by Mark Eller
Brenda approached openly, crouched down on her heels, and reached out a hand to lift his head by his chin. Dark, haunted eyes studied her.
"Vulture," the man said. "I know who you are. I've seen you with them. I'm telling you now, I can't stop myself from following him, but I'll have nothing to do with his killing."
"Yes, you will," Brenda told him. "If he orders you to kill, you will."
"He's no Prophet."
"No," she agreed, "but he owns a Talent Stone, and he's a Talent Master, though not a very strong one in most areas. Not as strong as he could have been."
The anguish in his eyes grew deeper. "Then there is no hope."
"I'm Brenda Montpass," she told him.
"I've enough Talent to know you lie. You were born with a different name."
"If you know that you have enough Talent to know I'm telling the truth when I say I'm here to help you." Holding out her free hand, she released his chin. Finally, she had gained his entire attention. "Here."
He took the metal ball from her hand. Curious, hopeful, his eyes silently pleaded.
"You've almost enough Talent to fight off his persuasion," she explained. "The ball will help. It's called carbon steel. The steel affects your Talent somehow. It provides something that acts like a thin barrier against persuasion. By tomorrow, you might break away."
"This is a trick," he said, visibly refusing to grasp this hope. "I know it's a trick."
"No trick," she reassured. She looked to the steel ball. "If you wanted, could you throw it away?"
"I know I could."
"Not if this was a trick. He would make sure you wouldn't want to."
Truth finally dawned, His expression cleared, showing a glimmer of hope. Already, the small bit of steel affected him. Brenda wished she had more steel balls and more people strong enough for her to help.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Do you know of anyone else who's fighting him off?" she asked hopefully, the same as she'd asked a dozen times before. In the past, the answer had always been no.
"Two. A man and a woman." He pointed to the northwest. "Over there the last I saw them. They keep to themselves." He grimaced. "Hard to do in this crowd."
Giving him a smile, Brenda touched his hand. "Thank you."
* * *
"I remember being in a tighter spot a while back," Armand said. Dusk had fallen. The air felt cool, and his bare legs bore goose bumps. It was near the end of August or the beginning of September, or maybe even October for all he knew. Either way, the temperature would only become cooler, which meant this wasn't a good time for a fellow to rip the legs off the only pants he owned. Unfortunately, they were the closest approximation he had for rope.
"Mmmph," Faith encouraged.
"Well, about six years ago, three people thought I was one of them, and we were all happy with the idea, but a fourth person, a little prick of a woman, she figured out I sorta worked for the government. She was about to blab so I had to act fast." Armand looped one end of a torn free pant leg into and around itself. A quick pull made the knot quite snug.
"Naturally," he continued as he knotted the other pant leg, "being the sort of quick witted thinker I am, I started sweet talking her, told her everything she never knew she wanted to hear. Before you could say Armand is a stud, that gal was willing to do anything I asked, and trust me, I asked plenty." He pulled the last knot tight. "Faith, me luv, have I ever mentioned how enticing you look when wrapped in ropes. We should try this in the bedroom. I'll even give you a safe word, one you're likely to forget."
"Mmmmph," she said, which made a pretty good answer for someone with a gag in her mouth. Just to keep her honest, he had also wrapped her arms and legs around a tree before tying them together. Faith didn't look comfortable, but his knots kept her from making them dead by spilling the beans. It was a fair trade.
"Fact is," he added, "this gives me some ideas I'd like to try out." Giving her a wink, he suddenly laughed out loud. She had, by the gods, winked back. The gal might be hag ridden, suicidal, and the owner of bloody lips, but it took more than that to remove the bawd from his wife!
"Sex games," he explained to the few people who watched. Borland and Lundy both sneered, so he grinned. "She likes this."
He lowered his voice. "Faith, darling, I sure hope this last whammy wears off before morning 'cause I'll have to untie you then."
"Mmmmph," she answered gamely, jerking her chin to the side.
"Naw," he said, "I'm not taking your gag out. I don't trust you yet."
"Mmmmph. Mmmph." More head jerking.
"Love, you need to be careful, or you'll bleed all over your chin."
"Mister Crowley, your wife is trying to tell you I'm looking over your shoulder."
Shock coursed Armand. Turning his head, he saw a woman standing behind him. By appearance, she was unknown, but her voice was unforgettable.
"Miss Montpass? You look considerably different from when we first met."
"I'm sure I do. After prison I paid a woman to change my appearance. As I'm sure you already know, Talent shaping doesn't last forever, but that is of no matter. What does matter is my curiosity. Do you tie up all your women or only the ones you have sex with?"
"The ones who like it," he replied, mulling over the shape shifting information. A not unheard of Talent even without a Talent Stone, but one never used lightly because of the physical toll on its creator. Somehow, Montpass had found enough money or influence after her release to convince someone it was worth weeks or even months of illness to create a temporary change.
She raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying Mistress Crowley likes being tied to trees?"
"It's is a game we sometimes play," Armand explained. "It's been a while, and Faith likes public attention, so we took the bull by the horns." He shrugged. "It's a bit of a strange one, she is, but what can I do? A fellow has to keep his wife happy."
