by Scott Moon
Kin felt the touch of the Reaper’s mind. He didn’t think. He didn’t move. The moment passed and he released his breath. So long as Kin was awake, the Reaper couldn’t penetrate his mind, but he didn’t take needless chances. Nightmares were fertile ground for the Reapers. Even the greenest recruit understood Reapers fed on fear. Kin thought they needed to taste fear as much as they needed to taste blood.
Their only true weakness was their fixation with the present. In this way, they were like animals with no concern for the past or the future. The difference was Reapers possessed both memory and the imagination necessary to consider the future but could not differentiate between past, present, and future.
Kin tried to explain this to his superiors, but all they were interested in was how he could possibly know such things. He didn’t want to explain.
Kin crawled forward as the Reaper moved toward a part of the stream out of his view. Without warning, the Reaper stopped, lifted its face to the sky, and roared, exposing row upon row of jagged teeth, like a shark with a plaque problem. Blood and fur smeared the yellow film on the teeth. Something had died recently. The Reaper’s gray skin was blotched by irregular black and brown spots.
Kin pulled a small pair of binoculars from his belt and studied the spots more carefully. Spots were excellent identifiers. He frowned as he realized the markings were misshapen and improperly spaced. Something was wrong. It seemed to have been tortured. Kin didn’t want to think about who or what could capture and torture a Reaper, although he had a good idea who would want to. The Fleet Weapons Research and Development Division had long sought to weaponize the deadly race but were never able to secure a live specimen.
The eyes were wrong as well. They should’ve been deep orange or red, but this Reaper had eyes the color of animal urine in a dirty glass. Kin slowly, carefully, and with great deliberation, returned the binoculars to his belt.
What did it mean? Why was this Reaper different?
It took a few steps and roared again, voice clicking and rattling afterward.
Kin, despite his knowledge of Reapers, didn’t understand the random outbursts. He had assumed it was a challenge or a warning to other Reapers, but when he was a captive, he witnessed such behavior without provocation.
The Reaper below looked right and left in rapid succession, jerking his head abruptly one way and then the other. Then it scanned the ridge where Kin remained concealed. Perhaps it had seen him. Kin stared back. When it moved, Kin realized it was injured, presumably from the crash. An injured Reaper was still dangerous. Healing made them hungry.
The Reaper squatted on a rock near the stream, then bit its hand savagely, moaning and whimpering as it shifted its weight side to side. As Kin watched, the Reaper smeared blood over its face, body, and extremities. The blood hardened into a new layer of skin. Then, very abruptly, the Reaper thrust his arm into the water and dragged up a body.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Kin muttered.
The Reaper paused and listened before beginning its meal. Jason Denton was stretched across the rocks — right arm missing, head bashed in. Denton had been an old fur trapper who always got drunk with Kin when he visited. He had been tough, one of the few men on Crashdown worth sparring with. Denton claimed to never have been Fleet, which probably meant he was a deserter. From the condition of his body, the man had put up a fight.
That must be why the Reaper is so angry, Kin thought. Denton had forced the Reaper to kill him rather than torture him.
Reapers weren’t especially attentive to their surroundings while eating, giving Kin the opportunity to move down the mountainside as far as he dared. Just as he crawled a few feet nearer the Reaper, a hopper bird landed in front of his face and squawked, “Kin. Kin Roland. Sexy Kin.”
Kin grabbed the bird, dragging it into his meager hiding place. It was the worst possible time to receive a message from Laura. No one else taught the messenger birds to talk dirty. He untied a small piece of weatherproof paper from the bird’s foreleg, then hurled the bird away. The Reaper saw the movement but only watched the bird as it flew out of the ravine.
Kin, I hope you’re well, but if you’re injured grievously, the Fleet doctors have amazing skill.
The message meant Orlan wasn’t dead, but Kin already understood this from Raien’s briefing. For a moment, he wondered why Laura would connect him with Orlan but immediately realized it was a stupid question. Who else in Crater Town could kill a Fleet trooper?
What are you doing, Laura? Kin thought.
