REAPERS - Book Two: The Hunger and the Sickness

19

Ferant had no quarrel with man or gob. The world itself was enemy enough. It fought him for every crop. Sought to claim his unicorns with disease before he could claim them for his family's bellies. Took away his sons. There were only the three of them now in that lonely house. Him and his wife Osanne and their only surviving daughter Jenefer. The others had all been lost to pestilence or accident or war. The world was no more kind to children than it was to soldiers. Few of either occupation survived for long. With no living sons (save their one boy Willet who ran off, preferring the outlaw's life to the farmer's), all the difficult work fell to Ferant. Though Jenefer was now old enough to lend a hand, and this she often did. Still, her paw was an old-fashioner and preferred his women inside tending to more ladylike things. Babies and cooking and such. It pained Ferant to see Jen's soft hands become calloused and scratched. But she seemed to enjoy the work. Perhaps his ways were too antique. His daughter surely would make a fine heir for this meager little fiefdom and could manage things on her own.

As Ferant filed down the horn on his eldest unicorn, a rowdy male named Deacon that would soon be ready for the supper table, he saw two men strolling down the hill toward his home. They were both clad in black leathers and had weapons in their hands. Crossbows. The bowslingers hadn't the look of bandits. Nor standard Nation soldiers. One of the strangers called out. "This your house?"

"It is," answered Ferant.

"Who's inside?" The speaker had on his face the lingering stains from some kind of warpaint not fully washed away. It resembled a faint but fearsome skull.

"Just my family," said the farmer.

Skullface kept his eyes fixed on Ferant as the other visitor's gaze moved along the house's features. From window to window, corner to roof. The men reached the fence-line. Osanne and Jenefer were now at the door, watching on.

"Well, hello there," said the second stranger to the women. His head was shaved. Gave him the look of a buzzard.

"What can I do for you sirs?" Ferant asked.

"'Bout some water?" said the painted one.

"Certainly," said Ferant. "Osanne, mind filling these mens' canteens?"

"Jus' you three here right now?" asked the bald one as he moved toward the door.

"Please, sirs," said Ferant, standing. Deacon the unicorn snorted and scurried off, glad to be free of the farmer's handling. "I beg you just move on through. We got nothin' of value here."

The bald one looked Jenefer over as he slid through the doorway. "Beg to differ, friend."

The skull-faced one's eyes went to the filing stone Ferant still held in his leathered hand. "You wanna put that down?"

Ferant complied. Dropped the porous rock in the mud. "Look, sirs. I'll happily fill your bellies and your waterskins. But I still got many chores to get to before—"

"Let's take it inside, cowhand," said Skullface but Ferant remained frozen. "C'mon, let's move."

The farmer willed time to stop on its axis but of course it did not. Only groaned on in harsh negligence. Ferant lowered his head and went inside. He expected nothing good and was right.

— • —

Thirteen and Vulture had been sent ahead to scout, as Blacwin was still recovering and not fit for that duty. The pair of jackals now sat with this family of homesteaders at their dinner table as if gathered for a holiday feast. Their unwitting hosts were all pale and silent. They had been short a chair and rather than let them bring in another Thirteen forced the daughter to sit on his lap. She was perhaps twenty years of age. Hardy from life on the frontier but next to what these Reapers had seen of late, she was a perfumed doll.