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

was a lifelong soldier’s quarters.
    “Leave us, Idursu,” Rhonaag ordered. The aide shot a troubled look at Rathe, then hastily bowed his way out of the room. Rhonaag went back to reading from the sheaf of parchments before him.
    Rathe was accustomed to this game of waiting for a commander to acknowledge a subordinate. He had played it himself. Still, he was sure he stood at attention longer than was normal before Rhonaag’s stare found him again.
    “You are a proud one,” Rhonaag said, sounding mildly amused. The amusement began and ended with his voice. His dark eyes spoke of disdain.
    Unsure of Rhonaag’s point, Rathe said, “I serve Cerrikoth and the king. My heart is strong in the belief that I serve well. If that means I am proud, then it must be so.”
    Shoving the parchments to one side of the desk, Rhonaag chuckled. “I suppose such arrogance is not unwarranted. The list of your exploits reads like a bard’s heroic tale.”
    “Stories do not tell the truth of blood and pain,” Rathe muttered. “I am no more a hero than any man who kills at the command of others.” He realized the bitterness of his words, but he could not take them back.
    “Pride and wisdom are rare qualities found together in one man,” Rhonaag said. By his expression, he seemed doubtful that Rathe was such a man.
    He stared unblinking for a long time, idly fingering a scar that ran at a diagonal from one temple into his short, iron-gray hair. Stories told that he had taken the grievous wound while defending his captain against plainsmen raiders north of the Shadow Road, some many years gone. At last, in a voice tinged with disbelief, Rhonaag went on.
    “Captain-General Midak has seen fit to promote you to legion commander of the king’s guard.” Rhonaag’s lips twisted in disgust when he finished. He had come to the legions younger than Rathe, but was now twice his age. He had given his entire life to the kingdom, yet before him stood a mere boy by comparison, and already raised above him.
    Rathe fought for a calm demeanor. Where he had expected to learn he was sentenced to some black cell, he found instead that all his troubles had vanished. All the questions he had struggled with in that Qairennoran village mattered no more. He would miss the feel of sitting astride a warhorse charging into battle, the camaraderie of his brothers-at-arms, but not enough to long for the feel of his sword stilling a beating heart.
    After a steadying breath, he said, “As always, I will serve to the best of my abilities, giving my heart and blood to king and kingdom.”
    Rhonaag dismissed Rathe’s oath with a snort. “Sergeant Girod is to fill the office you vacate, so—”
    “ Girod? ” Rathe could not believe it.
    “You disapprove?” Rhonaag asked, offering a sardonic smirk.
    “He is not, and never will be, fit to lead the Ghosts of Ahnok. Better to send him to a forgotten outpost in the Mountains of Arakas, where his limited talents might be better utilized fetching firewood, buggering goats, and drinking his life away.”
    Rhonaag’s smirk widened. “Girod is Lord Osaant’s bastard, and Osaant is the head of the king’s council. Such appointment has afforded Girod a rare, perhaps unfair, opportunity—such are the follies of life. Be that as it may, does it bother you that he is rising faster than even you have?” The gleam in Rhonaag’s eye spoke of spite, not interest.
    “Only a lesser man would feel so,” Rathe said. Rhonaag’s nostrils flared and his scar grew red, proving he had understood the barb. Rathe went on.
    “I protest because Girod is unfit for command. Lieutenant Thushar is my second, and my rightful replacement. Even if Thushar were a green recruit, he would be better suited to lead the Ghosts than Girod.”
    “Protest and recommend as you will,” Rhonaag said, “but not to me. Give your ideas to Captain-General Midak. You are dismissed,” he finished without preamble.
    “Would you hear the report of the