Reaper (The Dreadhunt Trilogy Book 2)

by Ross Turner

Chapter Sixteen

  The first two hangings were swift and accompanied by very little ceremony. They were witches, Tyran claimed, naturally, but they were not the main event. They were merely an appetiser, helping to prepare his audience for what was to follow.

  Marcii looked in horror upon the face of Tyran’s third victim that day, with the first two still swinging and twitching in the background behind him.

  “My people! This man!” Tyran roared, gloating evident in his voice. “This man is not a witch!”

  Murmurs amongst the crowds stirred for a moment, but Tyran’s raised hand silenced them immediately.

  “His crime is much worse!” Tyran went on. “He is one of our own! A priest no less!”

  His voice rose and fell dramatically, and it was working. His audience was hooked, completely and utterly, on his every breath.

  They had never seen a man executed before.

  Gold’s murder didn’t really count.

  This promised to be a much greater spectacle.

  “He is a priest! And he has betrayed us! Ladies and gentleman, I give you, Alexander Freeman!”

  Instantly the cries for blood began and it was all Tyran’s enforcers could do to hold back the surging masses and stop them from killing Alexander themselves.

  Marcii could only look on in horror.

  She had almost hoped that Alexander had been killed by Tyran’s enforcers’ beatings, when her family had been burned alive.

  At least that would have saved him from a public execution.

  It had not been the case though, she now realised.

  Unfortunately, Marcii knew what was coming next.

  But perhaps even more hauntingly, she knew why.

  This was all her fault.

  Even amidst the deafening, hollow cries of his people, Tyran did not relent. He only riled them further.

  Somehow his booming voice carried above the lot of them, silencing their cries and feeding their hunger.

  “This priest! Supposedly one of our own! Helped the witch Marcii Dougherty to escape!!”

  And with those words the square erupted into chaos. Not even Tyran’s booming voice could overpower the uproar that followed that statement.

  For once he was forced to wait for the bitter cries to settle.

  He waited a long time, Marcii guessed, but she wasn’t really paying all that much attention to what Tyran was saying.

  She paced over to Alexander and knelt slowly down beside him.

  He was already injured and bleeding and his hands were bound behind his back with coarse rope. Clearly Tyran’s enforcers were not softening their approach; if anything they was getting harsher.

  Perhaps the power was going to their heads too.

  But what could Marcii do to stop them?

  What could anybody do?

  Tyran’s speech went on and his people rallied with him and all the while Marcii sat mournfully with Alexander, though he had no way of knowing she was there.

  Marcii didn’t even know if she was really there.

  This couldn’t have been a dream, surely.

  But then, she had no idea what else it could be.

  She didn’t even know if it was real.

  Suddenly three of Tyran’s enforcers surged forward. They seized Alexander by the scruff of his robe and dragged him across to the hanging platform.

  “NO!!” Marcii shrieked, but, as ever, her screams went unheard.

  She tried to pull them off him but her hands slipped straight through them.

  There was nothing she could do but watch on in horror.

  The skies above that only moments ago had been clear, clouded over and darkened menacingly, filling the air with black trepidation.

  Marcii’s body trembled and shook violently and she cried out over and over again, desperate to do something, anything.

  But even still, it was no use.

  She looked upon Tyran and his people and his enforcers, shuddering at the sight of the evil he was spreading. She went cold at the thought of the change he had brought here with him.

  He had turned Marcii’s townsfolk against her. Essentially, whether he cared or not, he had laid waste to everyone she had ever known.

  Somewhere amidst the crowd, as her eyes swept all around, Marcii saw Midnight again too. Still the old man’s black eyes looked heavy and guilt ridden as he watched the executions, though she could not fathom why such things wracked him so.

  And then, from seemingly nowhere, right at the front of the screaming, shouting throngs that so eagerly awaited Alexander’s death, Vixen appeared.

  Marcii caught her gaze for a mere moment and the young orphan in turn caught hers.

  She could see her.

  Marcii’s heart leapt into her mouth.

  How was that possible?

  But before Marcii could even draw breath to speak, Vixen disappeared into the masses.

  Immediately, not wasting a single second, Marcii took up pursuit.

  She needed answers.

  She had to know what Vixen knew, for clearly it was more than she’d ever let on.

  How had the girl been able to see her, when nobody else could?

  Marcii raced through the crowds, not bothering to duck or weave in the way Vixen had to. So, by the time the young orphan had burst from the others side, Marcii had very nearly caught up with her.

  Marcii heard the hanging platform creak and drop and the crowds cheered on in exultation. She ignored the sound and blocked out the thought. She hadn’t wanted to see it anyway.

  She’d seen too many executions already for one lifetime.

  Chasing after Vixen still, catching her just before the orphan made it into the first alleyway, Marcii grabbed the young girl by the arm.

  In a single movement she spun the child round to face her, clasped her shoulders with her hands and looked her dead in the eye.

  Marcii’s luminous yellow eyes bore into the tawny brown of Vixen’s gaze for a moment, before, in an instant, everything went black again.

