by Mark Eller
General Field looked like a man whose kingdom was falling apart when he ordered Corporal Benson to remove Aaron from the premises immediately so the government would not have a chance at getting their hands on him again. Benson accepted his orders, and before the hour was out Aaron was treated to a long car ride into the country and back into the woods. After traveling for many miles he and Benson reached a run-down A-frame cabin where two men waited. Neither man appeared surprised by the handcuffs adorning Aaron's wrists. Benson gave Aaron an injection and transferred him to a truck the new people provided them. After that Aaron did not know how long they traveled because his head did not quite work right. The sun sat low in the sky when the truck pulled up to a rickety plywood shack seemingly located a hundred miles from nowhere.
A very old and severely weathered man, stooped and bowlegged, left the shack to greet them. Gray streaks ran liberally through his short hair and long, unkempt beard. He carried a gun and smelled heavily of old sweat.
"Evening, strangers. Long way away from everything ain't ya?" He spat out a wad of tobacco juice. Spittle, gleaming wetly on top of the dried remains of previous misses, caught in his beard.
"Yep," Benson agreed. "Heard there was a run of rainbow in the cricks here about."
"Ain't been rainbow in these parts for going onto twenty years," the man replied. "Maybe you mean to be over by the Willow Way."
"Willow Way?" Benson sounded surprised. "Isn't this the Willow Way? First turn past the lightning struck oak, I was told."
The old man stepped forward and held out a hand. "Name's Hank Helder. I'm always glad to meet someone who believes in the cause."
"Corporal William Benson." Benson shook the grimed hand. "This here is Aaron Turner. The General wants us put on ice for a few days. Maybe a couple of weeks."
The old man cackled. "Well then, come along. I'll show you your new home."
He led them into the shack. Once there, Aaron peered around distastefully. The place was a pigsty, literally, because a pig lay in one corner of the small shack. The single room boasted one hand-built bunk, a wood stove, a water barrel, and a lot of cracks in the wall where the plywood had split.
After stamping first on one floorboard, Hank moved a few steps over and stamped on another. Then he walked over to the barrel and grunted as he leaned into it. Reluctantly, it swiveled aside to reveal a round hole with a ladder leading down.
"In you go," he called cheerfully. "I'll check in on you once every day or so."
Releasing a small smile, Benson pulled his gun and pointed it at Aaron's head. "You first."
Aaron's legs, already complaining, protested the entire way down the ladder. His left arm gave him not one whit of support, and the climb was made more difficult because of the handcuffs that were still wrapped around his wrists. The metal abraded his skin.
When Aaron reached the bottom he hobbled to the side to make room for Benson's descent.
And then he looked around.
Impressive. His new prison, with its institutional cement walls, had to be at least thirty feet wide and in the neighborhood of forty feet long. From where he stood he saw enough bunks to sleep at least twenty people, but the tables running down the center of the room could seat at least half again that many. Freezers and canned goods lined one wall. Nearby were two stoves and four microwaves. In the closest corner sat five toilet stools and six urinals. Everything he saw was white or brown or stainless. Overhead, the lights, with their strangely orange cast, appeared to be mercury vapor. The setup made Aaron wonder just how rich Field's parents had been. Apparently the man's influence and wealth was greater than Aaron had thought if he could build something like this and keep it secret.
After throwing his carryall up on one bunk Benson began prowling. Aaron pulled a chair out from a table and eased into it. His legs were extremely grateful for the relief.
"All the comforts of home, hey," Benson called out cheerfully, tossing Aaron a key fastened to a small ring. "That will unlock the cuffs."
Aaron thought of his small loft with its straw ticking as he freed his hands. He wondered how Cathy was getting along, and then he wondered how Mister Moody's cows were doing. Of late their milk production had been worsening, and Moody had been worried. It was possible Cathy and Brian Haig would have to go someplace else to get the milk they needed for their deliveries.
