Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1)

by James A. West

  He nodded, and sealed his promise with a lingering kiss. A scream from outside broke and scattered all other plans he had in mind to prove his pledge to Nesaea.

  Chapter 10

  Nesaea pushed him away and jumped to her feet. Before either could speak, an iron arrowhead punched through the flank of her wagon, followed by a second and a third. Calls of alarm buried the first warning scream, mingling discordantly with the ring of crashing steel.

  Sword in hand, Rathe shouted for Nesaea to open the hatch. She was already there, spinning the windlass. The hatch sprang open and the ladder descended.

  “Stay inside!” Rathe commanded, leaping through the opening. He landed and spun, ensuring that Nesaea had followed his order. The ladder had already ratcheted back up, and the hatch was closing, blocking sight of a grim-faced Nesaea.

  He turned and found a seething wall of swords and bucklers, spears and burning arrows. In all directions, the soldiers of Hilan fought against what Rathe first mistook for furred demons, then reason asserted itself. Plainsmen!

  The Maidens of the Lyre darted for their wagons. There was no organized defense, and Captain Treon, the man who should have been calling orders, was nowhere in sight. With the battle lines broken before they had ever formed, all that mattered now was surviving, and cutting down as many plainsmen as possible.

  A soldier feathered with flaming arrows fell headlong into a campfire. Another flung down his sword and raced toward Rathe, wide eyes blind with panic, his fear-tightened face spattered with blood. The man took two steps before a hurled spear drove through his back and burst from his chest. He stumbled to a halt, trying to withdraw the deadly splinter with grasping hands. His lips parted, a crimson flood welling over his teeth instead of words, and he toppled facedown.

  Unable to choose a single target in the spreading melee, Rathe sprinted into the storm of death. Before he reached the fight, a slouching shape covered in a patchy fur cloak slammed into him. Thrown off balance, Rathe hacked his sword into the bestial face. The plainsman lurched back with a yowl, spear held at the ready, his bearded cheek laid open to the bone.

  Rathe regained his footing and feinted, provoking the plainsman to block. Rathe feinted again, found his desired opening, and reversed his stroke mid-swing. Sword flashing in from the side, steel met flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The plainsman’s arm parted at the elbow, and the brute howled. Rathe whipped around in a tight circle, and the plainsman’s cry ended abruptly.

  Rathe bounded over the headless corpse, caught up a discarded buckler, and drove between a scattered line of six soldiers. “Reavers! To me!” he shouted, rallying men to his side as a lodestone will draw iron. Others took up the cry, making a fearsome, cohesive racket in the maelstrom of butchery.

  Where a foe loomed, Rathe ended him with bloodied sword, or smashed his face with the buckler. As the chaos of battle increased and the stench of blood and spilled bowels filled the night, Rathe’s mind grew keen and cold. Where an enemy’s blurring speed and skill unmanned his fellow Reavers, Rathe saw predictable, clumsy attacks.

  Like a demon of death, Rathe slaughtered his way free of the Hilan men, the constricting wagons and tangles of dying men, until he stood apart, a lone slayer, black eyes burning with bloodlust. Even as the assaulting plainsmen scrambled clear of his deadly blade, the gap closed behind him. Hilan men initially roused by his attack, now shouted for him to fall back, even as the plainsmen cursed him in their barbaric tongue. From both soldier and wildling, the words came to Rathe as senseless gibberish. Beyond the confines of his peers, he was free to labor as he would, and labor he did.

  A trio of plainsmen swept in, hunched shapes barely human, wielding clubs and spears half again the length of a tall man. Rathe crushed aside a spear thrust, drove his sword into a plainsman’s belly, grinding the point against the man’s spine. Without slowing, Rathe shoved forward, then jerked back, dislodging steel from the man’s guts. Even as the brute tripped over the ropey spill of his innards, Rathe dove low, knocking the feet from under the second attacker.

  An instant later Rathe came up, whirled, and crushed the man’s neck with an overhead blow of his buckler. Crippled, the plainsman crawled on his belly, squalling like a heretic doused in boiling oil. Stalking the third attacker, Rathe reversed his grip on the sword as he went, and drove the blade into the back of the downed second plainsmen, skewering his heart.

