BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (35 page)

Bronwyn could not recall anyone in Florida to whom she’d given her private number.

“Did she give a name?” Brian asked, as if sensing Bronwyn’s wariness.

“May I ask your name?” Sage asked into the phone. “Lauren Fowler?”

Bronwyn frowned. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Ask her to leave a message,” Brian ordered.

Sage’s forehead crinkled. “Well, I don’t know,” he said into the receiver. “That seems—”

The hairs on Bronwyn’s arms stood up. “What did she say?”

Sage scrunched his shoulders. “She said to tell you she has a Nightwind of her own and knows what you’re going through.”

Bronwyn shot up from the sofa and yanked the phone out of Sage’s hand. “Who are you?”

As the woman spoke, Bronwyn felt various emotions, running the gamut from unrestrained fury, to fear, to absolute evil.

“I see,” Bronwyn said when the woman finished. “May I ask how you got my name?”

The answer increased Bronwyn’s anger.

“I appreciate your candor, Ms. Fowler, and no, I’m not angry at you. I’m grateful you called. I’m sure there are quite a few such women. You certainly are doing them a favor and helping to set my situation to rights proves your good intentions. If you’ll express mail the instructions for what I need to do, I will take it from there.” Bronwyn listened then shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I appreciate your offer, but I don’t want to put you to the trouble. If I run into problems, I’ll let you know. Yes, thank you. I will be in your debt forever.”

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When Bronwyn hung up the phone, she turned her narrowed eyes to Brian. “I need you to go with me to Des Moines.”

“Make I ask why?” Brian asked.

“There are things I need to buy.”

207

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Ski’Ah stared down into the Extended Sleep Unit and knew a moment’s supreme satisfaction. The Reaper was deeply under the influence of the cinera she had administered to him on Terra. Every hour, a light dose of the drug was introduced into his system by the syringe she had placed into the carotid artery of his neck, thus keeping him under the drug’s control.

“We are approaching Montyne Vex, Lady Ski’Ah,” the ship’s cybot informed her.

“Give me the particulars for that planetoid.”

“Montyne Vex,” the cybot responded, “is a harsh environment of jagged rock formations, blowing sand and a vast cave system running throughout the steep plateaus. There are underground wells, but no surface water. Devoid of humanoid inhabitation the animal life consists of—”

“I care not about the life there! Tell me what purpose it holds. Is it a refueling station?”

“No, milady. At one time, it was a penal colony held by the Daughters of the Multitude. The prisoners were—”

“Reapers.” Ski’Ah smiled.

“Aye, and a depository for Reaper remains.”

Ski’Ah braced her hand on the E.S.U. “What are the odds of a passing ship stopping there within the next few days?”

The cybot calculated. “One in two thousand, milady.”

“And are there containment cells strong enough to hold this one?”

“There is one cell, milady. The door is nine inches in depth and reinforced with titanium locks that are impenetrable except by laser blasts.”

“But will it hold him?”

“The cell was not meant to hold the Reaper for any length of time, lady. Data suggests the manacles would not hold should he go into full Transition.”

“Then what good are they?” Ski’Ah hissed.

“Reapers were kept under the influence of light doses of cinera while they were being disciplined and—”

“You mean tortured,” Ski’Ah breathed, caressing the top of the E.S.U. as though it was a living lover.

The cybot sighed audibly. “If you prefer that terminology.”

“After the torture?” she asked, circling the E.S.U. slowly, never taking her eyes from Cree.

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“They were beheaded with a Dóigra and their bodies incinerated in the Cave of Fire.”

“Ah,” Ski’Ah sighed, imaging such a fate for the Reaper in her grasp.

“Do you require any other information regarding the planetoid, milady?”

“Take a reading and tell me how long ago humanoids have been within the Punishment Circle.”

“Four cycles, Lady Ski’Ah,” the artificial intelligence unit answered. “Data reports a Serenian L.R.C. stopped to repair a hull breach. “The crew remained on Montyne Vex for less than a rising. They did not venture into the cave system. Data reports no humanoids have gained access to the Ritual Chamber or those chambers beyond for nine cycles.”

“Are there any ships in the quadrant nearby?” she asked, formulating a plan.

“None registering, lady.”

