Calm as ever, Pellos asked again, “Where is your master’s gold? What foul rites does your witch-queen demand of you? Where are you hiding the Qairennor soldiers, those who dare not show themselves, even to defend their own smallfolk?”
“Leave him alone, demon!” a young woman wailed.
The prisoner’s remaining eye widened at the desperate plea, and he shook his head before he noticed Pellos’s unfriendly grin. “If your pain is not enough to loosen your tongue, little man, perhaps hers is. Is she your sister, a cousin … your lover?”
The prisoner squeezed shut his remaining eye, refusing to answer. Pellos motioned to Legionnaire Noor, a golden-haired Prythian with a comely face and icy blue eyes. “Give her a taste of your spear, Noor,” Pellos invited, chuckling wickedly.
Noor nodded and came forward. The woman cowered away from him, perhaps thinking he meant to run his spear through her heart. Instead, he stabbed it into the ground between them, for the spear Pellos spoke of was a different weapon altogether.
Rathe’s teeth ground together, knowing what was about to happen. End this … before it is too late. The thought was his own, but the sentiment seemed foreign in his mind. Too late for what … the girl, or something else?
The prisoner opened his eye, saw what was afoot, and began thrashing. Pellos stunned him with a backhand. Snatching a handful of hair, he dragged the man’s head up. “Watch, little man, and maybe you will learn a trick or two.”
“Cut her bonds and hold her,” Noor said to a pair of his companions, yanking off his tabard and hanging it on the butt of his spear.
Two legionnaires freed the girl’s wrists and threw her to the ground. Before she could move, each man took an arm and a leg, holding her for Noor’s pleasure. She struggled in vain, sobbing.
Rathe closed his eyes. Noor would ravish her, as he had so many such girls. In the end, she would be put to the sword, so as not to breed future enemies. Her cries pierced his heart. Stop this. For your soul, you must end it now.
The prisoner lashed to the pole began to beg for mercy. Other villagers added their voices. Noor had just hiked his breechclout to expose his manhood, when Rathe shouted, “Enough!” Thushar reached for his arm, but Rathe shook him off with a curse.
“What are you doing?” Thushar snarled. “I warned you about this. Brother, cease this madness!”
“I intend to,” Rathe said, stalking toward Noor. The soldier waited with a confused sneer twisting his lips.
Rathe had to crane his neck to lock his black eyes on Noor’s face. He raised his voice so all could hear. “From this day forth, the Ghosts of Ahnok will no longer sully themselves by raping the vanquished,” he said, with the presence of mind to offer up a reasonable excuse to deny the right of pillage. “Disobedience will earn death.”
Silence, full of brooding menace, met his words.
Noor glanced from Pellos to Thushar, then to the rest of the soldiers. Save for Rathe, all of those gathered were Prythians, a hard people more easily given to administering harsh questioning than Cerrikothians.
“Our wages are plunder, honor for our names, and all the women we want,” Noor said.
Rathe saw murder in the huge man’s implacable stare, but his voice was steady. “Plunder and honor you can have. If you wish to mount everything we conquer, then I will reassign you to the Night Walkers. Their soldiers are even granted the right to despoil boys, if they so choose.”
Noor’s face blanched. “You cannot offend me, Scorpion. Stand aside, and I will take what is mine.”
Rathe’s eyes went hard. “I will not tolerate—”
Noor’s blow struck like lightning, and points of light exploded before Rathe’s eyes. When he could see straight, he found himself sprawled in the grass some distance from Noor and his intended spoil, uncertain how he had come to be there.
The girl gazed on him with tear-filled eyes. She was younger than he had first thought, and though no words passed between them, she pleaded for his help. In that instant, they were enemies no longer, but kindred fighting against a common foe. Calling out to his brothers, Noor dropped between her legs, tugging himself to arousal.
Thudding stones seemed to pound against Rathe’s head. He gasped a breath. The breath burned ... and so too did the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword resting against his palm. His movements were unwieldy, obvious, but the girl’s nudity held Noor’s attention. In turn, the attention of all the other soldiers was on Noor.
“Disobedience will earn death,” Rathe croaked, getting to his feet. As he had defied the king’s orders just moments before, the black irony of his ruling was not lost on him.
The Prythian jerked his head toward Rathe, who tottered forward on wobbly legs. Noor opened his mouth to say something, but like the deadly creature that was his namesake, Rathe’s strike was a blur. His sword cleaved flesh, crunched into the bones of Noor’s neck, and stuck fast. Noor’s mouth gaped around a breathless gasp. Blood pumped from the grievous wound in time with the beat of his heart, poured over his torso and onto the girl, covering her in a spreading scarlet gown.
