Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1)

by James A. West

  Rathe barely caught a sword blow aimed for his neck. Steel shrieked as the edge of Treon’s sword slid down Rathe’s, jarring to a stop at the cross-guard. Pressed chest to chest, Rathe slammed his knee into the captain’s groin, then he flung him away with the last of his dwindling strength.

  Staggering, sweat pouring into his eyes, Rathe tottered back. The tip of his sword dragged through the mud, his stumbling feet struggled to hold him upright. He could not last much longer. Without a chance of defeating Treon, he must surrender to keep the man from killing him, and hope that Loro would find a way to set him free before reaching Hilan.

  Treon charged, white hair flying, screaming like a scalded woman. Rathe brought his dagger to bear, using it to parry strikes he missed with his sword. A debilitating ache grew in his shoulders, his guard became a series of flinches. Treon pressed the attack, but could not sneak or batter through Rathe’s defenses. At last, he stumbled back, panting every bit as much as Rathe.

  “Enough! Take this fool, and cage him!”

  For a moment, everyone froze in place.

  “There are no cages,” Carul said.

  “And no horses,” a soldier added.

  Treon put another two paces between himself and Rathe, and glanced at the burning wagons. “You dirty, cheating cur!” he screeched, points of red blooming on his cheeks. “You planned this. You and that corpulent heap of shite!”

  Rathe had no breath for words, so he put on a mocking grin.

  “Three of you, bind this fool,” Treon snarled. “The rest, fetch the horses. Do it, or I will cut the beating hearts from every one of you mother-buggering idiots!”

  Had the men challenged his threat, Treon would have died. Instead, they obeyed the order and came for Rathe.

  Having accomplished what he set out to do, Rathe offered no resistance as the Hilan men bound him. Erryn had escaped with the others from Valdar, but Rathe must give them all the extra time he could, and that meant becoming a prisoner again. Doubtless, Loro watched from the forest. Come for me, brother, Rathe thought, scanning the motionless woods. Come for me, or I am a dead man.

  Chapter 25

  Having ordered all the torches and braziers extinguished, Lord Sanouk ghosted along the crenelated battlements in utter darkness. He halted behind a lichen-crusted merlon and peeked around the edge. Lit by roaring bonfires, the terraced village shone like a tawdry jewel in the night. Where he had commanded the fortress made dark, he ordered the village to burn brightly. Something stalked within the brooding forest. He knew not the face it wore, man or beast, but he wanted its gaze drawn to the village, not the now vulnerable keep.

  Two patrols lost…. It was not the first time the thought had assailed him, nor the hundredth. The first patrol set out at dawn three days past, but had not returned. Initially, Sanouk dismissed their absence. His soldiers often rode into the forest, passing the time drinking, hunting, and getting up to all manner of mischief. By the second evening, he had grown apprehensive that something was amiss. The next dawn, he was certain trouble had befallen his men.

  He sent more soldiers to seek the missing patrol, having decided that if a rogue band of bandits had attacked his men—perhaps a group not in his service—then they would reap the rewards of such foolishness. That decision, along with Captain Treon’s absence, greatly weakened the garrison, but Sanouk had carried no fear in his heart.

  Another day and now half a night had passed, and he had heard nothing, seen not one wounded survivor. The villagers, having lost many of their own in recent days to Sanouk’s secretive hunts, thought sure they guarded against a Shadenmok and her devil-hounds. But Shadenmok only attacked well-armed and -armored companies when desperate to feed. Other devilish creatures haunted the deepest reaches of the Gyntors, as well, but like the Shadenmok, such beasts usually sought the weakest and most vulnerable.

  If not a Shadenmok or some other fell creature, then what had dispatched over thirty hardened soldiers? Surely no marauding party of witless brigands. With Captain Treon late returning, Sanouk had no choice but to consider that Mitros, scoundrel that he was, had grown weary of his role as a servant, and decided to rejoin his life as a brigand leader. Hard as it was to believe, the possibility existed that the brutish drunkard was making a bid on taking the north for himself….