  He dragged his blade free, spun the hilt against his palm, and launched an overhand strike at the growling plainsmen still standing. Blood flew from the blade in a scarlet arc, and the sword cleaved through the third plainsman’s blocking club to pulverize his skull. Rathe sent his boot into the gaping face, freeing his sword once more.

  His solitary charge had galvanized the Hilan men, and the barely held defense became an assault. Within the camp, the Maidens of the Lyre had armored themselves in gilded corselets and caught up bows, quivers, and long-hafted pikes from hidden compartments in the bellies of their strange wagons. More maidens climbed rope ladders to the decks of their shiplike conveyances, hauling sloshing buckets of water to quench fire arrows. Capstans spun and, with a clatter of chain and whirling cogs, double rows of six-foot spears tipped with serrated steel thrust out below the rails, creating deadly phalanxes.

  Standing tall on her war galleon, a goddess of snow and silver, Lady Nesaea bore a buckler with a spiked silver boss. She raised a wicked trident overhead, shouting commands as crisply as Rathe had ever heard. A conical helm sporting wings of snowy ostrich feathers covered her dark tresses. Her legs flashed under a kilt of studded pale leather, and a sculpted cuirass of burnished silver protected her torso.

  “Have no fear,” Nesaea called, lips turned in a fetching grin. “I will watch over you.”

  “I could ask for no greater comfort,” Rathe answered, feeling alive and whole for the first time since Thushar had stood over him in Lord Osaant’s chambers.

  “Down!” Nesaea shouted.

  Before Rathe could register the gravity of her warning, a flaming arrow singed his cheek. He gave a last look at Nesaea, who shook her head in mock disapproval, then he put his mind back to the battle, and melded into the darkness beyond camp.

  Stealthy figures rushed forward with him on all sides, silent and grim as specters. The occasional fire arrow arced back toward them, but the plainsmen had quit the fight. Rathe, the Hilan men, and the outcasts gave chase, mercilessly dispatching any fallen wounded they found.

  Sensing the skirmish was ended, Rathe came to a halt. The Hilan men also came to rest, all looking to him for guidance. “You have fought well,” he said simply, earning a triumphant cheer.

  Farther away, Loro issued a taunting challenge to the retreating plainsmen, then rapidly degenerated into a rant of such offensive oaths that the grinning Hilan men looked from one another with expressions of unease. Rathe could only smile at a trueborn warrior purging the last of his fury.

  A feminine cry pierced the gloom. Rathe spun, horrified to see how far he and the others had chased the plainsmen. “To camp!” he bellowed, sprinting back the way they had come.

  As the gap narrowed, he spied hump-backed figures harrying the wagons, firing arrows and throwing spears. The Maidens of the Lyre answered arrows with arrows, but the savage brutes were too eager to be driven off. Cries of alarm entwined with the gurgling screams of men dying with blood in their throats.

  Rathe stretched his legs, feet flying over the uneven ground. He looked for Nesaea, but could not find her atop her galleon. In her place stood a man holding a beaked maul. The plainsman slammed the weapon against the false decking, shattering wood.

  With a shout, Rathe hurled his sword like a dagger. Pommel and tip traded ends, throwing off glints of firelight, hissing as it cut air. The bestial man twisted aside at the last instant, allowing the sword to soar past his ear. Eyeing his new adversary, the figure leaped down with a roar and ran at Rathe.

  The two crashed together. Stunned by the impact, Rathe went down, bu
ckler soaring free of his arm. Dazed, he bounded to his feet, pawing for his dagger and looking for the vanished plainsman. Shadows danced beyond the fires, the Hilan men fell on other wildlings with clashes of steel, but of Nesaea’s attacker, there was no sign.

  A noise alerted him a heartbeat before a stony fist slammed against his chin. Rathe reeled and fell. Before he could draw his dagger, his foe pounced, sending them into a rolling knot of flying fists and kicking feet.

  Rathe came out on top, his fingers curled around a thick neck. Snarling, the plainsman drove his knees into Rathe’s chest, flinging him off. Rathe slammed against the ground, and an instant later the man’s smothering weight pressed down on his torso. The cloying odor of old sweat and rank meat poured off his assailant, stealing what little breath he had found. The ragged fingernails of one powerful hand throttled Rathe as the maul climbed above his face, the deadly iron beak poised for a killing blow.

