Wolf Moon Part 4

Afternoon ran ahead of Heero and he found himself trailing further behind. The sun, too, had maintained a faster pace and now hovered just above the treetops. Wispy clouds that had dotted the sky were amassing in gray banks to the north and there was a definite smell of moisture in the air.

The waning sun, combined with the thickening clouds, made the forest darker, the road harder to navigate and gave the lone hunter's imagination more chances to see shapes moving among the trees or hear footsteps crunch in the underbrush.

Heero was sure he wouldn't reach Aragon before it became too dark to find his way so seeking refuge before nightfall was imperative. He estimated he had an hour or less to find a suitable structure to ward off the night chill and provide protection from the impending rain.

If memory served him correctly, the Tracker knew that the forest would soon thin out and the road would descend into hilly farmland where hopefully a barn or stable would fit his needs.

As stronger gusts ruffled his hair, fluttered his cloak, shivered the leaves, bowed the branches and encouraged an owl to find a hollow to hide in, Heero stood at the forest's edge and surveyed landscape that stretched out in a patchwork pattern of plowed fields and rolling meadows. Mercifully, several wood-shingled buildings were scattered throughout the gently rolling terrain.

The wind rose again with a mournful wail but this time a voice was also carried on the currents. "What have we got here?"

Heero turned to find the inquiry's source and discovered that four burly lads had used the storm to sneak up on the Tracker who, under normal circumstances, would have heard them coming a hundred yards away.

The apparent boss of the hooligans, who Heero supposed had the greater amount of functioning brain cells, sported a shaggy crop of dirty blond hair, broad shoulders and upper arms the size of tree trunks. His topcoat was coarsely woven hopsack dappled with dried mud.

Clutched in one beefy hand, a long, serrated-blade hunting knife was waved about, no doubt, to bolster his courage or perhaps to compensate for the minor measure of his manhood.

The trio of equally disheveled men flanked their leader displaying dim-witted grins that gave the impression they foolishly believed they'd have an easy time relieving the traveler of the moneybag hanging from his belt.

A chubby man, who smelled strongly of rye whiskey, with an ugly scar running from the outside corner of his right eye to his jaw line, said to the man with the knife. "John, ain't his cloak pretty?"

"Yeah pretty." Another man named Harry, who was armed with an axe, concurred.

John rubbed his chin for a contemplative moment before replying. "Yeah, but that ain't all I fancy." he announced with a sneer that thinned out his lips and exposed a crooked row of tobacco-yellowed teeth "I'd like to see how pretty he is down on all fours with his bare ass full of my cock."

Wicked laugher in anticipation of a sexual romp at the stranger's expense echoed over the trees and distracted the scruffy quartet for the mere seconds it took Heero to spring into action.

In the blink of an eye he loaded his crossbow, set the trigger and had the steel-tipped arrow aimed at John's chest. The toothy smirk faded but John didn't seem particularly impressed with the lone man's challenge to his authority.

"Now I ain't had much learnin' but I can count and I figure you're outnumbered by four to one and you can't get but one man before the rest of us are on ya like vultures on dead meat." John stated with certainty.

"That may be true," Heero agreed with John's flawed logic, "but I'll be more than happy to take you to hell with me."

Another lackey named Jack with an eye patch and a missing front tooth leaned his shoulder against an oak tree with an air of amusement at the standoff between John and the brazen stranger.

Without warning a hand snaked down from an overhead branch, grabbed a fistful of Jack's collar and hoisted the startled man straight up into the dense foliage. Now only his legs could be seen kicking high above the ground and the frantic sounds of a struggle could barely be heard over the whistling wind.

Finally the chubby man took notice of his buddy's odd behavior then the fact he was in trouble slowly sank into his liquor-addled brain. "HEY!" he yelled, waving to get the other's attention then started off at a run towards his partner in crime.

John cast a hurried glance in the loud shout's direction but the knife remained poised in place. "Dammit, Jack, quit foolin' around." he spat out his irritation.

Heero nodded at the strange scene. "Looks like the wood trolls are restless."

Just as the scar-faced man and his axe-toting friend reached the tree a keen crack, like brittle twigs being snapped, sounded somewhere in the branches. Just as quickly the thrashing stilled and the muffled protects stopped. The legs went limp and one-eyed Jack's lifeless body dropped to the ground with a sickening thud.

The stunned pair stood beside the crumpled heap of flesh with its neck bent at an odd angle then tilted their heads up to see what manner of tree dwelling beast was responsible for the brutal attack. But they saw no unusual activity nor could they pick out anything unnatural among the shivering branches.

John appeared to be unaffected by Jack's gruesome demise, taking the attitude that one less man meant a bigger share of the traveler's money or a longer time to satisfy his lascivious appetite.

Even though Heero was a bit unnerved by the sudden reduction of the thugs' ranks he hid his surprise and commented. "It seems the odds are now three to one," he stated the obvious, "and I'll be greatly pleased to send all of you to hell."

