“It is I,” he said, then waved a dismissive hand. “There is no need to bow, lad. I have come to enjoy the trading, same as you.” Sanouk drew back his hood, shivering at the wet snowflakes lighting on his brow. Gods, I hate summer snows.
Close-shorn hair dark and clumped, the boy stood awkwardly, poised between bowing and bolting.
Sanouk put on a disarming smile. “You leave early, lad. Are the festivities not to your liking?”
“The dancers and jugglers are fine, milord, but….” The boy fidgeted, his blush of shame apparent even in the gloom. “I have no coin, and nothing to trade.”
“Well,” Sanouk consoled, “these are trying times, what with Cerrikoth warring against the witch-queen, Shukura of Qairennor. Even I must tighten my belt.”
“Father says your table is always full,” the boy muttered, then went rigid, knowing he had overstepped his bounds.
Impudent bastard! I will rack him … gouge out his eyes … I will…. Sanouk bit back the unspoken words and managed a dry chuckle, but his eyes felt like beads of hot glass. “Of course it is,” he explained, struggling to keep his voice even. “I am your lord. As such, it’s my duty to remain sound in mind and body, so you and yours do not have to worry about brigands and the like. If I or my soldiers went hungry, who would protect you?”
“The Scorpion,” the boy said with troubling surety. “ ‘Tis said he watches over the weak. If trouble comes, he will remember he’s one of us, and lend his protection.”
Sanouk’s teeth grated in irritation. Do they forget so easily that I am their protector? “Come, boy. I need your assistance.”
The boy raised his eyebrows in question, and Sanouk baited his trap.
“There is an assassin in the village. I need your help finding him.”
“Truly?” the boy whispered, plain features pinching in a ferocious scowl. He whipped a stubby knife from his belt. “I will help, milord. Father says I am fierce as a wolf.”
“Is that so?” Sanouk asked, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were not observed, or worse yet, followed. All was clear. Feigning worry, he clamped his hand around the boy’s arm and dragged him behind a wagon loaded with old wine barrels.
“What is it?” the boy blurted, eyes round.
Sanouk pointed toward the shadows back the way they had come. “Do you see him?”
The boy searched the empty darkness. “I see nothing. Who is it?”
“The assassin,” Sanouk whispered harshly. “You cannot see him, for he is a specter conjured by the witch-queen, sent out to murder all who stand opposed to her rule.”
The boy glanced doubtfully at Sanouk. “But you see him?”
“Of course. I am blessed by the gods to know all who seek to harm me,” Sanouk said, earning an open-mouthed appraisal from the youth. “I’d hoped my joining the celebration would confuse the killer. It seems I was wrong. You are not safe. Go, there, into that alley beside the tannery. I will follow.”
He shoved the boy to get him moving, then waited a slow hundred count, letting the boy’s imagination run rampant. Keeping up the game, he scurried across the path, cowering as if sought, and joined the boy. The alley stank of rancid tallow and the scrapings of hides, but it was dark and sheltered, hidden from all eyes.
“Is the assassin coming?” the boy asked, hiding behind a stack of hides that had not yet made it to the tannery.
Sanouk could not stifle a laugh. “There is no assassin, only you and I.”
Confusion pinched the boy’s brow. “But….”
“I thought to have a little sport with you.”
“You tried to trick me!” the boy said.
“I would say I succeeded rather than tried,” Sanouk answered blandly. “By your stench, I’d also say you that shat your breeches. A pity. You will never make much of a man.”
Tears shone in the boy’s eyes. “Leave me alone. Go away!”
“You are naught but a scared child,” Sanouk said, herding the boy to the back of the alley. “And hardly worth my effort, yet I have a need of you and your miserable life.”
The boy backed away, eyes bulging. “I am sorry, milord. Please, let me go.”
Sanouk moved closer, forcing the boy to a wall. Leaning in one corner stood another barrel. “Please,” the boy whimpered, then tried to dart past. Sanouk slashed the edge of his fist against the boy’s throat. Gagging, the boy retreated, brandishing his knife.
Sanouk advanced.
“I am a w-w-wolf,” the boy sobbed, bumping against the barrel. Water sloshed over the rim, and Sanouk decided at that moment what manner of death he would avoid with the boy’s sacrifice.
