0036393001337282886 wind demon 01

by blood wind

  The other body-Onar thought it might well be Deon Inse-was propped against one wall, his head tilted impossibly flush with one shoulder. His glazed, milky-white eyes would stare forever at whatever horror they had last seen. Where his throat should have been, there was a ragged, gaping hole; the upper portion of spine was missing, allowing the head to recline at its grotesque angle. Also missing were his hands, snapped off at the forearms.

  Onar shuddered. He wasn't so much affected by the sights upon which he gazed as he was by the brute strength it had taken to rip Inse's hands from his body. “Where is Cree?” he asked.

  “He's there,” Graz croaked, swinging an arm behind him to the dark shadows of the cell. He gagged, then convulsed as more bile left him.

  Slipping the phospho light from Graz's rigid grip, Onar swept it over the damp walls until it came to rest on the thing hunkered down in the corner of the far wall. For once in his life, Traye Onar was speechless and he took a step back.

  “Hungry, old man?” A throaty gurgle of laughter erupted from the Reaper. “Here, try this!” A yelp of disgust piped from the Justice as he leapt back from the grizzly offering that was thrown at his feet. He stared down at one of Inse's missing hands, stripped of its flesh all the way down to the bone on all but the ring finger where the Keeper's signet ring still banded the flesh.

  “Too lean?” Kamerone Cree chortled. “Try this one!”

  Inse's other arm-chunks of flesh chewed away-was flung at Onar's head.

  “God!” a guard breathed as the horrible missile hit him in the chest, and then plopped to the floor. The guard's eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor in a dead faint, his head hitting the stone with a meaty thud.

  Cree howled with laughter and the blood-curdling sound echoed through the nine by twelve cell, sending chills of terror through the other men. Slowly, he began to rise, his gaze riveted on Traye Onar.

  “G-Graz!” Onar screeched. “D-do something!”

  Graz armed the vomit from his mouth and turned. He stared at the Reaper who was on his feet, his lips skinned back from sharp, wicked fangs.

  “Graazzzzzz!”

  Still trying to swallow the bitter vetch lingering in his throat, Graz aimed his phaser and ordered his men to fire.

  The shrill tones of four phasers set on heavy stun pierced the space of the small room, nearly deafening those gathered inside.

  Cree was picked up by the quadruple blasts and flung back against the wall, his arms to either side of his body as though he were being crucified. He slid down the wall, and then fell to the floor. What would have killed a human man merely rendered the Reaper unconscious.

  ****

  KULLEN WAS the first off the ship, his long red hair blowing in the crisp wind. He sniffed the air, frowned at the heavy scent of lavender, and then turned to Feis Coure. “Do you smell that?”

  Coure lifted his head, inhaled. “Aye. Not an unpleasant scent, but very thick.” Kahn came off The Sirocco behind its Captain. He stopped. “Merciful Alel,” he whispered. “That must be the gas we're smelling.”

  “But how?” Kullen growled.

  “My surrogate mother is here,” Kahn replied, knowing it as surely as he stood in the deserted loading bay.

  Feis Coure put a hand on Kahn's shoulder. “If that is the case, perhaps Cree is safe.”

  “If Dr. Dean was correct, the Retrieval crews and those men loyal to the Resistance were the only ones inoculated against the death virus,” Kahn replied. “But does that mean the Tribunal and its guards are dead?” He shook his head. “We can't be sure.”

  “Then we go on to the Interrogation Center,” said Kullen.

  The Keepers and Shepherds preceded their six Reaper captains and Kahn. With phasers set to kill, they moved down the corrugated corridor into the main docking station, the hub from which eight docking bays projected. An eerie silence hung over the station and their footsteps rang out on the metal flooring.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” grumbled Kullen.

  “Smythian,” Coure said quietly, pointing.

  Beyond the Ops counter, there were bodies lying scattered on the floor in pools of drying blood. From the agonized expressions on the dead men's faces, the passage from their world to the next had not been an easy one. The men counted twenty-nine corpses.

  “The gods be good to them,” Tohre, the Reaper captain of The Chinook, sighed.

