Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
death. For days afterward he would be moody and bleak, his eyes filled with
alternating strata of rage and despair. When he could sleep, his dreams would be filled
with swirling smoke, the odor of burning flesh, the residual pain still carried deep
within his consciousness. He would wake sweating profusely—as though still trapped
in the heat of the conflagration—and his throat would be parched, his lungs feeling
seared. When he was forced to relive that horrendous day, his flesh crawled, his body
shuddered, his belly ached, and today was such a day.
The Cherchocreechi medicine man raised his buckskin-clad arms skyward, the
fringe on his sleeves waving in the wind, and called out to the Great Spirit to look with
favor upon the warrior who had passed from this world into the Land of the Ghosts.
Chanting the merits of the deceased warrior, the
didanawisgi
bid He Who Listens and
She Who Waits to take into account the good things the dead man had accomplished
and to overlook that which did not please Those Who Judge.
Beneath the scaffolding upon which the warrior had been laid, his family and
friends piled oak branches and bundles of sweet grass as the
didanawisgi
continued his
recitation of the warrior’s glories. As the People worked, they softly sang the burial
song that would hasten their loved one on his way. Wrapped securely in a gaily
decorated blanket tied with rope, the feet of the warrior faced south where his journey
would begin. Around him were his most prized possessions, which would accompany
him into the afterlife.
Standing apart from the mourners, Bevyn marveled at the mix of religious beliefs
that had been incorporated into the Cherchocreechi tribe’s rituals. He knew at one time
there had been four distinct tribes but the Burning War, disease and myriad other
calamities had struck to devastate the People until only a hundred or less were left from
among the Four Nations. Some of their customs had been abandoned, forgotten,
morphed from one belief into a new one that better served its worshippers. He knew
that had happened for many of the natives of Terra.
“You look very sad,
danitaga
,” Chief Amaketai said as he came to stand beside the
Reaper. “You should rejoice for Onisca. He will soon be with Those Who Have Gone
Before.”
“Although I am saddened by your son’s passing, that is not what haunts me this
day,
oginalii
,” Bevyn replied. “It is the sight of the pyre that disturbs me.”
“Ah,” Amaketai said. The old man had sat many hours with the Reaper before the
campfire, hearing tales of lands far beyond the green hills of Armistenky. He knew how
8
Her Reaper’s Arms
the young man had met his end in that alien world so unlike his own. “It is the burning
you dislike.”
“Only because it brings back memories,” Bevyn admitted.
“I understand,” Amaketai said. He gave the man beside him—the man his people
called
danitaga
, blood brother—a gentle look. “Life has not been kind to you, has it, my
son?”
“Life has kicked my ass, old friend,” Bevyn said with a faint smile. “Many times
over.”
Onisca’s widow was given the honor of lighting his funeral pyre and she placed the
burning sweet grass sheaf to the bundles intertwined with the oak branches. A loud,
trilling ululation rose up from the throats of the mourners as the fire took hold and the
flames rose. The bitterly sweet odor of burning flesh rose in the air.
Bevyn turned away, unable to watch the body catch fire. The stench was more than
he could bear as well and his hands were trembling, his shoulders hunched as though
he expected the fire to reach out to ensnare him. Bidding a hasty farewell to Amaketai,
he strode purposefully to his horse, grateful the chief did not try to stop him. Grabbing
a handful of Préachán’s thick mane, he swung up into the saddle and dug his heels into
the horse’s black flanks. He needed to put distance between him and the burning man
who had been like a brother to him.
He needed a drink, he thought as he raced his mount across the plains. He needed
something strong, something that would numb the memories, something to erase the
feeling of impending doom that had reached out to entrap him. Sometimes the only
way he could make it through a week of loneliness, the isolation of his job, was to
drown himself in whiskey and attempt to sleep it off.
The trouble with his kind was they had trouble sleeping. Even with a full bottle of
rotgut sloshing in their bellies, the nightmares always hovered close by to claim them
and to torment their rest, to drag them hissing from the land of Nod. Past deeds rose up
to jeer at them and the cries of the dead they had dispatched haunted their restless
slumber.
It was a hell of a way to live.
As Préachán—his big black stallion—raced over the ground, Bevyn thought of the
balgair
, the rogue, he had executed for murdering Onisca. He had hunted the bastard
down, driven him to ground and had used his laser whip to slice off pieces of the
rogue’s body a little at a time until there was nothing left but mush on the blood-soaked
ground. He had reveled in the man’s screams, had inhaled his fear and agony as though
they were perfume. He had taken out his wrath in painful increments that had lasted
for hours until his whip arm grew numb and heavy and his energy flagged. Still he had
slashed at the body—long after he had sliced the head from the corpse with an expert
flick of his wrist—until the killing rage had finally passed, and he had been stunned to
see what he had wrought.
9
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“I have avenged you,
diganeli
,” he had offered up to Onisca’s ghost, calling him his
blood friend.
But it had been more than vengeance he had meted out upon the rogue. It had been
frustration and disappointment and an attempt to alleviate the bitter loneliness that was
slowly driving him insane. The devastation he had perpetrated against the
balgair
had
been excessive and he knew it but it had felt good—at least at the time—to vent.
For the last five years he had carried out the assignments the High Council had
handed to him, never once questioning what was expected of him, never balking at the
deeds done that were necessary to do what was required. He had killed in the name of
justice without a shred of conscience staying his lethal hands. His anger over his own
death was still a raw wound in his mind and a dark blot on his soul and nothing
seemed to be able to calm the fury riding him with bloodied spurs.