Sanouk halted, just out of reach of the boy’s slashing blade. He doubted the witless child would attempt to—
The boy hurled the knife. Sanouk stumbled backward with a startled curse, clutching his neck. There was no wound, no wetness of blood, for Undai’s sacrifice protected him from steel. Had that not been so, the knife would have gravely wounded him … or worse. The ingrate tried to murder me!
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Sanouk growled, and struck the boy.
Screaming like a thing possessed, the boy flew at him, and Sanouk drove the tip of his boot into the boy’s groin. He went down in a writhing heap. Catching him by the hair, Sanouk jerked his head up. “I do hope you like water, boy,” he said, and began laughing.
Chapter 20
“Are you thinking what I am?” Loro muttered, eyeing the ten-foot palisade surrounding Valdar. Four weathered wooden towers rose at the corners of the pathetic wall, stark against the clear morning sky, each with a pair of archers standing watch.
“Yes,” Rathe answered, “if you are thinking that a mining village nestled within the wilds of the Gyntors, with the constant threat of marauding brigands, hunting Shadenmok, and gods alone know what other creatures lurking about in the forest, should have heavier fortifications.”
“This would barely hold off a pack of starving urchins. A modest siege engine would bring the wall down in a quarter turn of the glass.”
“You are right,” Aeden said, riding up next to them.
“So what keeps dangers at bay?” Rathe asked, genuinely curious.
Aeden pointed to the winged Reaver banner at the head of the column. The same banners hung from the watchtowers. “Once, that banner meant nothing. Then Lord Sanouk came to Hilan.”
“Why should a fallen prince matter to bandits, let alone a hunting Shadenmok?”
At the mention of that hellish creature, Aeden paled. “Shadenmok attack those who are alone or are in small groups, but never a village … at least, not usually. As for bandits, Lord Sanouk did not come to Hilan a broken outcast, like the rest of us. He came with fire and authority. He came to rule as would a king of a troubled realm.”
“Not much of a kingdom,” Loro snorted. Aeden continued as if he had not spoken.
“After arriving, Lord Sanouk led a company of Hilan men on the hunt for lawbreakers and the like. In less than a fortnight, he had captured three dozen of the most notorious brigands and smugglers, and ordered them impaled outside the gates of Hilan, Valdar, Noerith to the west, and more along the Shadow Road to the south. On the pole below each man, he wrote a warning in blood that the same would happen to all who flouted his laws.”
“Still,” Loro said, “brigands are not known for heeding threats or laws—that’s what makes them brigands.”
Aeden shrugged. “There’s only one obligation any lord of Hilan must do to avoid the king’s ire—help fill the king’s coffers. None have done a finer job of it than Lord Sanouk.” Despite his words, there was no note of praise in Aeden’s voice.
“That answers nothing,” Rathe said.
Aeden cast his gaze left and right, then lowered his voice to a hush barely heard over the horses’ hooves and the wagons’ rattles. “He allows bandits to raid a select few caravans passing through his holdings. Should that same band make the mistake of touching any shipments of ore bound for Ce
rrikoth they, and anyone they are suspected of associating with, are hunted down and taught that having a spike thrust up through your bowels is an easy death. In the end, Sanouk gets what he wants, as do the rogues.”
Loro shook his head. “Sounds like the bandits are getting shorted.”
“Mayhap they are,” Aeden allowed, “but they keep their lives and gain rewards, all without fear of Lord Sanouk’s wrath.”
“I wonder,” Rathe said, “does Sanouk receive a share from those raided caravans?”
Aeden shrugged. “I would expect so.”
Rathe was of the mind that Sanouk was more calculating than he had imagined. Making such a pact with brigands allowed Lord Sanouk to gain a favorable reputation both in the north and in the king’s court. All the while his brother, the foppish King Nabar, was seen as a weak and ineffectual leader unworthy to sit his father’s throne. One way or another, Rathe considered, Lord Sanouk might yet win his crown. The question was, did he have such aspirations? While he had been cast out from Onareth for plotting to seize reign from his brother, it had never been proven.
