by Mark Eller
"No more than I want to talk to him," Aybarra rejoined as he neared. His breathing seemed slightly heavy. Still a large and powerful man, there was no denying he was much closer to sixty than to fifty. Three years earlier his hair had contained shades of salt and pepper. It was now salt without pepper. "Aaron, we have problems." He nodded toward the heads. "I want you to get a look at these."
Closing his eyes, Aaron ground his teeth. He slowly opened them while mentally reminding himself none of this was Aybarra's fault. He had no reason to snap at the man, but damn if he didn't feel like snapping at somebody.
"I," he said pointedly, "have been trying to do just that for some while now. It's becoming a rather prolonged endeavor. Do you know who killed them?"
Aybarra nodded. "Yeah."
"Arrest the killers and bring them up on charges," Aaron ordered, feeling irritable because his reaction to the heads was mild to what he would have experienced only a few years earlier. He didn't like knowing he had become inured to death. Frowning, he focused on Aybarra. "I thought I made it clear I won't tolerate raiding."
He pushed his way through the crowd of mostly young bolg. Flies crawled over dead flesh. The three females could not have been chorai for more than a year or two. He doubted the oldest was more than sixteen. Deep scars disfigured their faces. A small cuneiform tattoo rested on the left cheek of each. Looking into their dead, sightless eyes, he felt nausea build but fought the sickness away.
The fourth head belonged to a male, and its owner had been old for a Chin. His skin was darkly tanned and sun wrinkled. Most of his head scars were white and faded. Dark haired and dark eyed, something about the fellow's face spoke of barely restrained violence and cruelty.
Aaron often found it difficult to place an age on his damaged people, but he thought this man might have lived to the end of his third decade.
"Arresting the guilty people might be a little awkward," Aybarra said. His hand rested reassuringly on Aaron's shoulder. Aaron fought an urge to shrug it off. Aybarra had assumed the role of Aaron's mentor after Helmet Klein's death--a duty Aaron strongly felt Aybarra had no need to take. Still, the man was a friend and loyal, even if he sometimes acted condescending. Irritating, but Aaron didn't fully blame him. When Aybarra looked at Aaron he saw a man who might be twenty-seven instead of Aaron's actual age of forty-one.
"I don't care how awkward it is," Aaron snapped. "This is a civilization of laws, not a composite of nomadic cavemen driven by tradition and self-interest. Damn it, Samuel, I want the killers arrested!"
"I'll have to arrest myself then," Aybarra said, "since I killed two of them."
Aaron stilled. "You don't go on raids."
"Haven't yet."
"So they were the raiders. You know I won't continence lethal force in defense of a few cows."
He studied Aybarra's face, taking in the almost self-mocking features, but those features, and the flip attitude Aybarra showed, masked something going on deep inside.
"We didn't kill them for the cattle," Aybarra said quietly. "We killed them for the chorai. We have six dead and another three wounded. Lost a glorai too. She was the first one to reach the chorai. These four speared her several times before I had a chance to shoot two of the bastards. Our people got the other two, but more than three dozen escaped. Some limped."
"Gods, no," Aaron whispered.
"See the tattoos? Right there above their eyes?"
"I noticed."
"Those tattoos say these folk belong to the Sherram tribe. Now I may not know everything about these plains, but I do know the Sherram are not supposed to be anywhere near here. Their special bit of grass is several hundred miles to the east."
Aaron stayed silent, taking in the awful truth, refusing to believe, but having no choice.
"Something else I know," Aybarra added. "Those Sherram, they answer to Bill Clack. They were one of the first tribes to follow him."
"I remember," Aaron answered. "I hoped he'd be satisfied with his lot."
"He's not," Aybarra said simply. "Clack wants it all."
Aaron nodded, once more taking in the heads. They hadn't changed in these last moments, but they suddenly seemed to have a more sinister appearance. Their slack features spoke of gray clouds and dark times, and this filled him with dread.
"Show me the wounded."
"Hoped you would ask."
