Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1)

by James A. West

  “You are supposed to be scouting ahead of the company, not behind,” Rathe grumbled, glancing at Captain Treon to make sure the man had not observed Loro’s arrival.

  Loro shrugged by way of explanation, then gave Rathe a long, appraising look. “Sooner you let your old life wither and die, the sooner you will feel better about the new.”

  “And I should trust the wisdom of a viper?” Rathe rejoined, startled by the man’s insight.

  “You sting me, friend,” Loro said, grinning broadly. “I am no viper, but a boar with a savage hunger for wine, plump teats, and lusty wenches.”

  Rathe could not help but laugh at the man’s vulgarity. Loro joined in, bellowing wild guffaws to unnerve an executioner. Captain Treon gave them a withering stare until they fell silent, then faced forward. If he thought it odd that Loro had come up on the column unseen, he did not mention it. The man had seemed distracted of late, his flat gray eyes ever scanning. He might have been keeping a look out for raiding bands of plainsmen, but Rathe thought not. Treon seemed to be looking for something he had forgotten.

  Rathe said, “I trust you didn’t find anything?”

  Loro laughed again. “On the contrary. A caravan of women travel this way. Might not be women my mother would approve of … but then, she was an eyeless hedge witch with a taste for sour wine, and was convinced that smearing bat guano on her cheeks would keep her young.”

  “What are you going on about?” Rathe asked, thinking he had misjudged the man’s sanity.

  “Maidens of the Lyre draw near,” Loro said in exasperation. “They sing, dance, tell tales of heroes and fanciful places—surely you have heard of them?”

  “I have,” Rathe said. “I would not have expected to find them so far from a proper city.” He had heard many stories of the traveling women, but had never come across them.

  “It’s said they are daring,” Loro shrugged. “All that matters is this night I will have something prettier to look at than Lord Snake.” Rathe raised an eyebrow. “Captain Treon,” Loro said, lowering his voice.

  Rathe sighed. “I should tell him what you found, before he thinks we are being attacked, and puts an arrow in the first woman to show her face.”

  “Good idea. I will stay here and keep an eye on our sulking brothers,” Loro said with a sympathetic grin.

  As Rathe reached Treon, a woman riding sidesaddle topped the rise ahead and drew near before halting. Her horse, pale as morning mist, had a regal bearing and fine lines. Rathe had seen a thousand such horses. He had not seen a thousand such women. A breeze played with her emerald green riding cloak, showing the silken folds of a pale yellow gown clinging to a figure that dried Rathe’s tongue. She noted his appraisal, and returned the favor with a lingering glance of her own.

  He told himself to look away, but neither his eyes nor his head obeyed. What finally convinced him of his folly was a vision of Lisana as she had died. She had betrayed him, but he found it difficult to hold her to account, as she had been deceived herself.

  “I am Lady Nesaea,” the newcomer said to Captain Treon. Sable ringlets tumbled over one shoulder, looking freshly washed and glowing in the sunlight. “In trade for your protection on our way north to the Shadow Road, the Maidens of the Lyre will gladly provide your gallant men our services.”

  Nesaea glanced from Captain Treon to the other soldiers, her eyes so deeply blue as to look violet. When her gaze fell again on Rathe, she offered a smile seemingly meant for him alone, and he knew trouble had found him once more.

  In his whispering rasp, looking as if he had stumbled across a hidden chest of gold, Captain Treon readily agreed to Lady Nesaea’s proposition. Rathe noted the man’s eagerness, though he did not share it. A pretty face, Rathe accepted, was one of those weaknesses Commander Rhonaag had mentioned. If he would have any sort of meaningful life, Rathe knew he would need to put his head down, follow orders, and behave as a green recruit eager to serve.

  He told himself that and more, but when Nesaea wheeled her mount and rode back to her companions, Rathe could not look away from the curves of her figure nestled in the saddle, nor forget the enchanting expressiveness of her eyes. I am a man cursed, he thought without humor.

