The Turquoise Tower (Revenant Wyrd Book 6) (6 page)

“This late?” Mark asked, his eyebrows knitting together. He was from Fairview, and suspicious of many things. No matter how many years he lived in the wilds of the Realm of Water, he wouldn’t get used to how serene the life was.

“Well, there isn’t a way station for a while now, they might not be local,” she reasoned.

“Just the same, you’d better get into the house before they arrive.”

“Oh, Mark, they’re harmless,” she said. But there was something wrong with the way they walked; great, lumbering steps drawing them closer. A faint wind shifted her way from the shadows, and the rancid smell of rotten milk and fetid flesh tickled her senses.

“That’s foul,” Mark said. “Inside. Now!”

Abagail yelped as her husband steered her toward the house. With a hand on either shoulder, he rushed her along. The marsh beneath her feet squelched in protest. Water gushed up around her water-proofed boots splattered her blue dress with mud.

The figures were close enough now that if they
did
pose a threat, which Abigail didn’t think they did, there wouldn’t be any getting to the yurt before the figures were upon them.

What’s that trailing behind the animal?
she wondered. By now she could see the animal was a cow.

But then the figures stepped into the torchlight of their home, and the horror became apparent. Mark was right. This was a danger that Abigail hadn’t seen coming, but not the horror of looters.

The two figures were dead, however impossible that seemed. Their eyes glazed over, unseeing, though the corpses seemed to know where Abigail was. Their mouths hung slack, dripping fat, mucus-like worms that burrowed into the earth and tunneled closer to her and Mark.

They shambled closer, and Abigail retreated. She grabbed Mark’s arm and pulled him after her, but they weren’t fast enough. The men made a noise that was part gurgle, part moan, and they lifted their arms, pointing at their victims.

A dark cloud of bugs swarmed into the air from the outstretched arms of the two men. More insects skittered out of the holes in their rotting flesh, taking to the air on clacking wings, wheeling toward Abagail. Before she had time to think, she was swarmed by the bugs, tangling into her hair, slapping against her arms, which she threw up to ward them off.

They bit, they tore. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound was smothered as the large bugs burrowed into her throat, skittering their way down to her stomach, devouring as they went. Wherever the bugs landed, they took away portions of her flesh, until there were holes large enough that the second wave of the insects could burrow deep, slithering into her body and taking root therein.

She stumbled through the miasma of winged bugs, and her foot connected with something. She tripped, sloshing into the muddy paddy outside their front door. Through the ever-thickening wave of bugs, Abagail looked back and saw Mark lying at her feet, his dead eyes staring through a cloud of bugs up at the darkening night sky.

And then she lost consciousness.

Hours later, the bugs now roaming nearby fields, eating and decimating wherever they went, Abigail and Mark began twitching, their dead bodies once more finding life. Woodenly they both sat up, their heads turning to the north-east, their necks cracking with rigor mortis. They stood, like puppets jerked upright by their strings, and slowly lumbered after the two who had made them, into the Barrier Mountains.

But not all the bugs stopped there; some drifted off on their own, to the east, further into the Holy Realm to find prey where they could.

“There it is again,” Russel whispered into Angelica’s ear where she crouched beside him. Through the swirling snow storm around them, Angelica could just barely glimpse the winged shadow overhead.

“What is it?” Joya asked beside Angelica. They were all huddled down, waiting out the storm at the edge of a cliff, their cloaks wrapped around them for warmth against the storm.

“Fallen,” Russel whispered, pulling Angelica close for her heat.

“Are we really just going to wait here?” Cianna asked. “It’s only one, right?”

“It would be best to let it pass,” Maeven said. Though they were grouped together, they still had to speak loudly over the howling wind. “If this is part of a search party, and this one goes missing, we will shortly have more wings in the skies.”

Cianna groaned and pulled her cloak tighter in an effort to absorb as much of the wyrded warmth as she could.

“Did you hear that?” Joya asked.

They all listened. Again the howl came. It had to be close if they could hear it over the moaning wind.

“What is it?” Jovian asked. By now they understood that it wasn’t just a wolf.

Cianna frowned. “It feels familiar, but I’m not sure exactly where I’ve felt it before. If it weren’t for this storm, or that thing flying overhead, I would go back and find out.”

“Well, if it’s dead, can’t you call to it?” Joya asked.

“Of course!” Cianna said, her eyes going wide. “Why didn’t I ever think of that? I’ve got to be the worst necromancer in history.”

Angelica laughed at her.

“Wait, don’t do anything until that creature is gone,” Russel said, placing a hand on Cianna’s shoulder as he looked up.

Angelica looked up as well; the winged creature circled around overhead again. At first she thought it was just a bird, but when Russel warned of the thing overhead, she felt the energy. “Haunting” was the only word she could think of for the entity flying over top of them. The energy pouring off of it was enough to make her stomach churn. Deep in her mind the shadow of the fallen floating overhead conjured the voices of torment. Hundreds of voices seemed to echo out of the past and into her head, screams of those tortured beyond the Black Gate, in the grips of Chaos.

Angelica shivered and Russel pulled her closer. Her stomach flipped again, but this time it was due to the closeness she felt with the dark-haired half-breed, and not from the shadow of the lurker above.

The fallen wheeled out of the sky and to the west. Several moments they waited, their eyes glued to the sky, before they felt safe enough to move.