As the last riders of the company rode into the broad, frosted clearing surrounding Valdar, a single blast of a ram’s horn alerted the village to the newcomers.
“I suppose I should do my duty,” Rathe said, and kicked his mount into a canter to the head of the company. Aeden joined him, but Loro stayed behind.
Captain Treon eyed Rathe when he came abreast. “You will keep your mouth shut, lieutenant. I will deal with Mitros.”
“Of course,” Rathe answered. The command suited him, for it made observation all the easier. As before, it struck him odd that a cohort of traitors might reside in Valdar. To what purpose would civilized men have in treating with plainsmen?
Before they reached the gates, Mitros, the village reeve, strode out through a postern gate, braced by two men-at-arms wearing grimy tabards embroidered with the image of the Reaver upon their chests. As the voice of Lord Sanouk’s authority in the village, Mitros wore his badge of station as poorly as his men. Grubby furs and dark leathers covered his corpulence from throat to toe.
“Treon,” he called with mock joviality, whiskered jowls florid from the chill air. He held a flagon in one wine-stained fist, though it was morning. “Come to collect the rubbish of Valdar, have you?” A clump of straw fell from his thin black hair when he laughed.
“Have you been bedding swine again, Mitros?” Treon said with a disapproving sneer.
“As ever,” Mitros said, the smile on his lips belying the glassy anger in his eyes, “your wit unmans me. As it happens, I was interrogating one of the prisoners. Seems she disliked my methods, and put a boot to my stones.”
“She?” Rathe said, startled. It was hard enough to imagine any man fool enough to deal with the plainsmen, but a woman was unheard of.
“Aye,” Mitros answered, rounding on Rathe. His eyes, dark and bloodshot, narrowed. “I know you from somewhere … or have heard spoken your likeness.”
Rathe did not bother to explain who he was, so Treon filled the silence. “This is the Scorpion of Cerrikoth,” he snickered, “now bereft of his stinger.”
“You are the one who bedded that highborn’s concubine!” Mitros said, bellowing roguish laughter. “By all the gods, you are either more foolish than you look, or have a pair of stones the size of my fists!”
Rathe smiled thinly.
“Take me to these prisoners,” Treon said. “Once loaded into the wagons, we will depart. Too long was the journey here, what with all that damnable snow and flooding streams.”
“So soon?” Mitros drawled. “Surely after coming so far you will let me feast you? What can one night hurt? Of course, if it’s not a feast you want, the tavern has the finest ales in the north … and I encourage the serving wenches to gladly trade their wares for coin.” He looked down the line and raised his voice. “What say you, men of Hilan? Would you rather not remain in Valdar this day and night, and taste the bounty of the north?”
A cheering roar erupted from the company. Rathe never looked away from Mitros. He is not so much the steward of Valdar, but a whoremonger.
Treon thought briefly about the offer. “Very well,” he said, eliciting a cry of approval. “We leave on the morrow. Be forewarned, any man not armed and ready for duty will suffer.”
Rathe let the eager shouts wash over him, eyeing Mitros and his men, the dilapidated fortifications, and wondering just what he would find within the village.
Chapter 21
“Four women and a pair of codgers,” Loro mused, sipping ale from a wooden mug. “That dark-haired wench seems feisty, to be sure, but the rest are addled. Hard to believe anyone, especially the plainsmen, would strike a bargain with such a motley group.”
Rathe propped his elbows on the aged bar and leaned in close, raising his voice above the raucous merriment stirring the tavern’s rafters. “I am going to talk with the prisoners.”
“Why?” Loro asked, distracted by a buxom serving girl.
She in no way seemed eager to attract attention, nor inclined to offer her flesh for coin. A soldier slapped the girl’s rounded backside. She squealed, dropped her serving tray, and ran from the common room. Ribald laughter followed her, as did the gazes of the other serving girls, all who looked as if they would rather be anywhere else.
“Something’s wrong here,” Rathe said.
Loro scowled into his empty mug. “Aye. My cup’s run dry!”
The old one-legged barkeep replaced the empty mug with another dribbling foam over the brim. Loro flipped him a copper, and the wizened fellow tucked the coin into a leather purse at his belt, then clumped off to serve a grubby miner at the other end of the bar.