"I'm not Heralda," Aaron reminded his friend, "but He resides in me, too. I can help them a little."
Sighing, Aaron searched within. The pure soul cleansed by The One God three years earlier was gone. He had taken too many harsh and unforgiving stands during his reign as emperor. He had ordered too many punishments and more than one death. The once holy clarity was now sullied and gray, but beneath the muddiness there existed a still place where a tiny bit of The One God waited.
"He loves you as His own," Aybarra said simply. Not a trace of irony showed in his voice.
Alarmed, Aaron studied the man and saw more than the simple respect Aybarra owed his emperor. Aybarra's eyes reflected religious awe. "You, too?" he asked sadly, but he asked in a whisper too low for the man to hear.
* * *
Gondala was not much older than eleven. Aaron had never spent much time with her, but he did remember the girl being bright and curious. She was known as a dancer with a singing voice more mature than her years. She had also been an anomaly within the tribe because her body had been almost completely unmarked by scars, pocks, or the signs of badly healed broken bones. Aaron remembered feeling proud because, in his empire, Gondala actually had a chance to grow into a beautiful woman.
Sadly, this was no longer true. Her long tresses had been cut away from a two inch across, circular indentation of shattered bone on the upper left side of her skull. Her eyelids were half-open, and her normally expressive eyes were rolled up into her skull. Gondala's breathing sounded short, shallow, and uneven.
Thinning his lips, Aaron fought the knot forming in the back of his throat. He was a harder man than he had once been, but his callousness had not reached the point where he remained unaffected by a child's dying breaths.
Seeming impassive, her two mothers silently watched. Their faces were only slightly upset as they looked on the end of yet another of their children.
"She will be dead before night," said Macine, one of the better healers Aaron had seen. She was not nearly as good as a Talented healer with a Stone, but healing had proved to be an elusive Talent. Even after years of searching, no replacement had been found for Doc Gunther after he left Last Chance.
"The One God will take her to His bosom," Macine continued. "Gondala will cling to Him, and she will look down on us and be sad because our time on this earth is not yet finished."
"No," Aaron said. He looked to Aybarra and Patton and spoke Chin so everyone would understand. "Clear the tent. Clear everybody out."
"It is our duty to watch her die," Lo Mun, the elder mother, said.
Aaron knew his face looked still and calm though he felt anything but calm while he reached within himself to gather scarce resources. "She won't die. I won't allow it."
The mothers nodded shortly. With Patton's urging, they left. Macine stayed behind, eyeing Aaron doubtfully as she ran one hand gently across the child's cheek.
"You have to leave," Aybarra told her.
Macine ignored him. Her gaze fastened on Aaron.
"She will live?" Macine demanded.
"I'll not allow her to die," Aaron assured her. He remembered her earlier words on The One God. Macine was one of Heralda's converts, one of a growing number among the tribes. "The One God does not want her to die."
Her guarded expression eased. Satisfied, she allowed Aybarra to take her arm.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" Aybarra asked.
"Alone," Aaron insisted. He shuddered. "Don't let anyone or anything into the tent until I come out." He paused. "Except Zisst. If Zisst comes, let it in. Don't do anything else no matter how many hours this tak
es."
Unsatisfied but obedient, Aybarra gave one short nod. He took the healer with him when he left.
Alone with the child, Aaron laid the palm of his right hand against her chin and right cheek. For him, no glory existed in using the One God's Power, no joy and no pain. Indeed, he felt no emotional sensation at all. There was nothing…only there was.
Forcing his will, Aaron laid his other hand across Gondala's wound and opened the interior barriers which were natural and permanent parts of his defense. Because the Power constantly sought freedom, he used little effort to release it. To the contrary, most of Aaron's effort was to constrain, not to contain.
Aaron encouraged the Power to flow down his arm and trickle out his hand. Seeping into the girl, it flowed through her head, back into his other hand, and circled through his body to enter her once more. Time after time, the circuit repeated. Each time the girl's body absorbed a small part of its force. Beneath Aaron's hand, her spongy skull firmed, the girl's breathing calmed. Around Aaron, the world wavered.
