Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1)

by James A. West

  “Of course,” Sanouk babbled. “Anything you desire, master. Anything.”

  Feet scuffed near.

  “What do you mean to do?” Rathe demanded, wanting no part of whatever madness Sanouk had conjured. He continued to tug at the cords about his wrists.

  A soft whooshing noise filled his ears in answer, followed by a thudding blow and the sound of shattering earthenware. Skull ringing, Rathe jerked stiff as a board, and fell into the arms of a gripping emptiness….

  Chapter 27

  The nightmare had no beginning and no end, broken only by Sanouk’s ever more frequent comings and goings. Nesaea languished in the agonizing grasp of a formless adversary, every inch of her flesh tortured in a thousand different ways. When she built a defense against the suffering, that sentient pain sought the breaks in her feeble armor and burrowed deep into her thoughts.

  Always madness threatened, an alluring entity with its own purposes and desires. She resisted succumbing to that inviting spell, for no more reason than that it was an enemy she could recognize and fight. Ofttimes it wore the face of Lord Sanouk, at others the likeness of the god Gathul, who had fettered her soul in invisible bonds that licked and tasted her being.

  When two figures entered the chamber, she almost dismissed their arrival, too weary to witness another innocent fall to Sanouk and the deity he served. The second man, hooded and led on a rope by Sanouk, roused her from lethargic indifference to full awareness. Something about the set of the second man’s shoulders drew her eye. She peered through the impenetrable, gangrenous wall between them. Caught between hope and horror, recognition dawned.

  Moaning, Nesaea sat up, crusted vomit and dried blood flaking off her skin. Every inch she moved brought more pain, more weakness, but she fought it. Despite knowing he could not hear her, any more than she could hear what went on outside her prison, she cried a warning. The words, unintelligible, spilled off her dry tongue. She worked to bring saliva to her parched mouth, grimacing at the acidic flavor of old vomit. Clawing her hands over the walls of her tomb, she got her feet under her and managed to stand.

  “Rathe,” she croaked, stomach lurching with a fresh wave of nausea. She pounded the transparent wall before her nose. “Rathe!”

  Gathul hove into view, wearing its spirit form, a menacing darkness little more substantial than the wall of her prison. That was better than its bloated corporeal body of corruption, all of hanging male and female flesh. Sanouk and the god conversed, the lord’s face growing more fearful by the moment.

  Nesaea ran shaky fingers over the stubborn obstacle to her freedom, seeking any means by which she could pry open the barrier. As ever, no chink showed itself. “Rathe!” she shrieked again. “Go! Run!”

  Lost beneath a dirty sack, Rathe’s head turned toward Sanouk. He might have said something, for Sanouk looked his way, then glanced at Rathe’s frantic efforts to loose the bindings at his wrists. Without warning, the lord retrieved an urn and smashed it against Rathe’s head. Shattered crockery and sand flew as Rathe pitched over, rigid as a dead man.

  “No,” Nesaea moaned.

  Sanouk struggled to heft Rathe onto the greenstone altar, then dragged off his clothing. After he had his sacrifice arranged, Sanouk darted out of the chamber and returned a moment later with a tiny bronze brazier in one hand, and a dark flask held in the other.

  With practiced efficiency, he kindled a small fire, poured bits of charred wood onto the flames from an earthenware pot. Once the coals went from black to a glowing, smokeless red, he settled the flask amongst them.

  He conversed again with Gathul. Then, fingers shaking, he stripped off his clothing and began to perform the cleansing ritual. Blocking the chamber’s sole doorway, the god’s misty form roiled, a chaos of eager smoke.

  Nesaea fell back weeping, fearing the manner of death Sanouk would choose to inflict upon Rathe. She slid down the rough stone wall at her back, her fleeting hope threatened by the madness she had kept at bay so long.

  Chapter 28

  Rathe came awake, head splitting. He kept his eyes closed, listening to soft scraping sounds, smelling a sweet fragrance intermingled with wood smoke. Ropes still bound his hands at his waist, and he lay upon a cold surface that conformed to his naked body, and seemed to hold him in place like the mouth of a leech. Held though he was, he felt sure he could break free when the time came.

  “As you are here already, master,” Sanouk asked in a quaking voice, “should … should I speak the words of summoning?”

  “Speak them, human,” came a stony growl, “for they fill me with pleasure.”

