The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Penfrost swallowed. "You are lying."

  Aaron nodded. "Yes, Mister Penfrost, I am. You just go on believing that. I want you to absolutely know that I lied while you are assigned to midnight sewer duty, unless I can come up with something worse." His eyes caught Penfrost's. Sweat trickled down the man's cheeks. "Do yourself a favor. Don't wear your good clothes to work tomorrow."

  Penfrost licked his lips. "I suppose I could send a page with an inquiry."

  "Do that," Aaron said. He mentally wiped his brow and said three prayers to the Lady while Penfrost summoned a page and sent her on her errand. After an extended wait, the young page finally returned. She handed a very white envelope bearing three very silver seals over to Penfrost, who warily broke the seals and pulled forth a thick, embossed card. He turned slightly pale as he read it.

  "Please show Mister Turner to his meeting," he told the page and turned his attention back to Aaron. "Sir, it seems your presence is desired. My apologies for any misconceptions or misunderstanding that I may have had."

  Smiling thinly, Aaron felt cold and dirty inside. The man's attitude had become obsequious. Aaron wanted to give him an encouraging pat on the back, but that was not how this game was played.

  Gods, he hated politics.

  "Mister Penfrost," he said icily. "In the future you will remember that your purpose is to serve. You are not the arbiter of the assembly's will. You are merely a messenger and an expediter. You, sir, are a servant. Do not forget that again. I will see you destroyed if you try to thwart me even one more time."

  "Yes, sir." Sweat burst from Penfrost's brow.

  * * *

  Aaron frowned when he saw Delmac dressed in rough wool, a spear in one hand, a bow with quiver slung across his back. He had a foot-long knife hanging at his side. The eyes he focused on Aaron were filled with interest and dislike and necessity.

  "You are assuming a great deal," Aaron told him.

  "I have cleared my schedule for the next month. If necessary, Tremon can clear it for another. These people," Delmac made an all encompassing wave with one arm, "they know I will be gone. I am ready."

  "It's a long walk."

  Delmac snorted. "Do you think I do not know? I was there when you stole the Messiah from us. I once looked down the hole of your weapon and saw you steal the Master into the air. I am ready to go. Take me."

  "Take you where? The new lands are large."

  "There is a place where the pass opens onto our land. The Freelorn are there."

  Aaron slowly closed his eyes in silent self-scorn. It made sense. The Thirty Clans were a defeated but still-defiant people. Of course Isabella would have created a fort in the opening of Banner's Loop. Guarding the pass was the only realistic way to ensure the clans made no unexpected raids into Isabella proper. It was only natural for the clans to build their own encampment in the same area. They would want to keep an eye on what came through the pass.

  "Who," Aaron asked, "are the Freelorn?"

  Delmac drew himself up. "They are my clan, my people. They are the preem--preem--." He paused in confusion, searching for the right word in his imperfectly acquired new language.

  "Preeminent," Aaron supplied. "It means the most important."

  Delmac nodded. "Yes, the most important of the clans. Freelorn nomads were first chosen to deal with you outsiders. The Freelorn in the village of Telven have agreed to represent the settled parts of the Clan. Now, take us to the pass."

  Aaron focused on Delmac. "I know of a place that's only a two-hour walk from there." He gestured. "Delmac, I'm only going to say this once. You are not to tell anyone how I travel. I'll know it if you do, and you won't like what happens to you afterward."

  Delmac braced himself and gripped his spear tighter. His eyes were hard and defiant. "I will tell my people what they need to know. You may try to do to me what you will, but the doing won't be easy, and at most, I can only die."

  So much for that idea. The man was wary, but Aaron doubted Delmac knew fear. He caught a vague memory of the day when he crouched outside a tent to listen to those inside. Could it have been Delmac who had stated that the clans would drive the invaders to the sea and then all the land would be Clan? This man was angry and defiant, and apparently, ambitious. What was he doing as an ambassador to Isabella? Wasn't it an ambassador's job to promote peace in a sensible manner? As Aaron recalled, Delmac was not a peaceful man.

