Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

mine.”
    Rathe’s eyes went hard. “I will not tolerate—”
    Noor’s blow struck like lightning, and points of light exploded before Rathe’s eyes. When he could see straight, he found himself sprawled in the grass some distance from Noor and his intended spoil, uncertain how he had come to be there.
    The girl gazed on him with tear-filled eyes. She was younger than he had first thought, and though no words passed between them, she pleaded for his help. In that instant, they were enemies no longer, but kindred fighting against a common foe. Calling out to his brothers, Noor dropped between her legs, tugging himself to arousal.
    Thudding stones seemed to pound against Rathe’s head. He gasped a breath. The breath burned ... and so too did the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword resting against his palm. His movements were unwieldy, obvious, but the girl’s nudity held Noor’s attention. In turn, the attention of all the other soldiers was on Noor.
    “Disobedience will earn death,” Rathe croaked, getting to his feet. As he had defied the king’s orders just moments before, the black irony of his ruling was not lost on him.
    The Prythian jerked his head toward Rathe, who tottered forward on wobbly legs. Noor opened his mouth to say something, but like the deadly creature that was his namesake, Rathe’s strike was a blur. His sword cleaved flesh, crunched into the bones of Noor’s neck, and stuck fast. Noor’s mouth gaped around a breathless gasp. Blood pumped from the grievous wound in time with the beat of his heart, poured over his torso and onto the girl, covering her in a spreading scarlet gown.
    The legionnaires holding the girl shouted and dove aside. Pellos dragged them both up by the scruff of their necks and ran clear. The girl might have screamed, she must have, but Rathe heard only the grating screech of steel, as he ripped the sword loose from Noor’s neck. The Prythian pawed at him, clumsy on his knees. Rathe’s next stroke shattered the top of Noor’s skull like an eggshell, hewing off a bloody swath of his scalp. Noor fell and lay twitching.
    Rathe stabbed the tip of his sword into the grass. His men had become as statues, anger mingling with disbelief on their faces. To the girl, he said, “Go to your family.” Silent and dripping blood, she ran to her people.
    “By all the gods,” Rathe heard someone mutter. It had sounded like Girod, but it could have been any of the Ghosts. Soldiers rapidly gathered, as if instinct had warned them of impending trouble.
    Rathe waited. The voice that had urged him to put an end to the barbarity had gone silent, abandoning him to whatever might come.
    When the bulk of his company had gathered, he raised his eyes from the corpse at his feet. He spoke calmly. “Noor died for assaulting a superior. Had he ravished this girl against my orders, his death would have been the same. Obey my orders as if they were the king’s, or I will cut any or all of you down without pause or mercy.”
    He looked from one set of eyes to another, knowing in his heart that he had made a terrible mistake in giving an order that directly countermanded the king’s own decree to wreak merciless destruction on the enemies of Cerrikoth. When he finally rested his gaze on his old friend, Thushar shook his head in dismay.
    Men began to stir, muttering. In a moment, Rathe knew, they would come for him. The first few would die, for the Scorpion had never failed to defeat a foe in close combat. After the first, more would come, and then more, until they overwhelmed him. So be it , he thought, a placid smile stretching his lips.
    “Hawk!” someone called from the edge of the green, instantly stilling the rising babble of fury. “A message comes!”
    For the barest moment, Rathe feared that King Tazzim had already learned of his transgression. But that was impossible. Tazzim sat his throne a hundred leagues to the east.
    The company’s scribe drew a slender bone-whistle from a belt pouch