James West - Reaper Of Sorrows

“Your actions sicken me as much as your promotion,” Rhonaag was saying. “I have seen men like you rise, but ever they fall because of weak characters. You are no different. Mark me, Scorpion , you will fall lower than the trampled shite of swine. Now, before I do something we will both regret, take yourself from my sight!”

“Legion commander of the king’s guard,” Thushar laughed. “At this rate, you will be captain-general by this time next year!”

“Men of our birth do not rise to such heights,” Rathe said, sipping the last of his wine. Until me, he thought.

The babble of voices and the music of lyre and pipes filled one of a dozen inner halls of Lord Osaant’s palace with an air of festivity. A night breeze poured through terracotta-latticed windows, cooling the guests who strode across glistening white marble floors. Burnished steel mirrors reflected the light of scores of oil lamps, ensuring that no shadows could fall within the hall.

“Commoners do not rise to legion commander of anything , but here you are,” Thushar countered.

Rathe could not help but grin. He still found it hard to believe he had risen higher than any other lowborn in the history of Cerrikoth, even surpassing his highest ambition. Despite Rhonaag’s final derisive words a half a month gone, Captain-General Midak and his subordinates had welcomed Rathe into their fold.

Thushar nodded a greeting to a yellow-robed lord walking arm-in-arm with his concubine. The rotund, hawk-nosed man raised his nose imperiously and quickened his pace, making the ridiculous ostrich plume poked into his dainty blue turban jounce as if in affront. By his lidded dark eyes, swarthy coloring, and oiled black chin beard fashioned into a narrow spike, he was one of the spice-lords from the far eastern isles of Yehute. His buxom paramour, clad in diaphanous rainbow silks caught snugly about her narrow waist with a belt of turquoise and gold, eyed Thushar with more than passing interest.

After they moved off along a pillared gallery interspersed with potted palms and flowering shrubs, the big Prythian shook his head and laughed boisterously, green eyes alight with excitement. “I must thank you again for promoting me to serve as your aide. May the gods be merciful on my soul for the sins in which I mean to indulge!”

Rathe laughed with him. While his new position demanded that he suffer incessant court intrigues and a steady stream of pompous buffoons, he could not be happier. Life had never been so good. He would miss his men and the thrill of charging across a battlefield, but not so much that he would ever wish to return to that life of dealing death. I will never again order the destruction of an innocent village. His hope was that King Nabar had a gentler heart than his father.

A tingle across his shoulders turned Rathe. When he had felt that sensation before, it always presaged danger. Instead of a threat, he found a fiery-haired woman appraising him from the far side of the courtyard’s bubbling fountain. He offered a slow smile, which she returned, before venturing into a clutch of emissaries from various kingdoms, all come to Onareth to secure trading pacts with the new king. Some sought to gain aid in battling common enemies, others to take advantage of the crumbs falling from Cerrikoth’s table. King Nabar and his retinue were about somewhere, doubtless wading through gaggles of sycophants eager to insinuate themselves into his good graces.

“What do you make of our host?” Thushar asked, nodding to a skinny old man with a bulging potbelly. In no way did it seem the man could have sired Girod. Sipping his wine, Thushar leaned against a pillar carved with playful nymphs, climbing vines, and mythic beasts.

Distracted, Rathe tried to find the woman again, but the throngs of colorful, strutting highborn made that impossible. Mildly disappointed, he appraised Lord Osaant at Thushar’s request. The man was holding forth near a marble soldier of powerful proportions, yet wearing his own vulture-like countenance. He was a member of a breed Rathe despised, men granted the king’s ear and who always whispered of war and conquest in a bid to stuff their own coffers, but had never swung a sword in anger, and rarely stirred from the comforts of their palaces.

Before Rathe could say a word, the red-haired woman reappeared on the nearer side of the fountain, where she took a keen interest in the fragrant flowers she found potted there.

Thushar nudged Rathe, redirecting his attention to Osaant. Rathe shook off his ire, choosing to make a joke of the moment. Affecting a haughty tone, he said, “To be sure, he is wealthy-as you can see by the stunning appointment of his palace. And while he serves as the head of the king’s council, surely he garners respect not by sage advice, but in flaunting his riches. Even with his esteemed birth, he is a most wretched creature.”

Thushar laughed. “As well, I have heard it that his manhood is a tiny, mangled thing,” he said, drawing a giggle from the red-haired beauty.

Rathe flashed her a cocky grin. She returned his gaze with stirring boldness. As a three-time champion of King Tazzim’s yearly games, Rathe was not unaccustomed to women of all stations seeking his affections. For his part, he had never found cause to be stingy. Now was no different. He was not so drunk to deny her gown of sheer crimson silk, open from her throat to her bellybutton and revealing more of her breasts than it hid, played a role in his judgment.

Thushar’s grunt of irritation drew Rathe from his pleasant study. The Prythian pointed out Girod, meandering toward them through the jovial throngs. The brutish man traded banter with the highborn, but after he had gone by, they eyed him with the same mistrust as the Ghosts of Ahnok. If not for his father, he would never have been allowed within the walls of the palace.

“More wine, captain?” Girod asked as he joined them, offering a fresh goblet. He had oiled and tied back his long dark hair, seemingly in a bid to make himself more presentable. He had not bothered cleaning his sculpted bronze breastplate of dust and fingerprints. A greasy smear ran across the snarling face of Ahnok, as if Girod had used the god’s face to wipe his hands.

“Legion commander of the king’s guard,” Thushar corrected with a glower.

Girod displayed an oily grin of crooked teeth. “Of course. I misspoke. But then, I forget that I am now captain of the Ghosts.” His expression made it clear he had forgotten nothing.

Rathe snatched the goblet from Girod’s outstretched hand and tossed it back in a single gulp. He would need that and more, if he was to suffer the lout’s company.

Leaning in close, the reek of old sweat and sour wine wafting about him, Girod inclined his head toward the beauty by the fountain. “She favors you.”

Rathe swayed on his feet, and cautioned himself to slow his intake of wine, no matter his distaste for Girod. It would not serve him well to be seen stumbling about like a common sot.

“Her name is Lisana,” Girod offered, leering.

Rathe blinked dazedly, his cheeks hot and tingly. “Who is she?” he asked, slurring a little.

“Does it matter?” Striding away, Girod added, “Do be gentle with the girl.”

Thushar looked after the captain. “I do not trust that bastard.”

“Nor do I,” Rathe agreed, blinking in a bid to stop the room from spinning. “But he’s no longer any trouble to us.”

Thushar grunted noncommittally.

“Go on, brother, enjoy yourself, as I intend to.”

“Very well,” Thushar said, “but have a caution. Here you tread the path of serpents.”

“As do you,” Rathe said, smirking like a fool.