Feeling depleted and hollow, he pulled his hands away, straightened, and slumped. His knees trembled, folded, and he fell across the child's body while his thoughts swirled. Vision blurring, Aaron used his little remaining strength to push himself off Gondala and fall to the ground, belly down, too weak to roll over.
Feeling helpless, Aaron lay quiet, weak and drained, silent and waiting.
Two hours passed before Zisst nosed its way into the tent. Low and squat, the beast looked like a furry purple pancake as it waddled toward Aaron.
"Hey, buddy," Aaron whispered, reaching out with a trembling hand.
Zisst nosed his fingers. "Perrrteet."
"I know," Aaron replied. "I shouldn't do these things unless you're around."
When Zisst opened its mouth, fangs dropped into view. Leaning forward, it sank the fangs into the heel of Aaron's hand.
The bite hurt like hell, but Aaron refused to groan.
Zisst's throat pumped. Its rounded ears lay low on its head, and something entered Aaron. Something impossible. Something real. Seeping into his body, spiritual energy refilled his empty reservoir, giving him strength, but not enough. Growling low, Zisst pushed forward, leaned into Aaron's hand, and its throat pumped harder, shoving more of its essence into Aaron until the pain grew so great he wanted to scream. Finally, reservoir topped, his flesh began filling. Shuddering, Aaron moaned as sweat burst from his skin.
It was over.
Zisst withdrew. Its body thickened, grew taller, more muscular, and its purple fur became black, brown, and blue.
Aaron rose, feeling strong with the One God's energy, with His spiritual strength, Where Zisst was the One God's Servant and Avatar on earth; Aaron accepted his role as the God's Receptacle and Voice. After years of trying, he could no longer deny he was Chosen. He was Bringer. He was Death.
Sometimes, if he listened closely, he could almost hear Delmac, the Isabellan Clansman, laughing.
Chapter 2
Aaron transferred into his office inside Billowsby Manor in the country of Jutland. The office was simple and sedate, one of the few sedate things left to him. All that resided within these four walls were a few books set on mostly empty shelves, his mahogany desk, two plush chairs, and a wastebasket. As offices went, his was an inadequate presentation for an important man, which was how Aaron wanted it. This was one place where he knew he would be left entirely alone. He sometimes needed a place where people did not want to pull one more small piece of flesh from the thing called Aaron Turner.
A simple office in an almost forgotten corner of the manor, here he could sit, think, and forget. Aaron wanted to forget a lot. However, he had no time for moping about. Things needed doing. Saying goodbye to his small sanctuary, he drew in a deep breath and opened the office door. Welcome to hell.
"Good evening," the right hand guard instantly said. Tall, heavily built, with coarse features and short, dark hair, her body type was one he saw far too frequently inside the manor. Gone were the lazy days when it was staffed only by octogenarians. The old staff, those who hadn't been murdered when Autumn was kidnapped on a day he'd never forget, had been moved to a new home where they could enjoy retirement.
Aaron frowned. Truthfully, he missed the old crew, but this arrangement was likely better for them. Billowsby Manor was no longer the laid-back residence of a gentle merchant. Since his inheritance of an empire, it had become Aaron's command center. Guards stood in every hallway and in every room accessible from the outside. Other guards wandered the grounds. The "civilian" residents, most of who actually worked for Amanda Bivins, carried permanent identification and went through several identity checks every day. The 'non-civilian' residents were his personal advisors, his military personnel in training, and the many guards he hired to insure the people living in his home were secure.
"Good evening," Aaron told the guard, pausing momentarily to lean against the wall. Zisst had done its job well. The empty places were filled, but the emptying and filling had not happened without cost. His legs still felt weak. If he were not careful, his knees might fold when he walked. Even though the spaces were filled, his spirit felt drained. Past experience said it would take one or two nights for the One God's spiritual strength to migrate from those special spaces to his true incorporeal self, which was fine. A little weakness was a small price to pay for a child's life.