  Kahn looked away from the bodies, his face set, his fists clenched. The woman who had given him life was responsible for this mass atrocity. At that moment, he hated her more than he had ever hated anyone in his entire life and he vowed to find her if it was the last thing he ever did. Her and her vile partner, LeJong Kym.

  “They will go to the Titaness,” Kullen stated, reading Kahn's mind just as the other Reapers had. “There is protection for them there.”

  “There will never be protection for them,” Tylan Kahn snapped.

  Tohre and Belial, the most superstitious of the Reapers, exchanged a look, but it was Belial who spoke. “These women are magi, Admiral. They can-”

  “Die just as other women can,” Kamahl Gehdrin, the Captain of The Levanter, barked. He swept an arm around the room.

  “Look at this! Is this not to be avenged? Does no one pay for this obscenity?”

  “We didn't say that,” Tohre put in. “But to attack the stronghold of the Multitude? That is folly, Kamahl!”

  “Stow the argument!” Kahn ordered. “We have more important matters at hand.” He cast one final look at the dead, then turned resolutely away and headed for the transporter room.

  There were more bodies lying juxtaposed on the floor of the Ministry of Engineering. Unlike the docking bay where the smell of death had dissipated quickly with the opening of the air lock, the stench of blood was thick here and the Reapers growled, their generic hunger goading them.

  “Are any of you near Transition?” Kahn grated, his hard gaze shifting over the dark warriors.

  “By the gods, I hope not!” one of the Shepherds grimaced.

  “I think I speak for us all,” Kullen stated. “It is safe for a few days more.” He pointed at Belial. “He is close.” Kahn nodded. “All right, then. Let's get the hell off this floating graveyard.” He looked at one of the Keepers. “Wynth, isn't it?” At the Keeper's nod, the Admiral asked him to stay behind to operate the transporter. “Should there be the first sign of danger, get us out of there ASAP. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Kahn looked around him. “How many of us are there?”

  “Thirty-two,” Tohre replied.

  “We'll transport down in four groups then,” Kahn suggested. He pointed at eight Keepers. “You will be First Team. Once down, move into position to secure the transport site.”

  “We'll go next,” Tohre put in, indicating Belial, Gehdrin and himself. “Just in case.”

  “Kiel, you and Coure will follow Kullen and myself as fourth team,” Kahn said, waiting for the first three Reapers to leave. He stepped onto the platform as soon as the beam came back then nodded at Wynth. “Let's do it, Ensign.” By the time Kryn Kiel and Feis Coure transported down to Rysalia Prime's Fleet Ops center, the area had been secured and scouted. Hundreds of bodies-some lying on top of one another-littered Ops. The stench was nearly unbearable and the floors were sticky with congealing blood. The men had to wade through the gory mess to leave the Ops center for the doorway that would lead them to the outside.

  “Why don't we take the tram from Ops to the Tribunal Hall?” Tohre inquired, moving so that he was walking in pace with the Admiral.

  “I don't want to signal our coming, Tohre, just in case any Empire warriors are left standing,” Kahn said.

  Kullen snorted as he swept his hawk-like gaze over the masses of bodies lying everywhere around them. “I don't believe we have to worry about that, Admiral.”

  “Where are the women?” Belial queried. “I haven't seen the first gods-be-damned woman since we docked.” He hunche
d his massive shoulders. “I don't like it.” He glanced around. “I don't like it one gods-be-damned bit!” Kahn had to agree; the silence was uncanny and the absence of the women was beginning to concern him. He looked up at the cameras that were cosmetically hidden on trees and lamp posts and wondered if anyone was watching their approach.

  He didn't have long to wonder.

  As soon as the men moved onto the Boulevard of Tears, the wide thoroughfare that ringed the religious center of Tethys, the women began to filter out from the surrounding buildings. The verdigris gates of the center swung open and more women began to filter out, moving into position to line the cobblestone walkway that lead into the compound. The women were silent, their attention riveted on Kahn and his companions. Everywhere the men looked, there were women, standing five and six deep in the circle that was forming around them.

  Kiel looked behind them. “They have cut off any escape,” he said softly.

  The men turned to find themselves hemmed in from behind, the women closing the cordon around them. Looking in every direction, they could see no way to escape the throng short of firing their phasers and even then there were far too many women.