He saw the Reaper climb to the ship. The stupid creature pulled and tugged, grunting and cursing as though he could make it fly again. When the ship plunged into the stream, the Reaper jumped out of the way and stared as though the ship had betrayed some agreement between vessel and master. The ship settled, refusing to move. The Reaper stalked out of sight.
Kin followed at a distance, evaluating each footprint and twisted branch, never moving within two hundred meters of the Reaper. He found a single drop of blood on a leaf and touched it hesitantly. The thick liquid trembled on his hand before absorbing into his skin. Kin held his hand away in disgust.
Droon.
The Reaper’s name was Droon. Kin shouldn’t have touched the blood. Knowing the name was dangerous. The first thing they did when invading nightmares was impress their name into their victim’s mind. This made it easier to come night after night and harvest fear from the depths of unconsciousness. Kin cursed himself for touching the blood. He didn’t want to know the Reaper’s name.
The day grew long. Kin suspected Raien would be looking for him by now, assuming the company hadn’t moved on to Maiden’s Keep. He continued to track the Reaper toward Crater Town. There was a small chance he could be lost, but Kin wasn’t going to wait and see.
Each time Droon changed course, Kin calculated where the terrain would lead him. There were impassable ravines, dangerous rockslides, and powerful rivers that couldn’t be crossed. Even a monster like Droon must yield to the force of nature. He hoped the Reaper was traveling toward Crater Town by coincidence, rather than some instinct.
The course became complicated as Droon navigated around natural obstacles. Kin began to think he might get a break. If Droon continued moving in his current direction, he’d pass through the Valley of Clingers. Of all the predators on Crashdown, the Clingers, huge parasites that latched on to victims, were the absolute worst. Once a Clinger had you, it couldn’t be removed. They adhered to every naked patch of skin and sucked your life out in minutes.
Droon quickened his pace. Kin followed, moving like a hunter. The microorganisms of Hellsbreach were either still with him or had altered his DNA. The effects blessed him and cursed him simultaneously.
There were times he felt he had a third eye. His danger sense became more acute, fear more manageable. His heartbeat acquired an almost melodic rhythm and he heard Reaper voices in his head. Sometimes the words were clear and terrifying. Other times they were the murmur of a crowd, like the voices he heard around him when he had been captive in a dark warren. He drove them back, refusing to consider what hearing them might mean. When he first realized he was infected, back on Hellsbreach, he worried the Reapers could track him because of the contagion, but the opposite was true. His presence seemed to confuse them, as though they didn’t know what he was.
The sight of Droon entering the Valley of Clingers was the best thing that had happened to Kin for a long time. He took a position, watching the entrance, and waited for the tortured wail of the Reaper. There were other ways to leave the valley, but Kin wasn’t worried. Soon the scavengers that followed a Clinger attack would descend from the trees and scurry across the ground on their chitinous legs. He waited an hour. Nothing could survive an hour in the valley, not even a Reaper, yet the scavengers didn’t show.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DROON searched the valley, thinking of home and the way the night always greeted him. He saw the ground move, shadows wrestling with shadows, then realized he was
walking on the bodies of thousands of creatures — flat things crawling awkwardly or rolling into tubes and slithering like snakes.
Turning to look behind him, he realized he had stumbled into a trap. Hungry things surrounded him. He heard the slithering sound of vipers, but that wasn’t what they were.
The ground swelled and lifted, but it wasn’t an earthquake. His sense for earthquakes was sharp. Earthquakes caused animals to panic and he was always drawn to fear. There was only one kind of creature here and he didn’t sense fear but hunger.
Droon snarled at his unseen rivals.
The creatures lifted him several feet in the air before separating. He fell into a pit of teeth. Each attacker had two sides, one armored with thick hide, the other all fangs and soft tissue, like a gaping mouth.
They latched on. He shook them off, briefly experiencing the fear other things felt when he hunted them. The sensation wasn’t as pleasant as he imagined it to be. The fear in others created both physical warmth and mental elation. He assumed experiencing fear would be the same as causing it, but it wasn’t and he didn’t like it.
