Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1)

by James A. West

  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.

  “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!”

  Chapter 5

  “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.

  After giving him a lingering look, Thushar eased into the milling crowd. A moment later, the woman at the fountain strolled to Rathe’s elbow. By all the gods, she’s beautiful, he thought, his mind flaring with lustful images.

  “Does the Scorpion always get what he desires?” she asked pointedly. Her lips pur
sed prettily when she sipped her wine.

  “Just so,” he said, feeling giddy. Her eyes, their pale blue irises ringed with a darker shade, regarded him boldly despite her demure tone. His pulse quickened.

  “I am Lisana,” she said, toying with the open neckline of her dress.

  “I know who you are,” Rathe murmured. The room kept trying to spin him around. He shook his head, collected himself. Doubtless, the wine Girod had given him was his father’s private vintage, and all the more potent for it. He dabbed sweat from his brow, forced his mind to focus.

  “Do you indeed?” she asked, with something beyond mere surprise.

  “Well,” he amended, wishing he could throw himself into a bath of iced water to clear his thoughts, “I know only that you are Lisana. My friend, ah—” he paused, trying to come up with a name to match the loutish face in his mind “—Girod … yes, Captain Girod, he told me. Of course, that slovenly bastard is no friend of mine, but a … ah …” his words trailed off as he watched Lisana’s fingers move in slow swirls about her neck, easing the plunging neckline wider.

  “Would you like to play a game?” she invited, smiling coyly.

  Rathe grinned back, his lidded gaze following her fingers as they moved with a lover’s touch over the inner swells of her breasts. “What game?” he asked, voice throaty.

  “We will pretend I am a highborn lady with a very, very jealous husband.” The way she spoke suggested those words were closer to truth than a contrived lark. Before Rathe could reply, Lisana spun away and went wide around the fountain, then passed under a horseshoe arch and into a corridor leading deeper into the palace.

  Despite a voice of caution in the back of his mind, Rathe fell into the sport, belatedly making sure neither he nor Lisana were under scrutiny. The game’s hinted risks cleared his head a little.

  As if stalking elusive prey, Rathe went after her, wending amid groups of highborn and wealthy merchants from lands near and far. All nibbled exotic dainties plucked from golden platters held by barely clothed servants, and sipped wines from gem-crusted goblets worth more than the lives of a dozen crofters. Laughing and jabbering, the nobles leered at each other’s displayed wealth with wooden smiles and eyes glittering with either envy or condescension.

  Lisana led him a merry chase through various halls, courtyards, and open gardens replete with babbling fountains, guests and servants. Rathe paid them little mind, his attention on catching fleeting glimpses of Lisana.

  She eventually passed into a corridor that led to a set of richly appointed double doors worth more than he would earn in a dozen lifetimes. Doubtless, Lord Osaant’s private quarters waited beyond them. Lisana, you are a wicked girl. With a grin that set his heart to racing, Lisana slid into the room and closed the doors behind her.

  Feigning interest in a marble figurine, Rathe waited a slow hundred count—both to calm his excitement, and to make doubly sure he was not seen entering Osaant’s most hallowed domain. Guests laughed overloud from a nearby garden, but no one was watching him.

  Moving to the doors, Rathe took a deep breath, and entered the last place a wise man would have wished to find himself uninvited.

  Chapter 6

  Rathe’s reservations faded when he shut the doors. Incense perfumed the air, and oil lamps sitting atop ornamental bronze stands burned low around the pillared chamber, casting an intoxicating, mellow glow over mosaicked floors and alabaster walls embossed with erotic scenes. An archway hung with sheer white drapery let out onto a balcony facing the palace of King Nabar, which blazed like a golden crown in the night. Lisana, a precious flower blooming at the center of all that carnal extravagance, waited on a gargantuan bed with only with a thin coverlet drawn over her.

  What am I doing? Rathe wondered absently, even as the detached, spinning feeling he had observed since drinking the wine from Girod’s hand whisked away his concern of violating the bed of a highborn.

  Lisana eased one bare leg from under the coverlet, a silent appeal for Rathe to join her. After a moment’s more hesitation, he cast aside his concerns, stripped out of his formal uniform, and fell into her welcome embrace. She brushed her full lips against his ear, his neck. One breast pressed against his palm, the other against his chest. A tingle of arousal flashed over his dark skin as her fingers slowly wandered over his nakedness. When their lips met, Rathe thanked Ahnok for such a blessing as—

  The doors to the bedchamber crashed open, and Rathe threw himself between Lisana and unknown danger. His head spun at the sudden movement, but he made ready to fight.

  A shadow moved through the doorway and drifted into the light. Lord Osaant’s wizened face showed no emotion. “You dare defile my bed?”