As they traveled, the storm began to blow out and glimpses of blue sky could be seen overhead. Despite enjoying the now-calm weather, Angelica worried that the fallen would return and spot them.

“Someone should keep an eye out overhead,” Angelica warned. “If that fallen returns, we’ll need advance warning to bring it down. I’m sure it’ll be watching the ground for us, and once it spots us, it will return to wherever it’s reporting back to.”

“I’ve got it,” Maeven said.

“My sight is probably better,” Caldamron offered.

“Eagle, remember?” Maeven said, and Caldamron nodded.

“Right, you’d better keep watch.” The frement smiled to cover his embarrassment.

But the rest of the day passed without any indication that the scout would return in the sky. As darkness began to fall they found shelter in an abandoned cave. They had camped in enough caves by now to know that they could hang their cloaks over the entrance to help keep the space warm.

“These are the last two rabbits,” Jovian said, pulling the cold carcasses out of a waxed backpack they had brought for wild game. “We will need to hunt more tonight, hopefully while these are cooking.” He arranged the spit over their fire near the entrance of the cave, and set the rabbits to roasting. While the fire was going, the cloaks were pulled back to allow ventilation. At night, however, to keep their location from the eyes of those winging overhead, they had learned to douse the fire and use the cloaks for heat.

“That’s fine,” Maeven said, helping Jovian arrange the rabbits. “Maybe Caldamron will finally teach us how to use these guns?” Maeven looked up at the black and white cat-man, who nodded.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Caldamron said. “Who else will join us?”

Angelica stood. “I’ve never had any experience hunting, but I’d like to contribute.”

“Joya?” Jovian asked.

“No, I’ll stay here with Cianna and Russel to watch over the camp and tend to dinner.” She arranged herself near the entrance of the cave and gave the spit a cursory crank, rotating the meat over the flames.

“Alright,” Caldamron said. “Shelara, are you staying with the Guardian?”

Angelica caught Joya’s eye roll and smirked.

“Yes,” Shelara answered. She was lounging in the back of the cave, smoking weed from a long, delicate pipe. The smoke puffed from the end of the pipe in a green haze that smelled of soap. It was a nice scent, but Angelica had spent too many nights cooped up in camp and needed to be outside in the fresh air, stretching her legs. Also, part of her knew that if she was inside the cave, she would only panic that she couldn’t see the sky and know if a fallen was flying around above.

“Make sure you all have your things. You need the pack you were given and the horn of powder.” Caldamron said, fastening his own gun belt around his waist.

Angelica followed suit, slinging the belt around her waist where it hung heavily from her hips. She checked the powder and made sure the compartments were filled with the metallic balls and small squares of fabric.

Maeven grabbed his bow and arrows as well. “If we aren’t successful with learning these contraptions, I want something I can rely on for hunting.”

“If you aren’t successful with those
contraptions
you will likely scare off all the game,” Shelara commented.

Caldamron ignored her and nodded. “Alright, are we ready?”

They stepped out of the warm embrace of the cave and into the clear evening. It was going to be a cold one, but without any clouds Angelica was able to see the hint of light from the sun that had set moments before, bathing the sky in pink and gold relief. Overhead the moon was growing in visibility, impossibly close so high in the mountains. For a moment Angelica stood and observed the stars shimmering in the cold air, casting a light of their own into the purpling sky. From where she stood she could see the bend of the earth on the distant horizon, and she was bewyrded by the sight.

She pulled herself from her thrall, tugged the wyrded cloak closer to her body, and fell into step behind Caldamron.

Jovian and Maeven were leading, and though they knew what they were doing, Angelica didn’t know a thing about hunting. So she watched every move, mimicking the hushed tones they spoke in when she asked what tracks they were looking at, or what the significance of that pile of dung was.

Jovian was quick to answer. “Do you see the shape of the track, and that imprint right between and behind them? That’s a rabbit track. Most likely that’s what we’ll find out here.”

Angelica bent closer and brushed some snow out of the way to get a better look. It was getting darker, so they would have to find their prey soon, but if Jovian was right, this track was somewhat fresh.

“And this, here,” he pointed to a pile of dung not far away. “These are deer droppings. See how they’re small, like pellets?”

Angelica nodded.

“That’s how you can tell a deer. These are old, so we probably won’t find it.”

“Are deer rare up here?” Angelica asked as they stood.

“I think so; this is the first sign we’ve seen that deer might be up here,” Jovian told her.

“Jovian,” Maeven called from a short distance away. “Take a look at this.”

Jovian and Angelica went to Maeven’s side, struggling through the deeper snow and off the trail they had been on.

“Do you recognize this?” Maeven asked, casting a glance up at Jovian from where he crouched beside a distorted track.

Through their link with one another Angelica could feel the tremble of fear that rippled through Jovian’s energy field. Absentmindedly Jovian reached down and rubbed his leg. It was the leg that had been injured in the hunting trip with the black shuck.

Angelica moaned with realization. Suddenly the shadows gathering at the edge of her vision seemed much more menacing than simple shadows brought on by the onset of nighttime. Angelica pushed the thought from her mind and eased forward. There it was, the cloven hoof print that Jovian had told her about. It was large, maybe the size of her palm, and much like a pig’s hoof. But where a pig’s print was rounded, this one was pointed at the end, as if the ground had been churned by claws.