WesternWind 4 - Tears of the Reaper (18 page)

A freshly dug plot of land—large enough to contain multiple bodies—lay off to one side along with two individual plots behind which two wooden crosses had been placed. Both burial plots reeked of burned human flesh.

“Whatcha wanna bet they gave the two men those nice, neat little graves and then dumped the poor women into the communal one?” Iden snarled.

“The more I’m around those pricks, the less I like them,” Glyn said.

“They make the Drochtáirs look like choirboys,” Iden replied with a snort.

“And those things are close by,” Owen said quietly. He was staring off across the pastureland where dark lumps were scattered on the ground. “I’ve got their DNA coded in me but you two need to pick it up.”

“How are we to do that, Tohre?” Glyn asked.

Owen lifted a hand and pointed at the dark lumps. “Cows,” he said.

Glyn and Iden looked to where he was indicating. “What cows?” Glyn asked. “Looks like clumps of snowcapped black mud to me.”

“Those are hides, Kullen,” Owen said. “There won’t be any blood or meat or marrow, just hides covering bones.”

“Ugh,” Iden grumbled.

“Go take a taste, boys, and then let’s start tracking these beasts,” Owen ordered. He nudged a chin westward. “I believe we’ll find their lair out there.”

* * * * *

She must have dozed although as cold as she was she couldn’t imagine how that had been possible. It was the sound of shrieking metal that brought her to awareness and then the shuffling of feet coming toward the cell. She could not stop the whimper of fear from escaping her throat as a key was thrust into the lock of the solid iron door.

Bright light from several lanterns nearly blinded her as the door was thrown open. She put up a hand to shield her eyes and cried out as rough hands grabbed her arms and levered her up from the damp floor. She did not see the faces of her jailers for the brightness of the light hurt her eyes. As she was dragged from the cell, all she could do was whisper Owen’s name over and over again as a talisman to ward off the evil that was surely coming.

It was to a large round room they took her and ringing the room were wooden benches occupied by dark figures she knew must be the Council of Exalted Elders. There was only silence as she was thrust into a tall back iron chair that sat in the center of the room under a low chandelier ablaze with candles. Her wrists and ankles were lashed to the arms and legs with rawhide and a broad leather belt was passed around her waist to secure her to the chair’s back.

She was whimpering for she knew what was about to happen. Her second punishment might well be worse than the first, and the third—coming later in the day—would be worse still. As one of her jailers positioned himself behind the chair and took her head into his hands to steady it, she drew in a ragged, terrified breath.

The reality of the punishment that was then meted out to her far exceeded that which she was expecting. Her scream went on and on and on…

Chapter Ten

The pain was so unexpected, so intense, Owen nearly fell from his horse. Luckily the mount was standing still as the Reaper shot out a hand to grab the pommel then swung a leg over Céierseach’s head and hit the ground hard, squatting down with his palm pressed tight to his forehead, his fingers splayed wide.

“What the hell?” Glyn questioned, reining in his horse and sawing on the reins to turn it around. “What’s the matter?” He and Iden dismounted and went over to Owen.

“Sweet Merciful Alel that hurt,” Owen said, his breath ragged.

“Did you take your gods-be-damned tenerse this morning, Tohre?” Glyn snapped.

Owen lifted his head and gave Glyn a brutal look. “I couldn’t because some asshole went through my saddlebags and took the gods-be-damned tenerse, Kullen,” he threw back at him. Sweat was pouring down his face and he was shaking.

“Oh,” Glyn said, his cheeks reddening. “I forgot.”

“I forgot,” Owen mimicked with a sneer.

“Well, you need it,” Glyn said, going over to his horse.

“You think?” Owen snarled.

“Póg ma thoin, Tohre,” Glyn said.

“Aye, well, you can kiss mine too,” Owen returned.

“Tóg bog é,” Iden told Owen, bidding him to take it easy.

“God almighty that hurts,” Owen said, pressing his palm harder against his forehead.

Owen brought the vac-syringe over and leaned down to inject the payload into Owen’s neck.

“Go mbeire an diabhal leis thú!” Owen hissed as the burning liquid spread through the veins in his neck.

“Too late, Tohre. The devil already has my soul,” Glyn replied with a chuckle.

“She has all of us by the balls, I’m thinking,” Iden agreed.

“How’s the head now?” Glyn asked.

“I’ve never had pain like this,” Owen replied. “It feels like someone shoved a burning poker through my head.”

“The tenerse should start helping soon,” Glyn said.

“I’ve got to get out of here. The stench of burning flesh is starting to get to me,” Owen said, pushing to his feet. He stood there wavering for a moment, his unease undulating through him with the pain in his forehead beating at him.

“Aye, it seems to just be hanging in the air,” Iden commented.

“You gonna be able to ride?” Glyn asked, worry crinkling his brow.

“I have to be,” Owen said. He unbuttoned his duster and shrugged out of it.

“Are you hot?” Iden queried.

“I’m burning up.” Wadding up the garment, he walked to his horse and lashed the duster to his bedroll. He grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle, shifting until he was comfortable.

“Any more pain?” Glyn asked.

“No,” Owen lied, and drummed his heels into Céierseach’s sides and the horse shot forward.

* * * * *

As the noonday sun began trying to push through the heavy gray clouds, the Reapers rode past a farm where three new graves rippled the little ground behind a neatly kept family plot surrounded by a picket fence. Dismounting, they entered the plot to investigate.

“August eighth,” Glyn said. “All three.”

“Forever together,” Iden read the inscription burned into the plain wooden cross. “You think they were victims of the Drochtáirs?”

“I don’t think we can take a chance that they aren’t,” Glyn replied.

