Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) (16 page)

“Mayhap wolves chased him,” one of the soldiers said.

Rathe pointed out what the man had missed. “The snow is new-fallen, the blood fresh enough to steam, but there are no tracks, save Alfan’s.”

“He’s not here,” Remon called in a glum tone. “No blood … nothing.”

“He vanished,” Loro said, swallowing loudly.

Rathe tried not to consider what Breyon had said of the missing villagers, but he could no more ignore those dire words than he could dismiss the falling snow.

“He was
taken
,” someone spoke up, garnering a few mutters of agreement. “Such is the way of the Shadenmok.”

Rathe looked around, hoping against hope to find some indication where Alfan had gone, but there was nothing. He bit back an oath. “With no tracks to follow, there is no way to search without ending up lost ourselves.”

Mutters of regret met the pronouncement, but no one disagreed, and Rathe ordered them back to camp.

At their approach, Treon strode past the ring of firelight and confronted Rathe. “I do not see Alfan in your ranks.”

“There was blood, his tracks and sword, but nothing else. Unless he gained the ability to fly … something took him.”

Breyon, huddled next to a silent Carul, looked up at this, his gaze unreadable.

“ ‘Took him?’ “ Treon said, lip curling. “I would judge, lieutenant, that you have failed your first crucial mission as a man of Hilan. Were it not against Lord Sanouk’s wishes, I would strike off your head at this moment.”

Rathe took a deep, steadying breath. The only thing that kept him from knocking Treon’s skinny backside into the cold mud was the disapproving rumbles from the soldiers at his back—discontent aimed squarely at Treon. This night, Rathe had gained supporters. In the end, that mattered more than satisfying a personal grudge.

“Forgive me, captain,” he said, turning.

The men stared back, their faces a grim tapestry. They were malcontents, lawbreakers, the broken warriors of Cerrikoth given a last chance to demonstrate their worth. Some might prove irredeemable, some might earn death by his own hand, but at that moment they were his men, and he was their leader.

“I ask the same forgiveness from all of you,” he said, raising his voice. “Would that the gods had rewarded our efforts, but our brother’s fate is now in their hands. However, trust that should any of you come up missing, or fall wounded in battle, or suffer any of a hundred trials that can trouble a soldier, I will aid you to the best of my strength.”

“We could ask no more,” Loro said from the back, earning nods of approval.

Treon glared at the men, opened his mouth, but a shout cut off his words before he spoke them.

“Glory to the Reavers!”

“And to the Scorpion!” another added.

“The Reavers and the Scorpion!”
thundered eighteen men.

Only two of the company did not shout or bat an eye: Rathe and Treon. They stared at each other. The others beat a hasty retreat, talking overloud about Shadenmok, poor buggering Alfan, the women of Valdar, and anything else to distract from the motionless confrontation.

“You think I am a fool, dog,” Treon rasped when all had moved out of earshot, “but I know your game. Make your bid for my station in Hilan as you will, but before letting you take my place, I will strew your reeking guts, and drive my dagger into your miserable heart.”

A slow smile spread across Rathe’s lips, but his eyes were cold obsidian. He stayed that way, unmoving, unflinching, unspeaking, until Treon cursed him and turned away.

Chapter 19

H
ood pulled well forward to ward against falling snow and inquisitive eyes, Lord Sanouk hovered in the shadows beyond the village green, watching the boy wander among wagons and hawkers. Innocent eyes wide and bright, the boy halted, entranced by jugglers tossing flaming batons up into the snowy night. A moment more, his gaze fell on dancing wenches clad in naught but ribbons of multihued silk, despite the unseasonable cold.

When those charms lost their allure, the boy meandered to the far side of the green, where aged mystics sat rickety stools and scried futures from bowls heaped with glistening frog entrails, or deciphered good tidings or ill from smokes rising from acrid potions. Around the boy, bedraggled men and women wearing the soil of the field upon their faces and poor garb, clapped and squealed at each new trick.

Sanouk turned his attention from the boy to the lively trading. The rabble he ruled showed vitality only when a caravan called, trading homespun cloth for trinkets, graven idols of stone or wood for buttons and needles. Sanouk’s lips curled at the sour taste on his tongue.
Pathetic scum, offering up wishes for dreams
.