  Rathe dared not move his head, but cracked his eyelids. A rough stone ceiling vaulted over him, and a pocket of shifting blackness hovered at the edge of his vision. Tentatively, he tested his bonds. When the rope slid over the knuckles of one hand with little effort, he forced himself to stay put, knowing he must learn all he could of his enemy before he acted. Too soon, and any limited advantage he had would perish.

  Sanouk cleared his throat, once and again, then cried out, “Yaazapa Gathul! El yettairath dakerr! Yaazapa Gathul!”

  Those arcane words cascaded around the chamber, gaining strength with echoes, and filled Rathe with a sense of utter loss and despair. He fought those emotions, trying to find courage, strength, fury, anything that might ward against a sense of absolute futility.

  “Yaazapa Gathul! El yettairath dakerr! Yaazapa Gathul!”

  A cold stirring raised gooseflesh on Rathe’s skin. Shadows multiplied and deepened. Fear, stronger than any he had known fighting on countless fields of battle, threatened to unman him.

  Will you die here, unresisting, on this stone slab? Rathe’s heart jolted in his chest at the significance of that unspoken question. Will you be the calf to slaughter … will you allow your soul to be stolen? Denying the possibility, Rathe shook his head, and in so doing looked directly at the darkness he had previously seen from the corner of his eye.

  “Yaazapa Gathul! El yettairath dakerr! Yaazapa Gathul!”

  That dark menace basked in the resounding wickedness of Sanouk’s incantation, a creature of lightless spirit. Rathe now knew that Sanouk had raised a churning ebon blasphemy from beyond the outer darkness.

  “Yaazapa Gathul! El yettairath dakerr! Yaazapa Gathul!” Sanouk cried again, building into a fervent crescendo. Neither the worshipped nor the worshipper were paying Rathe any mind.

  With Sanouk and the deity distracted, Rathe heaved himself free of the table’s grasp, thinking only to find a means to escape. All that changed when he hit the floor and found himself staring into the bulging eyes of a young boy trapped behind an impossible wall of rippling water. The child showed no outward indication of being submerged, but his mouth worked as if drowning.

  Thinking he had lost his wits, Rathe turned and found a charred figure behind a wall of roiling flame. Without question it was a woman. She flailed and screamed soundlessly, burning toe to crown … yet the fires did not consume what was left of her flesh. By all the gods—

  The thought cut off. Trapped within upright tombs, more people lined the walls of the chamber, all held behind various barriers. Through a misty gray pane, a woman who looked vaguely familiar clawed at a rope around her neck; behind a wall of flowing blood, an old man bled from gaping eye sockets and from dozens of stabs and cuts.

  Revulsion welled in Rathe, becoming horror as he took in more victims of what could be no less than Sanouk’s contemptible offerings to the monstrous god he served. His sweeping gaze halted on a staring figure beyond a wall hued after rank corruption. Nesaea?

  Her eyes rolled, blinking dazedly. Unknown filth covered her face and breasts in crusted lines. Her hair stuck out in wild tangles. Madness and recognition battled for dominance in her stare, but it was Nesaea. By Ahnok, what has he done to you?

  All the fear and hopelessness that had fallen on Rathe at hearing Sanouk’s vile conjuring became as oil-soaked tinder. Nesaea reaching out to him with trembling fingers served as
the spark that ignited a murderous conflagration in his heart.

  “Blessed be the Reaper of Sorrows,” Sanouk howled, “accept this offering from the hands of your imperfect servant!”

  Rathe stood up behind the greenstone altar as Sanouk turned. He gaped at the man’s nakedness, wondering fleetingly what manner of madness had taken the Lord of Hilan. Before Sanouk could react, Rathe threw himself headlong over the altar and slammed into him, driving him hard against a wall. To one side the god boiled, a black and shapeless thing shot-through with agitated webs of crackling energy. The hair on Rathe’s head stood up when the creature loomed nearer.

  Desperate to get clear, Rathe smashed a fist against Sanouk’s mouth and spun away, his feet tangling in the lord’s clothing folded on the ground. Next to the robes waited a scabbarded sword. Without pause, Rathe caught up the blade and slung the elaborate leather scabbard away. Naked and gasping, Rathe danced back, weapon at the ready.