Everything about Valdar seems wrong. Rathe supposed the barkeep could wear a brooding scowl all the time, but it seemed out of place, considering his custom had doubled with the arrival of Hilan men. Of the miner, he took no pleasure in his ale, but rather quaffed mug after mug in bitter silence. Missing three fingers on one hand and two from the other might have accounted for that, but Rathe thought not. He had seen men drink so before, in a bid to drown the memory of the loss of something dear. Moreover, from the serving wenches to the barkeep, to the miner, all moved through the smoky tavern as if in a daze, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped.
“I am going to talk to the prisoners,” Rathe said again. Save for the woman who had tried to make a eunuch of Mitros, he had doubts the others could tell him anything of worth.
Loro gulped from his mug. “Go ahead,” he grumbled. “I am of the mind to find a wench willing to let this old boar nuzzle her teats.” He squinted around the tavern, then back to Rathe. “It’s never too late cast all this soldiering and vengeance aside and go find our fortunes elsewhere. Mercenary or brigand, caravan guard or trader, opportunities abound in the west, all along the shores of the Sea of Muika, and beyond on the isles of Giliron.”
For the first time since Loro had mentioned that scheme, it did not offend Rathe to hear it. And for the first time, he actually imagined living such a life. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “But now is not the time.”
“Suit yourself,” Loro said. “You change your mind, don’t forget I put you up to it.”
“I won’t,” Rathe agreed.
He made his way out of the stifling tavern and into the frosty night. A double handful of cloaked soldiers from Hilan and Valdar lounged on stools at either side of the door, drinking and jesting. A few eyes met his, nods were exchanged, and the men turned back to their companions.
Rathe drew his dagger and made a show of cleaning his nails, peering at the shadows from under his eyebrows. Since arriving to Valdar, it had crossed his mind that Treon might have put a watch on him. If so, the spy was stealthy. Save for a half dozen goats wandering by on the street, the village slumbered. Of course, even during the day it had seemed bereft of normal activity.
He sheathed his dagger and stepped off the wooden walkway, heading for the prisoner wagons.
For expediency, Treon had ordered the traitors locked in the wagons overnight. Since giving that order, Rathe had not seen Treon or Mitros.
“What do you want?” one of two guards demanded when Rathe came near. Unfortunately, he was one of Mitros’s men, depriving Rathe the luxury of easily sending the man off.
Seeing no point in explaining himself twice, Rathe waited for the other guard to join the first. The spirited woman who had assaulted Mitros crawled closer to the bars of the nearest wagon. Her wide eyes glowed in the moonlight, as did the guards’ bared swords.
“I have come to interrogate the prisoners,” Rathe said.
“And who are you?” the second guard asked.
“Second in command of the winged Reavers,” Rathe said.
“Ah, the Scorpion, is it?”
“I have been called that.”
“Don’t look like no king’s champion to me. What say you, Gadein?”
“Well, Caisel,” Gadein said in a philosophical tone at odds with his dullard’s low, sloping brow, “I says he’s too pretty by half to be aught but a highborn’s plaything. What happened Scorpion, did your lord tire of poking his scepter into your sweet mouth?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Rathe chuckled, stepping forward.
Put off by his light manner, their swords rose too slowly at his approach. Rathe swatted Gadein’s blade aside and slammed his fist into the man’s throat.
“Wha’ the—” Caisel managed, before Rathe wheeled and drove the heel of his hand into the man’s nose. Bone exploded, and Caisel dropped his sword and reeled away, hands clamped over his face, blood squeezing between his fingers.
Rathe spun back to a gagging Gadein and clubbed him across the back of the neck, dropping him to his knees. A viscous kick shattered the man’s jaw and sent him to the ice-crusted mud—
He whirled at a scraping sound, found Caisel coming, lips and chin coated in a running fan of blood, sword raised high to strike off Rathe’s head. In one motion Rathe dropped low, stepped inside the man’s swing, and drew his dagger. Just before his blade liberated the man’s intestines, he reversed the dagger and drove the pommel into Caisel’s groin. An explosive grunt sprayed blood from his mouth, and Rathe pummeled him again, ending whatever hope the brute had of siring children.
Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) Page 13