Lady Of Regret (Book 2) by James A. West Page A

stood. While he did not draw his sword, he rested his hand on the hilt.
    “Do you have a place at your fire for a weary traveler?” the stranger called. They could not see him yet, but he sounded much closer.
    A rustle of movement turned Rathe and Loro. Where Horge had been, now his gear sat unattended. Loro cast about. “Where did he get off to?”
    Rathe was more concerned with why he had fled. Before he could say a word, the stranger glided into view. Hovering between darkness and light, the man’s slitted eyes burned like the sun.

Chapter 14
     
     
     
    “No need for swords,” the stranger admonished, tottering forward. Proximity to the campfire put to rest the illusion his eyes were ablaze, or that he was in any way threatening. He wore a head-cloth held in place with a gold circlet, a fine woolen cloak, robes of deep blue embroidered with sweeping designs done in crimson and gold. Stooped though he was, the man stood a head taller than Rathe.
    “If you had seen the things we have since coming into these foul mountains,” Loro said, “you would have your own steel bared.”
    The old man tugged his long beard, the tips of which fell to a wide leather belt hung with ivory-and-gold scroll cases, and pouches of rich fabric. “I expect you mean Tulfa and his shadowkin?”
    “How do you know about him?” Rathe asked suspiciously.
    “Anyone who has traveled this particular road knows the horrors of Deepreach.” The old man leaned on a finely wrought blackwood staff. Enough golden inlays decorated its length to tempt the wealthiest highborn to thievery. “A wise traveler knows to take other paths.”
    “If you had been our guide,” Loro said, “then our dreams would be the sweeter for it.”
    The old man seemed more interested in Horge’s yak, than anything Loro was saying. He offered a kind grin. “I am called Durogg.” After Loro gave his and Rathe’s name, Durogg turned to the latter.
    “I’ve heard tales of you—or, should I say, tales of a man bearing that name. A great warrior of the southlands, these tales say, who also goes by the name Scorpion .”
    “That’s him!” Loro piped, unaware of Rathe’s startled look.
    Durogg grew speculative. “’Tis said the newly crowned Cerrikothian king has pledged a lordship and generous holdings for the one who brings him the Scorpion’s head. I expect legions of bounty hunters must be after you, for you to stray so far from your homelands?”
    “Those stories are exaggerated,” Rathe said, hand tightening on his sword hilt. “As for men hunting me, I’ve yet to notice.” He did not expect trouble from Durogg, but after crossing paths with Tulfa, his trust in gentle old men had diminished.
    “As you say. Most such stories are overwrought,” Durogg agreed, voice skeptical. “I recognize that beast of burden, yonder. Is its owner, perchance, hereabout?”
    “You know Horge?” Loro asked.
    “As it happens, he and I share a recent, and rather unfortunate, history. I would very much appreciate if you give him over to me.”
    “As we spared him from Tulfa’s cook pot,” Rathe said, “he’s in our care. If Horge has done anything against you, maybe we can help sort out your troubles.”
    “The manner in which I choose to rectify my trouble is none of your concern,” Durogg said, friendliness evaporating. “It will go better between us if you put him into my hands. At once .”
    “I would know the reason you want Horge.” Rathe disliked the man’s threatening tone. He held no great love for Horge, but neither had the man given any reason to turn him over to a stranger.
    Durogg stood straighter, firmer, shedding his guise of frailty. “’Tis enough I ask.” He swept back his cloak with a flourish, slammed the butt of his staff against the frozen ground. The mountains around them rung like a struck bell, and a burst of flame lit the head of the staff.
    “Gods and demons,” Loro cursed, taking a step back. “Look at his eyes!”
    “I