The guide, who was standing nearby, lunged at Kohler and grabbed his collar with one hand, pointed at the temple with the other, speaking rapidly. One of the soldiers pulled him off Kohler and flung him to the ground. The guide continued to plead with Kohler, pointing at the temple, then down then the hill.
Engels motioned for one of his men. He pointed at the guide. “Get him out of here. But watch him.”
*
It was now fully dark. A small fire burned near the temple entrance. Guards were posted, and the men were taking turns eating. Earlier, a guard saw a figure moving through the trees, and they thought it might be Hahn, but again, they found nothing. Another soldier had gone missing, as well. Vogt. Gruber couldn’t remember what he looked like. Krause sent several groups out to find him, but they came back empty-handed.
“He probably got lost and headed back to the village”, Kohler said. He and Engels sat in camp chairs by the fire, sipping kaffee laced with brandy. Gruber had not been asked to join them.
He sat on a fallen log by himself, a hunk of bread in one hand and a tin cup of kaffee in the other. Some dinner, he thought bitterly.
“Jah.” Engels nodded. “I will deal with him when we return to the village.”
A sudden gust of wind flung powered through the trees, shaking branches and tumbling leaves against the trunks.
“We got through!” shouted a voice from the temple entrance. Gruber put his cup down, tossed his bread aside, and headed up the hill. The men looked up as he approached and stepped away from the narrow opening. Krause held out a pocket torch to Gruber, who grabbed it as he stepped up towards the opening they had made. But it was too small. He couldn’t even get in past his shoulders. Cursing, he withdrew and extended one arm into the opening, shining his pocket torch. He then squeezed his head through alongside his outstretched arm, breathing slowly, controlling the claustrophobia.
“Well?” demanded Engels’s muffled voice from behind him.
Gruber swung the torchlight from left to right.
It was a indeed a temple. Intricate friezes and other carvings covered the walls. Words, hard to make out in the poor light. Lachesis Atropos… and Erinyes again. The temple extended farther back, into the actual hillside. It was a cave. It was deeper back there, and his light didn’t show much, so he focused on what he could see. A thick layer of dust covered everything. A stone shrine, really just a raised platform, stood in the center of the main chamber and on the shrine sat a small bundle wrapped in cloth, linen perhaps. Gruber squeezed forward for a better look. He swept the room with his light again. Some shattered pots, an ancient dagger, a broken spinning wheel... but his light went back to the bundle on the shrine. It was about thirty centimeters long. His mind buzzed with excitement. Could this be it?
“Gruber!” Engels was rapidly losing what little patience he had. Gruber slowly pulled himself out of the opening and stepped to the ground. Engels looked frantic. “So what is your impression? Is this the correct location?”
Gruber nodded. “I think this is it. The writing indicates that this is a temple dedicated to the Morirai.” He paused, still digesting what he had seen. “And there’s a…” He held his hands out to demonstrate the size. “There’s a wrapped object on a shrine. It could be the shears. But I don’t know who can fit through that opening.”
Engels reached out an arm and gestured. Kohler, shirtless and barefoot, stepped forward.
“Private Kohler has already volunteered to enter the temple and see what can be found.”
“I will do my duty for my country and my Fuhrer.” Kohler stood at attention, though he wobbled a bit. His eyes were a little glassy from the brandy. He climbed up to the opening, gauged it, and slowly slithered inside. They heard him grunting, his feet disappeared and then he cried, “I’m in!”
Engels clambered up and stuck his head into the opening. “Do you see the shears? Bring them to me!”
Engels leaned forward, grunting,his feet kicking in the air, then pulled back. He was holding the small bundle close to his chest. Krause helped him step down from the rocks.
Engles knelt and unwrapped the bundle. The linen wrapping was worn and thin, and the edges unraveled as he touched it. The wind picked up again, forcing Engels to hold the cloth down as he uncovered the shears which were amazingly, still bright and metallic. They were fashioned from a single solid piece of metal bent into a narrow U-shape. The blades at the opposite end of the U, so when it was squeezed, the blades would cut. Intricate scrollwork was carved into the metal; Greek characters and figures. This was a find of tremendous import. Gruber hunkered down beside Engels.