“There’s no grass growing anywhere near the graves,” Owen said, closed his eyes and sent a mental call to the Citadel. “Lord Kheelan?”

“It is on its way to your location. You may go on.”

Owen opened his eyes. “The drone is coming.”

Glyn and Iden automatically glanced to the heavens though there was nothing to see but dark scudding clouds and a sun striving to push them aside.

“We’ve been instructed to leave,” Owen said, going out the gate of the little cemetery.

“We should be near New Junction, shouldn’t we?” Iden asked.

“About two miles away, I’d say,” Owen agreed. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up and he started walking faster. “I feel those things coming.”

“I do too,” Glyn said. He and Iden ran for their horses.

They were galloping away from the farmstead as the ground beneath them shook and they all looked back to see bright red streaks shooting down from the depths of the concealing clouds. Though the drone was nowhere in sight, its laser beams reflected off the heavens, surrounding it in a scarlet wash of light.

After finding two more farms but no more graves, and after questioning the farmers about any strange attacks since summer, the Reapers learned there had been close to twenty deaths in the past four months. Upon finding out where those victims were buried—all in the community cemetery at New Junction—Owen put forth the suggestion to his men that there might be more infestations like the lone farmstead that no one knew about.

“Lord Kheelan?” he asked as he walked away from the farmer and his family, leaving Glyn and Iden drinking hot cups of coffee with the timid folks.

“Aye?”

“It has occurred to me that there may be other graves scattered across the countryside. It might take days to find all of them. Is there any way the drone can search them out from the sky?”

There was a long pause and Owen knew the Shadowlords were conversing together. At last the High Lord gave his reply.

“Get a soil sample from an infected grave,” Lord Kheelan ordered. “You will need to take the sample away from a populated area and place it where the drone can take it up into the craft for analysis. It can then search for areas where such soil exists and then destroy what is beneath it.”

“Is there any chance it could harm human or animal life in the process?”

“No.”

“We’re going in to New Junction then and I’ll get the sample there. Will the drone be able to locate the Drochtáirs’ lair in the same way?”

Another long pause and then a decided “no”.

“You men will have to find the lair and the only time you’ll be able to do it is when the creatures come out at night to feed. It is blocking our ability to home in on it,” Lord Kheelan said. “Our feeling is these things are smart enough not to take victims from the same area too often. They have become quite good at hiding. Let’s hope they don’t realize they are being hunted and go deeper underground. Once you find the lair, the drone can destroy it provided the Drochtáirs aren’t too far underground.”

Owen felt the connection sever between him and the High Lord and sighed. Lord Kheelan was one very angry Shadowlord if the tone of his voice and manner were any indication. As he joined his fellow Reapers, he thanked the farmers for their help and told Glyn and Iden to mount up.

“Problems?” Glyn asked as they left away from the farm.

“Nothing we can’t handle, but he says we’ll have to hunt for the creatures at night.” He tugged on his hat. “I’m thinking we could find them quicker and have less chance of giving ourselves away if we took to the air.”

“And expend a lot of energy we’ll need to fight them on the ground later?” Glyn questioned, shaking his head.

“No, we’ll mark where their lair is and return the next morning to unearth them and have the drone take ’em out,” Owen told him.

“Can the drone do that?” Iden inquired.

“Apparently so as long as the creatures aren’t too far down.”

“Then we’ll need to make sure no humans are anywhere near those things tonight,” Glyn suggested. “How are we going to do that?”

“From the air,” Owen said. “We’ll have to go down and warn them then shift back.”

“That will take a whole lot of energy, Tohre,” Glyn said.

“Maybe,” Owen agreed. “Maybe not. It depends on how many farmers are out away from town. If we can keep people in town until we can eradicate the Drochtáirs, that would be the best thing.”

“And then there are those already infected and lying in their graves waiting for sundown,” Glyn said.

“That will be handled as soon as I can get some grave dirt for the drone to analyze,” Owen said. He kicked his horse into a faster trot.

* * * * *

New Junction was a thriving community with stores of all kinds. The people walking the streets and sidewalks stopped dead still in their tracks as the three Reapers rode down the slushy snow-packed street. To give them their due, the good folk of the Manontaque Province town did not scatter as those below the border were known to do nor did they point. They simply stared—obviously knowing what the men were for the word Reaper could be heard now and again.

Riding up to the constable’s office, they dismounted and tied their mounts to the hitching post. The constable was standing on the plank sidewalk with two other men who were obviously his deputies. He nodded politely as Owen stepped up to him.

“I am Owen Tohre and this is Glyn Kullen and Iden Belial,” Owen introduced them. “We are here concerning the strange deaths that have been taking place up here.”

The constable blinked. “Does the Bastion know you are here?”

“The Shadowlords have been in contact with them,” Owen answered, “and the high elder down in New Towne has also sent an emissary to inform them we’re here.”

“We’ve been waiting four months for the Míliste to send men out here to look into this, but so far we haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone.” The constable held out his hand. “I am Constable Ford and these are my deputies, Bart and Clint Ford.”

The three men bore a strong resemblance to one another and when Glyn asked if they were brothers, the constable replied they were first cousins.

“I took the job over from my father when he was killed back in July.”

“By the creatures?” Iden inquired.

The constable bobbed his head. “He was the fifth one to die while he was out investigating the murder of old man Tate and his son.”

“Are they all buried here in the cemetery?” Owen asked.

“All but the Tates,” Bart Ford answered. “They were buried out to their homestead.”

“I don’t know if you know this or not, but the dead rise up from their graves at night,” Owen stated. “Their remains will have to be cremated.”