  "You'll do what needs doing," Aaron told him, "and so will I."

  Flicker

  * * *

  Aaron stared down the steep slope that marked the end or the beginning of the pass and wished he had never brought the heavy pack along because he would not need it. The encampment at the foot of the pass was huge, a complete town. The fort had palisade walls surrounding log buildings. Outside the walls were hide tents and long halls and many people going about their business. Beyond that, houses and plowed fields were scattered. Uprooted trees and stumps were being burned in cleared fields, the dark smoke marring the horizon.

  Looking to the fort, Aaron saw two gates-- one leading out to the rolling hills, the other opening onto the trail to the pass. Anyone intending to make the trip into Isabella had to travel directly through those gates. The fort had total and complete control of the pass.

  Grimacing, Aaron stared down the path and into the fort. The part of the pass before him was, at best, sloped at thirty degrees; a short section that angled at least forty-five degrees lay at his feet. Wagon-wide and wheel-rutted, it was a twisting path, with fifty-foot wide crevasses interrupting its journey. Beside him, permanent pulleys were fastened to thick anchored posts, evidence of the only way wagons traversed this section of the trail. Aaron looked at a downhill journey that was at least a mile, and he did not like what he saw. For the sake of the people who had ridden in those wagons, he hoped other thick posts and more pulleys were located on the way down, because anything else was pure suicide.

  His shoulder hurt, and the muscles in his back twitched. If he'd had any sense he would have asked around before putting the damned pack together.

  Well, he would call the pack's contents a good will gift to someone in the encampment, and he would just suffer on the way down this Gods-forsaken route since he really could not transfer the two of them to the bottom. The possibility of being seen was too great.

  He glanced at Delmac and saw him standing ready. Firming up his resolve, Aaron stepped onto the slope.

  A rock rolled beneath his foot. The pack upset his balance, and Aaron fell, hitting on his butt and then his side. He tumbled down the slope, hands scrambling for purchase while dirt clods bounced and flowed around him. Dust pierced his eyes. The trail curved, but Aaron's direction did not. Rolling off the trail, he crashed into a tree.

  "Haw! Haw!" Delmac roared.

  Aaron gingerly sorted out the bruised Aaron parts from the wooden parts of the tree. He tugged at something that grabbed him, but whatever it was would not let go. He tried to transfer, but he was connected to the pack, and the pack was snagged on something he could not see, so he was unable to define any parameters.

  Fuming, Aaron refused to thrash. Eventually, the laughing Delmac scrambled down the slope to free Aaron and the pack from the tangle of branches trapping him.

  Delmac's dark features were lightened and smoothed by humor. "I will carry this unneeded weight. You will find the journey much easier if you remain on your feet."

  He held out the butt of his spear for Aaron to grasp, giving a very small offer of help. Aaron reached out to grab it, paused, and stopped when the spear butt moved slightly away from his hand.

  "I can turn this spear and shove it through your heart in half a second," Delmac said calmly. "What will you do then?"

  "I will die," Aaron answered, "and then you and all your people will live without hope as you slowly wither away."

  "Never threaten me," Delmac said warningly.

  "I won't," Aaron said, "just so long as you don't threaten me." He reached out to grab th
e spear one more time. This time it remained still. He pulled himself free while Delmac smiled contempt.

  "I threaten those who I choose."

  "Don't," Aaron answered. "I'd hate having to kill you." His heart thudded with heavy fear. "Just don't."

  * * *

  Three hours later Aaron limped through wide open gates and into the fort.

  "Welcome to First Chance," a guard called down from her station on the wall.

  Shading his eyes, Aaron peered up at her.

  "First Chance?"

  "Well, sure. If the last town you saw was Last Chance, this here must be your first one. You'll need to check in with the colonel's office before doing anything else. Head straight up the street and stop at the first intersection. It's the big building on the right. You can't miss it."

  Aaron gave her a half-wave. "Thanks."

  "Doing my job. I'm here to help the good folk and to keep the savages in their place."