  The thought turned Sanouk’s bowels to water. His concern was not for Treon, or any threat Mitros might pose, but rather that without prisoners from Valdar to offer Gathul, the god’s insatiable hunger would turn on him. “… unless you would rather slake my hungers with the meat of your own soul?” so Gathul had asked of him.

  It had been no question, rather a threat of a fate worse than any endured by his sacrifices, who lived on in their tombs under the fortress, suffering the pangs of various deaths, but undying. In his heart, Sanouk understood that Gathul would destroy his body, but that his soul would linger in eternal agony, a toy for the cruel god.

  He glanced at a passing soldier carrying a spear slanted across his chest. Any sacrifice would do. Sanouk shook the thought away. He could not very well offer up his men … at least not yet. There was still some small time, a day, perhaps two, before Gathul grew restless. In truth, he did not know. I must hurry.

  Sanouk scanned the village, filled with slovenly wretches with no real purpose in existing save to serve him. For now, he needed but one. But who would garner the least resistance?

  A long thin face bearing the ravages of a childhood pox showed itself in his mind, dull muddy eyes, hanks of greasy gray hair. The master of hounds … Zarik. Yes, he would do.

  An accusation of treason or thievery would suffice to place him in Sanouk’s custody without worry of protest. No one, even among the villagers, loved Zarik. The man’s sacrifice would purchase Sanouk another few days to find more offerings … unless, that was, Gathul once again changed their agreement. Already, what had been a month between sacrifices had become a fortnight, had become a meager handful of days. And what if it comes to pass that the demon demands multiple sacrifices in a single day?

  Sanouk told himself that would never happen, for such a demand would lead to his inability to provide the sustenance the god desired. Another question rose up, one that had started him from a deep sleep some nights past. Needs aside, what of Gathul’s deeper cravings?

  When first considered, he had convinced himself that Gathul wanted nothing more than the occasional offering in return for his rewards. Since then, the idea had begun to trouble Sanouk that Gathul considered the sacrifices appetizing morsels, but actually desired to glut upon the flesh of just one soul—that of his servant and conjurer—even if that feeding locked the god within his realm for another long age.

  Sanouk swallowed, his mouth and throat dry as bones bleached white under the desert sun. The unholy words he had used to summon the god, also bound him to Gathul. Agreements could be met between the god and the summoner, Undai had told Sanouk, but never coerced. And I agreed to every word Gathul has suggested.

  Sanouk swallowed again, almost gagging on a sudden wave of terror. Had Gathul been manipulating him all along, pressing him to accept more and more difficult measures … measures that if not met assured that the final, most sought after sacrifice, would be his own?

  “What’s that?”

  The whispered question intruded upon Sanouk’s terrorized considerations. Two soldiers stood nearby, pointing. Following their fingers, Sanouk detected stealthy movement within the wooded murkiness west of the village, where the forest grew closest to the wooden palisade. With movement came sounds, ponderous groans and creaks.

  “Siege engines,” someone gasped.

  Sanouk frowned, denying what his eyes showed him. No force had dared attack the fortress of Hilan in generations. Denial or not, a dozen or more wheeled ballistae and mangonels trundled from the edge of the forest toward the village. The warriors pushing the light weapons wore raiment out of a bard’s tale, all of bright colors and burnished helms. No banners led their advance, and the dis
tance was too great to make out the devices on the glimmering breastplates worn by the assaulting force.

  Instead of panic spreading through the village, the western gate scraped open, disgorging a stream of folk to surge toward the rolling weaponry, all cheering like a band of lackwits. After a brief consultation with the garishly clad soldiers, the villagers lent their strength to pushing the siege weapons. Those who had remained in the village began dousing the bonfires, torches, and all else that provided light within the village’s walls. In moments, the cleared land beyond the fortress lay under the blanket of night. The sounds of wooden wheels clattering nearer mingled with the chant of, “Heave! Heave! Heave!”

  “They mean to attack the keep!” a soldier cried in disbelief.