  Sanouk grinned, lips spilt and bloody. He spoke to his god. “Master, though he was meant for an offering, I beg your leave to destroy this wretched man.”

  “A sacrifice must be prepared according to my precepts,” the god rumbled. “Thus far, human, you have only begun the rites. Finish your preparations, or it is your soul which is forfeit, not this other’s.”

  “As you command,” Sanouk said, sounding none too happy.

  Rathe wasted no time with honor or fair play. He slammed the sword past the lord’s ribs, skewering his heart, and leaped back, tearing the blade free, his mind already turning to dealing with the fiendish god.

  Sanouk’s laughter arrested his attention. Instead of dying, he strode forward, no evidence of a wound upon his breast. Rathe stared, shaken. Before debilitating confusion could sweep over him, he attacked again. The unhindered blade hewed through Sanouk’s neck, the steel cleaving flesh and crushing bone. It flashed clear … leaving Sanouk unblemished. He did not slow his advance.

  Were it not for the presence of the deity, Rathe’s mind would have unraveled. He had never had any dealings with dark gods or those who summoned them, but tales spoke of their powers, and the unholy gifts they granted their servants. Doubtless, Sanouk had been given immunity to death—at least by way of edged steel. But there are many ways a man might die, Rathe thought.

  When Sanouk came close enough, Rathe dropped the sword and wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat, his thumbs pressing hard against Sanouk’s windpipe. The lord rammed his head against Rathe’s nose, bringing a gout of blood.

  Rathe retreated, eyes watering, face throbbing. As he moved, his gaze flickered over the eyeless man behind the wall of blood, the woman straining to tear the rope from her neck, the burning girl, and finally Nesaea. Others suffered, all subjected to various forms of punishment.

  Not punishment … death. Understanding flared in Rathe’s racing mind. Lord Sanouk’s resistance must be linked to the entombed! So, what if they are freed?

  Rathe darted around a smoldering brazier with a flask nestled within its glowing embers, and slammed the heel of his palm against Nesaea’s prison. It was akin to striking a block of unyielding ice. She stared out, eyes forlorn, pleading.

  “There is nothing you can do to release them,” Sanouk laughed, as Rathe picked up an ewer near the alter and bashed it against the greenish barrier. The earthenware jar fragmented, spilling a flood of fragrant oil.

  “What do you want?” Rathe shouted, backing out of Sanouk’s reach.

  “To drown you in boiling oil. You see, Scorpion, your flesh must suffer, so that mine will—”

  Rathe struck with his fist, rending the skin over Sanouk’s cheekbone, then rammed the other fist into his naked belly. Where nothing else had served to harm Sanouk, Rathe’s fists did. For the barest moment Sanouk appeared shaken, then he pounced. Outcast prince or not, he was no weakling, and not inexperienced to the ways of using fists and feet as weapons.

  A flashing series of blows to Rathe’s ribs, chest, and jaw left him gasping through a mouth pouring blood. A solid kick to his groin doubled him over.

  Rathe crabbed back, groaning. Sanouk closed in, cautious, but with confidence burning in his eyes. He reared back to drive a fist against the back of his opponent’s neck, and Rathe dove under the strike, slamming the top of his skull against the middle of Sanouk’s chest, driving out his last breath.

  They fell into a writhing heap, bloodied knuckles lashing out, elbows and knees battering vulnerable muscles and joints. Dust flew around them, and the swirling god grew more agitated, its flesh changing.

  Rathe heaved to one side, rolling atop Sanouk, and set to pummeling the lord’s face. Sanouk flailed about and inadvertently jammed a thumb in his eye. Rathe floundered back, and Sanouk threw him wide.

  Half-blind, Rathe somersaulted unsteadily to his feet. Covered in smears of bloodied dirt, Sanouk came up with his sword in hand, the point aimed at Rathe’s heart.

  Rathe chuckled wetly and spat. “A pity you cannot kill me. Unless, of course, you have another offering hidden near to hand?”

  Lord Sanouk halted, a measure of his fury dwindling from his gaze. A moment more, he bared his teeth. “I cannot kill you … but there is nothing stopping me from hacking off your limbs.”

  With that warning alone, Rathe threw himself backward as the sword split the air, narrowly missing his legs. He toppled to the ground and rolled clear. When he came to rest, he felt baking heat near his face. An inch more, and the brazier would have seared his cheek. With a clear if desperate strategy in his mind, he clambered to his knees, grasped the brazier’s wire handle, and flung the brazier and its smoldering contents into Sanouk’s face. Even as the flying embers struck, Rathe thought of the burning girl, and his heart sank.