The creatures didn’t shrink away or flee, which angered him. He could kill many and feed well, but the experience wasn’t satisfying unless his victims trembled and begged. He slashed with his claws. He kicked and punched the slithering, crawling things that attacked him. They drew back briefly and then crashed forward in a powerful wave. Droon tore some to pieces, but there were too many.
The largest, most aggressive monster latched on to the base of his neck, spreading across his shoulders and back. A voice he couldn’t understand whispered in his mind, sounding like teeth grating against bone. He saw pictures and images until he understood the creature, even as it sucked blood through his skin. The teeth dug into his flesh, shredding rather than chewing, causing blood to flow freely. Some of the teeth burrowed into his bones, sucking his marrow.
Droon shrieked.
He turned his mind to the thoughts of the creature and violently dominated them — forcing images of destruction into its imagination, roaring in its mind so it couldn’t think.
Droon is your master now.
We hate Droon.
Droon wondered what the voice meant. Hate? It seemed to have something to do with violence, but also darkness and fear.
We hate the people who call us Clingers. We hate Clavender’s people. We hate Clavender most of all! You hate her. You want to destroy her — rip off her wings, smash her face, turn her inside out.
Droon pulled the Clinger, stretching it away from his body, unable to tear it loose. But he held some of it in his hand. He punched it savagely — again and again.
No. Don’t kill us.
Pictures flowed into Droon’s mind. Winged warriors slaughtered Clingers. Clavender lured others to a dark place. Clingers loved the dark. They followed her. She opened a portal. Light swirled around the Clingers. A vacuum sucked them into a black, starless place.
Kill Clavender. Kill her before she murders us all.
Droon saw images of winged warriors falling under waves of Clingers. Blood sprayed. Men and women screamed. They fought to protect their children. They failed.
Men came. Troopers. Strange troopers like those who enslaved Droon’s kindred during the migration after Hellsbreach. They promised to destroy the winged people. But they disappeared.
The Clinger witnessed Droon’s memory of his home world.
Hellsbreach! We like Hellsbreach.
That is not the name of my home.
Hellsbreach! The Clinger cackled in Droon’s mind.
He grew tired of the voice. Screaming, hissing sounds accompanied many of the mental images. His head hurt. As he pondered the meaning of hate, he began to laugh at the Clinger.
Do you hate dogs?
We hate dogs! Screeeeeeee…
Birds?
We hate birds!
Rocks?
Rocks. Rocks. We hate rocks!
Kin-rol-an-da?
Silence.
Kin-rol-an-da?
A shorter silence. We hate Kin-rol-an-da.
“And you hate Droon?” He wanted to hear the sound of his voice. The Clinger grew bolder the more it chattered in his mind.
Oh yes, we hate Droon very much. But we hate Clavender most of all. Find her. Bring her to the valley.
Several dozen Clingers gathered, then rushed forward.
Droon drove them back, ignoring the pleas of the Clinger attached to his body. It claimed to be the hive mother.
Not me. Don’t kill me! Kill Droon.
The first shot through the air, striking like a snake. As it entered the air, it unrolled its tube form, abandoning the serpent resemblance, and unfurled. It sailed through the air like a net, but was a sheet of death.
Droon slashed, striking the armor side, flinging the creature away without causing damage. He slashed the next to launch itself, catching the soft underside this time.
Screeeeeeeeeee!
Clinger blood smelled like acid.
The third Clinger was already in the air when Droon saw it above him, blocking the stars. He grabbed it, slammed it on the ground. He seized both ends and pulled until it tore apart. As more came at him, Droon slashed, stabbed, bit, and ripped until he learned the best ways to kill them.
He stood to his full height, spreading his arms wide, unhinging his jaw, and showing his teeth as he roared, shaking his face at the Clingers. Venom and the blood of his victims sprayed from his mouth, catching both moonlight and the glow of the distant wormhole. The Clingers retreated.
They won’t go far. They must obey me.
Droon didn’t think they obeyed this thing on his back, but he didn’t argue.
“Can you make them fight Kin-rol-an-da?”
Yes, but we must have Clavender first.