  When she awoke, her head spinning and her stomach churning, Marcii found herself on the freezing cold floor of the bare forest, numb through to the bone.

  Reaper immediately appeared, having only just moments ago emerged from the concealment of the cave entrance. He had heard Marcii’s furious cries of anguish and denial and rushed to her aid.

  His eyes were filled with worry and concern and he straightaway scooped Marcii up into his warm arms, radiating heat that began instantly to thaw her icy body.

  She cried for a minute, clutching at Reaper’s thick, shaggy fur like her life depended on it.

  But her tears did not last long, for they were replaced by a numbness that swelled ceaselessly inside of her, mixed with deep, endless confusion.

  “Was it real?” She asked Reaper, looking up through her watery eyes. “Is he dead?”

  The look she received however was not one filled with answers, but rather one that presented only more questions. The enormous, gentle creature that was Reaper did not know what had happened, and so he couldn’t give Marcii the words she desired.

  The answers she so sorely needed.

  The clouds above continued to roll in endlessly, filling the sky from corner to corner with a towering blanket of stormy rainclouds, each one brimming and ready to burst. There came next the ominous roll of thunder. It seemed not to begin in any one place, as lightning shattered across the entire sky like a warning beacon, crying out at the sight below.

  And my, what a storm it promised to be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Many things had changed in Newmarket, as Marcii had witnessed first-hand.

  From the people to the wares, it was no longer filled merely with bustle of commerce, but there was instead an altogether new business that seemed to be taking precedence.

  It had become the sole focus of so many of Newmarket’s inhabitants that it was as if they were all beginning to think with one mind, and that mind didn’t belong to them.

&nbs
p; Almost all thought rested exclusively upon the hunt.

  It was as if it consumed them.

  The market town had become a garrison and in every home the people were mobilising, arming and readying themselves for combat.

  Families acquired weapons and armour from the many sellers that Tyran paraded through the town, calling on his contacts from far and wide down in the south.

  He made a small fortune on the sales of their wares, naturally, taking a generous cut of all their profits.

  It was as if they were preparing for war.

  In fact, it seemed the war had already begun.

  The demand for steel that Tyran had created trumped all other trade that came through Newmarket. When it arrived, swift and steady, it took over completely. Merchants appeared in droves at Tyran’s command, bringing all of their wares with them from far and wide.

  So, when the crowds surged forward to revel in the executions, the steel merchants found themselves, delightedly, amidst a vast throng of hunters all baying for blood.

  Kaylm was thrown this way and that as the crowds barged forwards, crushed between them as Marcii had once been.

  Nonetheless, he was kept most firmly planted between his father and his older brother, for though he had told them he would join the hunt, they were certainly not about to lengthen his leash.

  His face was black and blue and his whole body hurt from the beating he had taken that morning. His ribs heaved painfully with every breath and he struggled to see through his swollen eyes.

  That was just as well though, for the dreaded executions were swift to follow, and Kaylm had no desire whatsoever to watch them. He had no choice but to listen to Tyran’s speech however, so it came as no surprise when the crowds cheered at the sight of Alexander Freeman’s death.

  Tyran’s speech had his people riled and raring for battle, but it didn’t stop with Alexander’s hanging and his cruel words continued on relentlessly.

  “This demon!” He pressed on, roaring his words even as Alexander’s feet still twitched and jerked. “Whatever foul beast it might be! We cannot let it take any more innocent lives!”

  The crowds cheered and roared, holding their weapons in the air.

  Tyran gestured exuberantly to Alexander’s limp, dangling body.

  “We may punish those who serve it!” He went on. “But we will never be safe until we have slayed the monster itself!” His voice rose to a bellowing crescendo and his people’s blind adoration followed suit.

  As if on command, Tyran’s enforcers began handing out weapons to anybody who did not yet already have one, children included, passing them swords and axes and clubs of all shapes and sizes.

  Then, from somewhere amidst the crowd, the man with the scar that ran around his right eye appeared at Tyran’s side. He raised his hands eagerly, encouraging the hordes into yet an even greater frenzy.

  Kaylm looked on in disgust.

  He didn’t even know the man’s name, but he recognised him as the one who had reported back to Tyran after they’d first found the demon, the night Marcii had fled.

  Kaylm’s heart sank at the mere thought.

  “HAIL LORD TYRAN!” The man with the scar bellowed, evermore exulting their cruel leader and the crowds screamed their approval.

  Kaylm felt physically sick.

  He couldn’t stand much more of this.

  And yet, inevitably, it went on.

  Regaling the masses with his undoubtedly wildly embellished escapades, since leading Tyran’s men to come face to face with Reaper in the forest the man with the scar had risen to become Tyran’s right hand man.

  It was he who was to lead their party in the hunt for Reaper.

  He vowed to them there and then that together they would vanquish the demon protecting the witch.

  They would bring them both to justice.

  There was a serious ring of finality to his words, Kaylm thought. The word justice sounded very much like a quick beheading. He doubted they would even bother to bring her back to Newmarket; not all of her at least.