Within the next few days Mistress Golard would be running for her bi-yearly reelection, but he had no worries there. She was so well liked that nobody would challenge her for a job with no perks and no wages.
Gods, he wanted to go home. This was not the stress-free life he had hoped for. Not at all.
"Not the comforts of my home," Aaron told Benson quietly. "I sleep on straw beds and crap in outhouses."
"See, this is so much better." Benson plopped himself down and dropped a cardboard box in front of Aaron.
Last Chance was a whole other place from this. Cathy's sixteenth birthday was right about now too. In Last Chance many girls married when they were fourteen if they got the opportunity. Cathy was old by that standard, but Aaron had to admit that her youth had put him off. Fifteen was a crime. Sixteen though, sixteen was at least possible.
But was fifteen really too young? Cathy was more mature and self-reliant than many older people. He remembered the feel of her in his arms. She was softer than Sarah. She had fewer hard angles and, he had to admit, she owned a fuller and more feminine figure. Several romantic evenings had proved that. In fact, Cathy had proved that every time she pressed herself against him.
On the other hand, Sarah's attributes were not exactly lacking. He had seen that much before he was banished from his own bedroom. Though a bit sparse in certain departments and her skin was not quite pristine, she was definitively female.
Perhaps her reluctance to take things faster was not entirely due to Cathy. Might Sarah be self-conscious about her scars?
Damn-it. Sarah was the one he worried about. Undoubtedly she had survived her bout with Melissa, but she was now trapped in a land she did not know. Possibly wounded and in need of help, she would certainly need food and water.
An image flashed through his mind. A body lay crumpled on the pavement, bent and twisted and broken. Oh Gods, Perk.
"Do you play?"
Did he love Cathy? He did not know yet, not really, because he wasn't quite sure what love was. If he didn't love her, he was sure that one day he would, just as he was sure that one day he would be positive he loved Sarah, if he did not already. Hell, he had better love Sarah because it appeared he was going to marry her. She had said as much so it must be true, though he was damned if he could remember ever being asked his opinion. Maybe he should get it over with and marry the both of them when he returned. Now that would be a wedding night to remember.
"Turner?"
And then there was Kit. She would be in need too. She was less familiar with Jefferson than Sarah because she had not been there when Aaron had spoken of his home. Yes, Kit was a tough gal, but there was something vulnerable about her, too. Though she was one of those people who could not be stopped when they were in their own environment she might also one of those people who folded when they were confronted with something new.
"Hey! Turner!"
"Huh?" Aaron jerked himself into attentiveness and pushed his worries to the background.
"I asked if you play." Benson pulled a chessboard out of the box and watched Aaron expectantly.
"I play. I just don't play well."
"Well," Benson said happily. "Before we're done with this place you'll know how to play much better than well because I am going to teach you. It just so happens that I am ranked as expert. Fact is, I used to play in the tournaments when I was a kid."
"So what happened? Why don't you compete now?"
Benson shrugged and smiled. "I quit getting better. About the time I hit puberty I reached a level I couldn't get past, but that won't stop me from raising you a level or three. I teach chess pretty good."
He was right. Aaron learned more about chess in the first four days of his captivity than he had learned in a lifetime of occasional play. Benson was an avid player and a bona fide chess fanatic. Chess was his vocation. The Militia was only his hobby.
Benson was more than willing to play chess for days, which he more than proved.
Every one of those days the old man came down for an hour or so and watched them play. He looked pretty beat the first time he visited them. Benson asked if anything was wrong but Hank told him everything was fine. He had just finished ditching the truck, was all. After taking it to a cabin more than twenty miles away he had run back, and so he felt a bit tuckered.
After Aaron looked at the old man's worn-out frame and thought about what a twenty mile run would do to him, he decided that he was not going to get Old Hank mad if he could possibly help it. Apparently, Hank was tougher than he appeared.
By the sixth day Aaron was more than tired of chess. No, that was not right. He was heartily sick of losing time after time after time. His only consolation was that the games had grown longer. One of their harder fought games had gone on for almost an hour.