  Delmac stiffened, but he had the sense to remain silent. With his head bent, the pack shadowed his face and hid the bow and his spear. Aaron eyed him warily, but the prickly clansman did not react to the insult beyond a slight trembling.

  They walked only a short distance through First Chance before reaching the crossroad. The guard had been correct. The colonel's office was easy to find. It was a rough-cut building with a very large sign reading "HEADQUARTERS" across the front.

  Not sure of the reception Delmac would receive, Aaron asked the clansman to wait outside while he went in.

  He was fortunate. The colonel was not in residence. A guardsperson with sergeant's stripes on her shoulder sat at the front desk. She looked up from a ledger when Aaron stopped before her.

  "Yes," she said disinterestedly, but then her brows furrowed. Looking at Aaron with sudden intensity, she drew in a deep breath and leaned forward. "I know you. I swear I do. What name do you go by?"

  "Um, Aaron Turner," Aaron answered. He could not recall seeing this woman before.

  Her face lit up. "Aaron Turner! I knew it!" Leaping out of her chair, she rushed around the desk. Her hand grasped Aaron's in a strong, calloused grip. "You're the fellow who helped us win the war. Lord and Lady, I sure would like to buy you a drink, only we don't have any drink worth the buying. The colonel's going to bust when she hears she missed you."

  "Uh, I'll be around for a couple weeks anyway."

  He attempted to free his hand, succeeding only with a good deal of effort. The woman's enthusiasm was tremendous. Apparently, the frontier troops knew him better than did the people of N'Ark.

  "Of course, you will. I'll set you up in one of our best guest cabins in only three shakes of a moment. Just you hold on for a second." She hurried back around the desk and slid into her seat as quickly as she had left it.

  "Please don't," Aaron tried. "I have a place already arranged."

  "None as good as this. Here's the key. Cabin number twenty-two. Turn right when you leave the building and take Lake Street about halfway down."

  Aaron hesitantly took the key and stared at it, wondering what to do with the thing. He was here to look into the plight of the clans and observe how the terms of the treaty were being observed. He was not here to become buddies with the people he privately investigated.

  Shrugging, he pocketed the key and made a mental note to turn it in when he went home. The fact that they had given him a cabin did not mean he had to stay there. It only meant he had a place to store possessions he did not yet have.

  "I'll probably see you around sometime tonight," the sergeant said. "The mess is open at five. Be careful around the savages. Some of them are still not safe. Was I you, I'd be careful about the do-gooders, too. If nothing else, they're likely to evangelize you to death."

  "Do-gooders?"

  "Yeah, you know, the socially conscious. The ones who are here to improve the plight of the poor noble savages. We only have three or four of them now, but more will show up. One stupid woman is actually trying to teach the dumb beasts to read. I don't know how that idiotic project is coming along since she headed into the wild a few months ago. Hasn't been seen since. I'll let the colonel know you're here. All right?"

  "Sure." Aaron gestured vaguely before leaving the building. Delmac gave him an inquiring look.

  "That was a mistake," Aaron told him. "Let's get out of here."

  They had only one choice if they wanted to leave --straight down the street and out the gate. He started out at a brisk walk. Delmac, face set in stone, paced angrily at his side.

  Hammers pounded rhythmically in the still air. Aaron heard voices. Some laughed. Others struck out in irritation. This was a military base, but it did not seem to be a wary one. People were everywhere, but most were armed with nothing more than a hammer or saw. Dark smoke poured from the chimney of one building where the old familiar sound of a hammer striking metal told Aaron a blacksmith worked inside.

  Quick movement attracted Aaron's eye. Twisting his head around, he saw that, yes, by the Gods, even children were inside this place. Few of them had concerned parents hovering nearby, an indication that almost everyone felt secure. As far as Aaron could tell, the only defense the fort had was the thirty or so guards who stood duty at the gate and on the walls.

  The gate guards barely looked up from a board game when Aaron and Delmac approached. After one brief glance, the guards waved them along.