“May I see them, Sturmbannfuhrer?” He held out a hand, but Engels slapped it away.
“Nein!” he snapped, rising. “This belongs to the Fuhrer now. I will deliver them personally.” He looked around at the makeshift camp. It had grown much darker now, and the temple was just a dark shape against a darker background. The sparse moonlight cast a faint blue glow on the clearing and the men.
“Sergeant Krause!” Krause hurried over.
“Yes, Sturmbannfuhrer?”
“Can you lead us back to the village tonight? Without the guide?”
Krause hesitated. He looked at his men, then back at Engels. “It will be difficult in the dark, sir, but we can do it if we follow the path. We just need to pack up. And some of the men haven’t eaten yet.”
Engels nodded. “Thirty minutes.” He looked over at the soldier standing beside the village guide. He pointed at the guide, who sat on the ground, head down. “Kill him.” A shot rang out, and the man collapsed in a heap.
Kohler, still shirtless, approached Engels. “May I see it, sir?” Engels hesitated, but held out the cloth bundle to Kohler, who slowly unwrapped it without removing it from Engel’s grasp. He gazed down at the shears then up at Gruber. “What do the stories say?” he demanded. “What powers do these have?”
Gruber shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this by a private, but he could say nothing in front of Engels. “The few stories I know state that whoever controls the shears cannot die. That by possessing them, you effectively stop Atropos from ‘cutting your thread’.”
Engels quickly rewrapped the shears.
“Get dressed, Wilhelm, we are leaving shortly.” Engels stood back and shouted. “Bring only what you need! We are returning to the village tonight!”
Kohler hastened to obey, but froze as a shout rang out.
“There’s someone there!” One of the men cried.
“Over here!” shouted another, from the opposite side of the camp.
The soldiers brought their guns up and assumed defensive positions, all the while staring out into the darkness.
“Hahn?” Someone hissed. “Is that you?”
Gruber unholstered his sidearm. He could see nothing beyond the trunks of trees closest to the fire.
“Is it the resistance? What did you see?” demanded Engels from somewhere behind him.
Sauer replied, “I’m not sure, sturmbannfuhrer. It looked like someone running, then they disappeared behind —.”
He was cut off by a shrill scream punctuated by a rifle shot. The men froze.
“Who was that?” shouted Krause. “Who fired?”
No answer. The men listened.
A round object landed at their feet and bounced once before rolling to a stop. At first Gruber though it was a rock, but as it reached the light, he realized, to his horror, that it was a human head. The stump of the neck was ragged and torn and still bleeding. The mouth opened and closed once. Gruber looked away as the soldiers sprang into action. Krause barked out orders. Dim moonlight filtered through the clouds and trees, casting menacing shadows.
More shooting. Gruber saw the flash of a rifle muzzle nearby and instinctively ducked. He squatted and made his way to the trunk of a large tree and stayed down. No sense being accidentally shot. He could hear Engels and Kohler whispering nearby.
Shouting. More gunfire.
Then a cry for help which was abruptly cut off.
Gruber watched as a soldier on the other side of the clearing sprinted, dodging between trees and simply vanished. A flash of white and he was gone.
One of the men, Saur, approached, body low, eyes focused on the treetops.
“There!” he cried, and fired up into the trees. Gruber watched in horror as a white blur swooped down and yanked Saur up into the dark. His rifle clattered to the ground where he had been standing. His screams echoed through the clearing.
All eyes looked up, but the darkness was immense. It was impossible to tell where the trees ended and the night began. Saur’s screams became sobs, pleadings, only broken by wet crunching and snapping. Gruber was reminded of the sound made when a leg is twisted off a roast pig.
Wetness on his face. Rain? But it was warm realization hit as a leg came tumbling down from the trees. It’s still wearing a boot, he thought crazily. Engels let out a high pitched shriek and pointed his pistol at the sky.
