by Mark Eller
A guard peered over the edge. Heshel joined her.
"Three's neck is broken, and there's blood, but her eyes blinked," Heshel noted serenely.
"Stick her," Prophet ordered.
Obedient, the only guard possessing a spear moved to the roof's edge. Raising her arm, she cast her spear. After a moment, she shrugged. "Missed."
"Later then," Prophet said, turning his attention back to Armand, something Armand decidedly did not want.
"Her only crime was she had become boring," Prophet said reasonably. "Imagine what I will do to a woman who deceived me. If you lead the charge, your Faith will live. She might not like her circumstances, but she will live."
"Armand! No!" Faith cried out, but she already knew his decision.
"I love you," he told her.
Prophet laughed. "Touching."
Brenda Montpass cried silent tears.
* * *
"Death to the Blasphemer! Death to the Blasphemer!"
With his lips pressed into a grim line, Armand looked at the walls. High and thick, they remained incomplete only on this one side. The stonework along the top six feet of the northwest edge lay several feet lower than anywhere else. Across the wall's length, faces peered and weapons pointed, except along one forty foot section. That section was empty of all but a few bodies, indicating to Armand the walkway behind it was not yet complete.
Drawing in a deep breath, he swallowed nervously and looked over his shoulder at the mob waiting for his orders. They appeared impatient, these five thousand. Few seemed apprehensive or frightened. Fewer still appeared as if they cared they would soon die.
Far, far back, relaxing in a chair set upon the flat stone roof of a distant house, Prophet of the Lord's small, manikin figure raised his hand in a mocking salute. Other figures stood on the roof, but Armand's eyes were only drawn to one, a stick-thin woman standing in tautly frightened lines.
"The Lord rules all!" he called out because this was part of the deal. "The Lord and His Prophet protect us."
Scowling, Armand snapped his mouth shut and turned back to the wall, back to the impossible challenge that would soon kill him.
Maybe he could lose himself in the crowd.
Raising his weaponless right hand high, he paused and then let it fall toward the ground. Wordless, because he had no heart for this, he ran forward.
The mob's roar was deafening. Ten thousand feet rumbled after him.
Armand ran ineffectively. He did not lengthen his stride. His pace continued at little more than a jog, but no one pressed on his heels. Their feet thundered a dozen paces behind him and continued to thunder behind him. Not one crusader disobeyed Prophet's orders. No matter what he wanted, Armand would lead until he fell.
Armand released a bitter laugh as bowmen on the wall raised their weapons. Hopeless, helpless, he fastened his stare on a grim faced young man. The man watched back, gauging Armand, judging him. He was the only person on the wall who did not seem to hold a weapon.
He is in charge, Armand thought. His orders will kill me.
Just to let the man know none of this was personal, Armand shrugged and held his weaponless hands out to his side as the wall's shadow rose above him. A little good will might save his life later if he were only wounded in this fiasco.
The man nodded at Armand, spoke to a woman by his side, and then raised his voice in a shout answered by two simultaneous actions. A rope ladder dropped down the wall near to Armand, and a strange hissing sounded behind his back.
Startled, he twisted around as alarmed yells and screams broke out. Seemingly from everywhere, streams of an impossibly vaporizing liquid spewed from the ground. White clouds billowed high, enveloping all but those in the mob's front rank. White tendrils drifted toward Armand, silent ghostly fingers reaching out amid a chaos of shouts, coughs, and crying. Looking closer, he saw small metal shafts poking just above the grass with vapor spewing heads attached.
Ammonia or chlorine or something entirely different Armand did not know, but he knew Aaron Turner thought further ahead than others gave him credit.
"You crafty son-of-a-bitch," he murmured just before the traitorous wind shifted.
Frightened, he jerked back toward the ladder just as air currents sent the smoky mist swirling around him. Involuntarily, he drew in a lungful and instantly coughed the wretched stuff out, having no choice but to draw it in once again as his eyes burned.