Faith rolled her eyes, which rather upset Armand. The least the woman could do was remain in character and not damage the veracity of his brilliant tale.
"She's sitting on her backside and facing the tree," Montpass pointed out. "Can't think of many sex games you can play that way."
"We're very inventive," Armand explained.
Montpass held out a hand, showing him two very small round objects. "Take one; give the other to your wife. You both have enough Talent for these to help you fight off the compulsions." Her laughing eyes danced. "You can wait until after you've finished your game before giving Mistress Crowley hers. I'd like to see just how inventive you really are."
Snorting, Armand twisted around to face Montpass and held out his hand. "Just give me the damn things."
"They won't take full effect for a while," Montpass warned. "Wait fifteen minutes before untying her."
Taking the miniscule balls, Armand refused to grace her with an answer. Partly petulance, he knew, but also because a pressure against his skull he had not known existed suddenly eased. The compulsion to obey Prophet still rode him, but its urgency seemed less demanding. Moving closer to his wife, he knelt to settle the second ball into her hand. When Faith's fingers closed over it, a soft sigh sounded past her gag. The visible tension in her body relaxed.
Rising, Armand turned back to Montpass. Her once brown hair and eyes were now almost blond and blue. Her once long features now appeared shorter and softer.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
"You're welcome," she answered. "I'd hate for anything to happen to her. Your wife is the best racquetball player I've encountered in years." She smiled. "Of course, most of those years were spent behind bars."
Armand looked back to Faith, seeing her eyes closed in silent relief. His own compulsion seemed to fade further and further into the background, allowing him to relax his shoulders for the first time in days.
"I'll eventually want to talk to you about prison and shape changing and why you're here," he told Montpass. "Now isn't the time."
"I doubt there
will ever be a proper time," Montpass said with a smile. "My secrets are my own."
Armand nodded agreeably, but even with her blessed gift of the tiny balls, he did not trust her. Still, he owed the woman something. No, he owed her everything for the help she had given Faith.
Looking to Faith, he frowned. For a man to be so desperately in love with his wife was a terrible thing. It took away options. Hopefully, Faith would never discover the power she had over him.
Chapter 19
When Ard Chuk looked over his troops, he despaired.
They were hard people, were his warriors. They were hard and trained and committed to their cause. He felt proud and frightened because they would fight when common sense said they could only die.
Fifteen thousand people, he only had fifteen thousand warriors to win this war against Clack's forty thousand or more.
Clack had prepared for this war with greater efficiency and resolve than had Turner. Rumor said Clack's forces were drawn from every tribe owing him allegiance. Not only had the young and impulsive chorai answered Clack's call, but also the older glorai and a few yermod.
Ard's own forces were inadequate, thin, consisting of only those warriors whose tribes had been in the close environ of Turner's call. A number of the outlaying tribes were not even aware a war took place. A number of others looked to Turner for leadership but refused to enter the war out of fear for their families. A few tribes owing Turner loyalty refused to act because they were surrounded by Clack's supporters.
Three months, He needed another three months to bring a sufficient number of warriors into this conflict. Ninety days, except those days would see winter almost upon them. In three months the war would go into an unofficial hiatus. Ard Chuk's gathered troops would scatter. Come spring, he would have to go through all the work of bringing them together again.
In theory.
In truth, three months from now he and the warriors under his command would be dead because Turner's army was outnumbered, outgunned, and out thought. As far as Ard could see, the only advantage he possessed was the runabouts. They gave him the ability to run away.
Of course, the enemy now had runabouts of their own. Two thousand of them.
He sighed and wished he could bury his head in the dirt.
"How did we do this time?" he asked.
Byrse looked grim as she studied him. The long rip on her face was well scabbed over. She appeared tired, haggard, but her eyes held steady.
"Better," she answered. "We took them by surprise. Also, our people finally learned it's suicide to close in and slug it out. Our thousand struck their three thousand an hour before dawn. We killed some, wounded a great many others, and then climbed onto our runabouts and rode away as quickly as we could."
"The numbers."
"Maybe a hundred killed, two or three hundred wounded," she replied. "We lost almost as many, and most of our wounded couldn't ride so they were captured."
"If so, they're dead," Ard Chuk said wearily, feeling the depression of failure wash through him once again. It was time to face the truth. He was not the man, the general, his brother Han Chuk was. The Chuks were a family of warriors, a family of leaders, but fate now showed some were better than others. Nobody equaled his brother. Not surprising Helmet Kline picked Han as his leading general.
"It was a victory," Byrse protested.
"Maybe. If so, it cost us more than it cost them."
"Yes," she agreed, "but it's the best we've done. We're getting better."
"This only means we're dying a little slower."
"You're our general. You're supposed to inspire us," she protested.
"Am I?" Ard Chuk ran a dirty hand through his oily hair, hating the greasy feel. His scalp itched, and his clothes stunk, and he wished for a return to the peaceful days at the end of Klein's reign. Ard felt damn well sick of war. He felt sick of killing and had grown even sicker of watching people he called friends die. "Maybe my attitude should tell you something."