The Tracker's smug remark had the desired effect spurring John to launch a headlong charge. Before the brute with the knife covered ten feet, the arrow was expertly set in his breastbone.

John froze, eyes wide in shock. A gurgle rose in his throat, frothy salvia tainted with blood trickled from his gaping mouth then he pitched forward like a felled tree.

The man with his axe raised above his head raced passed John's prone body with every intention of splitting the bowman's skull from top to bottom. Heero slid his hands down the crossbow, curled his fingers around the butt and swung the bow like a club.

The upper crosspiece connected with Harry's cheek, chin and nose at the same time. Harry's boots skidded on the grass, his torso spun sideways, the axe leaped from his grip and with a painful grunt he plopped down on his buttocks where he sat sputtering and cursing and holding his busted nose.

Without delay Heero centered his weight and delivered a high spin-kick that dispatched the last man and sent him sprawling into a thick, prickly patch of sweetbriers.

Now it was the Tracker's turn to sneer at his bested foes that were haphazardly strewn about the grassy clearing. The man in the brier bush grimaced and yowled each time he tried to extract himself from his thorny throne.

Harry was busy trying to stop the goodly amount of blood leaking from both nostrils. He looked up at Heero thought puffy eyelids that were undoubtedly vexing his vision.

"Bastard." The derogatory description was slurred by swollen lips that refused to cooperate.

As for John and Jack...they had nothing to say. John lay face down, his eyes closed, his face ashen and his arms twisted around his body. Part of the arrow's splintered shaft, which had been forced through from chest to back by the fall, protruded from his crimson-stained coat.

Heero walked to the tree where Jack's contorted body was ghastly evidence of his violent death. His opened eyes were fixed in terror, their widened pupils glazed over in a glassy, sightless stare. His right arm was trapped under his lax frame, his left arm folded across his chest.

Something clutched in Jack's hand called for closer examination. Heero rested a knee on the ground and pried open death-constricted fingers to inspect the item of interest.

To his surprise he found a feather. Twirling the feather between his fingers, he recalled it was the same tawny color as the feather he 'd seen earlier by the brook.

"Déjà vu." he sighed in resignation that everything in life was destined to repeat itself.

*********

To the north, thunder rumbled. The wind whipped around Heero as if to steal his breath and halt his heartbeat. A fine spray of rain heralded the escalating storm and he knew it wouldn't be long before a full-fledge downpour would send him scurrying for cover.

Paying no heed to the tempest's threats, he took a moment for silent reflection. Although he had sent many demonic beings back to Sheol and while his conscience was clear concerning those necessary terminations, Heero had not become so jaded that he still didn't feel a pang of guilt each time a human life ended.

It was not Heero's place to proclaim himself judge or executioner or decide the punishment for man's sins. Even the exorcism of the damned was decreed by the Church and, like the crusading knights of ancient lore, the Demon Tracker merely followed divine orders and carried out preordained sentences.

Also there would be no interment, no reunion with the earthy elements and the rain would surely extinguish a pyre's fiery consumption. Heero had neither the time nor the inclination for any burial rites. No, better to let the carnivores and carrion crows reign over the dead.

Closing his eyes, the chaser of elusive creatures of myth and legend offered up a prayer for the slain men's safe passage into the afterlife and whatever reward was deemed suitable for their transgressions.

"Amen." he whispered, "So be it."

*********

Lightning zigzagged across the weeping firmament. Thunder boomed like a cannon's report and vibrated through the ground as if trying to shake the foundations of the world.

Windswept droplets pelted the Tracker, splattering his boots and trousers with mud and thoroughly soaking his cloak in the few minutes it took him to run the fifty or so yards to a pine-shingled building that set well off the road.

The remote location was just as well. The last thing Heero wanted to deal with was a hostile farmer taking exception to him trespassing on his property. Being killed at by an irate householder was definitely not how he wished to depart this life. Struck down in battle or shot by a jealous husband was a far more fitting way to go.

Heero put his shoulder to the waterlogged door, planted his boots and shoved twice before the stubborn latch broke loose. Rusty hinges squeaked shrilly setting his teeth on edge as the door opened just wide enough for him to squeeze through.

He dropped his crossbow and assorted personal property on the floor. With extra effort he defied the uncooperative hinges and shut up the entrance effectively cutting off the strong gusts that followed him inside.

Wind-blown dust particles trigged a fit of sneezing and coughing. The odor of moldy hay, mildew and manure permeated every inch of the musty interior. Wiping his watering eyes, Heero waited for them to adjust to the dusky gloom. When his vision cleared he found he was standing in a stable he reckoned hadn't been occupied in quite awhile.

Cautiously he picked a path through the main section that was now being used for storage. Straw-laden cobwebs hung from every nook and cranny and covered every surface with their tacky fibers confirming the room's neglected status.