Hacking, coughing, Armand tried climbing the ladder but his legs grew weak and his head swam. He could do nothing but loop his arm over a ladder rung and twist it in the rope. Jerked upward, the ladder rose. Armand's arm felt as if it was being pulled from its socket. Skin tore from his hand when it scraped against the wall, but he was rising, the mist was thinning, and he still lived.
Hands grabbed him, pulled him over the wall, controlled him down to the walkway. Bodies gathered around. Armand's lungs burned while he coughed and coughed and coughed, trying to force the foul substance from his body. Eventually his coughing slowed, stopped. His eyes cleared. His throat felt ragged. He tasted blood.
"Don't raise me up," he managed to gasp in Jut. "Don't let them see me."
The young man calmly watched, determination etched deep into his face.
"Good," the man said. "You speak a language I know. My name is Harvest Patton, and you will tell me everything about those people. Everything. It's the only reason you're in here and not out there."
"Gladly," Armand gasped. His vision still wavered, and his mouth felt strange. He tried to spit and failed. He swallowed instead and tasted more blood. Outside the walls, voices moaned as people coughed and cried.
"Maybe a hundred dead," a Chin savage told the young man. Armand was not sure if the woman appeared satisfied or disappointed. "A few others might die from aftereffects.
"Start with your name," Harvest Patton ordered.
"I am Armand Crowley, an agent of the Isabellan Federation," Armand managed to force out between coughs. "The bastard who calls himself Prophet of the Lord has my wife, and I want to know what Aaron Turner is going to do about it."
Chapter 24
"They're after me."
Aaron rested a hand on the unfinished wall's rough surface. Frowning, he looked at the still forms scattered across the field. He supposed a hundred and eleven dead from an army of thousands was not a bad body count, not when the toll could have been so much worse. Even so, the number was far higher than he had expected or wanted. The chemical compound Linley had freighted to New Beginning inside hundreds of barrels, the chemical Aaron later loaded into the university's sprinkler system, was only supposed to incapacitate, not kill.
Five thousand enemies were now out of action. If Armand Crowley's symptoms were any indication, those thousands would be useless to this Prophet for quite some time. A week. Maybe longer. Crowley still struggled to breathe, and his vision stubbornly refused to return to normal. Crowley's reaction from a mild dose made Aaron wonder how many of those worse hit would eventually die.
Hag ridden, Talent driven, these people were here because Sarena, Iruptk's queen, wanted Aaron's head. If not for Aaron's stance against slavery, this campaign wouldn't have taken place.
"They want me," he repeated to Ard Chuk. "Is it right thousands should die so I can live?"
"You are our emperor. It is our honor to die for you," Ard said loyally, if not accurately.
Aaron pointed to the field. "I'm not their emperor."
"You did not bring them here."
Yes, I did not bring them here, Aaron said within himself. This guilt is not mine, but they are my responsibility. We are all children of the One God. I am Chosen of that God.
The word 'Yes' hummed approvingly though his bones. Looking within, Aaron sensed the reservoir of the One God's strength had become more accessible than ever before. Aaron knew he could now heal at a touch or shatter stone with a glance. He also knew, without Zisst's help, his reservoir could refill only with the passing of weeks. His strength was n
ot infinite. He must use it wisely or not at all.
"Are they gathered?" he asked.
Ard Chuk looked into the courtyard. "They are gathered."
Sighing, Aaron left off contemplating the tens of thousands who wanted him dead. His thousands waited within. "I suppose I had better get started."
Standing at one end of the university's large courtyard, Aaron surveyed his Chin army. Thousands strong, every Chin not manning the walls waited. Among them were his inner circle, his friends, and Melna, his wife.
Aaron waited, hands clasped behind his back, until the murmuring settled into silence.
"Ard Chuk," he said to the general standing half a step to his rear.
"Sire?"
"You are my witness. See to my orders. Your honor rests on this."
"Sire," Ard Chuk answered.
Aaron raised his voice so most could hear. "Melna Turner, step forward."
