“We will survive,” Rathe said.
With a curse on the gods, Loro barreled back into the fight. Rathe chose out a horse still tacked, and vaulted into the saddle. He caught up the reins, slashed his sword through the lead rope, and wheeled the blowing steed to face the madness of the Hilyoth attack. As though breaking free of a thick skim of filthy ice, his mind fully embraced the unspeakable truth of the moment. We are all of us dead.
Inflamed by that certain knowledge, released from any burden of fear, he kicked his mount into a charge through the camp. The pain in his sword hand a distant nuisance, he swung the blade overhand into the leaping face of a Hilyoth.
Flashing steel ripped through its blunt snout and sank deep into its skull. The howling creature’s limbs quivered as it shook its severed head, threatening to tear Rathe’s sword from his grip. He kicked a foot free of the stirrup, slammed his boot into the blood-slicked face of the devil-hound, and wrenched the sword loose. Before the beast fell, Rathe had heeled his trumpeting horse into another charge.
As he fought back and forth through camp, Rathe shouted commands to the remaining Hilan men, even as Loro berated his fellows for stinking cowards. Those soldiers who had taken flight did not rejoin the battle. Those who had stayed behind, or had been too slow to depart, either decided to test their courage and fight, or decided they had no choice. In the end, all that mattered to Rathe was that he and Loro did not stand alone.
Whirling his mount for another attack, Rathe spied Treon cowering, ratlike, behind a wheel of a prisoner wagon. He did not have time to consider the man’s cowardice. Rathe booted the charger, sword raised, eyeing his next target—a hellish hound buried to its neck in the open belly of a supine Hilan man.
The horse reared, its front hooves smashing the beast’s face. His mount leaped forward as another creature of slick, hot skin struck Rathe from behind, driving his chest against the pommel. Talons furrowed his back, and drove a scream through his gritted teeth. Growling, spraying hot slaver over the side of his face, the Hilyoth sank its fangs into the junction between Rathe’s neck and shoulder. Before it could rip loose a mouthful of flesh, Rathe rammed his sword into the creature’s bulk. With a whining growl, it leaped away.
Rathe hugged his mount’s neck as it spun in tight circles. His mind reeled at the magnitude of carnage filling his eyes. In all directions, blood sprayed from torn necks in lurid arcs, severed limbs fell to spasm in the churned mud, savaged bellies spewed coiling entrails. Cries of dying men joined with the baying of the Hilyoth to make a dire song foretelling the battle’s outcome.
Somehow, Aeden was still on his feet, now wielding a sword in clumsy, hacking strokes at a pair of circling devil-hounds. One blow chopped across a hideous face, driving back the snarling beast. Aeden raised his sword to strike again, but the second Hilyoth fell on him before he could bring the weapon to bear, tearing at him with gnashing teeth and ripping claws.
His back and neck afire, Rathe raised his sword, and kicked his horse into a plunging gallop. Aeden’s eyes, wide with keen awareness, found Rathe’s desperate gaze. Before Rathe could ride near enough to help, the Hilyoth tore out Aeden’s throat. Howling fury, Rathe drove the horse on, its front hooves crushing the monstrous creature’s blood-slathered muzzle, its rear hooves smashing the Hilyoth against the ground.
As he tugged the reins to turn, a pale shape dropped from above and landed on his horse’s head. Rathe recoiled from the Shadenmok’s hateful black gaze. Squealing, the horse began bucking. With hooked nails, the Shadenmok dug into the horse’s flesh and screamed into Rathe’s face, spraying him with droplets of reeking wetness. The horse heaved and kicked in a frenzy of terror, throwing Rathe from the saddle. He slammed into a tree and fell headlong to the ground.
Mane of red hair flying, the Shadenmok scurried over the bucking horse, its stubby claws rending hide and meat. Its round mouth gaped wide around a gurgling screech, baring rows of spiked teeth, then its head flashed down against the horse’s neck. Quivering, eyes rolling, the steed bolted, only to fall after a few short leaps, scattering the few soldiers defending against a handful of circling Hilyoth. The Shadenmok flung itself clear, rolled, then raced back and thrust it face into the lurid fount pumping from the dying horse’s neck.