"Sir?" the other guard inquired.
"Just resting," Aaron told her. "Where's my daughter?"
"She hasn't been down this way. It's too late for her to be in the dining room, so it's possible she's in her study. I'm told she's spent a great deal of time there lately."
"She isn't eleven anymore," Aaron noted, remembering a girl who, a few years earlier, hated books more than almost anything else.
"No, sir, she isn't," the guard agreed. "Fourteen now, though she doesn't look it. Still a hellion when the mood takes her."
"No kidding," Aaron muttered. Pushing away from the wall, he nodded to the left-hand guard. "Go round up my council and send them to the war room."
"Yes, sir."
The war room was located in the central hub and up a flight of stairs. At one time, it had been a small gym; a room where Harvest Patton taught his students the art of hand to hand combat. The room now contained a large oval table with twenty-four chairs placed evenly around it. Most of the chairs had never been used, a temporary condition. With hostilities renewed, he would have to flesh out the council. For one, he might need to bring Ard Chuk here. According to Aaron's advisors, Ard was the closest person he had to a Chin general. Aaron had to take their word for it. Ard had proven his loyalty, but had not yet had an opportunity to show his competence.
The war room's walls were covered with maps and charts. Most were incomplete and inaccurate, but they were the best Aaron's money could buy, which made them better than anything Clack owned.
Clack, Aaron reflected, might have people who were more loyal. He might have better trained troops. He might even have better weapons since a good deal of the ammunition Helmet Klein had hoarded disappeared with Clack's breakaway tribes, but by the One God, Aaron Turner had maps.
He took his seat and waited.
Only a few moments passed before Missy arrived. Her face appeared tight, worried, but she gave him a quick peck on the darkened impression of Heralda's kiss which marred the corner of his mouth. Her face lightened momentarily before she hurried halfway around the table to take her seat. Missy barely sat down before Mac Harris, an aging mercenary who could speak Chin, entered the room. Next came Salmae and Zelda Rumsfeld, sisters who were too slight and too hesitant to be used in the field, but that was not what they were for. Even though Aaron had been militia trained in small group tactics, he was not proficient at war, especially hit and run tribal warfare. Still, he knew an army needed supplies to be effective. The Rumsfeld's were experts at supplying.
Martha Heins and Sedan came after. Aaron was not yet sure which niche Martha would fil
l, but he knew the head on her shoulders thought circles around most people, and she claimed to have seen serious combat in several wars.
Sedan, a middle aged woman, was one of his strategists. For the past year, her job had been to study the maps to determine exactly where the best places were for Aaron to attack Clack. She had already presented him with several plans for sweeping campaigns which were, she said, guaranteed to win any battle or war--just so long as the enemy cooperated with those plans.
Frowning, Aaron wished war was a predictable business. Until actual battle occured, he was limited to guessing about the capabilities and training of Clack's warriors, and guesses weren't good enough.
No others arrived. The rest of his inner circle, Linsey Talpass, Felena Denge, and Renford were not presently on the premises. Like Mac Harris, they all spoke Chin. Aaron intended them to be field advisors or even commanders if the Chins would accept outsiders.
Looking around the room, Aaron hoped he had the right people on his side. They were mixed bag, but they were the best he could come up with. He hoped they were good enough. The war's outcome mostly depended on them. Aaron would be little help. His main duties were to coordinate people and provide transportation.
"It looks like everyone's here," he finally said, "We might as well get started."
"Sir," Harris spoke up. "Before we begin, I need to inform you another assassin has been caught on the premises. This one hid in the attic rafters. She had food and water and sanitary facilities set up so she was prepared to be patient. If it were not for Miss Bayne using her Talent, the woman might have succeeded."
Aaron nodded wearily. "That's what, four in the last three years?"
"Six inside the manor," Harris corrected. "Two others were caught on the grounds before they got inside, so you probably weren't told about them, and of course, there are the ones you caught inside Chin, Effra, and Isabella, but you already know about those."