Pale of face, back straight, and eyes proud, Melna stepped away from the watching Chins. The corners of her lips trembled as she faced him. Watching from the front ranks, Patton's expression appeared stricken. Their concern gave Aaron some slight satisfaction. The fact he was truly happy they loved one another did not change the fact they had betrayed him. Aaron was now a godly man, but not so godly he did not want a little payback.
"Melna Turner, do you admit being untrue to your Lord Emperor and husband?" Aaron demanded. "Do you admit giving your body to the embrace of Harvest Patton, thus disgracing yourself and your husband as well as shaming the empire you serve?"
"I admit my sin." Melna said in a voice both clear and loud. "I accept any punishment my husband orders." Stubborn pride shone from her eyes.
"The laws of this land are not the laws of other lands," Aaron told the gathering. "In most of the world, an unfaithful wife must die. This is not the rest of the world. This is Chin, and a Chin male may only cast an untrue wife aside, unless his status is exalted."
"An elder's wife must die unless she is an elder," Ard Chuk reminded them all. "A war leader's wife must die. How much higher is the wife of the Chin emperor? Chin law says Melna Turner must die."
"No!" Patton choked out.
"Yes," Aaron answered. "According to the law, and because I am emperor, Melna Turner is to be staked out upon the plains with a rope of wet leather wrapped around her neck. This is the law."
Pausing, he shifted his gaze to take in most of the watchers.
"I am the emperor," he finally told them. "I write the laws. I can also change them. It is my decree an unfaithful wife of the emperor shall be his wife no more. Furthermore, it is my decision Chin is a land where a woman may divorce a husband, and a man may divorce a wife. This is the new law. Melna Turner, face your judgment!"
Bowing her head, Melna lowered her eyes. Finally, knowing Aaron would not kill her, she showed humility.
"Melna Turner, I cast you from my side!" Aaron called out. "I divorce you."
"Your wish, sire," she said with forced sadness not entirely hiding her relief.
"Leave my sight," he ordered. Melna backed slowly, turned, and started to meld with the crowd.
"Harvest Patton! Step forward!"
Melna stiffened, and a gasp of real fear broke loose. Bravely, Patton stepped forward to stand in the spot Melna had just vacated. His manner was accepting, but also angry and defiant.
"I was your friend and your benefactor," Aaron told Patton. "You were my protector, a man to whom I gave power and responsibility. A man to whom I trusted the welfare of my wife. You were all of these, and yet you betrayed me."
Patton licked his lips and glared. "I did," he said boldly, "just as you betrayed me by screwing Missy."
Aaron nodded, giving Patton the point. "But Missy is not your wife, nor your lover."
"She is not," Patton reluctantly admitted.
Aaron nodded again. "I, the Emperor of Chin, have been cuckolded by my wife and my friend. Because we are at war I must keep you nearby. I doubt the people who made me emperor will follow my orders otherwise."
After giving Patton a firm look, Aaron allowed his gaze to wander among the Chins, seeing proof his words were true. Ard Chuk returned his gaze with one of loyalty, but Aaron saw even his first general did not believe in Aaron's ability to lead.
"This war will not last forever," Aaron told them. "On the day when the enemy is defeated outside these walls, I abdicate My Throne to Harvest Patton. I will give to him the responsibilities, the headaches, and the power. It is my will that if I die before then; Harvest Patton shall inherit my throne but not my riches. All the money I own, except for five percent, shall be dedicated to the raising and the maintenance of the Church of the One God. The part withheld shall be divided between my three eldest children, Autumn, Chet, and Bret, with the understanding the love I hold for them is beyond the capacity of my body to hold."
So this is the sound of stunned silence, Aaron thought.
"I am still the emperor," he said more gently. "Nobody shall follow where I go."
With those words, he walked through the parting crowd to the barred gate on the north wall. After winching the bar free, Aaron opened the gate and walked outside to meet the man who wanted him dead.
* * *
"I don't understand how the fog hurt them."
Heshel, Faith ruminated miserably, was a woman born to be loved. It was the only explanation for how the woman managed to survive while possessing almost no capacity for thought. She considered it a terrible shame Heshel was not in charge of the crusade. She was the only person Faith knew who would make a bigger hash of this fiasco than Prophet of the Lord.
