the tip pricked through coat’s fine cloth and sank into Rathe’s skin.

“I will end you,” Sanouk growled. He spun them about and slammed Rathe against the stone wall of the barracks. The dagger’s point ground into one rib, scraping over bone.

Rathe tried to rouse his fleeing strength, only to grow weaker. With every heaving breath, the dagger gouged deeper into his rib, inching along the bone’s length, the blade slicing through skin and muscle as it went. Sweat poured over his brow, stung his eyes. He ground his teeth against the biting agony, but could not escape it. A finger’s width more, and the dagger would plunge. If he tried to butt his head against Sanouk’s, the dagger would skewer him. Neither could he shift the lord’s balance without suffering the same fate-

The dagger slipped, burrowing an inch between two ribs. Rathe bit back a howl, and Sanouk leaned his weight against the pommel of the dagger. Rathe squirmed, seeing not Sanouk’s over-bright black eyes before him, but Nesaea’s deep blue. Somewhere below his shifting feet, she waited for him to return.

“I will remember this night,” Sanouk snarled, pressing his nose against Rathe’s. “The night the Scorpion’s sting was made impotent. After your heart stills, I will drain your blood and trade it to a witch to use in her potions. I will remember-”

A bearlike growl rose above the discordant, steely clashes of battle. The lord jerked his head around, eyes going wide at the sight of a lumbering shape surging out of the shadows. A spasm of fear rippled his muscles, and the dagger pressed deeper into Rathe’s side.