Once each day, before the old man went up the ladder, Hank pushed his chair back from the game board, pulled his gun, and pointed it at Aaron while Benson injected Aaron with another dose of the drug that prevented him from transferring.
The old man did not show on the ninth day. He did not appear on the tenth day either. On the eleventh day Benson lost his fervor for chess and spent a good deal of time staring at the ladder. It seemed to Aaron that Benson only now realized that they were dependent on Hank to release them from their prison. With the way this place was designed there was no way the two of them could open the trap door. Eventually, Benson climbed the ladder and tried to move the pivotal slab of cement but he did nothing but raise a sweat. Frustrated, he even pulled out his pistol and shot at the slab. The ricocheting bullet missed Aaron by more than four feet. It felt like three inches to him.
Aaron spent most of those two days lying in his bed. He daydreamed of Cathy and Sarah and cried over Kara Perkins. He even thought about Kitty Hawks and of how she had looked when she was angry, and then he remembered how she looked when she teased. Most of his hours were spent worrying about the two lost women, and he often wondered if old Hank had gone and had a heart attack on them. After mentioning this possibility to Benson he was roundly cursed in reply. The possibility that Hank had gone and died on them was there, Benson insisted, but it was not a strong one because they could sometimes feel vibrations coming through the thick floor. Something big was going on overhead, but they had no idea what it was.
Even though Aaron's ability might be their only way out of this prison, Benson still insisted on giving him the shots. On the thirteenth day Benson looked like he was willing to shoot Aaron with his gun instead of the needle. He began blaming Aaron for their being trapped, disregarding the fact that Aaron wanted to be anyplace else but where they were.
Day fourteen arrived. Aaron woke to the sound of Benson's shout and the sight of light at the top of the ladder. He scrambled out of his bed, but he was too late. Benson was the first one there.
Chapter 25
The fire burned while she lay dying. The fire burned, and the smoke of burning children filled her failing lungs. This grim moment was the beginning of her people becoming a nation, the beginning of their survival, but Birsae ak Mondar could not find it in herself to rejoice. The fires burned, and on those fires lay the bodies of the Clan's warriors, its daughters and sons. The fires burned, and the Clan's strength bled away.
She mourned. It did not matter that these first deaths were nothing more than markers in the game of war. Her faulty Talent was strong enough for her to have looked into the hearts of the dead when they still lived. Only three had been people of great worth to the Clan. The rest were good for little more than creating fond memories in the minds of others. They would be missed by few, soon forgotten, but Birsae did mourn.
She gasped. Pains ran through her chest, constricting her heart, running up into her left arm. She felt weak, knew she was pale, and her breath seeped from her lungs in faint panting grunts. This was the death she had foreseen for herself, the death she had prayed would come to her so she would not see the best of her people fall. She had no doubt they would fall. The brightest sparks of the Clan's youth, its leaders, and its bravest warriors would fall beneath the magic of the invaders. Almost all the elite of an entire generation would disappear, but the dregs of those remaining were the ones who truly mattered. They were the ones who would change her people, drag them up from the savagery they embraced and lead them into the ever changing world. They were the ones who would embrace, plow, and hammer, the ones who would learn the secrets of scratches on paper, and they were the ones who would learn the intricacies of statesmanship. The pathway to this learning was bloody and painful, but it was the only path she could find that led to something less than the total destruction of her people.
Releasing a shallow breath, Birsae let her head fall to the side so she could see the man who would destroy her people.
"Call me sick," Haarod Beech said cheerfully, "but I enjoy the smell of burning flesh. There's something about it that just refreshes the soul." He idly twirled Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac in the same manner he would have played with a common stick. Birsae winced as another pain raced through her. She wanted to cry as Beech spun his toy once more. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac struck against a tent pole and bounced off. A small chip of wood flew free. Birsae groaned as her heart gave another flutter, but she did not groan over her failing heart. Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac was a sacred and ancient treasure of her people. In a thousand years not a scratch had been allowed to mar its holy surface.