“So passersby are not something I need worry about.”

“It would appear not.”

Ski’Ah narrowed her eyes. “When was the last Reaper slain on the Vex?”

It took a bit longer for the cybot to download that information from the ship’s computer. “Five point six megacycles.”

“Five and a half Terran centuries.” Ski’Ah’s gaze held on the Reaper’s handsome face. “Could this one be the last of his kind?”

“There is a ninety-nine-percent chance he is.”

Ski’Ah nibbled on her thumbnail as she stared into the unconscious face of her captive. She knew if she returned him to Amazeen, the Council of Elders would declare him the possession of the Terran female and never allow the execution that was due him. Neither would they administer the punishments necessary to appease the death of her ancestor. She also knew there would be Amazeens who would wish to breed by him, who would willingly take his vile flesh to themselves to produce more Reaper offspring in the hopes of discovering a way to harness the lethal power.

“That I will not allow,” Ski’Ah said through clenched teeth. “Never again will a Reaper be allowed to harm an Amazeen warrioress!”

Closing her eyes and ears to her present surroundings, she went back in her mind to the Obelisk in the Shadowlands where she had conferred with her long-dead ancestors during her initiation rite into the Sisterhood. She heard again her namesake’s entreaty to be avenged, saw again the anguished look on the dead one’s face, felt the anger that had long denied the ancient Amazeen warrioress peace in the Afterworld.

“Find him, Little Ski’Ah,” the older Ski’Ah had demanded. “Find him and punish him so I will know justice has been served for what he did to me!”

Now, staring into Cree’s handsome face, Ski’Ah knew a moment of intense spite.

She longed to see that handsome face ravaged, the flesh sloughing off in long, 209

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blackened strips. She longed to inhale the fragrance of his burning flesh and to revel in the howls of his agony as flames devoured his filthy body.

“You must atone for your sins,” she snarled, digging her nails into her palms. “If I return you to Amazeen, you will never know the punishments you deserve. You might even find a way to escape and return to your mate.”

“Montyne Vex ahead, lady,” the cybot said.

Ski‘Ah weighed the chances of ever having a Sister find out about the Reaper’s existence. If things went as she planned, no Sister would. Viraidan Cree would join his unholy ancestors in the Cave of Fire and no one would be any the wiser. For a moment longer, she went over the possibility of having her plans discovered, disregarded the slim chance then ordered the cybot to put down on the planetoid.

* * * * *

The sky over Montyne Vex was a deep gray, looking bruised and battered by the fierce winds that howled across the steppes. As the cybot trudged along with the unconscious Reaper slung over its mechanical shoulder, Ski’Ah dragged her feet through the thick chiaroscuro sand. Keeping the hood of her red cape pulled over her nose and mouth so she would not breathe in the swirling dust, she shivered. The wind was ice-cold. Low banks of fog obscured the regions to the south. To the north, snow clouds were gathering. She was amazed to hear thunder in the distance and see the occasional flash of lightning stitching through the dark clouds.

“How much farther?” she asked.

The cybot turned to give her its respectful attention. “Up the next steppe, Lady Ski’Ah. It is to that plateau to which we travel.”

Ski’Ah squinted against the intruding dust and looked at the vast rock formation that jutted overhead. The jagged cliffs of the plateau were forbidding. A fall from the plateau would result in being impaled by sharp cone-like protrusions rising from the base.

“A most inhospitable climate is Montyne Vex,” the cybot commented.

Ski’Ah clutched the cape tighter at her throat, wishing she had thought to wear gloves, for the pelting sands scoured her fingers raw. Luckily, she had taken along her goggles or she would have been blinded by now.

As the cybot began its climb up the plateau, Ski’Ah held back. She had no desire to have a blast of wind catch her cape, sail her off the flat surface and drop her onto the deadly spires at the plateau’s base.

“When you have him manacled,” she called, “come back for me!”

“As you wish, lady.” The cybot easily climbed the plateau and disappeared into the dark maw of a cave.

By the time the cybot returned, Ski’Ah was shivering violently from the cold, her lips trembling, her hands frigid claws that seemed frozen to the fabric of her cape.

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“W-what took you so l-long?”

“I had to inject the Reaper,” the cybot replied. “He was waking.”

