The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Aaron's mind clenched up, and then he saw Sarah in a series of still shots. He saw her rounding the corner--flash--ducking down--flash--screaming as fire burst around her--screaming while Ernest burned and her flesh charred--

  "Aaron."

  Throwing back his head, Beech laughed with derisive humor. He rose, strong and whole, climbing high on a long column of flame. The store shuddered around Aaron, screeching and groaning as boards ripped and nails tore free.

  "Aaron!"

  Aaron cowered before the giant figure. Laughing uproariously, the Wagon Mater pulled puppets of Eric and the Gargoyle from his pockets. He set them on his shoulders where they grinned and leered at Aaron. The Gargoyle held a red something in her hand. She raised it to her mouth and took a deliberate bite. Blood dribbled down her chin, streamed down her chest, covering her bared breasts and large belly. Eric laughed and held the naked corpse of a woman before him. Her head lolled loosely on her neck. Eric draped the dead woman across Beech's shoulder and climbed on top of her naked body. Suddenly, Eric's clothes were gone, and he writhed on top of the woman, his eyes fastened hungrily on Aaron. Eric's discarded clothes tumbled miles to the ground and round objects fell from their pockets. The objects fell in an endless stream, fell quicker than the fluttering clothes until they smashed into the ground. Bone fragments flew like shrapnel as skulls shattered on granite hard earth. One skull fell directly at Aaron. Reaching up with his hands, he caught it. Black empty eyes stared from a white skull's sockets. The jaw dropped open.

  "You could have stopped him," the skull accused, and then it crumbled in his hands.

  "Aaron!"

  Other skulls fell, a cascade of them, an endless stream, and try as he could, Aaron did not catch them all. He tried to save them, tried to be there for everyone, for everybody. He caught some few and set the saved skulls down gently, but then in his attempt to save another falling skull, he trampled and broke those he had saved earlier.

  "Aaron!"

  When he broke their fall some of the skulls spoke to him. Others screamed, and many yelled accusations. Dead Guard demanded the reason why he had handed Beech the sword that increased his knowledge and power. Staring at him with their cracked and bare skulls, bleeding fresh blood, they accused him of not stopping the murder--

  "AARON!!!"

  Breath ripping in out of his lungs like the last gasps of a wind broke horse, he started awake to find Kit leaning over him. She wiped at sweat streaming down her face and loosened her frown. "You were screaming."

  "We have to go. We have to go now." Throat raw, Aaron pushed her away, sat up and then grabbed the bedstead because the entire world swayed. Finally, after the world's spinning slowed, he stood and reached for his clothing.

  "That wasn't our plan," Kit protested. "You promised to rest first. Aaron, look at you. You look closer to dead than you do alive."

  Aaron jerked his pants over his legs, fastened his snap, pulled angrily at his zipper, and then bent to gather his boots.

  "I've been thinking," he said as he pulled his boots on. "It takes too long to load a shotgun. I need to bring along at least four extras. If they are preloaded and carefully placed, I can easily reach them if I have need."

  "Aaron!"

  Purposefully ignoring her protest, he pushed his way past her. His eyes burned, but they did not burn half so fiercely as the memories in his brain. They pounded inside him, hammering for attention, demanding. He felt like his head would explode. Thoughts churned and grew until they wanted to shatter his bone to escape their prison. Pictures of falling skulls haunted.

  All his guns were stored in one of the outbuildings. Steel and gunpowder, they called to him, promised him, so he tramped his way to the building, ignoring Kit at his heels, and unlocked the door. It swung open, giving Aaron a clear view of his private stash. Handguns, rifles, shotguns, he even had C4 explosives, but there would be no use for that in this battle. No, he wanted the shotguns, and they were stored in several long boxes along the right hand wall. After prying open the lids on three separate boxes, he collected the shotguns he wanted and headed back to the Manor House.

  Back in his room, he pulled the shells from his shooting vest and loaded all the shotguns. Though each of the guns he had brought with him normally held five shells, he managed to load them with six shells by adding an extra to the chamber. Scowling, he made sure that the first shell in each gun had his blood on it. All the extra shells were returned to his shooting vest. He might need them later, though it was not likely. If matters weren't complete before he needed to reload, he would probably be dead.

  One thing he had learned from the militia. You should never fight the other man's battle. Never fight by the other man's rules. Instead, a soldier should choose his ground, pick his time, and fight to win. Aaron hoped his training was better than Beech's.

  He gathered the shotguns, transferred to the slime pond, and studied the terrain. The land was open and flat here. Although the weeds were not high enough to hide a man, they would hide a shotgun. All in all, Aaron liked this place. There were no innocents here and that was good because he was damn good and tired of innocent people dying on his behalf.

  A small scrub oak grew close by. Since it was the only tree in the immediate area it represented an obvious landmark.

  Aaron laid two shotguns on the ground near the tree, and then tore weeds loose and laid them on top of his weapons. If Beech noticed anything he would know the weeds hid something. He would not know that the something was firearms, and that was all Aaron could ask.

  Another shotgun found a home behind a small boulder. He left his fourth gun in the weeds at the edge of the pond where a small stream left the lake. He would remember these places since remembering locations was a part of his Talent.

  His fifth gun returned with him to the Manor.

  Kit waited for him. "Do you insist on doing this now?"

  Answering with a scowl, Aaron stepped forward and grabbed her.

  Flicker

  Kit's boots an inch deep in mud, they stood beside the pond.

  "Which way?" Aaron demanded. He hoped to hell that Beech had not moved since the previous night. After all, the man was a traveler too. He could be five hundred miles from here by now.