As Rathe struggled to his feet, Loro charged out the gloom, drenched in mud and blood. His axe whistled as it fell. The Shadenmok flinched away, but the axe slashed down across one withered breast and through the creature’s cocked leg. Its black eyes bulged and its pale white flesh rippled. It slashed a clawed hand at Loro, driving him back. Before he could settle his feet, the creature leaped clear.
Loro eyed the scrawny leg twitching in the mud, then roared a victorious battle cry. All at once the Shadenmok surged back from the darkness beyond the camp, bowling over the fat man. The creature, ungainly on one leg and two arms, rushed toward Rathe, a mad fury lighting its eyes.
Dropping into a crouch, Rathe raised his sword at the last instant. The Shadenmok’s gaze darted toward the blade, calculating. Before those eyes returned to his face, his opposite hand ripped his dagger across the creature’s belly. The Shadenmok screamed, clutching its middle, and Rathe swung his sword with all his remaining strength into the she-devil’s neck, ending its cry. The remaining Hilyoth turned as one to face the killer of their master.
Loro retrieved his axe and joined Rathe’s side against the now cautious devil-hounds. Four remained, eyes glaring with the same bestial cunning their dead master had shown. Behind the stalking creatures, the last of the soldiers gathered.
The closest Hilyoth sniffed at the headless corpse of the Shadenmok and raised its muzzle, growling.
“Doesn’t seem happy,” Loro panted.
Rathe took a deep breath. “No, it—”
The beast sprang. Rathe dodged to one side, sword flashing low to high. Steel gouged through the Hilyoth’s underbelly, disemboweling it.
Another Hilyoth leaped for Loro, battering aside his axe, and striking him on the chest. They went down, rolling in the muck. Loro’s thick fingers sank into the pallid skin of the devil-hound’s neck. Its jaws snapped shut an inch from his face, splintering a fang.
Before Rathe could help Loro, the last two charged, one behind the other. He lunged aside, striking the first Hilyoth’s back with an overhand blow as it swept past. His blade sank deep, severing its knobby spine. The other rammed him from behind, throwing Rathe into a forward roll. Twisting as he came up, he slammed his dagger past the Hilyoth’s teeth and into its throat. The creature bit down on his forearm—weakly, for a hand span of bloody steel thrust out from the base of its skull.
Loro came up bearing the other Hilyoth by its throat. Face to face, each with teeth bared and snarling, he throttled the creature. Its hind legs kicked madly, talons shredding the leather jerkin covering Loro’s belly. Cursing, Loro sank his teeth into the creature’s misshapen muzzle and tore loose a portion of its snout. The Hilyoth yowled, and Loro’s powerful hands strained, fingers sinking deep into its wrinkled yellow hide. Skin parted, muscle ripped, bone cracked, and the Hilyoth died with a shuddering whine. Loro hurled the monstrosity away, then swiped at his mouth with frantic hands.
“If I’d known you were so hungry,” Rathe said, extracting his dagger from the dead devil-hound at his feet, “I would have spared you some bread.”
“To the Abyss with you,” Loro snarled, running the back of his hand over his lips. “All that aside, Hilyoth do not taste that bad.”
They laughed, long and loud, wounded and battered, but alive. It was more than Rathe could have hoped. The Hilan men looked on with stunned expressions, or knelt beside fallen companions.
Treon crawled from under the wagon. Besides some mud smeared over his chest, he might not have been anywhere near a battle. “You there, Remon, get my men back here on the instant. I want this traitorous dog back in his cage,” he hissed, pointing at Rathe.
Friend to poor buggering Alfan, presumably the first soldier taken by the Shad
enmok days before, Remon studied Captain Treon, the scattered dead, the wounded. “Captain, Rathe killed the Shadenmok. He saved us—”
“Shut your festering hole and obey me!”
The lean-faced soldier looked to his brothers, each bloodied and disbelieving, then glanced at Rathe, indecision warring in his eyes. Though Remon did not want to, Rathe feared he would do as commanded.
“You cannot stand for this madness,” Loro said, leaning in close to Rathe’s ear. “It’s time to leave. I will stand with you, but we need to go now.”
Rathe sighed. Treon was a hateful fool with a passion to see him dead or chained, and of course Lord Sanouk would side with his pet snake, no matter how many supporters Rathe had amongst the Hilan men. Upon returning to the fortress, any chance of taking his freedom in hand would disappear. Yet, to escape the headsman’s axe, he would have to fight the survivors of the Shadenmok attack. Still, he did not mean to be taken prisoner, which meant more men would die this night.