"He's dead," she whispered for the hundredth time. "My husband is dead."
Somewhere beneath the mist Armand lay dead, and it was a waste. A once potent weapon, the poisonous mist, had become useless because it was known. If Prophet's mob attacked the walls while a wind blew toward the city, the mist would present more danger to the defenders than the attackers.
Sighing, Faith wished she dared try something deadly against the man at whose feet she crouched, but now was not the time. Not when he was surrounded by armed guards. Not when chains chaffed at her wrists and ankles. Not when a leash attached to a collar fastened too tight about her neck. In short, the only part of Faith Crowley not chained by Prophet was her will. Prophet claimed he wanted to break her by means other than his Talent. When night came upon them, he promised, he would use her body before giving it to tens of others. Her ordeal, he said, would be unending but not fatal. Prophet promised he would not break his vow to Armand by allowing her to die.
Gods Armand, you gallant fool. What have you done to me?
Faith wanted to cry. She wished Prophet of the Lord would leave his seat so she could be taken off this rooftop display. They had been up here for hours. Did the man never have to pee?
Brenda Montpass shifted. Even in the depths of her misery, Faith felt sympathy for the other woman. The invisible chains around Montpass were far more solid than those holding Faith. Captured by Talent, Brenda was a tortured soul trapped in a robotic body. Misery and fury blazed from her eyes, but she had no relief for her passions. Even as she hated Prophet, Brenda carefully trimmed the short hairs at the base of his neck with a pair of barber's shears.
Prophet stiffened. "Stop!" he ordered Montpass before leaning forward. "What's happening?"
"The door opened," Heshel answered helpfully. "Somebody came out."
"Who?"
He was answered by silence.
"You!" He jerked Faith erect by the chains around her neck. "Do you know him?"
Faith looked past the thousands who would soon die, past the field where more than a hundred dead already lay, to where a figure left the wall's shadow. She peered, squinting against the lowering sun's rays, unable to see clearly but knowing who the figure was all the same.
"It's him," she said because Prophet would know the truth all too soon. "It's Aaron Turner."
"Ahhh. The prey comes to the lion. Interesti
ng. Let's watch him get torn apart."
* * *
"Han Chuk is dead," Delmac said when the other Chin emperor approached.
"He is dead," Clack agreed. "I will lead. I'm just as good a general as he ever was."
"No," Delmac said unhappily. "You are more. There were still things he would not do."
Delmac studied the man who wanted to rule this land. Bill Clack's face was set tight, his eyes intent, and his lips seemed to bear an almost permanent sneer. The sneer softened slightly, became almost a smile as Clack took in the unfinished city and the crazed mob besieging it.
"Turner will be weakened," he said with satisfaction. "He'll be weakened, and I'll be in total control of Chin by nightfall." He hesitated. "Or tomorrow night. Tomorrow night at the latest. I'll know better when Lioth returns from her scout." He shook his head sadly. "Her last scout. She's a wild Talent, and I've no more use for her." He smiled. "I'll kill you then. Won't be harming her precious honor when she's already dead."
"You won't win," Delmac told him. His arms hurt. The cuffs around his wrists had worn permanent scars into his wrists. He was more solidly bound than since his first week of captivity. That did not matter. This man would not kill Lioth.
"I've seen him work," Delmac continued. "Turner is stupid, hesitant, and too tied up with his misbegotten concepts of morality. Despite this, he comes through. Somehow. Always. He comes through."
"You know nothing," Clack snapped, turning to take in the army, his army, waiting just on the bottom side of a slope. The slope was just large enough to hide fifty thousand men from the distant city.
"We have rams, towers, and cannon, not to mention numbers," Clack said. "Turner has nothing to stand against me. His Talent might save his life, but it won't save his empire. That belongs to me."
"He always wins," Delmac repeated.
A figure slithered erect from the grass. Slim, tall, the woman was young, proud, and totally unarmed. Her face appeared pinched and hard as she stared at Clack.
