Read Online Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) by James A. West - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James A. West
Ads: Link
Lady Nesaea,” the newcomer said to Captain Treon. Sable ringlets tumbled over one shoulder, looking freshly washed and glowing in the sunlight. “In trade for your protection on our way north to the Shadow Road, the Maidens of the Lyre will gladly provide your gallant men our services.”
Nesaea glanced from Captain Treon to the other soldiers, her eyes so deeply blue as to look violet. When her gaze fell again on Rathe, she offered a smile seemingly meant for him alone, and he knew trouble had found him once more.
In his whispering rasp, looking as if he had stumbled across a hidden chest of gold, Captain Treon readily agreed to Lady Nesaea’s proposition. Rathe noted the man’s eagerness, though he did not share it. A pretty face, Rathe accepted, was one of those weaknesses Commander Rhonaag had mentioned. If he would have any sort of meaningful life, Rathe knew he would need to put his head down, follow orders, and behave as a green recruit eager to serve.
He told himself that and more, but when Nesaea wheeled her mount and rode back to her companions, Rathe could not look away from the curves of her figure nestled in the saddle, nor forget the enchanting expressiveness of her eyes. I am a man cursed, he thought without humor.
Within the hour, without slowing the march, the Maidens of the Lyre had merged their caravan with the column of soldiers. For the first time since setting out from Onareth, the Hilan men rode with something more than bland indifference to the world around them, and the outcasts shed some of their misery. Music and song helped, rising from the backs of a score of wagons that bore the look of broad-bellied ships, all painted gaily. The melodies were pleasant, but the beauty of the singers made the soldiers sit straighter in their saddles. Some even attempted to wipe off the dust coating their mail.
Captain Treon seemed to suffer their presence, but Rathe noted that he took a keen if furtive interest in Lady Nesaea. For her part, she returned his glances with coy looks of her own. A dagger of jealousy prodded Rathe’s heart, but he pushed it aside. If she would rather have a filthy snake for company of an evening, then so be it.
When Treon called a halt for the night a full two hours before they had ever made camp before, the Maidens of the Lyre wheeled their mule-drawn wagons into a broad circle.
“Well,” Loro said appreciatively, dismounting with a weary grunt, “they are not fools.”
“Because they know how to defend themselves does not make them wise,” Rathe countered, dropping his saddle next to a bush where he had chosen to sleep. “It’s known that brigands and plainsmen rule these lands, yet this Lady Nesaea saw fit to bring her troupe here? If that’s not a fool’s errand, I don’t know what is.”
“Gods, man,” Loro snorted, “did a spider nest in your breechclout, or are you in love?”
Rathe cursed the man for a dolt and stalked away, leading his mount to the picket line.
Chapter 9
S ome hours after setting camp, Rathe stood alone in the darkness beyond the company’s firelight and jubilant noise. After a fine meal prepared and served by the Maidens of the Lyre, Lady Nesaea herself had spun the heroic tale of Alendar the Valorous and His Ten Thousand, an old story about a great king battling evil men and the gods they served. With the deft weaving of a skilled bard, she had managed to subtly link the tale of Alendar to Captain Treon, of all things ridiculous.
Afterward music, merriment, and dancing ensued. It had been going on for hours, and while the liveliness offered a pleasant distraction from the normal routine of eating goat soup and lintels before posting the night’s watch, Rathe had listened and watched enough. His body ached head to toe, his wounds itched with healing, and he wanted for sleep.
A soft tinkling turned his head. Lady Nesaea glided near, and his tongue withered anew at sight of her. Now she wore only a few swaths of cream silk and
Nesaea glanced from Captain Treon to the other soldiers, her eyes so deeply blue as to look violet. When her gaze fell again on Rathe, she offered a smile seemingly meant for him alone, and he knew trouble had found him once more.
In his whispering rasp, looking as if he had stumbled across a hidden chest of gold, Captain Treon readily agreed to Lady Nesaea’s proposition. Rathe noted the man’s eagerness, though he did not share it. A pretty face, Rathe accepted, was one of those weaknesses Commander Rhonaag had mentioned. If he would have any sort of meaningful life, Rathe knew he would need to put his head down, follow orders, and behave as a green recruit eager to serve.
He told himself that and more, but when Nesaea wheeled her mount and rode back to her companions, Rathe could not look away from the curves of her figure nestled in the saddle, nor forget the enchanting expressiveness of her eyes. I am a man cursed, he thought without humor.
Within the hour, without slowing the march, the Maidens of the Lyre had merged their caravan with the column of soldiers. For the first time since setting out from Onareth, the Hilan men rode with something more than bland indifference to the world around them, and the outcasts shed some of their misery. Music and song helped, rising from the backs of a score of wagons that bore the look of broad-bellied ships, all painted gaily. The melodies were pleasant, but the beauty of the singers made the soldiers sit straighter in their saddles. Some even attempted to wipe off the dust coating their mail.
Captain Treon seemed to suffer their presence, but Rathe noted that he took a keen if furtive interest in Lady Nesaea. For her part, she returned his glances with coy looks of her own. A dagger of jealousy prodded Rathe’s heart, but he pushed it aside. If she would rather have a filthy snake for company of an evening, then so be it.
When Treon called a halt for the night a full two hours before they had ever made camp before, the Maidens of the Lyre wheeled their mule-drawn wagons into a broad circle.
“Well,” Loro said appreciatively, dismounting with a weary grunt, “they are not fools.”
“Because they know how to defend themselves does not make them wise,” Rathe countered, dropping his saddle next to a bush where he had chosen to sleep. “It’s known that brigands and plainsmen rule these lands, yet this Lady Nesaea saw fit to bring her troupe here? If that’s not a fool’s errand, I don’t know what is.”
“Gods, man,” Loro snorted, “did a spider nest in your breechclout, or are you in love?”
Rathe cursed the man for a dolt and stalked away, leading his mount to the picket line.
Chapter 9
S ome hours after setting camp, Rathe stood alone in the darkness beyond the company’s firelight and jubilant noise. After a fine meal prepared and served by the Maidens of the Lyre, Lady Nesaea herself had spun the heroic tale of Alendar the Valorous and His Ten Thousand, an old story about a great king battling evil men and the gods they served. With the deft weaving of a skilled bard, she had managed to subtly link the tale of Alendar to Captain Treon, of all things ridiculous.
Afterward music, merriment, and dancing ensued. It had been going on for hours, and while the liveliness offered a pleasant distraction from the normal routine of eating goat soup and lintels before posting the night’s watch, Rathe had listened and watched enough. His body ached head to toe, his wounds itched with healing, and he wanted for sleep.
A soft tinkling turned his head. Lady Nesaea glided near, and his tongue withered anew at sight of her. Now she wore only a few swaths of cream silk and
Similar Books