“Cla-ven-da,” Droon growled. He turned away from the swarm lurking in the shadows. Somewhere near the edge of the valley, he heard a pack of dogs hunting. He ran toward the sound.
CHAPTER NINE
KIN began a laborious climb, hoping to reach two narrow passes that provided egress from the hellish place. He found nothing at the ledge of the first pass, but at the second, he found the Reaper eating a pack of wounded dogs. The injured animals howled in pain. Droon seemed to laugh, tearing flesh from one victim after another.
Stretched across the back of the Reaper like a cloak was a Clinger. Sickly pink flesh had darkened to purple, deepening to black where the Reaper’s spots would be.
Kin couldn’t believe it. Clingers descended on their victims in swarms. There wasn’t a way to separate a single Clinger from the others. Only the most deranged person would touch such a vile thing. But Droon wasn’t a person. Droon was a Reaper. Maybe Kin didn’t know as much about them as he thought.
He backed away, watching the shadows for the rest of the Clinger swarm.
Droon focused on his feast and the terror of the injured dogs as he slaughtered them. Kin liked dogs, although he avoided the wild variety. Blood sprayed. Kin clenched the grip of his pistol and remained hidden.
Thoughts of women and children being stolen from their beds and body parts left scattered in the street punished Kin’s heart. Hours ago, he believed the Reaper threat was over, but here it was on the far side of the Valley of Clingers, wearing a Clinger on its back and eating dogs as they wailed.
The Clinger twitched. Kin moved behind a tree and watched, hoping this was the end of Droon. The Clinger twitched again and again until the movement seemed like a heartbeat. It was alive and Droon didn’t seem to mind sharing his blood.
For the next several minutes, Kin calculated what this meant. Clingers were almost impossible to kill because their hide was so tough and pliable that bullets couldn’t penetrate them. Their internal organs — if they had any — couldn’t be targeted. Kin killed one several months ago by pushing it to the bottom of a rain barrel with a pole and drowning it. The Clinger swarm had retreated and never attacked Crater Town again. Somehow, he didn
’t think he could get Droon and the Clinger into a barrel.
Reapers weren’t sophisticated users of tools or technology. They stole what they needed, having only started using weapons during the Hellsbreach Campaign. Now this Reaper had armor, and from the way it ate, an insatiable appetite.
Droon finished, then bounded into the trees. Kin followed, hurrying more than he liked. Rushing after a strange Reaper that had bonded with a deadly alien predator wasn’t his idea of a good time. He’d rather be in the town square listening to boys and girls torture homemade guitars and fiddles. A branch lashed his face as he ran. He ducked after the fact.
The Reaper picked up speed. Kin didn’t know why. He prayed the Reaper wasn’t going into Bloodlust.
The sound of Droon’s rampage outdistanced him. The trail wasn’t difficult to follow. The landscape of Crashdown differed from the blazing desert of Hellsbreach. The Reaper probably didn’t understand the significance of breaking branches and pushing down grass as he moved. Kin didn’t underestimate Reaper cunning, but believed Droon was merely rushing toward something. The creature’s hunger could drive him toward Crater Town or one of the small villages in the area, but having just fed, it was more likely the Reaper sought a mate.
Kin entered a path bordered by tall, narrow trees. Wind blew across the mountainside, rustling branches, masking his sounds but also the sound of his quarry. He slowed his pace. His caution was rewarded when he saw Droon perched on a boulder at the top of the trail, staring at the wormhole that normally didn’t extend this far over the mountains.
Against his better judgment, Kin continued up the trail, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. He slid the sword from his back and held it ready. No plan came to him, but he sensed possibility. The Reaper faced him, but stared over his head.
No man had killed more Reapers than Kin. Some of his victories had been in close quarter combat. If the Clinger weakened Droon even slightly, Kin could deliver one perfect thrust before the fight even began.
Droon snapped his head down and stared directly at Kin. A moment passed — a short moment — before the Reaper sprang to his feet, curling his lips across his horrid teeth. The Clinger twitched and stiffened as the Reaper lunged down the trail in leaps and bounds.