WesternWind 4 - Tears of the Reaper (20 page)

* * * * *

From far beneath the wintry plains of the Manontaque Province, three ravenous creatures slithered up from their subterranean lair and into the frigid North Country night. Where they moved, a milky white spread of slime sizzled on the ground, killing the vegetation nestled beneath the snow.

Unlike vipers known to the Terran world or any other, these creatures were hard-scaled with a sickly green armor plating that resembled chain mail. Impervious to the cold through which they moved, their bodies gave off a pulsing of concentrated heat that—should a humanoid come in contact with it—would eat through flesh and bone in a matter of seconds. The pulsing was hidden beneath a stealth-like cloaking that concealed the creatures from view. The only things that gave away their presence were the odoriferous trail left in their wake and the melting of the snow. There was nothing to screen either telltale sign.

Lifting the upper part of their bodies to test the air through titular heat-seeking pits between their nostrils and the eyes on either side of their heads , the creatures could detect no living things nearby. They hissed angrily in unison—forked tongues flickering, triangular heads weaving from side to side. Two large tubular fangs hinged back against the roof of their opened mouths and pitiless elliptical eyes gleamed red in the dark of night.

Undulating along as one entity, rippling over the ground with steady purpose, the creatures moved quickly. Hunger was beating at them and the Need was great. The sensitive membranes inside the titular pits allowed them to seek infrared radiation—a slight increase in the surrounding temperature that would alert them to the presence of warm-blooded prey. All that was needed was just a slight temperature variation from the night air. Mere fractions of a degree would suffice.

* * * * *

Among the three Reapers, Iden had the best sense of smell while in his seagull form. It was he who drew in the noxious stench permeating the air and banked toward it, signaling the others that he thought he had found their target.

Winging their way toward Iden, both Owen and Glyn warned their fellow teammate not to get within striking range of the Drochtáirs for who knew what powers the creatures might have. Could they—like the Reapers and rogues—shape-shift? How did they attack and infect their victims? Since the Shadowlords could not tell them what form the beings took, it was imperative that Iden stay well out of their range.

“I think they are vipers,” Iden sent. “And there are three of them moving as one.”

The only thing Reapers feared were ghorets—the three-feet-long silver and green vipers whose venom could kill a humanoid in mere seconds and make a Reaper wish he could die. Because of that fear, other snakes made them uneasy and they kept well away from those indigenous to Terra, venomous or not.

“How do you know? Can you see them?” Glyn asked.

“There’s no way to miss them. Where they are moving through the snow, they are leaving a serpentine trail behind and it reeks to high heaven,” Iden added.

“Well, if they are the seed from which Raphian sprang, it makes sense they’d be serpents,” Glyn commented.

“Aye, but vipers don’t mangle their victims,” Owen reminded his fellow Reapers. “Remember the first victims had deep scratches and bite marks. Those creatures are going to have to change to either humanoid or animal shape to attack their prey.” He caught the malevolent stench. “My money is on animal.”

“Whatever they can infect on the way to visiting some poor unsuspecting farmer and then assume its shape?” Glyn inquired.

“That would be my guess,” Owen replied. “Watch for anything down there large enough to attack a human.”

“How ’bout a wolverine?” Iden said, spying one of the beasts running pell-mell away from the advance of the Drochtáirs.

“That would do it,” Glyn agreed. He too had spotted the dark furry critter streaking across the snow.

“They are gaining on it,” Iden said then mentally whistled. “Those things can move ass, guys!”

Neither Owen nor Glyn needed to ask to which Iden was referring for they were watching the Drochtáirs closing with unnatural speed on the terrified wolverine.

“As much as I’d like to see how those creatures work, I really don’t want to see that little fur ball hurt,” Owen said.