  At full capacity, the phasers could take out no more than a fourth of the silently shuffling females.

  Tylan Kahn's mouth became dry. He felt the animosity-as he knew the Reapers did-that was coming off the women in waves.

  As he scanned the crowd, he could see hate in many colors glaring back at him from eyes that were hard and brittle. He swallowed, knowing they had walked into a trap.

  “I don't think this is a welcoming committee,” said Coure.

  “I will take as many of them with me as my belly will hold, ” Tohre announced. He despised females and took great pleasure in slaughtering them when the need arose. The only reason he was with the traitor Kahn and the Resistance was because of Cree. At the thought of the Prime Reaper, Tohre put out a hand and stopped Kahn. “What of Cree?”

  “If they have him, he's in as much danger as the rest of us,” Kahn replied.

  “More so,” Kullen corrected. “He is our leader.”

  “I believe-” Kahn started to say, but cut himself off as a small, dark-haired woman appeared at the gates of the religious center.

  She stood there, her hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of her purple robe, with her unfriendly gaze locked on Tylan Kahn.

  “The Prophetess-Mother,” Tohre informed Kahn needlessly.

  “Stay here,” Kahn said. “I'll see what she wants.”

  “Our hides,” muttered Kullen.

  Cyle Acet smiled slightly, her unfathomable attention shifting to Symthian Kullen. She held his glare for a moment, and then looked away, dismissing him. She focused on the Chief of Space Fleet Operations as he walked to within four feet of where she stood.

  “Lady,” Kahn acknowledged. “I take it we are your prisoners.”

  Cyle inclined her head. “Yes, Admiral, you are.”

  “And what do you intend to do with us?”

  The Prophetess-Mother's smile was brutal. “We intend to execute you, Admiral.” She removed one hand from her robe and pointed to her left. The women gathered there moved back, fanning out to form a gauntlet at the end of which was a platform. On the top of the platform, there was a scaffold.

  On the scaffold, a noose wrapped around his neck, stood Kamerone Cree, his hands tied behind his back.

  “As you can see,” Cyle said, “your hero has been taken.”

  Even from the distance at which he stood from Cree, Kahn could tell the Reaper was barely alive. There were welts and cuts on his once-handsome face and two Amazeen women were having to hold him erect to keep him from hanging himself.

  Kahn swung his furious stare at the Prophetess-Mother. “Did you have to beat him first?”

  “This was not our doing,” someone said and the women parted as Hael Sejm walked forward. “Onar did that to him.” She grinned at her son. “He allowed Konnor Rhye the pleasure. It will be our pleasure to hang him slowly as he watches his men burn to death before him.”

  Once more the women parted to reveal a round wire cage, the floor of which was covered with dried twigs and branches. A tall woman stood beside the cage's entry, a burning torch in her hand.

  Kahn's eyes flared. “NO!” he bellowed, the thought of being burned alive brought a fear to end all fears. A red -hot fog of murderous rage closed in on Kahn and he leapt toward his mother with every intention of strangling her.

  He went down under the fists of a dozen women before he ever reached her.

  Hael Sejm looked out over the heads of the crowd and watched with satisfaction as the men were first surrounded, then beaten to the ground before being rendered unconscious. A few women were killed, some hurt seriously, but the men had stood no chance against the superior numbers and the savage glee with which the women had attacked them. Before many minutes had passed, all the men, except for Kahn and Cree, were locked into the wire cage. Kahn was dragged away by two muscled Diabolusian warrioresses and carried to the Titaness.

  “Your son will be a very angry man when he comes to, Hael,” the Prophetess-Mother predicted.

  Hael nodded. “True, but he can be controlled.”

  “You have made a deadly enemy of him.”

  Hael shrugged. “It could not be helped.” She looked toward the scaffold, her eyes gleaming.

  “I have not forgotten,” Cyle told her.

  A commotion near the back of the crowd drew the women's attention. A young man was being pulled kicking and cursing toward them.

  “We found him,” the Guardess of the Gate announced.

  “Good,” Hael proclaimed. “Bring him here. I want him to see this.” She looked around her. “Where is Kym?” No one answered. The Chrystallusian woman had not been seen for several hours.