  Within the hour, without slowing the march, the Maidens of the Lyre had merged their caravan with the column of soldiers. For the first time since setting out from Onareth, the Hilan men rode with something more than bland indifference to the world around them, and the outcasts shed some of their misery. Music and song helped, rising from the backs of a score of wagons that bore the look of broad-bellied ships, all painted gaily. The melodies were pleasant, but the beauty of the singers made the soldiers sit straighter in their saddles. Some even attempted to wipe off the dust coating their mail.

  Captain Treon seemed to suffer their presence, but Rathe noted that he took a keen if furtive interest in Lady Nesaea. For her part, she returned his glances with coy looks of her own. A dagger of jealousy prodded Rathe’s heart, but he pushed it aside. If she would rather have a filthy snake for company of an evening, then so be it.

  When Treon called a halt for the night a full two hours before they had ever made camp before, the Maidens of the Lyre wheeled their mule-drawn wagons into a broad circle.

  “Well,” Loro said appreciatively, dismounting with a weary grunt, “they are not fools.”

  “Because they know how to defend themselves does not make them wise,” Rathe countered, dropping his saddle next to a bush where he had chosen to sleep. “It’s known that brigands and plainsmen rule these lands, yet this Lady Nesaea saw fit to bring her troupe here? If that’s not a fool’s errand, I don’t know what is.”

  “Gods, man,” Loro snorted, “did a spider nest in your breechclout, or are you in love?”

  Rathe cursed the man for a dolt and stalked away, leading his mount to the picket line.

  Chapter 9

  Some hours after setting camp, Rathe stood alone in the darkness beyond the company’s firelight and jubilant noise. After a fine meal prepared and served by the Maidens of the Lyre, Lady Nesaea herself had spun the heroic tale of Alendar the Valorous and His Ten Thousand, an old story about a great king battling evil men and the gods they served. With the deft weaving of a skilled bard, she had managed to subtly link the tale of Alendar to Captain Treon, of all things ridiculous.

  Afterward music, merriment, and dancing ensued. It had been going on for hours, and while the liveliness offered a pleasant distraction from the normal routine of eating goat soup and lintels before posting the night’s watch, Rathe had listened and watched enough. His body ached head to toe, his wounds itched with healing, and he wanted for sleep.

  A soft tinkling turned his head. Lady Nesaea glided near, and his tongue withered anew at sight of her. Now she wore only a few swaths of cream silk and a girdle of small medallions that accentuated her figure to a startling degree.

  “Do you find our entertainment objectionable?” she asked with a hint of smile.

  “Not at all,” Rathe answered gruffly, unsure how he should proceed. Before Lisana, such had never been a question he entertained. Now all had changed. He decided sternness would suffice, but keeping his eyes to himself proved difficult.

  Nesaea casually settled a hand on his arm. He let it stay, drawing the scent of her perfume into his nose. “Perhaps you found my dancing disagreeable?”

  “It was splendid,” Rathe said, trying not to think of the way she had leaped and swayed to the rhythmic thrumming of zither and the beat of tambour. He had never seen the like, even from the dancing girls of Trem.

  Nesaea looked out into the night. “Then why did you leave?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

  Rathe took a deep breath and answered honestly. “It was the allure of a beautiful woman that set me on the path of the banished. If I want to live to long enough to see gray in my hair, reforming my character is the wiser choice.” The sentiment was pure, but holding to it was another matter. He felt Nesaea’s pull on his will
, and feared he would not be able to resist.

  Nesaea seemed to dismiss his subtle praise of her attractiveness. “So it is true: a set of pretty eyes brought low the Scorpion of the Ghosts of Ahnok,” she mused. “And now he fears all women? I assure you, hearts will break at word of that.”

  “My former commander would say my downfall came from an inner weaknesses, not Lisana. I must agree.” Rathe found Nesaea looking into his eyes. She was taller than he had guessed, barely a hand shorter than him. Her full lips parted in a wide grin, mere inches from his own.

  “I might ask how you recognized me?” he said, knowing full well how she had known his face. Do not wait for an answer. Tell her you need your rest. Flee now, while you still can.

  He did not budge.

  Nesaea looked into his eyes, her own gaze steady. “It’s the rarest hermit who does not know the face and exploits of the Champion of Cerrikoth,” she said. “For everyone else, the Scorpion is a figure of countless legends, many of which my companions have been known to spin, especially for our female audiences.”