“And just how do you…?” Glyn started to ask, but Owen was already changing in midair. The bird form into which he shifted startled his fellow Reapers into complete silence. Neither knew him capable of such a feat and were stunned as they watched him soar toward the fleeing wolverine, swoop down, clutch the animal behind his head and along its rump and then lift it up, banking away with it into the night sky.

“What the fuck was that?” Iden whispered.

“One ugly-ass bird,” Glyn whispered back. “That thing had a face only a mother could love.”

Below them, the slithering creatures came up short, their prey suddenly having vanished. They paused where they were for a moment then as though sensing they had been tracked, arced around and headed back the way they had come, using the same speed they’d used to go after the wolverine.

“They are on to us,” Iden said.

“On to that ugly motherfucker Owen turned into at any rate,” Glyn told him. “Let’s go after them but shield your thoughts and don’t utter one word. We don’t want them to know they’re being followed back to their lair.”

As Glyn and Iden struck out after the fleeing creatures, Owen was several miles away, lowering the struggling, snarling, malodorous wolverine to the ground and streaking out of the way of its thirty-eight very sharp teeth and ten even-sharper claws. The stench of the animal’s fur seemed to be permeating his feathers and he changed again from the condor with its nine-foot wingspan to his normal blackbird shape. Silently chuckling to himself as the wolverine hissed at him as he soared away, he headed back to where he’d left his teammates.

Glyn and Iden were circling like birds of prey in the sky and when Owen dove between them, he could detect the stench below. Looking down, he saw nothing save a cluster of boulders. Mentally marking the spot, he broke away with his fellow Reapers in pursuit. Once they were well away from the location of the lair, he dove toward the ground and landed. Glyn and Iden joined him.

Fashioning a bulky fur robe, he wrapped it around himself and sat down on a fallen tree. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. The shape-shifting had taken its toll, conjuring the robe had taken even more but he wasn’t up to sitting bare-assed in the frigid night air. He braced one naked foot on the other, his flesh burning from the cold.

“What the hell was that?” Iden demanded as he too wrapped his nakedness in a thick fur. He had enough presence of mind to fashion wooly socks for his feet before he slumped on the ground.

“And how the hell did you do it?” Glyn added. He pulled his own fur tightly around him, giving Iden’s socks a long look before conjuring up ones for himself.

Owen shrugged and even that seemed to sap his waning energy. He too looked jealously at his fellow Reapers’ covered feet but had no energy left to cover his aching feet. “I’ve had a few weeks to fuck around with things while I was gone. I figured if Morrigunia could do it, maybe we could too. I remember seeing one of those big birds out in Calizonia and knew that was the only thing big enough to lift a wolverine. You hold the image of the creature you want to be and you shift.”

“You think we can change into something else as well?” Iden asked, now more intrigued than angry.

“It takes practice but, aye, I know you can,” Owen replied. He was shivering.

“You expended more energy than you should have and doing this hasn’t helped,” Glyn said, referring to Owen’s shift into human shape. “We need to get back and rest—you especially—then call in the Drochtáirs’ location to the High Council in the morning.”

Owen yawned. He was so tired, so drained, he didn’t know if it would be possible to shift again. He hoped he could for spending the night on the prairie held no allure whatsoever.

“Come on, Tohre,” Glyn said, his forehead creased with worry. “You need to get up.”

Nodding his agreement, Owen stood, wavering just a bit, and dropped the fur. The biting cold of the arctic air washed over him. He held his blackbird form in his mind far longer than normal but he finally managed to shift, taking to the air listlessly with his teammates winging beside him.

As they sailed through the open window of their room, they cursed at the same moment for the room was freezing. Shivering, Iden slammed the window shut and clothing himself in wool long johns, scrambled beneath the cover.

“Come on, Kullen,” he growled, his teeth chattering. “Get in and warm me up, baby.”

Glyn snorted as he fashioned his own set of thick wool underwear. “You wish,” he sneered. He glanced at Owen and knew his friend didn’t have it left in him to conjure clothing. Glyn did it for him.