  The brazier bounced off Sanouk and struck the chamber’s floor with a dull clang. Then Sanouk was screaming, scrambling away, an oily sheen spreading over his reddening torso and groin. Where he had begun his retreat lay the broken flask that had been nestled within the brazier’s coals, the last of its steaming contents soaking into the dust.

  “… to drown you in boiling oil,” Sanouk’s voice whispered in Rathe’s memory. By all the gods, he meant it!

  Rathe went after the howling sadist. Grappling him to the ground, ignoring the searing heat of the oil, he twined his fingers through Sanouk’s hair, and began pounding the back of his head against the floor. The lord fought back, clawing and punching, but his efforts weakened quickly.

  In the back of Rathe’s mind, he was grateful for the man’s pride and shortsightedness. Sanouk had never bargained with the god to gain protection from someone trying to beat him to death, for highborn did not oft suffer such base abuses. But you will this day ... milord.

  As that derisive thought flickered though his mind, a rasping hiss alerted Rathe to a newcomer.

  “Whoreson!” Treon shouted, slamming his boot against Rathe’s chin, knocking him off Sanouk. He tumbled, the chamber a flickering kaleidoscope of flaring lights and blurred images swimming before his eyes. He fetched up against the bloody man’s upright tomb and lay gasping.

  One step ahead of the hovering god—which had taken the shape of a nightmare made of bruised and hanging flesh—Treon knelt by Sanouk. His tabard was torn and slashed, and one side of his face was a mass of charred blisters, but he seemed not to notice any pains. “Milord?”

  Sanouk groaned, eyes rolling.

  “Stand away, human,” the god grated. “Your lord has failed to finish the prescribed rites, and so has failed to meet his obligations … and so, at last, I will sup upon the sweet tenderness of his soul.”

  Treon threw himself over Sanouk’s chest and raised a hand, forestalling the deity. His face writhed with terror, but also defiance. He cast a look at Sanouk, eyes burning with a hound’s devotion to its master. “Take me!” he blurted. “I will serve as the offering!”

  Rathe chuckled grimly at the futility of such a gesture, but the god’s reaction stunned him to silence.

  “Indee
d?” Gathul growled, its oddly intrigued voice booming within the chamber’s confines. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.

  “Y-yes,” Treon stammered, his pale face fearful but resolved.

  The god stared, a score of deep-set eyes glowing crimson from a lumpen, inhuman face. It reached out a hand sporting too many clawed fingers, and touched Treon’s quivering brow. The captain’s eyes rolled up and his lips went slack; drool collected at the corners of his mouth, dripped to his chest. Abruptly, the god withdrew its touch.

  “Yours is a heart of treachery, a soul of emptiness filled with pathetic cruelties … but in your proclamation, you are sincere. In the judgment of gods, such unrestrained sacrifice absolves past transgressions, making yours a worthy ransom. The covenant between your lord and myself is sundered, his deeds and blessings undone by a sacrifice of the willing. What is done cannot be undone. And the price, human, is your soul.” The god did not sound displeased, but eager.

  Looking suddenly unsure about his choice, Treon shrank away when the Gathul threw back its head, obsidian fangs masticating around spiteful laughter. Rathe shuddered, for behind those glinting teeth reality had no meaning. As if seen from a great distance, waited a plane of cracked reddish stone and lakes of thick, bubbling black fluid. Beneath a sky of roiling green fire, emaciated figures sheathed in flaking parchment skin capered madly in a horrific parody of dance. Faintly, he could hear their tormented wails, their begging for respite.

  The god dissolved into a billowing mass blacker than ten sins, obscuring the vision. Gathul fell upon a screaming Treon, enveloping him.

  Rathe scuttled back, sickened as that vaporous form wrapped tight about the captain, at first clinging like a second skin, then pressing inward. Treon’s struggles went on far longer than Rathe cared to watch, but he was helpless to look away.

  By increments, Treon’s flailing ceased, his screams died, and his limbs folded and snapped with grisly crunching sounds, until nothing remained save a shrinking ebon ball. Rathe shivered with dread. He had despised Treon, but no man deserved such a terrible fate.