“Treon,” he called with mock joviality, whiskered jowls florid from the chill air. He held a flagon in one wine-stained fist, though it was morning. “Come to collect the rubbish of Valdar, have you?” A clump of straw fell from his thin black hair when he laughed.
“Have you been bedding swine again, Mitros?” Treon said with a disapproving sneer.
“As ever,” Mitros said, the smile on his lips belying the glassy anger in his eyes, “your wit unmans me. As it happens, I was interrogating one of the prisoners. Seems she disliked my methods, and put a boot to my stones.”
“She?” Rathe said, startled. It was hard enough to imagine any man fool enough to deal with the plainsmen, but a woman was unheard of.
“Aye,” Mitros answered, rounding on Rathe. His eyes, dark and bloodshot, narrowed. “I know you from somewhere … or have heard spoken your likeness.”
Rathe did not bother to explain who he was, so Treon filled the silence. “This is the Scorpion of Cerrikoth,” he snickered, “now bereft of his stinger.”
“You are the one who bedded that highborn’s concubine!” Mitros said, bellowing roguish laughter. “By all the gods, you are either more foolish than you look, or have a pair of stones the size of my fists!”
Rathe smiled thinly.
“Take me to these prisoners,” Treon said. “Once loaded into the wagons, we will depart. Too long was the journey here, what with all that damnable snow and flooding streams.”
“So soon?” Mitros drawled. “Surely after coming so far you will let me feast you? What can one night hurt? Of course, if it’s not a feast you want, the tavern has the finest ales in the north … and I encourage the serving wenches to gladly trade their wares for coin.” He looked down the line and raised his voice. “What say you, men of Hilan? Would you rather not remain in Valdar this day and night, and taste the bounty of the north?”
A cheering roar erupted from the company. Rathe never looked away from Mitros. He is not so much the steward of Valdar, but a whoremonger.
Treon thought briefly about the offer. “Very well,” he said, eliciting a cry of approval. “We leave on the morrow. Be forewarned, any man not armed and ready for duty will suffer.”
Rathe let the eager shouts wash over him, eyeing Mitros and his men, the dilapidated fortifications, and wondering just what he would find within the village.
Chapter 21
“Four women and a pair of codgers,” Loro mused, sipping ale from a wooden mug. “That dark-haired wench seems feisty, to be sure, but the rest are addled. Hard to believe anyone, especially the plainsmen, would strike a bargain with such a motley group.”
Rathe propped his elbows on the aged bar and leaned in close, raising his voice above the raucous merriment stirring the tavern’s rafters. “I am going to talk with the prisoners.”
“Why?” Loro asked, distracted by a buxom serving girl.
She in no way seemed eager to attract attention, nor inclined to offer her flesh for coin. A soldier slapped the girl’s rounded backside. She squealed, dropped her serving tray, and ran from the common room. Ribald laughter followed her, as did the gazes of the other serving girls, all who looked as if they would rather be anywhere else.
“Something’s wrong here,” Rathe said.
Loro scowled into his empty mug. “Aye. My cup’s run dry!”
The old one-legged barkeep replaced the empty mug with another dribbling foam over the brim. Loro flipped him a copper, and the wizened fellow tucked the coin into a leather purse at his belt, then clumped off to serve a grubby miner at the other end of the bar.
Everything about Valdar seems wrong. Rathe supposed the barkeep could wear a brooding scowl all the time, but it seemed out of place, considering his custom had doubled with the arrival of Hilan men. Of the miner, he took no pleasure in his ale, but rather quaffed mug after mug in bitter silence. Missing three fingers on one hand and two from the other might have accounted for that, but Rathe thought not. He had seen men drink so before, in a bid to drown the memory of the loss of something dear. Moreover, from the serving wenches to the barkeep, to the miner, all moved through the smoky tavern as if in a daze, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped.
“I am going to talk to the prisoners,” Rathe said again. Save for the woman who had tried to make a eunuch of Mitros, he had doubts the others could tell him anything of worth.
Loro gulped from his mug. “Go ahead,” he grumbled. “I am of the mind to find a wench willing to let this old boar nuzzle her teats.” He squinted around the tavern, then back to Rathe. “It’s never too late cast all this soldiering and vengeance aside and go find our fortunes elsewhere. Mercenary or brigand, caravan guard or trader, opportunities abound in the west, all along the shores of the Sea of Muika, and beyond on the isles of Giliron.”
For the first time since Loro had mentioned that scheme, it did not offend Rathe to hear it. And for the first time, he actually imagined living such a life. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “But now is not the time.”
“Suit yourself,” Loro said. “You change your mind, don’t forget I put you up to it.”
“I won’t,” Rathe agreed.
He made his way out of the stifling tavern and into the frosty night. A double handful of cloaked soldiers from Hilan and Valdar lounged on stools at either side of the door, drinking and jesting. A few eyes met his, nods were exchanged, and the men turned back to their companions.
Rathe drew his dagger and made a show of cleaning his nails, peering at the shadows from under his eyebrows. Since arriving to Valdar, it had crossed his mind that Treon might have put a watch on him. If so, the spy was stealthy. Save for a half dozen goats wandering by on the street, the village slumbered. Of course, even during the day it had seemed bereft of normal activity.
He sheathed his dagger and stepped off the wooden walkway, heading for the prisoner wagons. For expediency, Treon had ordered the traitors locked in the wagons overnight. Since giving that order, Rathe had not seen Treon or Mitros.
“What do you want?” one of two guards demanded when Rathe came near. Unfortunately, he was one of Mitros’s men, depriving Rathe the luxury of easily sending the man off.
Seeing no point in explaining himself twice, Rathe waited for the other guard to join the first. The spirited woman who had assaulted Mitros crawled closer to the bars of the nearest wagon. Her wide eyes glowed in the moonlight, as did the guards’ bared swords.
“I have come to interrogate the prisoners,” Rathe said.
“And who are you?” the second guard asked.
“Second in command of the winged Reavers,” Rathe said.
“Ah, the Scorpion, is it?”
“I have been called that.”
“Don’t look like no king’s champion to me. What say you, Gadein?”
“Well, Caisel,” Gadein said in a philosophical tone at odds with his dullard’s low, sloping brow, “I says he’s too pretty by half to be aught but a highborn’s plaything. What happened Scorpion, did your lord tire of poking his scepter into your sweet mouth?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Rathe chuckled, stepping forward.
Put off by his light manner, their swords rose too slowly at his approach. Rathe swatted Gadein’s blade aside and slammed his fist into the man’s throat.
“Wha’ the-” Caisel managed, before Rathe wheeled and drove the heel of his hand into the man’s nose. Bone exploded, and Caisel dropped his sword and reeled away, hands clamped over his face, blood squeezing between his fingers.
Rathe spun back to a gagging Gadein and clubbed him across the back of the neck, dropping him to his knees. A viscous kick shattered the man’s jaw and sent him to the ice-crusted mud-
He whirled at a scraping sound, found Caisel coming, lips and chin coated in a running fan of blood, sword raised high to strike off Rathe’s head. In one motion Rathe dropped low, stepped inside the man’s swing, and drew his dagger. Just before his blade liberated the man’s intestines, he reversed the dagger and drove the pommel into Caisel’s groin. An explosive grunt sprayed blood from his mouth, and Rathe pummeled him again, ending whatever hope the brute had of siring children.