The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  She smiled as fresh screams rose. Eight victims, as many men as women, all naked to the wind. Eight who would writhe and shriek and then weakly whimper through the rest of this day and into the next. Each was suspended above a lance, ropes comfortably holding them in position. Those who had not yet begun their impaling could not escape their fate. Bags filled with a carefully measured weight of sand acted as counterweights to the suspended guilty. A small bucket dangled from a rope tied to their feet. Every so often, perhaps once every half hour, perhaps less often, an executioner added a small stone to the bucket, resulting in a gradual impaling, delightful to see and hear. With proper attention, a skilled executioner could make a victim live for hours after the lance's point exited out of mouths thrown back in agony, creating the perfect angle for the wooden shaft.

  A noise attracted her attention, a faint clink. Changing the direction of her gaze, she studied the half-naked slave who placed an iced drink in the holder on her chair. Maldane snarled at the young woman's clumsiness. The slut should have known better than to make a noise. A slave's place was to serve, not to draw attention to their disgusting presence.

  Cringing, the slave trembled in seeming fear, and yet some part of her remained defiant, and Maldane did not understand why. After all, the slave's left arm was a withered horror, bearing the pale white and angry red scars of her burning. Two fingers on her right hand were bent and twisted from healing without the benefit of being set. By now the woman should have learned her place.

  The Tyrant scowled at the sight of that hand. Further damage to the remaining hand would make this slave worthless. By Nefran law, worthless slaves were killed; only this one could not die by Sarena's orders.

  "Stand up," she ordered.

  The woman slowly rose, exuding a satisfying stench of fear. She stood before her empress, trembling, frightened, maimed, and still proud. Maldane cursed. The woman's face remained smooth, her belly flat, and her pert breasts begged to be stroked. The sight of those breasts and the desire they instilled made Maldane's scowl grow deeper. Her breasts had never been as lovely as these.

  "Open your mouth." she ordered

  The slave's lips slowly parted. Maldane impatiently waited, vowing this recalcitrance would only add to her punishment.

  No. The mouth was worthless. It held wooden teeth and no tongue. Thinking on the matter, Maldane vaguely remembered ordering those punishments to be applied to this slave or perhaps to another. Both plentiful and replaceable, slaves tended to blend together.

  "Close your mouth and turn around."

  This time the slave responded even slower. The Tyrant nodded to Eldrach. Moving forward, he grabbed the woman's shoulder. A sharp wrench completed her turn and dropped her once again to her knees.

  Maldane's ire grew. The woman's back was a horror of twisted scars, leaving very little meat behind. Further damage here could also make the slave worthless.

  Decision made, the Tyrant nodded.

  "Burn her breasts off," she told Eldrach. She smiled, surprised at her mercy. Those breasts were small things despite their exquisite beauty. The palm of her hand could cover one, so the burning should not be too great an ordeal.

  "As you order." Eldrach snapped a salute, hauled the wretched creature upright, and shoved her toward one of his men. "See to it."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Calmly lifting her cup of hot herbal, Maldane took an experimental sip. She held the liquid in her mouth, sensing the feel of it, dividing its various chemical compounds into their individual components.

  She nodded with satisfaction. It was good, slightly bitter with a touch of honey, exactly the way she liked it. Most importantly, it was not poisoned. Her Talent, multiplied by the strength of the Stone set into her ring of office, told her that much.

  She frowned, driving deep crevasses into her cheeks. Wrinkled valleys formed at the corners of her mouth. Too much of this day had been wasted on pointless trivia. Pleased with her hand's steadiness, she set the cup back into its holder without making a noise. Allowing her displeased frown to deepen, she laid her gaze on Eldrach.

  "Who is next?"

  Pulling a scroll from his belt, he unrolled it. A pretentious act, she knew, because he had never learned to read. Eldrach's grandfather, she recalled, had also employed the ritual.