  Rathe lashed out, a desperate flailing that gained nothing. Fighting for breath, his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Nearly unconscious, Rathe wrenched his head to the side when the maul fell, and the murderous beak gouged deep into the ground. He thrust out his hands, fingers rigid. His thumbs found the man’s eyes and plunged deep, bursting the orbs.

  Screeching like a fiend, the savage tried to scramble away, but Rathe held tight. Growling, he sank his thumbs deeper. The brute bounced his knees against Rathe’s chest, crushing the last of his breath and strength. The plainsman pulled free, leaving Rathe choking.

  He rolled to his belly and tried to stand, but the blinded savage landed on his back. Shrieking curses in a harsh tongue, the plainsman dragged at Rathe’s hair, yanking his head back until his neck creaked, then brutally rammed his face against the ground. Blood fountained from Rathe’s nostrils, as his head was wrenched back again. Something popped in his neck, and a painful tingling spread over his shoulders and arms. Rathe gulped a last breath, his neck nearing the breaking point. He reached blindly over his shoulder, as the skin of his throat stretched taut and his windpipe closed. His fingers brushed the savage’s long beard ... then fell back.

  Sensing the weakness, the savage shifted. Hot, fetid breath tickled Rathe’s ear. “You take Uar’s eyes, but I eat your dead heart,” the man grated, each word spoken in a thick, barbaric accent. “Uar will feed your flesh to his children, little brown man. Before you die, Uar will make whores of your women.”

  The imagery of that threat bored into Rathe’s mind, fueling him past overwhelming weakness to black savagery. His hand shot up, this time catching hold of the plainsman’s beard. He yanked with all his strength, and Uar’s weight disappeared.

  Rathe staggered up and threw himself onto the man’s back before he could twist around. The next Rathe knew, he was flipping end for end. He struck on his head and shoulders, landing face-up, his shuddering limbs striving to do his will.

  Uar stumbled toward him, arms outstretched and hands groping, his face a mask of blood and knotted black hair. Rathe’s breath rushed into his lungs, freeing his limbs from their terrifying paralysis. The toe of Uar’s hide boot struck Rathe’s leg. Grinning malevolently, the plainsman stooped, gnarled hands outstretched, forearms bunching under thick grime. Rathe drove his dagger into the man’s chest, stilling his heart, and Uar of the plainsmen fell away with a quivering smirk on his lips.

  Rathe lay back on the ground, breathing deeply. Moans and the awful stink of brutal death fogged the night air. The sounds of battle, so loud before, were absent. The plainsmen, having tasted enough defeat, had fled.

  “The Scorpion,” someone muttered. Then, louder, a yell of triumph. “The Scorpion!”

  Chapter 11

  With shouts of, “Scorpion!” filling the camp, Rathe clambered to his feet, certain he suffered no broken bones, but bruised over every inch of his body. By the hot trickles of wetness coursing down his back, many of the scabbed stripes crisscrossing his skin had torn open. He smiled ruefully, thinking of his supply of the old healer’s revolting potion. If nothing else, a good dose of that concoction would help him sleep.

  Before he worried overmuch about mending his hurts, he stumbled toward Nesaea’s wagon. Around him smiling, bloodied, dirty warriors continued to chant his namesake. He ignored them.

  As he reached the wheeled galleon, Captain Treon materialized from the opposite direction. He alone of the small company looked untouched by the battle. Treon halted in his tracks, scowling at the whooping men. He glanced at Rathe, a look of pure hatred. “Seize him!”

  The revelry cut off, replaced by confusion.

  Vaguely aware of what was transpiring around him, Rathe focused on Nesaea’s wagon, which stood battered but whole … and far too quiet. He pushed aside his concerns, telling himself that she had locked herself away, and did not yet know the skirmish had ended.

  “Damn you lot of goat-buggering fools,” Treon shouted. “Bind him!”

  Men shuffled their feet, a few took reluctant steps forward.

  Rathe kept going, too worried for Nesaea and too tired to care what the cowardly imbecile was raving about.

  “Halt where you stand!” Treon bawled, his face purpling with rage, “or you will taste the lash!”