  They walked past the gate and out towards the Freelorn encampment. Delmac walked stiffly, his shoulders tense and braced, almost as if he expected an arrow between his shoulder blades at any moment. Only after they had traveled most of the quarter mile between the fort and the start of Clan encampment, did he relax.

  When they entered the single thoroughfare, high-cheeked brown faces stared at Aaron as if he were some alien beast. From time to time Aaron saw a white face, but those all belonged to someone wearing the uniform of the Isabellan Guard.

  Stopping suddenly, Delmac grabbed Aaron by the shoulder and turned him so they faced one another. Some of the anger had left Delmac's eyes. In its place Aaron saw a touch of a gentler spirit and softer pride.

  Delmac gestured with his free hand, taking in the tents and halls and grass and all the land out to the far reaches of the horizon in every direction but toward the mountain.

  "These are my people, and this is my home. In the Clan's name, I welcome you, Chosen of the One God."

  "Thank you," Aaron replied, not fooled for a moment. Delmac's words were fair, his voice soft and unthreatening. The pride for what he displayed was real. None of that changed the fact that, despite granting Aaron a flowery title, Delmac hated him. If Aaron died in these lands, Delmac would likely kneel in the grass and give a prayer of thanksgiving to whichever god he worshiped.

  And Aaron would not blame him. To Delmac, Aaron Turner represented the greatest threat his people had ever known.

  Chapter 11

  Saundra stood before the only desk inside a mostly empty and poorly lit warehouse. Scarred, beaten, and worn, the desk remained solid because it was made of superior oak. Through aging, it had become nearly impervious to further damage.

  The man sitting in the high-backed chair behind the desk was even harder and more impervious to further harm. His merciless eyes made Saundra shudder with combined fear and anticipation. Someday, if she were lucky, the Mister would do things to her that even she was unwilling to contemplate. A delightful thought, but until then he was only another means to further her needs. For now, she would continue her complex game of compliance, defiance, and control.

  "You failed me." The Mister's voice grated out. Beside her, Filmore stiffened.

  "I failed nothing," Saundra snapped. "I made a promise and then delivered. It's not my fault the operation was compromised. You told me to use the slavers. If you want to blame somebody, blame yourself for having faulty judgment. If you can't do that, then blame the dwarf. He dealt with that end of the operation. I was only the delivery system."

  The Mister shifted in his sea
t. Angry red canyons had been burned deep into his face. Angrier scars created raised ridges across his cheeks and forehead. She had once asked about those marks. They were, he said, the side effects of an experiment that had paid off. She knew from their beautiful nights of painful sex that those markings did not stop at his neck. Several coursed down the length of his body, wrapped around his arms, and ended just above his knees. She had lain beside him, run her fingers down the spiraling length of the deep, raised welts, and thought of the pain he had experienced. She wished it had happened to her. She wished she were free to carve into her own flesh, to tear strips of meat and skin away until she was the next thing to flayed. The experience would be delicious.

  Unfortunately, her appearance was too valuable to be changed in that way. She needed her too-innocent looks so she could successfully dupe rubes like Aaron Turner or play games with wise fools like the Mister.

  Saundra silently chuckled at the memory of the Mister's injuries. Fortunately for his ego, the damage had not affected his manhood, and that was sad for Saundra because she was unsure just how powerful her hold on him was. A willing body to vent his passions on was easy to come by for any man no matter what his physical condition. She had no true hold on him there. No, the bends in her mind were her advantage. Her mind would draw him long after her body failed to keep his attention, because he was almost as sick as she was.

  "Well, dwarf?"

  Filmore glared at Saundra as if she had betrayed him, and that was stupid. He had to know this debacle would fall on his shoulders. After all, he had been the on-site supervisor for the slave ring. He had chosen the personnel, and then he hand-picked the victims by handing out fliers and slipping inserts into newspapers. By Saundra's reasoning, allowing not one, but two IFBIS officers into the inner operation was inexcusable. The Turner operation had gone smash because the dwarf could not hold up his end.