He demanded little of the smallfolk, yet they loathed him. Oh, they bobbed their heads and wrung their hands when in his presence, babbled platitudes, offered up thanks and blessings, but his spies told that when out of sight, they cursed him for a would-be usurper, and grumbled incessantly over their daily labors. When compelled by his soldiers to perform their duties, they did so with a lethargy that fired visions in his mind of putting them to torture. If nothing else, a knife or a glowing brand applied to their flesh would enliven them.

Lord Sanouk gusted a breath. This night the swine did not matter. From their midst, he would pluck the ripe fruit he needed, and leave the ignorant fools to blame wolves or spirits, or gods knew what else, never knowing the enemy had passed through their midst undetected.

He had sworn off taking sacrifices from the village after the last he had taken, but with Treon still not returned from Valdar, need pressed him—Gathul’s appetites were gluttonous, to say the least, and growing.

No more
, Sanouk silently vowed. Not from Hilan, at any rate.

The boy moved away from the seers, a pitiful wretch with not even a copper to spend for a telling of his life. If not destined for a far different future, Sanouk could have predicted the boy’s fate. A life spent in squalor, made old before his time by lowborn toil, suffering a harridan of a wife and suckling babes who would grow into wastrels with not the wit to bathe the shite from their stinking backsides.

I will save you from that, boy. I will lend purpose to your otherwise meaningless existence.
At the thought, the bitterness behind his teeth sweetened, a faint smile quirked his mouth. The child would endure suffering, to be sure, but in comparison to whatever else his life might have been, that anguish could be counted a blessing. It was a small kindness, but a kindness nonetheless.

Following a cart path, the boy vanished behind a row of wattle-and-daub houses. Sanouk followed, moving from shadow to shadow, careful to draw no attention. His boots, taken along with his befouled cloak from the oaf of a groom who minded the keep’s stables, squelched through mud, dung, and kitchen leavings.

He raised a hand to his flaring nostrils, trying in vain to block the stench. After he gave this next offering to Gathul and received another blessing, a bath would be in order. Long and hot, with scented oils to rouse his own hungers. Afterward, flaxen-haired Milia would share his sheets. She had come from his holdings in the west, the village Noerith. From her lips, a wall-eyed crofter’s son did not meet her expectations for a suitor. “I would rather serve the Lord of the North,” she had said, leaving no doubt what she meant about serving. She was not the prettiest thing, but she was eager … so deliciously eager.

With a pleasant shudder, Sanouk put away thoughts of Milia, and hurried along a path that would intersect with the boy’s route. With the arrival of the caravan, the village beyond the green lay quiet. Cheerless candles burned in windows covered in sheer, oiled cloth, thatched roofs slumped in disrepair, and wandering mutts snuffled at offal thrown out along with buckets of night soil. He longed for Onareth, with its pomp and finery, but only in Hilan could he meet Gathul’s needs.

But is that true?
he wondered. Perhaps the god would have no qualms relocating to more suitable hunting grounds?
After a few more sacrifices, I will broach the topic
.

Sanouk quickened his pace, moving behind the boy on a path that led to the area of Hilan reserved for craftsmen. After a scan of the surrounding houses, making sure no drunkard loafed in the shadows, Sanouk called out. The boy, lost in some daydream, whirled.

“All is well, boy,” Sanouk said, keeping his tone light.

The boy, walking backward, suddenly froze. “Milord?”

How did he know? Did my hood slip … and if so, did others see me?
Sanouk shook away the guilty flash, schooled his features to calm. What did it matter if he had been seen? This village and the lands upon which it sat were his holdings. And if some sheep-buggering lackwit managed to connect his visit with the boy’s vanishing, what did it matter?

“It is I,” he said, then waved a dismissive hand. “There is no need to bow, lad. I have come to enjoy the trading, same as you.” Sanouk drew back his hood, shivering at the wet snowflakes lighting on his brow.
Gods, I hate summer snows.

Close-shorn hair dark and clumped, the boy stood awkwardly, poised between bowing and bolting.

Sanouk put on a disarming smile. “You leave early, lad. Are the festivities not to your liking?”

“The dancers and jugglers are fine, milord, but….” The boy fidgeted, his blush of shame apparent even in the gloom. “I have no coin, and nothing to trade.”