  “Did you intend to seduce me this night?” he asked bluntly, and tried to ignore the tingle of arousal he felt at her nearness. Perhaps he did have a weakness for beautiful women, but having fallen as far as a man could, what did it matter now?

  When she laughed, she deftly hooked a hand under his arm, and began caressing his shoulder with the other. “In light of what you said, the art of seduction is wasted, as you have apparently foresworn your ‘inner weaknesses.’ I’d rather know why men of war are so easily charmed by a pair of pretty eyes?”

  Rathe shrugged, his skin heating at her touch. “Carousing can bury the horrors soldiers see and feel on battlefields. What I know for certain is that after a man kills another, he must seek out life and light and joy in order to steal away the taint of death from his soul, before it sinks too deep. Women, more than wine or revelry, provide the only lasting escape to such a man.”

  “Come to my wagon,” she said abruptly.

  Rathe laughed, and it felt good to do so. “You do mean to seduce me!”

  She stood away, favoring him with a flat expression.

  Rathe raised his hands in surrender, not a little disappointed. “Very well, you do not wish to ravish me. But if not, then why invite me to your wagon?”

  Nesaea paused before answering, favoring him with a speculative eye. “So I can give you answers to questions you have not yet asked yourself.”

  Intrigued by her cryptic answer, he walked at her side to a wagon styled after a war galleon of narrow beam. A breeze fluttered azure and saffron pennons hung from the short mainmast, giving the illusion of billowing sails. Webbed shrouds of white silken rope stretched from the mast to the deck, more decoration than serving any use. A gilded raptor jutted from the prow, caught in perpetual flight.

  Within the circle of wagons, the merriment continued. Captain Treon watched the proceedings with a narrowed eye, while the rest of the men clapped and shouted encouragement to the dancers wheeling about the various campfires, while a handful of their sisters played a frantic but merry tune on panpipes.

  Nesaea ran her hand along the hull of the ship-wagon, fingers dancing lightly over graven reliefs of people and fanciful creatures. Amidships, she halted at a winged leopard, twisted an inconspicuous rosette below its paw. There came a soft click, and the seams of a hidden hatch showed themselves, sharply defined by a welcoming glow within. She eased it fully open, and a ratcheting mechanism produced a short ladder. She climbed up and in, beckoning him to follow.

  Not knowing what to expect, Rathe went after her and found himself standing in a cabin fit for any shipmaster. While his gaze roved over the elaborate furnishings, all built to a small but useful scale, Nesaea turned a diminutive windlass that drew up the ladder and closed the hatch on the celebration outside. In one corner stood a writing desk and chair, overshadowed by book-lined shelves; in another stood a wardrobe with elaborately carved doors. Toward the stern, a small table and two matched chairs sat across from a tiny stove and an iron rack laden with cookware. Beyond a sheer curtain waited a bed, lighted by flameless orbs of golden radiance.

  He moved nearer to the fist-sized glass spheres. They gave off light, but no heat. After considering what she had said more fully, he asked, “Are you a sorceress as well as dancer, singer, bard, and musician?”

  She laughed, a lazy finger toying with a dark curl of hair at her neck. “I am many things, but no conjurer.” She inclined her head toward the radiant orbs. “As to the Eyes of Nami-Ja—the god of light on the far jungle isles of Giliron—they are but useful trinkets gifted to me by a wizard after hearing me sing. I dare say, my reward was greater than his.”

  Rathe disagreed, and Nesaea blushed at his praise. He added, “I didn’t know the Maidens of the Lyre travelled so far as Giliron. It’s said that such a voyage to those far western islands is fraught with pirates and terrible creatures of the deep.”

  “The Sea of Muika is no more dangerous than any other. As to why I was there, suffice it to say that it was not my choice, but leaving was. Returning would mean my death.”

  Rathe’s eyebrows shot up. “You must have made quite the impression. Giliron is not known for its upstanding citizenry, let alone punishing them. You must tell me—”

  Nesaea stilled him with a raised hand. “I didn’t bring you here to prattle about my life, but to speak of your fortune.”

  Rathe bellowed laughter. “I have no desire to hear how I will spend my days in Hilan, growing old and forgotten, probably dying in the jaws of some foul beast I always believed was a legend.”