As he prepared to attack, his searching eyes wandered to the cage he had so recently escaped. His heart froze. The barred door to the wagon stood open. Erryn was gone.
Chapter 24
A quick search revealed Erryn was not among the dead or wounded. As well, the second wagon’s lock had been broken, and all the prisoners were gone, suggesting she had freed them and fled. Does Treon know? Rathe imagined the captain might not. Any man who would cower behind a wagon wheel, while others fought and died for him, was doubtless ruled by a fear so great that he had missed all else going on around him.
Rathe almost cursed Erryn’s imprudence, but reconsidered. She had run the moment she was able. As I should have done. He glanced at Treon, who glared at Remon, and decided to buy Erryn and her fellows a bit more time.
“If you want to cage me, Treon,” he called, “you will have to do it yourself.”
Treon turned slowly, lips moving without sound, pale face going red with fury.
“Did you take a blow to the head?” Loro murmured.
“Erryn and the others escaped,” Rathe whispered from the side of his mouth. “I need to make sure she gets as far away as she can. Besides, these men will heed Treon … unless I kill him, here and now.”
“Before you make the attempt,” Loro said, gaze darting to the blood oozing over Rathe’s boot, “you might want a little more life in your veins.”
“You will need to flee,” Rathe continued, having barely heard Loro’s concern.
“You are mad,” Loro said.
“Seize him!” Treon bawled.
No one moved, save a foursome of soldiers creeping out of the forest trailed by Carul, the second wagon driver. There was no sign of Breyon among the dead or the living. Rathe supposed he might have fled with Erryn, or fallen in the forest beyond the camp. Dismayed, the newcomers took in the charnel scene littered with their friends, dead Hilyoth, and the Shadenmok.
Remon turned back to Captain Treon. “I cannot—I will not—allow this man to be bound. Not after what he did for us.”
“You will obey,” Treon hissed, his gray eyes flickering from face to face, pale lips twitching with unease.
Remon raised his chin in a defiant jut and addressed his fellows. “The Scorpion could have run, but he fought and killed the Shadenmok. He chanced his life, when half our number ran into the trees, and—” he stabbed a finger at Treon’s face “—while this craven pile cowered under a wagon. The rest of you choose as you will, and let gods and demons judge your souls. For me, I stand with the Scorpion!”
A few agreeable mutters met this.
“The Scorpion!” Remon bellowed. “The Scorpion and the Reavers! Stand with me, here and—”
A foot of sharp steel ripped through Remon’s sternum, ending his defiant shout. Before anyone fully registered what had happened, Treon gave his sword a brutal twist, cracking bone, forcing Remon up on his tiptoes. The soldier shuddered, and his eyes rolled to show the whites.
A reckless fury burst to life in Rathe’s chest at the cowardly, senseless murder, and his fist clenched hard on the hilt of his sword, and he made to step forward.
Loro dropped a restraining hand on his arm. “That might have been his undoing,” he advised, but Rathe did not believe it.
Treon shoved Remon away, wrenching his blade free as the man toppled into the mud. “The rest of you gabbling idiots can join Remon,” he announced, bloody sword held before his eyes, inspecting its edge, “or you can bind this traitor. The choice is yours.”
Unspoken words seemed to pass between the Hilan men. A dozen against one. Rathe could almost hear them weighing the odds, but he knew their decision, and the why of it, before the first man drew his sword. As he had surmised before, these men had used up their chances through whatever crimes had sent them to Hilan. To stand against Treon would earn them a hunted, miserable life.
Twelve men edged toward Rathe and Loro, all refusing to lock eyes with their quarry, mouths turned down in regret. Rathe sighed. Unless fortune favored him, he would never get to Treon, let alone kill him. I will make my own luck, he thought.
From the corner of his mouth, Rathe said, “I have to distract these fellows so Erryn can flee deeper in to the forest.”
“Were I you, I’d worry less about Erryn,” Loro muttered, “and more about myself. End up back in that cage, and you are lost.”
“Do what I tell you, and there will be no cage to ride in,” Rathe said. “If I live, I expect you to free me between here and Hilan.”
“How am I supposed to manage that?” Loro sputtered.
“You will,” Rathe said, “or mine will be a crow-picked head on a spike above Hilan’s walls.”