To his right, a row of four stalls stopped at a side wall that was bedecked with leather harnesses, reins and the heavy collars worn by Shire horses. A dry-rotted saddle set on a barrel in the far corner.

Straight ahead a pair of square wooden trunks, reinforced with bands of tarnished tin, set side by side. An anvil, a blackened stone forge and a table covered with various hammers, chisels and heavy-duty tongs took up the remaining space.

A rickety ladder disappeared into a loft that spread out under the slanted roof. Directly overhead a pair of brown mourning doves cooed in the exposed rafters.

"Cozy." Heero declared sarcastically as he surveyed his crude accommodations.

The wind howled outside. The stable shuddered under the gusty onslaught that forced dampness through the poorly fitted walls causing Heero to quickly discover that his soggy cloak offered little protection from the raw chill.

Fortunately the forge was an ideal place to build a fire with minimum risk of burning down the stable. A base of straw was set ablaze by sparks struck from two pieces of flint rock. A layer of sticks was added. Finally planks pried from horse stalls finished the fire.

Heero draped his cloak over the table to dry. "Fire bright...heat and light." He recited a poem he'd learned in childhood then realized he couldn't remember the rest of the rhyme.

"Might as well explore." he decided prompted more by boredom than curiosity.

The nearest trunk seemed the logical place to start. He slid an iron pin through the closing ring to free the latch. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding."

The lid lifting revealed more harnesses and several small tin boxes with "Macleod's Farrier Shoppe" printed in faded red letters on the top. Horseshoes, hand-cut nails and spikes were evidence of the blacksmith's handiwork.

Heero debated whether or not to disturb the idle items that obviously had been there for a long time. The thought that a nest of beady-eyed rats or other vile creatures that might call the miscellaneous mess home was not at all appealing.

Carefully slipping his hand beneath the first layer, Heero shifted his weight ready to jump back should something vicious strike out from the dim depths.

Nothing moved.

"So far so good." he thought to himself testing the next layer.

With a bit more confidence but not dropping his guard, Heero lifted the tangled harnesses and discovered a wooden box with frayed rope handles. More caution was applied in removing the lid then he leaned forward slightly, again ready to make a swift retreat should any beasties be forthcoming.

To his amazement, as if fate had finally decided to smile on the weary Tracker, he found two heavy blankets with a distinct "horsy" smell.

But putting up with the unpleasant odor was a small price to pay in exchange for the warmth the blankets would provide.

Using the inside of his boot Heero piled up a "hay mattress" and laid a blanket on top. He made sure the dirk was securely strapped to his thigh and placed his loaded crossbow within easy reach.

He eased down then wiggled to sink deeper into the soft mound. With a relaxed sigh he tugged the second blanket up his legs to his chest and tucked the sides around his body.

Heero's empty stomach made occasional protests but it would have to wait until morning for its demands for sustenance to be satisfied. Oddly "roasted rat" flickered through the Tracker's mind but the notion of rotisserie rodent with brandy wine sauce wasn't too tempting.

*********

The man with the braid stretched out on his stomach and peered down to watch the Tracker assembled his bed of hay. Inching forward for a better viewing angle sent a shower of straw sprinkling from the loft.

"Be careful or he'll see you." The man's ebony-eyed companion warned from his darkness-veiled obscurity.

"Nay. He won't see me."

"But he might see the results of you moving about."

Iridescent firelight played over the watcher's high cheekbones and enhanced the glimmer in his blue-purple eyes just before he ducked his head.

An intuitive tingle had prompted Heero to elevate his sight in the loft's direction but he saw nothing more than distorted patterns of light and shadows dancing on over rafters. "Imagination playing tricks." he argued against the wary sensation.

When the Tracker returned his attention to settling in for the night, the hidden observer sat up and scooted back to lean against the wall beside his friend.

"What do you think, two days to Twilight?"

Rubbing a soft cloth up and down his sword's finely honed blade, the Oriental paused in his polishing to figure. "I suppose the time depends on what the Dark Lord sends to stop us."

Raising up enough to tug his straw-adorned braid from under his trim rear end the auburn-haired man stated positively. "Nothing will stop us."

Several minutes of silence, during which the only sounds were the fire crackling and the comforting coo of the doves, passed between the Priest of Twilight's tagalongs.

The sword was returned to its sheath. Its owner wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and lay down on his rude bed. The braided man sat with his knees pressed to his chest. "Do you think he'll dream tonight?" he whispered lowly.

The young spy's drowsy cohort shrugged in a noncommittal fashion. "Do you want him too?"

"Dreams will make the connection stronger."

*********

The storm played out its sound and fury. The thunder lost its baritone voice and the lightning was only shimmers of white light behind the mountains. The doves tucked their heads under their wings.

Heero rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Thankfully he was dry and warm. Just before he drifted off, hopefully into dreamless sleep, the sensation of "eyes on his back" snuggled beside him like a lover.

"Good night." he whispered secure in the knowledge that he was truly not alone.

TBC...

 

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