The legionnaires holding the girl shouted and dove aside. Pellos dragged them both up by the scruff of their necks and ran clear. The girl might have screamed, she must have, but Rathe heard only the grating screech of steel, as he ripped the sword loose from Noor’s neck. The Prythian pawed at him, clumsy on his knees. Rathe’s next stroke shattered the top of Noor’s skull like an eggshell, hewing off a bloody swath of his scalp. Noor fell and lay twitching.
Rathe stabbed the tip of his sword into the grass. His men had become as statues, anger mingling with disbelief on their faces. To the girl, he said, “Go to your family.” Silent and dripping blood, she ran to her people.
“By all the gods,” Rathe heard someone mutter. It had sounded like Girod, but it could have been any of the Ghosts. Soldiers rapidly gathered, as if instinct had warned them of impending trouble.
Rathe waited. The voice that had urged him to put an end to the barbarity had gone silent, abandoning him to whatever might come.
When the bulk of his company had gathered, he raised his eyes from the corpse at his feet. He spoke calmly. “Noor died for assaulting a superior. Had he ravished this girl against my orders, his death would have been the same. Obey my orders as if they were the king’s, or I will cut any or all of you down without pause or mercy.”
He looked from one set of eyes to another, knowing in his heart that he had made a terrible mistake in giving an order that directly countermanded the king’s own decree to wreak merciless destruction on the enemies of Cerrikoth. When he finally rested his gaze on his old friend, Thushar shook his head in dismay.
Men began to stir, muttering. In a moment, Rathe knew, they would come for him. The first few would die, for the Scorpion had never failed to defeat a foe in close combat. After the first, more would come, and then more, until they overwhelmed him. So be it, he thought, a placid smile stretching his lips.
“Hawk!” someone called from the edge of the green, instantly stilling the rising babble of fury. “A message comes!”
For the barest moment, Rathe feared that King Tazzim had already learned of his transgression. But that was impossible. Tazzim sat his throne a hundred leagues to the east.
The company’s scribe drew a slender bone-whistle from a belt pouch and blew a shrill note, calling the hawk to his gauntleted hand. After hooding the hawk, he untied the knot securing a tiny ivory scroll case to the raptor’s leg, and brought it to Rathe.
Rathe nodded thanks, but the man had already scurried away. With a regretful sigh, he drew the rolled bit of parchment from the case. It was from Commander Rhonaag, second in command of the Fists of Rydev Legion, of which the Ghosts of Ahnok were the most revered company.
“What does it say?” Thushar asked, having joined Rathe’s side.
Rathe read the message again, dismay furrowing his brow. A day sooner, and none of this would have happened!
He crumpled the parchment
in an angry fist, closed his eyes and rubbed the lids with bloody fingers. “We are called home.”
“Good,” Thushar said. “That is best. For you … for all of us … that is best.”
“As well, King Tazzim is dead.”
Thushar cursed softly, and word of the king’s demise spread.
Chapter 4
Rathe paced the tiled floor of Commander Rhonaag’s stifling anteroom. Unlike the grasslands west of the Mountains of Arakas, the Kingdom of Cerrikoth was higher, drier, and hotter, nearly a desert in the summer months. But it was home, and Rathe held that dear. He had been away far too long.
Not an hour after he had passed through the gates of Onareth, a runner had brought word that Rhonaag required his immediate attendance. He feared the meeting would end with him in chains, but he had made his decision to put an end to dishonorable conduct in that last village. If so, then so be it. A girl lived and Noor had died, but Rathe’s conscience was clear for the first time in many years.
Three hours had passed since his arrival to his commander’s quarters, and still he had not been granted leave to enter. He took a seat on a dusty bench, rested his head against the rough brick wall, and closed his eyes. It felt good to sit on something other than a saddle.
He had driven the Ghosts hard across the hilly grasslands of eastern Qairennor, through the mountains, into Cerrikoth, and finally to the city of Onareth. Their halts had measured in short hours. Remembering his men huddled around the nightly cookfires, studying him with narrowed eyes, Rathe had no doubt that they would have turned on him, if not so exhausted from the grueling pace. That, he supposed, and the troubling word of King Tazzim’s death, were the only two things that had kept him alive after killing Noor for a crime that, in the strictest sense, had been no crime at all.
The journey had given Rathe plenty of time to think on his own heart, and he concluded that he was like a scarred pit dog. Where does such a dog go when freed, he had wondered, when the very fibers of its being have been seeded with brutality? Can there be any redemption for such a beast? More troubling was the idea that such a creature could never receive absolution, but instead would remain as it was … a hunter and a killer. The only difference was that he meant to choose his battles from now on. Of course, that was easier thought than done. He had never chosen any battle, rather the battles had chosen him. Like a strange curse, troubles sought him out.
The door at the end of the anteroom opened and a young, ginger-haired legionnaire said, “Commander Rhonaag will see you.”
Rathe stood, straightened his scaled tabard, and strode into the chambers. Just inside the doorway, he bowed his head and pressed a fist to his heart in salute. “I have come at your request, commander.”
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.”
Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) Page 3