He looked out from his tent's open flap, seeing the fires, the gatherings. People chatted, prepared food, made their rounds, and sharpened weapons. Some wore bandages, though the number of wounded was woefully small. The wounded did not last long in this war.
These people were in denial. All of them, or most, were deluded by their faith in his ability. They did not know he was lost.
"There's no hope," a voice said. "At least not out here." A spare figure slipped into the tent and faced them.
Shocked, Ard Chuk did not know what to do. Finally, following Byrse's lead, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.
But not for long. He had to look up before he could believe the emperor stood before him.
"Majesty?" The man looked like Turner, but he stood taller, and his left hand was crabbed and twisted. "You've grown."
"The One God's will," the man answered. "Ard, we're losing this war. It's time you left the field."
"Name my successor," Ard said. "I will gladly give her the responsibility."
His emperor shook his head. "No successor. Lead our people to the city. Do you know where New Beginning is located?"
"Yes," Ard answered, feeling puzzled. "As I understand it, the city is empty except for those who build it. There are no defensive walls except around your school, and there are many buildings, many homes, where the enemy can take shelter."
"My city has defenses," the emperor reassured him. "Gather our people. Take them to the city, but do it slowly. Bring as many of Clack's forces with you as possible. Harry them. Peck at their fringes and make them angry. Fire their supply wagons if you can. Some of those wagons carry a volatile type of gunpowder. It won't take much to make a load go boom."
Ard Chuk nodded slowly. "I can do that. We'll use small groups and strike multiple places. Clack has a warrior who seems to always know where we'll strike next, but this tactic might thwart her. We can use the runabouts to escape."
"Be in New Beginning no sooner than two and no later than three weeks from now," the emperor said. "Arrange for Clack's people to arrive two days after."
"It will be done," Byrse promised. "We follow the orders of our emperor."
"Do so," Turner said, "and we might yet win."
Flicker
* * *
Crickets called loudly into the night, drowning out the sounds of people settling in, the soft footsteps of sentries, and the sound of wood crackling campfires. An owl's haunting cry echoed in the distance.
Unfortunately for Delmac, the crickets, campfires, and owl did not drown out his troubling thoughts. Unhappy with the direction those thoughts took him; he pressed his back against a tree, making his chains rattle.
"Be quiet. I'm trying to sleep."
"Quiet's difficult when I'm wearing brass," Delmac complained. "Why don't you take these things off me?" He shifted his legs around, deliberately clattering the chains. A prisoner of war, he had discovered, possessed some small power when his captor's honor demanded his trust. Lioth could do anything she desired to him, except she had promised Delmac she could be trusted. Because of this, her control was bounded by the restraints of her word. She was an honorable woman, and comely, two facts which gave Delmac difficulties.
"It's dark," he said half truthfully, because the sky remained clear and the moon bright enough for him to see her shadowed face. "A fire would be helpful."
"We are outside the perimeter," she replied. "Fire isn't allowed. Besides, I think better in the dark."
"About what?"
"About death and life and right and wrong. You're our only prisoner. The other wounded have been killed. Everyone. War isn't supposed to be like this."
"Your Emperor Clack is a hard and controlling man." Delmac noted.
"I know," she replied. "I used to think it a good thing. I thought a controlling emperor would create a strong nation."
"Your people are new at this," Delmac told her in a quiet voice. "So are mine, only I lived among these supposedly superior and civilized people f
or many years. I've read their histories. I know there's no perfect ruler for every condition. Sometimes the person needed is a tyrant; sometimes the person needed is a king log, somebody who sits back and allows matters to take care of themselves."
"Clack being the tyrant and Turner being king log," Lioth said with understanding. "Which one is right for us, for all the Chins?"
"Neither," Delmac answered. "The Chin Empire needs somebody else."
"It's what I've been thinking."
She fell silent, and Delmac drifted back to his earlier thoughts.
On the face of it, his feelings for Lioth seemed ridiculous. Though not yet old, he was certainly middle-aged, ten years from the end of his expected life span if he still lived among the clans. He was a bitter and driven man, shunned by the very people he had served. Because of this, Delmac had believed his ability to trust was gone.
But here was Lioth, his enemy. Young. Too young for him, but something in her eyes spoke of experience and wariness. They were from different cultures, different races, but her face was the first thing he looked for in the morning. Delmac hated that because his honor bound him to Turner. No matter what, Lioth was the enemy and Delmac's betrayer.
She was also much, much more. Lioth's focus was trained to such a degree she would notice a moved pebble in a gravel pit. Mystery enough for any person, but Delmac suspected she held others. A natural recluse, Lioth preferred lonesome scouting and sought no friendships among her people except for Han Chuk's, the general. Every evening, Lioth placed her and Delmac's blankets far from any others. They never slept inside the proper camp perimeter.
Delmac found this interesting. Nobody else possessed this freedom or privilege, but nobody else owned her wizardry, her ability to discover traps or follow trails. Nobody else seemed to know what others thought without words being said, and nobody else knew accidents would happen before they occurred.
Delmac had spent too much time around people owning Talent Stones not to know Lioth had strong use of her Talents without the use of a Stone. Such people, though rare, were known.