  "Helina Trivostich petitions you for the release of her only daughter from servitude to your Mightiness. Her daughter, one Yolan Trivostich, is the last heir of her bloodline. Despite her young age, Helina's health is failing. Her doctors say she has less than a year to live. Without Yolan, Helina fears she will have nobody to bequeath her estate to."

  "Isn't this Yolan the one who thought to correct me yesterday?" the Tyrant asked. "The one who said our finances are in disarray.

  "Yes."

  "Does the girl still live?"

  Eldrach looked out the window. "For the moment," he answered. "However, the condition will soon be remedied. She presently wears about nine inches of lance."

  "Set Helina on the stake next to her daughter. Tell her it's the crown's mercy to prevent Yolan from an even slower death. After the screaming starts, thank her for contributing her estate to the crown's treasury."

  Eldrach nodded to the guard standing near the throne room doors. She cracked the door open, began to whisper through the small opening, and then staggered back as the door was thrust into her. Another guard sprang forward, a sword rising in her fist, only to stop in her tracks.

  The guard's sword slowly found its way into her sheath as her partner caught her balance and came to attention. Eldrach and the other guards assumed the same pose. Only the three courtiers and the Iruptk ambassador did not follow suit.

  "General Palac Urlanda and guest," Eldrach intoned as the head of all Nefra's armed services stalked into the room, followed by an older, white-haired man who looked upon the room with supreme arrogance until his gaze fell on Maldane. Seeing her, his eyes lowered and his head bowed.

  Palac made a sharp gesture, silently demanding everyone not in his command leave. Taking their cue, the courtiers and the ambassador left.

  "Palac, has he been searched?" the Tyrant demanded as he and the white-haired man stopped before her. She held out a rheumy hand for his kiss. To his credit, Palac did not pause before setting his lips to the thing.

  He stepped back. "Every device has been removed from his body."

  She lowered her hand, pointedly slighting the Master of the Assassins Guild by refusing him the opportunity to kiss her knuckles. "Master," she said. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Are you here to inform me of your success?"

  "It is unfortunate, but I am not."

  "They failed," Palac said abruptly. "Again. I found him waiting outside trying to drum up the nerve to give you the news personally."

  Sighing, Maldane looked on the aging master.

  "We protected you," she said. "We allowed you to hunt our lands and the lands of our neighbors. Nefra has been the home of your guild for more than four centuries."

  "Majesty, I know this. Your reign has been beneficial to my order, though we have often repaid you with service. It is only because of your long support I personally came to inform you of our failure."

  "Turner is Nefra's sworn enemy," she reminded him. "We are a small country and vulnerable. The Chin Empire dwarfs our numbers even in its present unrest." She drummed her fingers on her seat's arm. Nefra's feud with Turner began when the master's assassins botched their first attempts on Turner's life at a time when Aaron Turner had not been so important. Not yet an emperor, he had been a gnat almost too small to notice. How unfortunate Clack had brought him to her attention with demands of Turner's death.

  Lifting her infusion, the Tyrant drank half of it down before putting the cup back in its place, again without a clink. "How many?" the Tyrant demanded.

  Scowling, he raised one hand in supplication. "Your question is not easily answered. I have emptied our halls for your quest. My people are scattered, each waiting for Turne
r to return to one of his past haunts. I do not know how many still wait."

  "How many do you have sure proof of failure?"

  "Thirty-two of ours," he reluctantly admitted. "Turner's money hired good security, and his habits are unpredictable. At least thirty-two of my best died while attempting this task, and several from other houses. I have only one left in this hunt ranked higher than journeywoman." His frown grew deeper. "I must ask you to forgive us this task."

  "Palac?"

  "Majesty?"

  "How are our plans progressing?"

  "Thirty thousand volunteers have gathered," he answered. "Seven thousand from Nefra. Twelve thousand come from Halimut and Iruptk. They cry for the blasphemer's death and the destruction of his empire. They are a mob, and nobody can now contain them."

  "Has Sarena given word for their release?"