  “It does not matter,” said Hael. “I fear she has turned against us. Let her go her own way. We do not need her.” She lifted her head. “Bring the bastard to me. It is time he atoned for the sin of his existence!”

  ****

  ENSIGN RYLAN Wynth looked down as a request for transport came in on his console. He flicked on the Vid-Com to find a ravaged, bloody face staring back at him.

  “Get me up there!” the man pleaded. “Hurry!”

  Jittery as he already was, Wynth hit the transport button before he realized that the man he was beaming up to the docking station had not been with the original thirty -two that had gone down to Rysalia Prime. By the time the man materialized on the transporter pad, it was too late. Wynth headed toward him, with every intention of killing him. He hadn't counted on the man wanting to kill him.

  A phaser aimed right at Wynth's heart, picked him up and threw him against the far wall where the Keeper Ensign landed with a loud thud. He slid sideways, careening into a jumble of dead bodies and lay still as his murderer ran for one of the runabouts docked at the station. As the engine of the runabout engaged, Wynth pushed himself up from the floor and staggered toward the Vid-Com.

  After trying to raise Admiral Kahn and his men, Wynth did the only thing he could think to do before he died.

  He radioed the Vortex.

  ****

  SHE GRABBED a handful of his thick hair and jerked his head back until the cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief. The rope around his neck dragged painfully across his windpipe and became tighter still.

  “I want you to watch this, Cree,” Hael Sejm snarled. “Open your eyes and watch!” She pulled brutally on his hair, forcing him to pry his eyelids open, and anchoring his head so that he could not turn away from the sight to which she pointed him. When she was certain the Reaper was alert enough to understand what was happening, she looked toward the cage. “Burn them!” Cree was panting for breath, trying to draw air into lungs that were badly bruised and aching from the restriction of the air allowed into them by the tight noose. He was barely conscious, but he heard the bellows of rage from the Reapers, the shrieks of agony from the Shepherd
s, the pleas for mercy from the Keepers, and his eyes shifted wearily to the place were the men with whom he had lived and trained and fought were being burned alive. Just as he had been unable to help his father, he was unable to help these men, some of them his own cousins. He watched helplessly as they scrambled over one another, trying to escape the encroaching flames. He saw fingers curled around the wire mesh of the cage and hands desperately pulled at the obstacle to freedom and life. He caught the first faint smells of crisping flesh and watched as Kullen, and then Coure burst into flames and staggered back.

  “Oh, god,” he whispered, slowly closing his eyes.

  “You have no god, Reaper!” Hael Sejm spit. She flung his head away from her and took great delight in the gasp of pain that came from Cree's bloody lips. She turned and walked for the lever that would release the platform on which the Reaper stood.

  The Amazeen women holding Kamerone Cree stepped back, making sure they were not on that portion of the wooden platform that would drop.

  Cree sagged when the women released their hold on him, but he managed to force his knees to hold him erect to keep from being strangled. He staggered, felt the pull of the noose, and had almost made up his mind to bring his knees up quickly and get it over with. He knew this platform well for he'd been witness to many Tribunal executions. The infernal device was made to drop slowly, the trapdoor descending inch by inch. As the prisoner's feet slipped out from under him, the noose draped around his neck slowly tightening. Far more evil and brutal that the quick -release hanging platforms used on Terra that snapped the neck when activated, this instrument of torture ensured a slow, suffocating death that gave its victim time to know he was being executed. He didn't want to die that way. With one last look at the men who had come to rescue him, wondering if Kahn was one of those being fried inside the cage, he took one last, desperate breath and started to jerk his knees up.

  Hael didn't give him time. She released the lever and his feet slid from under him, down the incline, and he lost the ability to push. He tried levering himself up the slowly lowering platform, but could gain no purchase with his boot heels. The fear of dying in such a gruesome way terrified him, sending a rush of adrenaline through his system. With the adrenaline came a momentary spurt of strength and he used it to break his wrists free of the hemp that bound them behind his back. His hands came up to his throat, clawing at the constriction, and he hooked his fingers under the noose, trying to pull it away from his throat.