  Sanouk turned his mind to the dusty chambers below the keep, where waited throwing arms, wheels, and all else needed to construct a half dozen catapults. Years and termites had rendered them unusable, long before he had found himself the Lord of Hilan. The curtain wall had once supported hoardings from which soldiers could drop stones or pour boiling oil, but like the catapults, they had long since been deemed unnecessary and dismantled. That left the curtain wall itself, and the dry moat filled with slanting wooden spikes and barbed caltrops.

  “Duras!” Sanouk called to the sergeant serving in Treon’s stead.

  The old soldier, who had lost and eye and half his nose in some bygone skirmish, trotted near. “We are under attack, milord!”

  “I know that, you imbecile! I want archers placed—”

  The thunder of hooves crossing the drawbridge cut off his command. The drawbridge!

  Sanouk peered down, fearing a column of cavalry had come upon the fortress unawares. Instead he found a small cluster of riders. Has the enemy sent a representative to treat with me?

  “Open the gates,” Captain Treon called out.

  “Let him pass!” Sanouk shouted.

  He wheeled and ran, all thoughts of the defending the fortress pushed to the back of his mind. He was standing before the gatehouse, surrounded by torch-bearing soldiers, before it struck him that Treon had returned without the prisoner wagons, and his company was half the size it should be.

  “Milord,” Treon said, climbing out of the saddle, “I fear that—”

  “Where are the prisoners?” Sanouk demanded, heart fluttering in his chest. If he had no sacrifices to offer Gathul, his life was forfeit.

  “We were set upon by a Shadenmok and her hounds.”

  “Where are the prisoners!” Sanouk shrieked. A Shadenmok attack might have merit at any other time, but not now. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel the stirrings of a presence rising up from the stones underfoot and caressing his skin. And was that the cold, dead breath of the god in his ear? Sanouk felt clamped inside a great, invisible fist. His inner thoughts, usually cool and calculating, began to gibber. Someone, any soldier or servant, must soon be offered up!

  “During the battle—” Treon faltered, then regained his composure “—they escaped.”

  “Escaped?” Sanouk blurted, thrusting his nose against Treon’s, forcing the man to step back. “I warned you how vital these prisoners were. That you have failed means only one thing!”

  Treon stepped back farther, shaking his head. “No. Not me. Take him—take Rathe! He freed the prisoners, then set upon me!”

  Sanouk took in the hooded figure bound to the saddle, and the uncomfortable shifting from the other soldiers at Treon’s accusation. “Is this true?” He had hoped to turn Rathe to his needs. A man of renown would serve well as his voice and hand of authority.

  The hooded head shifted in his direction, and a tired but proud voice said, “It is.”

  Then I have my sacrifice. It was a pity, but he had greater concerns than using the esteemed Scorpion to enforce his will—

  The short blast of a horn cut off his thought. Then, from beyond the wall came a series of heavy, clacking thuds, followed by the whistling screams of falling arrows and shouting men. A moment later, a rain of stone shot crashed against the curtain wall, while more hammered into the bailey.

  “Raise the bridge and bar the gates!” Sanouk bellowed.

  As men scurried to obey, Treon rasped, “We are under attack?”

  “It would appear so,” Sanouk answered in an acid tone, his mind turning inward to more important matters. “Keep the fortress intact, Treon, or I will have off your head.”

  “What of the traitor?”

  “Trust that I will see to him.”

  Chapter 26

  “… I will see to him….”

  Rathe did not resist when hands dragged him from the saddle. Though he could not see, the racket of yelling soldiers scrambling for cover as hurled stones crashed against the walls, and the distinctive whickering hiss of massive bolts fired from ballistae, painted a clear picture in his mind of the attack. He wanted to believe Loro led the assault, but could not conceive how the man would have come upon the means to lay siege. It was, Rathe supposed, a mystery to which he’d never learn the answer, unless he could find a way to get free.

  There came a meaty thwack, followed by a gurgling scream; one of the spear-sized arrows had found its mark. The horns beyond the curtain wall sounded again, and another volley of stone shot exploded around him.

  “Come!” Sanouk ordered, dragging Rathe across the ward by a length of rope tied to his bound wrists. Like a calf to the slaughter.

