street. He did not have the heart to tell them he knew their loved ones were dead. He
just turned away, heading back to his horse.
“Milord?”
Surprised one of them would dare speak to him, he turned to find a middle-aged
woman stepping away from the little clump of women. Her lips were trembling, her
hand out to stay his departure.
“Aye, wench?” he asked.
“The young men?” she pressed, and tears entered her eyes. “My sons?”
The truth must have been stamped on his face for he watched the woman lower her
head into her hands, heard her first faint sob as her shoulders bowed beneath the
weight of her sorrow.
“It…” he began, and was keenly aware of every eye on him. “It was quick,” he
finished. “They did not suffer.”
“The explosion?” another asked.
Bevyn nodded and winced as the wailing began. He watched women fall to their
knees with their grief. There was nothing he could do for them and as their older
menfolk and young sons began running toward them, he headed for his mount tied up
on the hill.
As he reached Préachán and untied the steed’s reins, he felt eyes on him again.
Malevolent eyes. Angry eyes. Eyes that meant him harm. Though he scanned the
immediate area, he saw nothing, detected nothing, but nevertheless he knew something
was there.
That something had a name.
It was a Blackwind, a warrior woman trained for tracking and exacting revenge on
Reapers.
76
Her Reaper’s Arms
Chapter Six
Penthesilea Aracnea squatted by the creek and scooped water into her strong,
capable hands. She drank her fill then wiped her forearm over her lips, studying her
surroundings for the marauding goddess from whom Penthe had managed to barely
escape. Beside her, the glass head of her Dóigra caught an errant beam of sunlight and
the grass around the star-shaped bulb shriveled, burnt to ash in seconds.
No one fucks with my Reaper! she had heard the fire-haired termagant bluster before
destroying the LRC that had brought them to Terra.
“Aye, but that particular Reaper belonged to the Aracnea clan before You ever laid
Your hands to him,” Penthe hissed.
Having sworn vengeance for her Amazeen ancestor Kennocha Tramont, the
Blackwind sat down on the creek bank and stared into the sparkling water. It had taken
her thirty years to find Bevyn Coure and now that she had, she intended to see he was
returned to Críonna and the fate reserved for him. How she would do that now that her
transportation had been destroyed was a major problem.
“Greedy bitch,” Penthe growled, thinking of the captain of the Ostria. Had it not
been for greed, things would not have gotten so out of hand. But the Amazeen captain
had taken a look at the fine, strapping lads of Lawler and had decided they would make
good breeding stock on Amazeen. Despite Penthe’s objections, Captain Antimache had
ordered the young ones taken.
“There are hundreds of such prime specimens of maleness scattered across Terra,”
Antimache had argued. “We can take them easily and come back for more!”
“You won’t be coming back from the arms of the Gatherer,” Penthe said with an
ugly snort. “Nor will those prime specimens of maleness.”
Angry that her transportation home had been demolished and with no guarantee
another LRC would be forthcoming, Penthe kicked at the sand beneath her bootheel.
Her anger was such that she felt the blood pounding in her temples. She had not only
the covetous Antimache to thank for her situation but the bastard Reaper as well.
Thinking of Bevyn Coure, Penthe stretched out on her back, her knees drawn up as
she glared at the lacy leaves canopied over her head. For days she’d been tracking the
Reaper—keeping close watch on him, waiting for just the right moment to throw a net
around his handsome head and draw him up. Had Antimache not overruled her, Coure
might well be on the LRC at that very moment, though Penthe had not counted on the
interference of the Triune Goddess in the matter.
“But you should have,” she chastised herself. “You should have known She’d not
give him up easily.”
77
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Realizing she might well be stuck on this backward world for the remainder of her
days, Penthe cursed fluently and sat up, slapping her wrists atop her drawn-up knees
and glaring across the bucolic creek. Her vow to bring Coure back for punishment
might never be fulfilled, but she would take pleasure in hunting him, causing him as
much irritation and grief as she could.
“I want him hurt,” Kennocha had said on her deathbed. “I want him completely
destroyed.”
Penthe had read the bitter memories boiling inside her great-great-grandmother’s
head as the old woman lay there wheezing for breath. She had seen the handsome
young priest as the flames had swept upward to devour him. She had witnessed the
unbelievable rescue that had plucked Bevyn Coure from his just reward and had
commiserated with Great-Great-Grandmere Kennocha that justice had not been served
that day. Truth be told though, she couldn’t have cared less about the alleged injustices
Coure had supposedly perpetrated against her kinswoman. She wondered at
Kennocha’s state of mind as the old woman continued to rail so vehemently against the
priest.
“Pain of the highest order,” Kennocha had decreed. “Give him pain he will feel
throughout eternity!”
Such things came when a woman allowed herself to become obsessed with a male,
Penthe scoffed, knowing that would never happen to her. She herself had no use for
what she considered the weaker sex. Men were born to be used until they were used up
and then discarded for a newer, better model. They were not meant to be kept and
cosseted as the priest had been at Rathlin. Nothing good ever came from sheltering the
dirty little beasts from life’s travails. To her way of thinking, Great-Great-Grandmere
Kennocha had gotten what was due her but family obligations were more important
than personal feelings, and she would do what was needed to avenge her great-greatgrandmere.
Not to mention, Penthe thought as she got to her feet, she had her own personal
bone to pick now with Bevyn Coure. Because of him, she was trapped, whether
permanently or temporarily, on Terra and he would be made to pay for his part in the
problem. Dusting off the seat of her jumpsuit, she bent over to retrieve