“But—”
“Before you go, fire the wagons, and scatter as many horses as you can. Treon will not want to recapture the prisoners without a means to get them back to Hilan.”
“You witless fool,” Loro said, as Rathe dashed forward.
Taken off guard by his unexpected charge, the Hilan men stared as he swept around them, bearing down on a gawking Treon. Rathe struggled to free his sword from its scabbard, and his movements told him he had miscalculated his ability to fight. He had lost much blood, and with it his strength. The sword weighed down his arm, his feet clumped rather than danced. Gritting his teeth, opening himself to blind rage fueled by the need to see Erryn safely away, he pressed on, swinging the sword in a sidearm strike at Treon’s throat.
The captain scampered back, just deflecting the blow. Steel rang out as Rathe stumbled past. He whirled, nearly lost his footing, and parried Treon’s deft thrust. Then another, and another, until he was in full retreat.
Rathe stumbled away from Treon’s attacks, worried more than ever. Coward though he was, Captain Treon knew swordplay. At his best, Rathe judged that he might have held his own against Treon, but it would have been a close thing. Now, his back torn, shoulder and neck ravaged by the Hilyoth, weakened from his beating in Valdar a few days before, the odds were stacked against him.
“You expected an easy kill?” Treon taunted, circling to Rathe’s left. His sword darted, flashing under Rathe’s nose almost playfully.
Behind Treon and the gawking Hilan men, Loro caught up a flaming brand from the campfire and dashed to the first wagon. He swept the flames over tallow used to grease the axle, setting it alight—there was not much to burn, but enough. He cast fleeting glance at Rathe and the others, then went to the next wagon. In moments, both wagons were burning. Rathe did not have to ensure the wagons burned to ash, only that the fires rendered them useless.
“No more than you,” Rathe lied, making a half-hearted stab at Treon’s belly. His real intention was to keep Treon focused on him, instead of the wagons.
The captain swatted the attack aside with a contemptuous sneer. “I have no intention of killing you, Scorpion. I will give you into Lord Sanouk’s hands … at least, most of you. I dare say, he will have an exceptional form of torture in mind for you.”
“Will it be the rack,”
Rathe said, struggling not to gasp, “or perhaps hot pincers?”
Treon lunged, the tip of his sword slicing Rathe’s cheek. The attack could have easily sunk into his throat. Rathe stumbled away, certain Treon was toying with him.
“What you will suffer,” Treon chuckled, “is unlike anything you can imagine—and your pain will never end.”
Disregarding such meaningless drivel, Rathe launched a wild assault. Treon blocked the blows without surrendering an inch of ground, even as he delivered a half dozen slices and pricks to Rathe’s flesh.
Feigning exhaustion that was as real as the blood trickling over his skin, Rathe lured Treon close, then feinted with a slash at the captain’s neck. Treon’s sword deflected the attack, and Rathe sunk his fist into the man’s belly. Treon’s breath whistled as he lurched back. Rathe swung his blade as if chopping cordwood. Treon fell to one knee, reflexively bringing up his sword. Rathe’s weapon missed splitting the captain’s head by an inch. His sword slammed into Treon’s, and then both blades crashed against the captain’s brow. Rathe swung again, but Treon pivoted on his knee, his opposite foot sweeping Rathe off his feet.
Rathe landed hard, rolled, and came up sucking precious air. Treon jumped to a defensive crouch at the same instant. Blood oozed from a cut on his forehead, but otherwise he seemed unhurt. They took measure of one another, waiting, tensing—
“Fire!” a soldier yelled.
Treon shot a quick glance that way, and Rathe attacked, his only goal to keep everyone focused on the fight. Blades flickered and crashed together in a blurring silver whirlwind, rebounded and fell again. Every breath burned like a poison vapor in Rathe’s chest as he fought. Treon moved much like his namesake, darting and striking, a deadly viper playing with its prey, wearing it down. The murderous heat in his gaze did not soften, and the longer the struggle went on, the more it seemed he might forget his desire to see Rathe into Sanouk’s hands.
Through it all, no one moved to put out the blazing wagons, and the sound of horse’s neighing in alarm grew louder. Loro stood between the wagons, trapped between helping Rathe and obeying him. Rathe kicked a glop of mud into Treon’s face, distracting him long enough to motion for Loro to leave. The fat man hesitated a moment longer, then vanished into the forest behind a trio of horses.
Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) Page 15