"Oops." Beech studied the length of wood. "Looks like I broke off one of the squiggly lines. Really, Mondar, you people had best do a better job when you make these things. Not durable, just not durable at all."
Bersae fought to draw in a deeper breath. Her lungs were unwilling to comply, but her will proved to be the stronger force. She drew in an entire half breath before stars began swirling before her eyes.
"Why?" she managed to breathe out.
"Why?" Beech looked at her curiously. "Why what? Why am I sitting in here with you, watching you die while the party is going on outside? That one is easy. You are the Clan's last Shaman. You are sacred, and I am powerful. I have all sorts of ideas for the prophesies you are about to make just before you kick off. Sorry old gal, but you are going to help me run this war even after I shovel the hot coals over your smoking corpse."
Bersae managed to shake her head no.
Beech released a short barking laugh. "Ah, you want to know the other why. Why am I running this war at all? I bet you've gathered that it's not out of concern for all those dear, sweet people out there, the ones who smell like rancid grease and think dried ears on a string is a fashion statement. No indeed. I'm running this little war for two reasons only. You see, I like to kill people. It's a rush. Giving death is a thrill like I never knew until I turned up a shovel full of dirt while digging a fire pit and came up with my very own Talent Stone. It's really great to be able to kill people when you know there's not a single thing that can be done to you." Beech smiled and spat. The spittle landed on her face.
"Sorry about that," he said. "I'll clean it off once you are nicely dead. And you know, since you are dying I'll continue being honest with you. I do have a second reason for what I'm doing. In my opinion, it is a very fine reason. You see, when I am not killing people I like telling them what to do. I like having them obey me. Right now I can do that very easily as a Clan General. It'll be even easier when this war is over, and I rule them all. Really, Mondar, there's nobody who can stop me. Not when I have my Stone and my Sword and you are dead, there isn't."
Bersae could not help herself. The impulse was mean, and it was petty, and it was beneath her dignity at this moment when she was so clo
se to drawing in her last breath. None of those issues mattered. She tried to moisten her dry cracked lips with her dry and swollen tongue. Straining, she found that her arm was almost too weak to lift. Her fingers barely managed to pluck at his sleeve.
Beech looked at her irritably. She tried to whisper, but the words would not come while the new future unfolded before her. It became clearer as her heart trembled its last, and her lungs deflated, never to fill again. The entire future of her people and this man opened to her as her sight failed and her eyes closed. Trying to speak, she found that she had no breath. She had no strength, but she needed to try--if for no other reason than the satisfaction it would give her.
Her lips trembled, parted, and then quivered in a feeble attempt at speech. Little sound came forth, perhaps too little for him to hear, but she knew the content of the words she shaped.
"There is someone," she whispered. "The Chosen. Bringer. He will stop you."
Beech looked at her with arrogant incomprehension. Contempt for her and all her people gleamed in his eyes.
And then the earthly light was taken from her own eyes--but the other light--that glorious golden light of the One God shone before her mind and beckoned her home. She let loose her corporeal form and followed where it led. She died, but she died satisfied because of that last pointless act. One small act of defiance gave her death some greater meaning.
Chapter 26
"About damn time," Benson shouted angrily as he leaped from his bunk and peered up to the opening. "Where the hell have you been?"
He was answered by silence.
"Hey, who's up there?"
After climbing painfully out of his bunk Aaron hobbled to stand near Benson.
Benson drew his gun and stepped quickly to the ladder. Looking carefully up, he shrugged and climbed cat-footed up the rungs. As he neared the top, he stopped and peered as best he could through the round opening. Apparently he saw nothing, because he climbed two more rungs with his feet while his hands held his upper body in the same position. Now crouched on the ladder, he glanced down at Aaron, looked up, and lunged erect with sudden speed. His gun rose, and his body twisted as he leaped through the opening.