  Rathe was reaching for the rosette under the winged leopard’s foot, when Treon issued the next command. “Put an arrow in him, or I will see that the headsman’s arms grow weary striking off your heads!”

  The full import of Treon’s words fell on Rathe. He dropped his hand and turned. He stood weaponless, but he had killed men without steel before. “You dare stay my hand, Captain Treon,” he said, “when not a fleck of dust or blood mars your sword or uniform?” He had known such men, those who always managed to avoid battle, even when caught in the thick of it. Such cowards often hid behind their rank, using it to badger men into submission, rather than earning respect.

  “I will have your hide flayed for this insolence,” Treon said in his rasping voice.

  Upon hearing that the champion of the battle should receive such treatment or worse, a few men looked askance at each other … but not all, not by half. Such was a tyrant’s power, the ability to press a man to do what he knew in his heart was unrighteous.

  “Crawl back to your nest, snake,” Rathe said, sweeping a hand over the arrayed men, “and leave be the true warriors in your ranks.”

  Treon gaped.

  Rathe turned the rosette. The hatch popped open, showing the same welcoming glow as before. It troubled him that Nesaea had not shown herself by now. He reached to ease open the hatch—

  “Take him!” Treon ordered.

  It did not surprise Rathe that only a handful of the Hilan men obeyed their captain’s order, but their viciousness did. A firm hand spun him around, and a fist pummeled his jaw. When he fought back, a hilt crashed against his temple, toppling him to the ground. Blackness swarmed before his eyes. Rough hands forced him into a kneeling position. Skull ringing, he tasted blood on his tongue, felt it drip from his split lips over his whiskered chin.

  “Here now!” Loro snarled, pushing between a cluster of Hilan men, all who looked on with growing uncertainty. “What’s the meaning of this?

  “If you would live to see the dawn, you blubbering heap of shite, shut your accursed mouth.”

  Loro glared, one thick fist closing on his sword hilt. Rathe stopped him with a look of warning.

  Sneering, Treon faced the soldiers. “Form ranks, or suffer alongside this despicable bastard!”

  Most seemed reluctant, but in the end they did as ordered. Seeing the same light of loyalty come alive in Loro’s eyes that he had seen in Thushar’s that distant night with Lisana, Rathe shook his head again. Do not do it brother, please.

  Loro hesitated a moment more, peering hard at Rathe, then abruptly wheeled away, grumbling under his breath. He took his place among the assembling soldiers, of which, Rathe noted, their numbers were greatly diminished. He had not believed so many perished in the battle. For certain, he had not seen that many dead.
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  “Bind and hood this uncouth lout,” Treon ordered, his serpent’s eyes locked on Rathe.

  “What crime have I committed?” Rathe demanded.

  Treon smiled thinly. “Disrespect aside, you failed to tend your flock of malcontents. No less than five of those I put in your care escaped during the attack. As I told you before, a leader knows the minds of his men. I suspect you must have known some number of your outcasts had waited for just such a chance to make good their escape. Time will tell if you had a part in planning their flight.”

  Rathe shook his head, baffled, furious. “The blood is still warm on the dead! How can you know if they are escaped or perished, before you have ordered a proper search?”

  Treon’s laughter sounded like dry leather rubbing over sand. “I know, because I am the leader you are not, and have never been.”

  “Name yourself as you will,” Rathe growled, “but I see before me only a craven wretch who shrinks from battle, leaving better men to bleed for him.”

  Captain Treon loomed over him, smirking. “Lady Nesaea would not name me so if she—”

  “Nesaea?” Rathe blurted, his troubles forgotten. “Where is she?”

  The captain’s face showed false empathy. “I wish I could say otherwise, but last I saw her, plainsmen were dragging her into the night. I do not know if they despoiled her before or after they opened her throat, but naked, ravished, and dead she was. A pity and a waste.”

  “You lie! Show me where she fell!”

  “Demand nothing of me, dog.” Treon’s flinty smile widened, just before his heel crashed into Rathe’s face. Another kick flung him to the ground.

  “To ensure that you never stray too far,” Treon said in a cruel tone, “You will wear a leash, much like a willful hound. And like any troublesome hound, your spirit must be tamed. You will run behind me until we reach Hilan.”