  Rathe stumbled blindly. “Free me, and I will lend my sword to defending the fortress and the village.” He had no intention of fulfilling that pledge, only wanted a sword back in his hands. Two days had passed since the Shadenmok attack, and he was barely stronger than when he had fought Treon, but with the keep under attack, he might just have an advantage to escape.

  “I think not,” Sanouk said, slamming heavy doors on the clamor of battle. “My intentions require that you live, after a fashion, not perish guarding this blasted heap of stone.”

  “Is that supposed to be a riddle?” Rathe said.

  Sanouk ignored the question, bustling him down echoing corridors filled with murmuring servants. As they moved deeper into the keep, Rathe went back to loosening his bindings, much as he had been doing since Treon tied him into the saddle. By now, the ropes had chaffed his skin raw. He ignored the discomfort, subtly twisting his wrists against each other.

  When Sanouk pulled him up short and rattled a key in a lock, Rathe tried to wrench free of his bindings. The ropes scraped over the back of one hand, nearing his knuckles. So close!

  Sanouk shoved him into a cooler space, a door thudded closed, then the lead rope tightened again as Sanouk set off down a steep flight of stairs. After those ended, the ground underfoot became uneven rock and dirt. Rathe made an effort to map every twist of their path. After a series of sharp turns, Rathe collided with a wall of undressed stone, and he imagined a warren of caves, perhaps an ancient mine.

  After some time, he detected a cold, musty odor passing through the weave of the sack over his head. Below that, the scent of moldering linens. The farther they went, twisting and turning, another smell intruded, dominating all others. Burial spices. A catacomb? Sanouk’s words rose up. “My intentions require that you live, after a fashion….”

  Combined with the certainty that he now strode amongst the dead, the tenor of Lord Sanouk’s odd pronouncement drew a clammy sweat from Rathe’s pores. The living did not mingle lightly with the dead. A word flitted through his mind: Necromancy. Sanouk had not struck him as a mystic or conjurer, but that meant nothing. Nesaea had denied being a seer, yet she had seemingly described his future, a truth he could not deny, as he had been beset by troubles since the night in her shiplike wagon. Whatever Sanouk was, it meant trouble for Rathe.

  He redoubled the painful labor of extricating himself from his bindings. Blood began to seep, working like an oil between his skin and the hempen cords. Closer … an inch more!

  Sanouk halted abruptly, and a prickly sensation slithered o
ver Rathe’s skin, like a presence … a spirit of darkness given life.

  “I had not expected to find you waiting,” Sanouk said to someone else, his fearful tone at odds with his normal air of authority.

  “You play a dangerous game, human,” a deep voice grated, as if from a bottomless well. “You agreed to my terms, yet at every turn, you push the bounds of my leniency.”

  “Forgive me,” Sanouk groveled. “There was an unforeseen hindrance. But you see, I have not failed!” he added, his tone a queer mix of pleading and triumph.

  At the first syllable from that other being, Rathe had abandoned secrecy, and he began wrenching violently at his bindings. Blood slicked his hands and wrists, but the cords stubbornly held fast.

  “Prepare yourself, human, for I will not sup from a plate given me by tainted hands.”

  “Of course,” Sanouk babbled. “But I … I have a request.”

  An affronted quiet held. The air grew colder, denser. “Speak.”

  “The keep is under attack. If you would but lend your strength to the battle, then I can continue to … to adequately serve you.” This last sounded forced, as if Sanouk had only just admitted to himself that he ruled nothing, not even his own flesh, but rather labored at the behest of that other.

  Booming, mocking laughter fell like a blow. “You serve, human, at my pleasure and your own foolishness. Your petty conflicts are the strivings of a witless race enthralled by the acts of rutting, gluttony, and the spilling of blood. You sought to gain advantage in those pursuits by awakening me from my long slumber. The rewards I promised, I have given. I will grant no more beyond them. See to your own battles, human, and give unto me the requirements of our agreement—soon—or suffer the reaping of your own wretched soul.”