“Thanks,” Owen muttered as he got under the covers and pulled them up to his chin. Despite the natural heat of his Reaper state—Reaper body temps were higher than that of a human—he was shaking from the cold. Despite the clicking of teeth, he was fast asleep before Glyn climbed into bed beside Iden.

* * * * *

Snow began to fall again as the two men rode into New River. They were cold, hungry and afraid as they woke the stable owner and asked for lodging for their mounts, willing to take an empty stall for themselves if the man agreed.

“Bad night to be out riding, men,” the stable owner commented, giving them a wary look. “If you don’t mind the straw, I don’t mind you sleeping there.” He named them a ridiculous amount of coins to stable their mounts but the men had no other choice but to pay it. Between them they didn’t have enough to rent a hotel room or buy food.

Settling down with the animals, it was a long time before they fell into a restless slumber. Every faint sound of a mouse rustling through the straw, every soft nicker of a horse or creak of the overhead timbers brought them wide awake and trembling.

* * * * *

Rachel could not sleep. She lay as still as she could and listened to the howling of the wind as it skirled around the building in which she was confined. Since she had had no food all day she was lightheaded and her stomach was protesting loudly. Her mouth was dry for not one drop of water had passed her lips since she’d awakened that morning. The only thing between her and the stinging cold of the cell was the thin red dress that covered her body. Her feet had become numb and she feared her toes were frostbitten or well on the way to becoming so.

Not that it mattered.

At ten of the clock the coming morning, those who resided within the gates of the Electorate would gather in the kiare-uillinagh, the quadrangle, to witness the third day’s final punishment . Those from the Colony beyond its guarded walls who wished to view the claghit gy baase would already be assembled and waiting for her to be brought out. The claghs jiarg would be piled to one side for those who wanted them and the Writ of Excommunication, the charbaa veih’n agglish screeuyn leigh, would be read. When the last punishment had been carried out, her body would be carried beyond the walls and left for the scavengers to feast upon. There would be no proper burial for her.

Pain racking her tortured body and sorrow throbbing heavily in her broken heart, she stared into the darkness but all she saw was the face of Owen Tohre. Until the last moment she drew breath—and perhaps even beyond in whatever hell claimed her—his beloved name would be the last words she would ever speak.

Chapter Twelve

It was the loud pounding on the hotel door that brought Owen up as though he’d been jerked by a noose around his neck. The shouts of his name made the blood race through his heart and he flung the covers aside, barely aware of Glyn and Iden scrambling from the bed and grabbing their firearms. He flung the door open and blinked, unprepared for the visitors standing at the door.

“You must hurry, Lord Owen,” Brother Edward Dayton yelled at him. “There is no time to waste. The hour is approaching!”

Owen stared at the two Communalists—Edward and the Healer Benjamin Tate. He was still half asleep and them being there in New Junction didn’t make sense to him.

“The hour for what?” Glyn asked. He waved his hand over his wool underclothing and his black Reaper uniform settled in place over his tall frame, the black leather duster covering him from neck to ankle.

“The claghit gy baase, ” Benjamin stated. He tried not to gape at Kullen, stunned at the sudden appearance of clothing on the man. “Please, you must hurry! There is no time to waste!”

“Get dressed, Owen,” Glyn snapped. “Now!”

Iden was already clothed in his uniform and duster and was strapping his gun belt into place. He cast Owen a worried look. “Owen, get moving!”

It was as though he were mired in quicksand and unable to move away from the door. Seeing the two men from New Towne there was beginning to have meaning for him and all the blood had drained suddenly from his face. He staggered back, eyes wide, and barely felt the uniform that Glyn conjured onto him. He grunted when Iden slammed the gun belt into his belly.

“Get a move on, Reaper!” Iden shouted at him.

“Is she in New Towne?” Glyn asked as Owen finally came out of his stupor and slung the gun belt around his hips, buckling it low.