“Well,” Sanouk consoled, “these are trying times, what with Cerrikoth warring against the witch-queen, Shukura of Qairennor. Even I must tighten my belt.”

“Father says your table is always full,” the boy muttered, then went rigid, knowing he had overstepped his bounds.

Impudent bastard! I will rack him … gouge out his eyes … I will….
Sanouk bit back the unspoken words and managed a dry chuckle, but his eyes felt like beads of hot glass. “Of course it is,” he explained, struggling to keep his voice even. “I am your lord. As such, it’s my duty to remain sound in mind and body, so you and yours do not have to worry about brigands and the like. If I or my soldiers went hungry, who would protect you?”

“The Scorpion,” the boy said with troubling surety. “ ‘Tis said he watches over the weak. If trouble comes, he will remember he’s one of us, and lend his protection.”

Sanouk’s teeth grated in irritation.
Do they forget so easily that I am their protector?
“Come, boy. I need your assistance.”

The boy raised his eyebrows in question, and Sanouk baited his trap.

“There is an assassin in the village. I need your help finding him.”

“Truly?” the boy whispered, plain features pinching in a ferocious scowl. He whipped a stubby knife from his belt. “I will help, milord. Father says I am fierce as a wolf.”

“Is that so?” Sanouk asked, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were not observed, or worse yet, followed. All was clear. Feigning worry, he clamped his hand around the boy’s arm and dragged him behind a wagon loaded with old wine barrels.

“What is it?” the boy blurted, eyes round.

Sanouk pointed toward the shadows back the way they had come. “Do you see him?”

The boy searched the empty darkness. “I see nothing. Who is it?”

“The assassin,” Sanouk whispered harshly. “You cannot see him, for he is a specter conjured by the witch-queen, sent out to murder all who stand opposed to her rule.”

The boy glanced doubtfully at Sanouk. “But you see him?”

“Of course. I am blessed by the gods to know all who seek to harm me,” Sanouk said, earning an open-mouthed appraisal from the youth. “I’d hoped my joining the celebration would confuse the killer. It seems I was wrong. You are not safe. Go, there, into that alley beside the tannery. I will follow.”

He shoved the boy to get him moving, then waited a slow hundred count, letting the boy’s imagination run rampant. Keeping up the game, he scurried across the path, cowering as if sought, and joined the boy. The alley stank of rancid tallow and the scrapings of hides, but it was dark and sheltered, hidden from all eyes.

“Is the assassin coming?” the boy asked, hiding behind a stack of hides that had not yet made it to the tannery.

Sanouk could not stifle a laugh. “There is no assassin, only you and I.”

Confusion pinched the boy’s brow. “But….”

“I thought to have a little sport with you.”

“You tried to trick me!” the boy said.

“I would say I
succeeded
rather than
tried
,” Sanouk answered blandly. “By your stench, I’d also say you that shat your breeches. A pity. You will never make much of a man.”

Tears shone in the boy’s eyes. “Leave me alone. Go away!”

“You are naught but a scared child,” Sanouk said, herding the boy to the back of the alley. “And hardly worth my effort, yet I have a need of you and your miserable life.”

The boy backed away, eyes bulging. “I am sorry, milord. Please, let me go.”

Sanouk moved closer, forcing the boy to a wall. Leaning in one corner stood another barrel. “Please,” the boy whimpered, then tried to dart past. Sanouk slashed the edge of his fist against the boy’s throat. Gagging, the boy retreated, brandishing his knife.

Sanouk advanced.

“I am a w-w-wolf,” the boy sobbed, bumping against the barrel. Water sloshed over the rim, and Sanouk decided at that moment what manner of death he would avoid with the boy’s sacrifice.

Sanouk halted, just out of reach of the boy’s slashing blade. He doubted the witless child would attempt to—

The boy hurled the knife. Sanouk stumbled backward with a startled curse, clutching his neck. There was no wound, no wetness of blood, for Undai’s sacrifice protected him from steel. Had that not been so, the knife would have gravely wounded him … or worse.
The ingrate tried to murder me!

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Sanouk growled, and struck the boy.

Screaming like a thing possessed, the boy flew at him, and Sanouk drove the tip of his boot into the boy’s groin. He went down in a writhing heap. Catching him by the hair, Sanouk jerked his head up. “I do hope you like water, boy,” he said, and began laughing.