The sun was low on the horizon and spearing into his eyes. Ahead of him was the
town of Orson and a saloon where there was a bottle with his name on it. He licked his
lips at the thought of the liquor burning its way down his throat, the promise of
oblivion, the siren call to forgetfulness. The town wasn’t much, the people dispensable
in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been there in quite a while, and the last time
he’d passed through, he had spent two days in a drunken stupor he wished to
experience again. Perhaps while he slept, a
balgair
would sneak in and take his head and
the pain would finally stop.
Riding into the rundown town with its beaten-down citizens, Bevyn smiled grimly
as those civilians scattered, rushing to hide behind locked doors and pulling draperies
rather than garner the notice of a Reaper. Dismounting in front of the saloon, he glanced
around, not surprised to find himself alone on the dirt street, to hear the eerie silence as
breaths were held and lips mumbled in silent prayer that he would not stay long in
their town.
Hitching up his gun belt, adjusting the dragon claw handle of his laser whip in its
thin leather sheath, he tied Préachán to the hitching post and stepped up on the
boardwalk, his spurs jangling against the weathered gray boards. Putting his hands on
the batwing doors leading into the saloon, he was keenly aware that all noise inside the
establishment had ceased and knew those inside had either scrambled out the back
door or were waiting for him with trembling knees. Out of habit, he swept the interior
of the building with his psychic powers and detected no threat to him. He pushed the
doors open and went inside the smoke-filled, stale-smelling, darkened interior.
Lea Walsh stood beside a sticky table she’d been cleaning when Luke Desmond had
come rushing in to tell them a Reaper was headed their way. She’d glanced at Mable,
the saloon owner, who had hastened to tell the working girls to stop what they were
doing and stay put. She winced at the noise of chairs scraping across the floor as the
patrons of the saloon had run for the back entrance, not wanting to be there when the
Reaper came in.
10
Her Reaper’s Arms
Mable was behind the bar and Lea could see her trembling, her red lips quivering.
She had snatched up an unopened whiskey bottle and a shot glass and put them on the
bar. The white feathers adorning her silk gown were fluttering at the neckline as the
older woman swallowed convulsively.
The other saloon girls—Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin—stood flanking the roulette
wheel, their faces drawn, their bosoms rising and falling rapidly. Their eyes were
locked on the saloon entrance.
“He ain’t a bad sort if you leave him to what he wants,” Mable said quietly. “Most
likely he won’t ask for one of you but if he does, don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak
to him lest he asks you a question and do whatever he tells you. Do it quickly and you’ll
be all right. I ain’t never heard tell of him hurting a woman but with his kind, you never
know what might set him off.”
Lea had not been at the White Horse Saloon the last time the Reaper assigned to the
Armistenky Territory had come through town. In her twenty-three years, she’d never
seen one of the infamous lawmen, and she had hoped she never would. When she
heard the clink of his spurs on the boardwalk, she began twisting the bar rag between
her hands, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.
The saloon doors opened and the black-clad warrior came striding in as though he
owned the place. His six-shooter was strapped low on his right hip and the handle of
the fabled lightning whip lay strapped to the other. His black felt cowboy hat was
pulled low over his forehead, the silver concho band on the crown catching the light.
He walked with a swagger that was unmistakable as he bellied up to the bar.
Bevyn’s gaze flicked to the woman standing off to one side, swept over the three
huddled together and then settled on the blowsy tramp behind the long, rough bar. He
strode purposefully toward her, ignoring the tremulous smile of greeting on her
painted face. He glanced down at the bottle then back into her frightened face, waiting
for her to pour the rotgut. She was quick to oblige him and he picked up the shot glass,
knocked back the potent liquid and then set the glass down for another round.
“Be about your business, ladies,” he said quietly to the other women, not liking that
they were behind his back. He could see them in the long sweep of mirror behind the
bar but he was never comfortable with anyone lurking at his back.
Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin made themselves scarce, taking the stairs to their living
quarters without a backward glance at him. Mable stayed where she was like a deer
caught in a spotlight.
Bevyn propped a foot on the tarnished brass rung that ran along the bottom of the
bar and hunched over with his elbows on the nicked top, pushing his once again empty
glass toward Mable to refill. “Anything I need to see to while I’m here?” he asked the
saloonkeeper.
“I think there might be, milord,” Mable said as she poured his third whiskey. “I can
send for the sheriff.”
11
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
He nodded, swept his glance past her to the mirror to watch the girl behind him as
she moved to another table with her bucket and rag. “I don’t remember her being here
last time,” he said.
“She wasn’t, milord,” Mable said. “If you want me to send her upstairs…”
“Leave her be,” he said, and continued to watch the girl as she worked. It surprised
him that she’d stayed and it intrigued him that she didn’t cop furtive looks at him as
she went about her job. His curiosity was further piqued that she was dressed for what
she was doing and not decked out in whore finery as the other women.
Lea could feel his eyes on her from the mirror. His steady stare was unnerving. She
knew if she left the room, Mable would dock her for the day’s work and she desperately
needed the pitiful wages she got for cooking and cleaning at the White Horse.
Thankfully the men in town left her alone and she wasn’t expected to turn tricks like
Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin, although she’d had more than her share of men groping
her since she’d been working for Mable.
“I’ll need a room,” she heard the Reaper say.
“Of course, milord,” Mable readily agreed. “Lea, get upstairs and make sure our
best room is made ready for Lord Bevyn.”
He had not taken his eyes from the girl as he spoke. Despite the faded blue calico