  Lisana snatched a pillow to her breasts. “Milord,” she stammered. “I—”

  “You filthy, ungrateful slattern,” he said in an improbably bored tone. “I brought you into my home, sparing you from gods know what sort of wretched life you might have had, made you my concubine, and you repay me by rutting in my own bed with this lowborn scum?”

  Concubine … impossible! Rathe tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. His head whirled worse than ever, making concentration nearly impossible. He looked between Lisana’s horrified expression and Osaant’s bland visage, and saw the undeniable light of recognition in each of their eyes. Dread boiled up in him. Commander Rhonaag’s words rose like a poisonous vapor within his skull. “I have seen men like you rise, but ever they fall because of unseen weaknesses. You are no different.”

  “What is your will, father?” Girod asked, moving next to Osaant with a wicked smile turning his lips. Gone was the brutish dullard, replaced by a man of terrible cunning.

  Osaant smirked. “He’s dangerous, everyone knows it. All will understand that much force was needed to subdue him—but keep him alive.”

  “Better to kill him,” Girod argued, a jealous heat burning in his gaze. “He is tricksome, and despite his treasonous actions against Noor and the king, he seems favored by some black fortune. Best cut his throat, rather than risk him ever gaining freedom again.”

  Osaant shook his head. “I want our newly risen king to understand that even beloved champions can have a betrayer’s black heart. Nabar must learn to never make the mistake of raising a commoner to heights reserved by the gods for men of noble blood. By King Nabar’s tongue alone, this puffed up fool will die. After that death you, my son, will take his place.”

  Rathe looked between the two men, struggling to overcome the debilitating potion in his veins and mind, trying to understand how he had never seen the plots against him.

  “Mercy!” Lisana blurted. Still not understanding that she had been duped along with Rathe, she pointed at Girod. “It was not supposed to be this way! Rathe was only to be dishonored, taught a lesson. Your son said nothing about death.”

  “You are beautiful, Lisana,” Osaant murmured, his voice all the more dangerous for its calm, “but yours is the heart of a greedy, imprudent whore. I’d hoped you would not accept my son’s offer to engage in this game, so that another might spread her legs for this cur. As you did accept, the penalty for betrayal is yours to bear.”

  Osaant glanced at Girod. “She cannot be allowed to tell her tale, but again, mind that you spare the Scorpion.”

  Girod was already moving. Too late, Rathe threw up a hand to block the man’s boot from slamming into his face. Dazed and bleeding, he reeled off the side of the bed and crashed to the floor. The blow shocked him into awareness. With clarity came the implacable killing rage he had embraced for so many years when joining battle. As he moved to rise, Lisana screamed. The sound of steel striking flesh ended her cry.

  Rathe bounded off the floor, eyes burning like black fire, and found Girod balancing on the mattress above Lisana, her pale white neck parted like an obscene pair of crimson lips. She made choking sounds as blood poured over her chest and clutching hands. The blow had nearly decapitated her. Girod’s sword rose to finish its grisly work, and Lisana�
�s glazing eyes followed the glimmering blade.

  Howling, Rathe leaped, naked and dreadful. Girod whipped around. Rathe saw the sudden fear in the bastard’s face, and rejoiced at the horror he wrought. He slammed a fist into the man’s groin, and Girod’s mouth sprang open. Rathe caught Girod’s wrist before he could swing the sword and take off his head. The effects of the drugged wine still surged through him, but for now wrath overpowered it, and he drove Girod back against the headboard.

  “You will not live long enough to benefit from this treachery,” Rathe growled, squeezing Girod’s wrist until the joint under his palm cracked. As the sword fell, Rathe reached across himself and caught the hilt. With a roar, he rammed the blade through Girod’s bowels and deep into the carved wood at his back, pinning him there.

  “Rathe!” Thushar bellowed from the doorway, followed by Osaant’s outraged squawk.

  Rathe tore the sword free and thrust Girod away. The man tumbled to the floor, not yet dead. Lisana slumped to one side and went still. The fury left Rathe as quickly as it had come. Confusion and uncertainty, emotions from which he had never suffered, crashed over him. The sword fell from his limp fingers, and he crumpled to his knees at Lisana’s side.

  There came a scuffling behind him, but he did not turn, even when Thushar’s strong arms wrapped protectively around him. The Prythian warned Osaant’s gathering guards to stay back, but to Rathe his voice came from far away.

  “Do not make my troubles your own,” he murmured, sinking into a dreamscape of bemusing hues as the drugged wine fully addled his wits. “Let them have me, brother.”

  Unheeding, Thushar threw Rathe off the far side of the bed and jumped down next to him. “Take up your sword!” the Prythian bellowed.