James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

Rhonaag, squat and stern as a timeworn boulder with the dark coloring of a southern Cerrikothian, sat unspeaking behind a bloodwood desk. To one side of him, double-doors let out on a broad balcony overlooking the barrack’s training yards. Polished armor and assorted weaponry stood in every corner of the room. Campaign maps hung on each wall, marked in symbols representing victories and defeats. Save the fine desk heaped with piles of parchment, it was a lifelong soldier’s quarters.

“Leave us, Idursu,” Rhonaag ordered. The aide shot a troubled look at Rathe, then hastily bowed his way out of the room. Rhonaag went back to reading from the sheaf of parchments before him.

Rathe was accustomed to this game of waiting for a commander to acknowledge a subordinate. He had played it himself. Still, he was sure he stood at attention longer than was normal before Rhonaag’s stare found him again.

“You are a proud one,” Rhonaag said, sounding mildly amused. The amusement began and ended with his voice. His dark eyes spoke of disdain.

Unsure of Rhonaag’s point, Rathe said, “I serve Cerrikoth and the king. My heart is strong in the belief that I serve well. If that means I am proud, then it must be so.”

Shoving the parchments to one side of the desk, Rhonaag chuckled. “I suppose such arrogance is not unwarranted. The list of your exploits reads like a bard’s heroic tale.”

“Stories do not tell the truth of blood and pain,” Rathe muttered. “I am no more a hero than any man who kills at the command of others.” He realized the bitterness of his words, but he could not take them back.

“Pride and wisdom are rare qualities found together in one man,” Rhonaag said. By his expression, he seemed doubtful that Rathe was such a man.

He stared unblinking for a long time, idly fingering a scar that ran at a diagonal from one temple into his short, iron-gray hair. Stories told that he had taken the grievous wound while defending his captain against plainsmen raiders north of the Shadow Road, some many years gone. At last, in a voice tinged with disbelief, Rhonaag went on.

“Captain-General Midak has seen fit to promote you to legion commander of the king’s guard.” Rhonaag’s lips twisted in disgust when he finished. He had come to the legions younger than Rathe, but was now twice his age. He had given his entire life to the kingdom, yet before him stood a mere boy by comparison, and already raised above him.

Rathe fought for a calm demeanor. Where he had expected to learn he was sentenced to some black cell, he found instead that all his troubles had vanished. All the questions he had struggled with in that Qairennoran village mattered no more. He would miss the feel of sitting astride a warhorse charging into battle, the camaraderie of his brothers-at-arms, but not enough to long for the feel of his sword stilling a beating heart.

After a steadying breath, he said, “As always, I will serve to the best of my abilities, giving my heart and blood to king and kingdom.”

Rhonaag dismissed Rathe’s oath with a snort. “Sergeant Girod is to fill the office you vacate, so-”

“ Girod? ” Rathe could not believe it.

“You disapprove?” Rhonaag asked, offering a sardonic smirk.

“He is not, and never will be, fit to lead the Ghosts of Ahnok. Better to send him to a forgotten outpost in the Mountains of Arakas, where his limited talents might be better utilized fetching firewood, buggering goats, and drinking his life away.”

Rhonaag’s smirk widened. “Girod is Lord Osaant’s bastard, and Osaant is the head of the king’s council. Such appointment has afforded Girod a rare, perhaps unfair, opportunity-such are the follies of life. Be that as it may, does it bother you that he is rising faster than even you have?” The gleam in Rhonaag’s eye spoke of spite, not interest.

“Only a lesser man would feel so,” Rathe said. Rhonaag’s nostrils flared and his scar grew red, proving he had understood the barb. Rathe went on.

“I protest because Girod is unfit for command. Lieutenant Thushar is my second, and my rightful replacement. Even if Thushar were a green recruit, he would be better suited to lead the Ghosts than Girod.”

“Protest and recommend as you will,” Rhonaag said, “but not to me. Give your ideas to Captain-General Midak. You are dismissed,” he finished without preamble.

“Would you hear the report of the Ghosts’ last mission?”

Rhonaag sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before his nose. “Submit the report at your leisure, or not at all. It matters little.”

“Commander?”

“With King Tazzim’s death, black change has come swiftly upon Cerrikoth,” Rhonaag said. “Mark me, his fall will bring the end of Cerrikoth as we know it.” He eyed Rathe as if he had some part in the dire changes of which he spoke.

“I cannot see how that-”

“Can be so?” Rhonaag interrupted. “Prince Nabar has taken the throne. He is a fop and coward. I can only wish Prince Sanouk had been allowed to stand in Nabar’s place.”

“Sanouk tried to murder his brother,” Rathe reminded his former commander.

Rhonaag made a shooing motion with his hand. “An unproven allegation. Trust me, if ever a mistake was made by our mighty king, it was exiling his better son to the godsforsaken fortress at Hilan.”

Rathe’s assessment was not so harsh. “Nabar is inexperienced, as are all princes when first they sit a throne. His father’s council will guide him until he learns to make his own decisions.”

“You forget Nabar has always fancied Princess Mirith of Qairennor, the witch-queen’s youngest daughter. Doubtless, Mirith is also a witch. Inside of a year, Nabar will have her as his wife, and Onareth will become a den rife with necromancers and mystics. Gods help us.”

“As were King Tazzim’s fears, I believe yours are exaggerated,” Rathe said. “In the last year, the Ghosts found not one indication of Queen Shukura’s plans to invade Cerrikoth, nor any sign that she is a witch.” That was as close as he intended to come to accusing Tazzim of starting a war based on false conclusions, but he had long suspected as much. “A union between Nabar and Mirith will bring Cerrikoth and Qairennor together again, as in the days of old. I cannot imagine how that would be an evil thing.”

Rhonaag glowered as if Rathe had lost his mind. “On the morrow, you will be my superior,” he snarled, “but today you still follow my orders.” Rathe conceded that with a nod. “ Get out of my sight! ” Rhonaag spat.

Rathe was pulling the door open when Rhonaag spoke again, his voice low, strangely eager. “Your promotion is based not on merit, but pity for a once great soldier who is now broken.”

“I am at a loss,” Rathe said, though he thought he knew what Rhonaag was coming to.

“You killed one of your own men for following a command issued by King Tazzim’s own tongue,” Rhonaag declared, proving Rathe’s suspicion.

“And the reason I punished Noor is in my report,” Rathe said, anger rising. “For your benefit, I tell you the man assaulted a superior-me, as it happens-and he paid the price for that blunder.”

“Truly?” Rhonaag snorted. “It had nothing to do with the girl Noor intended to despoil?” Rathe’s silence confirmed Rhonaag’s question. “Rest assured that no one will mention what you did, but your peers, the king’s council, King Nabar himself, all know exactly what happened with Legionnaire Noor. Had he been Cerrikothian instead of a Prythian brute, you would soon join him in the afterlife.”

Rathe stood stock-still. Only one man could have ensured the king’s council learned the details at that last village so soon, the man set to replace him, the man he had underestimated: Girod. Of course, word would have spread whether or not Girod had kept quiet.