  They might bring her head.

  “The witch has been using her evil powers to hide from us!” Tyran claimed then, speaking as if he had been out at night amongst the hunting parties.

  He hadn’t, of course.

  A king does not leave his castle when there is no need.

  “But she cannot hide with that foul beast forever!” He went on and the crowds roared their agreement.

  Surrounding him so that he could not escape, Kaylm’s family cheered and screamed with bloodthirsty approval, matched only by the cries of those all around them.

  “Tonight we will finish this!” Tyran commanded. “Tonight we will find the demon! We will find the witch! And we will strike them down!”

  He rallied the people ready for battle and the bloodlust in their eyes and in their screams chilled Kaylm to his very core.

  “If we don’t, more evil spirits will arise! If we don’t stop her, the witch Marcii Dougherty will continue to haunt us! And we will be the next ones to suffer the same fate as Ravenhead!”

  His crowd’s cries turned to boos and hisses of defiance at the mention of the abandoned town.

  “Newmarket will become a desolate, doomed, plagued wasteland!” Tyran pressed on.

  Kaylm disagreed in solitary silence, staring on at the man before them with cold, dead eyes.

  He refused to believe it.

  Ravenhead was not as he spoke of it.

  It was a place for new beginnings.

  A place where he and Marcii could start over.

  Ravenhead was his only hope.

  But his unvoiced dreams were overshadowed by the roaring chant that echoed all around him, reverberating deafeningly in his ears.

  No longer did the people of Newmarket quest solely for Marcii’s blood, but they wanted Reaper’s too.

  They needed it, and their murderous words said just as much.

  “HUNT THE BEAST!! HUNT THE BEAST!!” They cried. “KILL REAPER!! KILL REAPER!!”

  The heavens swelled and clouds crowded above, darkening threateningly, but that only set the tone for their march evermore suitably.

  The man with the scar led Tyran’s troops to battle once more, only this time with thousands rather than hundreds at his back.

  Their chants continued as darkness began to descend slowly upon the day, shrouding and masking it in shadow.

  “HUNT THE BEAST!! KILL REAPER!!”

  The old man Midnight watched the procession with eyes as coal black as ever. The look he wore was one that fitted him so perfectly, for he had worn it every night now for more decades than he cared to remember.

  The guilt painted across his bearded face was always the same, except that of late he had donned it much more often than just when he stared up at the moon.

  He leaned heavily on his cane and from between the deep lines all across his face his bottomless black eyes followed the people of Newmarket as they made for the hunt. He watched them go without a sound, though his heart was heavy with dread.

  Dragging his scuffed leather shoes as if they weighed a tonne, the deaf, dumb old man turned his back on their parade and left them to it.

  He wanted no further part in this.

  He felt guilty enough as it was.

  Marching through the narrow streets in vast columns, Tyran’s troops set immediately to work, holding their torches and their weapons high, drawing strength and bravery from their numbers.

  The man with the scar led them out into the wilderness and patrolled his army through the vast hills and valleys and across the great plains. They swept through every forest and every gulley that they came across, heading always in the direction that he had seen the demon, on the night the witch had fled.

  It was a thankless task, but he chose to focus their search right at the very spot where Reaper had first revealed himself amidst the trees.

  He fanned his troops out in an orderly rabble that was nothing short of a shambles. But, with n
umbers on their side, they swept through the trees quickly and moved onto the next with great speed.

  They might have been looking for a needle in a haystack, but that haystack was growing ever smaller.

  Eventually, after several more hours, unable to hold back any longer, the heavens opened and the rains came, triggered by something that none of them understood.

  It did not deter them however and the Dreadhunt went on long into the night.

  They would not stop until they found the demon.

  They would not rest until it was slain and the witch Marcii lay dead by its side.

  The people had been poisoned with bitter hatred that wasn’t even their own.

  And yet the night was still fresh: young as new dawn.

  There was still time for worlds to change, if that was to be their fate.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The thunderstorm raged on, ceasing not even slightly as lighting bolted and clapped across the black, veiled sky.

  Echoing endlessly through Reaper’s cave and bouncing off the walls in every direction, the sound battered Marcii’s ears like a terrifying, godly drumbeat. She shuddered and flinched from the sound as if it would harm her.

  Reaper sat opposite her in the darkness, unmoving and silent, seemingly unaffected by the relentless noise all around.

  Marcii knew however that something was bothering him.

  Though he had not said so, Marcii could tell that he had sensed something was dreadfully wrong. He had told her that they would not hunt that night and that they must not light a fire, for it would be too bright amidst the dark of the storm.

  Reaper had never worried so much about that before, Marcii thought.

  But then, on that night, even she could tell that something was very different.

  Marcii climbed to her feet and crept through the darkness over towards Reaper. Had she not spent the many weeks of late hunting with him at night she would never have been able to even see him in the dark of the cave. But over time her eyes had adjusted to the blackness and become more accustomed to its ways.

  They were still not as good as Reaper’s she imagined, and undoubtedly they never would be.