  Nesaea fixed him with an unwavering stare.

  Rathe resisted as long as he could, then said, “Why do you wish to tell me these things?”

  “As to that,” Nesaea replied, failing to completely hide her disquiet, “when I feel such compulsion on my heart, I follow it.”

  “So will I wed a beautiful woman, or give my soul to a toothless crone?” he chuckled. His experience with mystics and the like suggested that men, no matter their station, always learned they would end up with the former.

  “I will not paint so clear a picture, but rather divine the essence, the flavor, of the remaining days of your existence.”

  “Do what you will,” Rathe said, losing what little interest he had. He knew well enough what his life held.

  Nesaea cleared an area between the stove and table, then rolled out a sea-blue, hexagonal carpet embroidered with all manner of arcane symbols. “Sit in the center,” she instructed.

  After he settled himself with an accommodating grin, she placed a candle at each corner, no two the same color or size. Poking a wooden taper into the stove, she coxed its tip to flame with a gentle breath. Murmuring strange words, moving right to left around him, she lit each candle. Rathe thought he sensed the small flames as cold prickly fingertips caressing his skin, but dismissed that. Drafts rising through the floorboards, nothing more.

  Nesaea knelt before him, the individual candle flames shining like golden sparks in the depths of her eyes. Their slow, fiery dance brought to mind Nesaea’s dancing earlier. How she had moved, a beautiful flame to excite passions….

  He noticed the candles dimming, radiating a smoky, sullen light. At their dimmest, an eldritch aura materialized around the tiny flames. Crimson flecked with black, they seemed to press in, threatening to extinguish the candles’ infinitesimal heat.

  A skirling wind suddenly whipped around him, disturbing neither the flames nor the curtain before Nesaea’s bed, nor the sheaves of parchment atop her desk. The gust touched Rathe alone, bringing with it profane words spoken in a mocking tongue. Both the Eyes of Nami-Ja and the candles dimmed … dimmed … and went out. A smell wafted from the dead wicks, that of meat rotting in a winter wood.

  Rathe sat in the dark, trying to beat back a child’s fears. When that failed, he spoke, longing to hear Nesaea’s voice. “I suppose that always happens?” The camp’s joviality filtered into t
heir confined space, seeming every bit as irreverent and scornful as that voice he had heard.

  “Never,” Nesaea breathed, sounding terrified.

  For a time, she said nothing more. In the silence, the ensorcelled orbs from the isles of Giliron gradually regained their luminance, revealing the stark terror in Nesaea’s gaze. As if that light gave her leave to speak, she whispered, “The blasphemous voice was that of the Khenasith, the Black Breath. Rarely is it heard, for it speaks only to the irredeemably accursed.”

  Rathe digested that. “So I spoke the truth when I guessed my own fortune, and I will be eaten by some fell beast?”

  “No,” she muttered hollowly. “Yours is a fate buried in shadow, a life of woe, a harrowing storm to trouble your every step. Turn this way or that, but you will never escape distress until the grave draws you to its loveless bosom.”

  He mulled her grim words. “What other fate is there for a man?” he asked, trying to comfort her more than himself. “Is not life but pinnacles of brief triumph and joy, followed by valleys of tedium and misery?”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed, looking to her hands fidgeting in her lap, “but the Khenasith has spoken, revealing the curse upon you. That’s what I sensed in my heart, that yours will be a life of woe.”

  Rathe snorted. “Maybe you should have kept it to yourself?”

  “I should have,” she agreed.

  “Well then,” Rathe murmured, edging closer to Nesaea, “if I am twice cursed, then to the darkness with my vows of reformation.” He swept her into his arms and stole the kiss he had coveted since first laying eyes on her. Her soft lips tasted of honeyed spices—

  With surprising strength, she shoved him back, a shocked light replacing the apprehension in her eyes. He grinned sheepishly, and she slapped him, hard.

  Blinking, Rathe worked his jaw, wondering how he had misjudged her earlier desire. He made to stammer an apology, then her fingers were suddenly tangled in his hair, pulling him close. Before their lips met, she whispered, “Promise you will always act with caution. Promise me!”