  "Yes," he answered simply.

  "Thank you." Turning her attention back to the master, she said, "It seems the Turner problem will be taken care of without your guild's help. You are released from this charge."

  He relaxed. His deep frown became less concerned. "Your wisdom is honored above all others."

  "As it should be. I've lived enough years to have the practice," she told him before leaning forward. "Master, I have another problem. The world is changing, becoming smaller and less forgiving. We've approached other powers with the idea of forming an alliance. Some expressed an interest, but indicated they are unhappy with Nefra's support for your guild. We feel our acceptance into world affairs will be more immediate if we dismantle the guild and imprison all its practitioners." She smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, the imprisonment won't be forever. In a decade or two I'll reestablish your ancient tradition."

  The master's face flickered from shock and dismay into a mask of calm acceptance. "If it is your Majesty's wish, then it will be so. With your permission, I will depart to prepare my brethren."

  "Permission denied," she said. "We fear your chapters will go underground like they have in times past. The records show your calling has never been successfully eradicated."

  She gestured. An archer fired.

  Whist

  The master's fist clenched an arrow, its point less than an inch from his chest. The eyes he turned on the Tyrant were hard, serious, and deadly. Any hint of an obsequious manner was completely subsumed by anger.

  "Not very wise," he said softly.

  "No," the Tyrant agreed. "They should have known better than to fire only one arrow." Her hand gestured again.

  Ten arrows streaked through the air. Hands blurring, the master released the one he held as his body dodged others, knocking more than a few from the air before their wickedly sharp points could enter his body. She thought the master amazing. Even at his advanced age, he was a symphony and joy in action as he pulled arrows from the air while heading toward the doors. Upon reaching them, he stole one guard's sword and used its edge to kill her. Spinning on his heel, he flung the sword into the other guard's chest. Off to the side, two archers lay on the floor, dead from arrows the master had thrown back at them. As the right hand door opened to the master's insistent pull, an arrow swished past his defense, entered flesh, and sank deep.

  "Oomph"

  Another struck him, driving into his side. He staggered through the door before a third cut through his spine. Falling to the floor, the master lay still.

  "Inspect him," Maldane ordered.

  "He is dead," Palac Urlanda informed her moments later.

  "Yes," she agreed, her voice thin. "So am I." Looking down her body, she saw half an arrow's length protruding from between her flaccid breasts. "I never suspected he could throw so hard."

  "Tyrant!" Urlanda cried, his face twisted.

  She turned her eyes once more out her windows, seeing through the growing fog that the Trivostich woman had just now been hung from the ropes. Both Trivostichs, mother and daughter, would be dead by the next day. Earlier, the Tyrant had taken enjoyment from this fact, not realizing her own death would come sooner.

  * * *

  General Palac Urlanda watched his Tyrant's eyes glaze over. She slumped deeper in her seat, lying like a broken, bloody doll. Used, wasted, and hollow, the feathered end of an arrow quivered from where it stuck out of her chest.

  He frowned and wanted to cry. The Tyrant had been a permanent fixture in his life since his first breath, just as Maldane had been there for his father and his father's father. Her hand had held Nefra's reins for so long Nefra's history no longer recorded a time when she did not rule.

  A hollow ache filled his gut, and his fingers trembled at the enormity of what had been done. Fear, he knew, would have placed him on his knees if he were not driven by grim purpose.

  "By the Gods," Eldrach whispered, stunned horror written across his face. The man tried to swallow twice before succeeding. "He threw it."

  Palac took a slow survey of the room, being sure to include the balcony with his regard, counting seven dead and no wounded. Only two had been killed by a sword. The others died from thrown arrows. For perhaps the first time ever, he agreed with Eldrach. He, too, had not known a person could be killed by a thrown arrow. He was not unhappy it had proved true. The visible proof of multiple victims along with eyewitness accounts would make matters flow smoother.