“What is it?” he screamed. “Who is out there?” A soft wet thud as an arm landed beside him. Blood spattered his boots.
More screaming and gunfire. A pale figure zipped between trees, pausing just long enough for Gruber to see it was a woman. An old woman. No, A young woman. It was impossible to tell. She was bareheaded, the tendrils of her hair flowing in the windless night, wearing only a white shroud, torn and stained. Her red eyes blazed. She leapt away. Gunfire from the left, more screaming.
“Did you see that?” Engels gasped. “What was she? Who was she?”
“They. Not ‘she’.” whispered Gruber, more to himself. “The Erinyes.”
“Give me that!” Kohler’s voice was shrill. He and Engels were fighting over something. They struggled and swore.
“Nein! It belongs to the Fuhrer!” The two men, both pulling at the small bundle, stumbled into the clearing. Kohler twisted his body, yanking the wrapped shears out of Engels’s hands. Kohler fell to the ground and scrambled to his feet. More screaming and gunshots in the distance.
“Now I cannot die! Isn’t that right?” Kohler looked at Gruber, his eyes wild.” I cannot die if I have these?”
Gruber’s mouth opened but he said nothing. None of this made any sense. I shouldn’t be here.
“Wilhelm, give me the shears.” Gruber had his pistol out, pointed directly at Kohler’s chest. Kohler’s shirt was on, but unbuttoned. He was holding the bundle. He looked at the gun, then at Engels. He shook his head and turned.
“I’m going back to the village. I will leave the shears there. When I’m away from this.” He jerked his head to gesture around him.
He headed down the hillside. Engels stepped forward and shot him in the back. Kohler stumbled, but kept walking. Engels fired again. Kohler wobbled a bit, then his legs just gave out. He struggled to his feet as Engels approached. He twisted around. Blood trickled from his mouth. He slowly pointed a shaky finger at Engels.
“I… cannot die…” He started back down the hill. Engels strode forward, walked directly behind Kohler, and shot him in the back of the head. Kohler’s neck jerked forward and bits of bone and brain shot out in front of him. He dropped to his knees again, but did not fall. He did, however, drop the bundle containing the shears. It fell from his hands and landed at his feet. As he reached out for it, Engels fired again, and again, and again. Eventually Kohler stopped moving.
Gruber silently watched the scene unfold. He remained silent as a woman wearing a white shroud weaved through the trees towards Engels.
“I am sorry, Wilhelm,” Engels muttered as he ejected the magazine from his pistol and shoved another one in. He stepped over Kohler’s body and reached for the shears. The woman in white moved behind him; Engels sensed her and turned. She whipped a taloned hand across his face and Engels cried out and stumbled backward. Peering from behind a tree, Gruber saw that Engels’s face was gone; only gleaming, red-streaked bone remained. His eyes, unnaturally large in his fleshless skull, moved back and forth. The raw muscles in his jaws twitched and spasmed. The woman held up her hand. A bloody strip of flesh dangled from her long fingers. Engels dropped his gun and moaned. Another woman leapt lightly from the trees behind Engels. As she moved toward him, Gruber closed his eyes and turned away. Gurgling and snapping sounds, and then silence.
More shouting in the distance. Gruber opened his eyes, terrified of opening his eyes to see the women standing over him. But they were gone. Engels, or what was left of him, lay like a pile of wet rags, all red and black. And several feet away… the shears. Gruber scrambled to his feet and scooped them up. He tucked them into a pocket inside his coat. He looked around and headed down the hillside. Was he on the path? It was too dark to tell. But as long as he was moving away from the temple. He heard footsteps nearby and ducked against a tree, breathing hard.
He felt for the bundle in his coat. Still there. He looked around warily. They could be anywhere. He had never seen anything move as fast as they did. And where is the gottverdammt path? More footsteps, then Krause, his gun held high, appeared from the brush. Gruber let out a breath. Krause could help him. Krause was a good soldier.
