“Milord,” Treon said, climbing out of the saddle, “I fear that-”
“Where are the prisoners?” Sanouk demanded, heart fluttering in his chest. If he had no sacrifices to offer Gathul, his life was forfeit.
“We were set upon by a Shadenmok and her hounds.”
“Where are the prisoners!” Sanouk shrieked. A Shadenmok attack might have merit at any other time, but not now. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel the stirrings of a presence rising up from the stones underfoot and caressing his skin. And was that the cold, dead breath of the god in his ear? Sanouk felt clamped inside a great, invisible fist. His inner thoughts, usually cool and calculating, began to gibber. Someone, any soldier or servant, must soon be offered up!
“During the battle-” Treon faltered, then regained his composure “-they escaped.”
“Escaped?” Sanouk blurted, thrusting his nose against Treon’s, forcing the man to step back. “I warned you how vital these prisoners were. That you have failed means only one thing!”
Treon stepped back farther, shaking his head. “No. Not me. Take him-take Rathe! He freed the prisoners, then set upon me!”
Sanouk took in the hooded figure bound to the saddle, and the uncomfortable shifting from the other soldiers at Treon’s accusation. “Is this true?” He had hoped to turn Rathe to his needs. A man of renown would serve well as his voice and hand of authority.
The hooded head shifted in his direction, and a tired but proud voice said, “It is.”
Then I have my sacrifice. It was a pity, but he had greater concerns than using the esteemed Scorpion to enforce his will-
The short blast of a horn cut off his thought. Then, from beyond the wall came a series of heavy, clacking thuds, followed by the whistling screams of falling arrows and shouting men. A moment later, a rain of stone shot crashed against the curtain wall, while more hammered into the bailey.
“Raise the bridge and bar the gates!” Sanouk bellowed.
As men scurried to obey, Treon rasped, “We are under attack?”
“It would appear so,” Sanouk answered in an acid tone, his mind turning inward to more important matters. “Keep the fortress intact, Treon, or I will have off your head.”
“What of the traitor?”
“Trust that I will see to him.”
Chapter 26
“… I will see to him….”
Rathe did not resist when hands dragged him from the saddle. Though he could not see, the racket of yelling soldiers scrambling for cover as hurled stones crashed against the walls, and the distinctive whickering hiss of massive bolts fired from ballistae, painted a clear picture in his mind of the attack. He wanted to believe Loro led the assault, but could not conceive how the man would have come upon the means to lay siege. It was, Rathe supposed, a mystery to which he’d never learn the answer, unless he could find a way to get free.
There came a meaty thwack, followed by a gurgling scream; one of the spear-sized arrows had found its mark. The horns beyond the curtain wall sounded again, and another volley of stone shot exploded around him.
“Come!” Sanouk ordered, dragging Rathe across the ward by a length of rope tied to his bound wrists. Like a calf to the slaughter.
Rathe stumbled blindly. “Free me, and I will lend my sword to defending the fortress and the village.” He had no intention of fulfilling that pledge, only wanted a sword back in his hands. Two days had passed since the Shadenmok attack, and he was barely stronger than when he had fought Treon, but with the keep under attack, he might just have an advantage to escape.
“I think not,” Sanouk said, slamming heavy doors on the clamor of battle. “My intentions require that you live, after a fashion, not perish guarding this blasted heap of stone.”
“Is that supposed to be a riddle?” Rathe said.
Sanouk ignored the question, bustling him down echoing corridors filled with murmuring servants. As they moved deeper into the keep, Rathe went back to loosening his bindings, much as he had been doing since Treon tied him into the saddle. By now, the ropes had chaffed his skin raw. He ignored the discomfort, subtly twisting his wrists against each other.
When Sanouk pulled him up short and rattled a key in a lock, Rathe tried to wrench free of his bindings. The ropes scraped over the back of one hand, nearing his knuckles. So close!
Sanouk shoved him into a cooler space, a door thudded closed, then the lead rope tightened again as Sanouk set off down a steep flight of stairs. After those ended, the ground underfoot became uneven rock and dirt. Rathe made an effort to map every twist of their path. After a series of sharp turns, Rathe collided with a wall of undressed stone, and he imagined a warren of caves, perhaps an ancient mine.
After some time, he detected a cold, musty odor passing through the weave of the sack over his head. Below that, the scent of moldering linens. The farther they went, twisting and turning, another smell intruded, dominating all others. Burial spices. A catacomb? Sanouk’s words rose up. “My intentions require that you live, after a fashion….”
Combined with the certainty that he now strode amongst the dead, the tenor of Lord Sanouk’s odd pronouncement drew a clammy sweat from Rathe’s pores. The living did not mingle lightly with the dead. A word flitted through his mind: Necromancy. Sanouk had not struck him as a mystic or conjurer, but that meant nothing. Nesaea had denied being a seer, yet she had seemingly described his future, a truth he could not deny, as he had been beset by troubles since the night in her shiplike wagon. Whatever Sanouk was, it meant trouble for Rathe.
He redoubled the painful labor of extricating himself from his bindings. Blood began to seep, working like an oil between his skin and the hempen cords. Closer … an inch more!
Sanouk halted abruptly, and a prickly sensation slithered over Rathe’s skin, like a presence … a spirit of darkness given life.
“I had not expected to find you waiting,” Sanouk said to someone else, his fearful tone at odds with his normal air of authority.
“You play a dangerous game, human,” a deep voice grated, as if from a bottomless well. “You agreed to my terms, yet at every turn, you push the bounds of my leniency.”
“Forgive me,” Sanouk groveled. “There was an unforeseen hindrance. But you see, I have not failed!” he added, his tone a queer mix of pleading and triumph.
At the first syllable from that other being, Rathe had abandoned secrecy, and he began wrenching violently at his bindings. Blood slicked his hands and wrists, but the cords stubbornly held fast.
“Prepare yourself, human, for I will not sup from a plate given me by tainted hands.”
“Of course,” Sanouk babbled. “But I … I have a request.”
An affronted quiet held. The air grew colder, denser. “Speak.”
“The keep is under attack. If you would but lend your strength to the battle, then I can continue to … to adequately serve you.” This last sounded forced, as if Sanouk had only just admitted to himself that he ruled nothing, not even his own flesh, but rather labored at the behest of that other.
Booming, mocking laughter fell like a blow. “You serve, human, at my pleasure and your own foolishness. Your petty conflicts are the strivings of a witless race enthralled by the acts of rutting, gluttony, and the spilling of blood. You sought to gain advantage in those pursuits by awakening me from my long slumber. The rewards I promised, I have given. I will grant no more beyond them. See to your own battles, human, and give unto me the requirements of our agreement-soon-or suffer the reaping of your own wretched soul.”