A tremor that had nothing to do with the intense cold washed over Ski’Ah. The thought of the Reaper escaping, taking out his vengeance upon her, did not sit well.

“C-carry me into the c-cave.”

“Aye, milady.”

The cybot lifted her into its steely arms and turned to the plateau. Ski’Ah was not concerned with being swept over the side and onto the rocks with the cybot’s surefooted tread. The cybot had gyroscopes that made it easy for the A.I.U. to maintain balance. A sudden blast of wind would be measured and the counterforces employed to keep the cybot erect and earthbound as it moved.

“Do you wish me to bring supplies from the ship, Lady Ski’Ah?”

“Aye,” she said, realizing the cybot had turned on its internal heating coils so that her body was being warmed in its mechanical embrace. “Bring water and a meal for me.”

* * * * *

From his perch high atop one jagged spire, Danyon Hart watched the Amazeen being carried into the cave. He was squatting on the rocky formation, his wrists resting on his knees, his body buffeted by strong, harsh winds, and reveling in the artic cold that washed over him, whipping his black hair about his head. His open shirt flapped wildly, the cold kissing the wiry hairs on his chest. He drew a deep breath of frigid air into his lungs.

Snow was coming, and it would be a brutal fall that would cover the land with a thick carpet of numbing cold that would last for months in this clime. He had read the turbulent history of this violent land and understood that in summer, the plateau beneath him would be red-hot to the touch, the sands a scalding torment to those unfortunate enough to land there. But in the winter that was approaching on the horizon, this plateau would know blizzards unlike anything Earth could imagine while the lands to the south would be sizzling hot. By his reckoning, full winter was one, maybe two, days away.

He looked at the starjet far below.

It had taken the craft two weeks to soar its way from Earth to this barren rock, only a few thousand miles from the wormhole that led to Amazeen. It would take it another two weeks to travel back the way it had come, the Reaper at the controls. While it had sped toward Montyne Vex, Danyon had ridden the heavens unseen with the Amazeen and her pathetic captive, though neither had known he was there. Not even the artificial intelligence unit had been smart enough to discern his lurking presence.

The Reaper—unconscious in the E.S.U.—would have made an easy target had Danyon been inclined to dispatch him where he lay, but the Nightwind’s promise to his 211

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lady must be upheld. As much as he would like to see the last of Viraidan Cree, he stayed his hand from taking the Reaper’s miserable life.

The Amazeen had proved an eager receptacle for the suggestions Danyon had whispered into her ear about Montyne Vex. A slight detour on her way to Amazeen, a little diversion that would make her happy and cause Cree untold agony, might prove entertaining.

“Swear you will not harm him nor let anyone or anything else on Amazeen harm him,” Bronwyn had made him pledge.

“By my hand he will not suffer,” Danyon said to the shrill winds. “Nor will anyone or anything on
Amazeen
harm him.”

It was all in the wording, he thought, grinning. He stood, hands on hips and surveyed the barbaric lands spread out before him.

Danyon was looking forward to the next few hours.

* * * * *

Cree groaned as he woke. The vile taste in his mouth was far worse than any carrion flesh he had smelled in his lifetime. He had a headache unlike any he’d ever known and was so sick to his stomach he dared not open his eyes for fear he’d throw up. Not that he could lift his head, he thought, for he was boneless, numb everywhere, but at the agony spearing his temples. As his head was jerked up, the back of his skull slamming into something solid, he gasped, gagging at the pain.

“Puke on me at your peril, Reaper,” a harsh voice screamed.

Forcing open his eyes, Cree found himself looking into the face of his own death.

“Aye, you know what is going to happen. Do you know where you are?” Ski’Ah inquired, her eyes gleaming with victory.

He knew. The moment he saw the craggy walls surrounding him, he knew. The Amazeen called it the Abattoir, but the planetoid had been named Montyne Vex. It was the torture ground, the killing field of his kinsman, and despite himself, he felt fear. He knew he was chained with his arms and legs spread-eagle to the wall behind him. There was enough sensation in his body to know he was naked from the waist up, for the flesh of his back pressed against slick stone. Barefoot as he hung suspended off the cell floor, he felt the drag of the manacles on his ankles.