  He looked once more to the balcony. Yance, his cousin twice removed, stared back. Only they knew the arrow in Maldane's chest had been fired from a bow.

  "What will happen to us now?" Eldrach asked. Two of the still living guards openly sobbed. "Who'll run Nefra."

  "Yorlanda," Palac ordered the guard who seemed to own the most self-possession. "Inform the advisors of the Tyrant's death. They will hold a session of the council to determine a temporary regent. Eldrach."

  "Sir?"

  "Go outside and remove the survivors from the stakes. Dispatch those who have no hope of recovery. Send the others to the physicians."

  "The Tyrant would never condone such an action."

  "The Tyrant is no longer in charge," Palac said bluntly. "Until the advisors say differently, I am. Do not mistake me. I loved her dearly, but many of her practices will not continue." He thought of the slave girl whose breasts had been ordered burned off. It was fortunate for her the order had been given to another of his cousins. Otherwise, it would already be too late to stop the atrocity.

  He looked once more to the still figure of the Tyrant. Maldane's remaining color was gone. Her eyes were open, staring, and his nose said her sphincter had released its hold. The ring of office was large upon the Tyrant's finger, but its Stone was missing. Where the Stone had once resided only gray powder remained, spilling across the back of her hand.

  She had been old, his Tyrant, too old, her perspective lost long years before along with her judgment. If he had not acted upon the combined order of the Nefran advisors and a ghostly voice who gave orders within Palac's dreams, Maldane would have driven his beloved country to ruins.

  Because of Aaron Turner and because of a nameless slave.

  Nobody, General Palac Urlanda and the council had discovered, ever successfully opposed the political and financial machine built by Turner. He and the advisors had not been willing to chance Nefra breaking the man's long string of successes, no more than the Tyrant's advisors had been willing to defy orders from an unknown and incorporeal woman. Only two nights past, she appeared to each of them while they slept. She did not blaze with glory. She did not fill their dreamers with fear. She was only there, floating before them, emitting a holiness greater than anything they had encountered before.

  "My Most Favored has survived her forging and now serves a greater purpose," the woman said. "See to it she suffers no further indignities from Nefra."

  Less than twenty words, but they weighed heavy, so heavy more than a few advisors thought another Talent Stone had been found and a new Tyrant created. Others whispered the word 'god', and a few ascribed the visitation to be no more than a shared a bottle of bad wine. To Palac, the
reason did not matter. The slave would gain her freedom after being escorted to Nefra's borders. Be the visitation a new Tyrant, a god, or only a bad bottle of wine, Palac did not want to risk angering the apparition for a slave likely to soon die, not when he needed to consolidate power and redirect Nefra in a direction less likely to piss Turner off.

  Chapter 14

  At ten fifty-four in the morning, Autumn received a flash of precognitive knowledge while riding her runabout in an attempt to make herself scarce. Of late, the only tasks Mister Grebfax gave her were ones which kept her hands attached to the end of a shovel. The last thing she wanted to do was to fill in the holes and trenches outside the university walls, not when installing her father's sprinkler systems had torn up so much territory. So many pipes had been laid down that earth was being hauled away to keep the ground somewhat level. Necessary work, she supposed, but not for her.

  Autumn also hated the thought of spending hours scraping away dirt inside the cave a few grains at a time, another job she avoided. On top of that, the Gods knew she was more than tired of drawing and coloring copies of the cave paintings. In order to escape anything resembling duty, she had woken early in the morning and ridden out on her runabout to discover if any secrets remained to be found around New Beginning.

  The vision first struck her when she crested over the top of a low hill on a downward trail leading to the river. Its strength was astounding. Everything around her faded away. Unable to see, she stopped the runabout. Even the bright sun in the cloudless sky disappeared amid a myriad of images.

  When the vision ended, Autumn turned her runabout around and leaned into her work, stroking furiously at the pedals, hopping she would not be too late. She was less than a mile from the cave. Three minutes hard work if her strength held out on these hills.