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.
“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?”