“Herr Major—” Krause began. A shape, all white and gray, swept by him. Blood, turned purple in the blue moonlight, splashed the nearby trees. The submachine gun rattled in Krause’s dead hands and his body shook and twitched before collapsing. Gruber noted, with a horror so deep it was almost numbing, that Krause’s head was gone. His legs felt heavy, as if they had fallen asleep. He looked down and saw that his trousers were full of holes. Then he saw the blood and the pain hit. Gruber’s legs folded beneath him as he realized that Krause had shot his legs. Both of them. He tried to stand and grunted as a white hot lance spiked through his knee. He leaned over and vomited.
His legs were useless. He felt the strength seeping from the wounds with every pulse of his panicky heart. At this rate, a logical part of him thought, he would bleed to death in minutes. He had no medical training, all the others were dead, or gone. Yet—he reached in his coat and found the shears. He pulled them out. Carefully, so as to move as little as possible, he set the linen bundle on the ground in front of him. He opened the wrappings and stared at the shears. So bright. So sharp, after all these years. He picked them up and paused. Turned his head from side to side.
The Erinyes were there. One on either side of him, and the other behind. It was difficult for him to turn his body, so he just looked at the shears, thinking. Was it true? As long as he held them, he couldn’t die? But with his damaged legs, there was no way he could return to the village. He rotated to his left and held out the shears as a kind of talisman or an offering. He wasn’t sure which.
“Please,” he begged. “Please.”
The three Sisters stood over him, their red, unblinking gaze never wavering. Their tattered gowns were soiled with mud and blood stains. Their taloned hands clenched and unclenched. Their black mouths gaped. But they didn’t attack. They were patient. They could wait.
Captain Heinrich Gruber, officer of the German Wehrmacht, thought about his wife and infant son, whom he would never see. He lowered his head and placed the shears on the ground.
*
The sun broke through the clouds, brightening the clearing in the forest. Birds twittered in the trees. A rabbit hopped timidly up to a black boot on the ground, sniffed it, and moved on. Footsteps and voices approached, and the rabbit fled.
Mayor Stravos and about a dozen of the village men entered the clearing, stopped and silently gazed around at the carnage; the torn bodies and limbs and blood. Stavros spoke rapidly, quietly. Three of the men went around gathering up the corpses and body parts they could reach; another collected wood and built a large fire. The rest began the heavy work of sealing up the entrance to the temple.
A shout as a searcher discovered the body of the guide. The men collected around him, debating. At last a consensus was reached and a litter was built, his body placed upon it. The other bodies were thrown on the fire. Weap
ons and ammunition were set aside.
Eventually, near dusk, the men gathered at the remains of the fire and threw dirt on it until it was extinguished. The ashes and bones were kicked and scattered. The weapons were passed out. Two men carried the litter bearing the body of the guide, and they started down the hill. As the men made their way to the path, a heavy foot came down on a weathered photograph, crushing it into the mud and leaves. It was a photograph of a woman, smiling as she held her infant son. The men continued on, back to their village, back to their lives.
12
justice
jennifer st. giles
Upright: Equity, rightness, probity, executive
Reversed: Law in all departments, bigotry, bias, excessive severity
No more tears now, I will think upon revenge.
Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots 1542-87
Chapter One
Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday May 25th
The irony. Illegal Justice. Were the pain not so deep, there’d be some amusement in that immoral act. The blood of the murdered covered the hands of the law just as thickly as the killer’s.
One of the guilty would die tonight. The others would follow.
Entry into the guarded lakeside estate proved easy. The canoe made no noise amid the storm. The man’s sins left him vulnerable. The alarm. The layout. His being alone. All that had been needed to see justice done, had been within reach.
The knife across his throat had been too swift a death. But dealing the Justice Card and posting the video had held some satisfaction.
More would come. By morning, too late to escape fate, Justice would be served again.
Heaven wept. At least True Crime Writer, Eva St. Claire told herself that every time another deluge hit the state causing record flooding for the past two weeks. The heavy rains were tears for the young girls who’d fallen victim to Mason Smith and his partner.
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 25