  "Are you sure you want to know?"

  "Which way?"

  She pointed.

  Flicker

  "Now where?"

  "He's a little more off to the right," Kit said. "Not more than ten miles from here."

  Three more jumps placed Aaron within two miles of his prey.

  And then Aaron made Kit lay down in the weeds and took his place beside her. Kit's Talent did not need her eyes. She did not need to see ahead to know where the person she sought was located, and Aaron did not plan on traveling far. He needed only to peer over the weeds to acquire a close landing point. That being the case, he saw no reason to risk being seen.

  Four more jumps moved them to within half a mile, close enough to smell smoke from the cook fires and hear children yell as they played.

  Kit pointed toward the noise. "If you can't find Beech from here, we got no business even thinking of fighting him. What do we do now?"

  Aaron pulled her to him, pressed his lips to hers; felt them compact against her teeth. She jerked her head back.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. Even startled, Kit kept her voice low.

  "Our last kiss," Aaron whispered. "Kit, I'm sorry things aren't better between us."

  "It's not your fault. I just don't know how to love men." She shook her head angrily and fingered her knife. "That has nothing to do with this. We have a man to kill."

  "I can still be sorry." Aaron looked into her eyes and felt sad. Some part of him really did love her. Somehow, a part of her was embedded onto a shred of his old self. He did not want to lose her, too, but that was what would happen. It was inevitable.

  Gods, he was tired of losing people. He was bone deep achingly, screw it all tired. "Goodbye, Kit."
<
br />   Flicker

  Chapter 33

  And then he was alone.

  Most likely, Kit was raging right this moment because he had transferred her back to the manor without asking her first. She thought that since she had loved Sarah and Ernest that part of this task was her duty. She wanted to feel her knife sink into Beech's guts.

  Unfortunately for Kit's temper, there were dreams a person just had to live without. Aaron would not risk Kit's life. Though he felt little inside, she was still the mother of his children.

  During the next hour Aaron gradually crept closer to the noise. Finally, he saw a small village of shelters created from hide covered frames, some of which were still being constructed, telling Aaron that this group of savages had not been here long. They were transients, nomads traveling their range.

  Crouching low, Aaron carefully arranged weeds so he would be harder to spot. When the waving, seed-bearing tuft of one weed bushed against his nose, it took everything he had not to sneeze.

  "Bifore ne veloracsage. Gecace. Gecase."

  The voices of half a dozen children came to him. They ran around, playing tag or some other game he did not understand, being sure all the while to keep a watchful eye on the horses. Many women and a few men worked around the camp. Some scraped hides, while a few others ground meal. Amid all this activity one dedicated crew of about sixteen women and two men raised shelters. Sitting on top of a large, central fire was a copper pot, steam rolling from its top, throwing the smell of fresh stew into the air.

  "Mi necra wordont orgesnal ob ver das. Gersace."

  "Bo dervan pealize ver ob der ober versalen."

  Sunset was two hours away when Aaron finally saw Beech leave a shelter and stride among the natives like he was their king. Four men and women, dark faces covered with ritual scars, all dressed in heavy leathers, trailed him. Peering through the weeds, Aaron could see that something swung at their sides, but he could not make out what it was. He shifted awkwardly, cursed reluctant muscles, and pulled out his binoculars.

  Beech's guards had bows slung over their shoulders, crude axes at their belts, and long knives of copper strapped to their legs. Aaron watched as they walked arrogantly toward the largest tent. Just off to the side of that shelter sat a woodpile, only four feet from the door. With the binoculars Aaron could see that there was a small space between the wood and one of the hide walls. After studying the area for a short while he decided that it was the best place he could find in a poor situation.

  Flicker

  * * *

  Terweet Terweet

  Fluttering its copper colored wings in protest, the startled perigal chirped and twittered and then flew off in protest when Aaron suddenly appeared. After he settled himself deeper behind the piled wood, Aaron's ears picked up the babble of voices speaking a language he did not understand.

  He nodded with silent satisfaction because this space was better than he had thought. A pile of uncured hides lay at his back, hiding him from prying eyes. But he could easily hear the rumble of voices coming through the thick walls of the tent. Moving closer, he pressed his ear against the taut hide.

  "It can be done." Beech's voice rumbled, low and insistent.

  "An' we die again," another voice, female, said with vibrant tones of anger. Her accent was heavy, almost unintelligible. "Our shaman be dead an' we have no more magic rocks. Only you be left to us. Is it being you protect us warriors wit yer powers? Is it you stop the sting things that are flung at us with a burst of noises, the things that do be cut down our best leaders and our bravest yout? Aye, 'tis you who be more powerful than any they. We willing to admit thiz truth. You be are powerful an' you be frightful an' we grants you reverence yer power deserve. You be still are one man. There be are more are the enemy than you. They more of magic rock have than you." The woman's voice was hard and bitter.

  "The tribes not rise 'til new shamans found are," said a male voice. "When come they into power, when tell uz they signs are right we ride into morning zun. We kill the dezolators an' claim entire land to shores endless water ours be. One God nurture us 'til time right. Until thenz the enemy mons tech us thiz thing called govmen. Enemy mons tech uz much."

  "And what if I tell you I know how to get more magic," Beech asked in a voice so low that Aaron had to strain to hear it. "What if I tell you I know where we can get enough Stones so all of your people with strong Talents will have one?"

  "The land will turn red with our enemies' blood."

  To Aaron, the words seemed formulaic. The speaker did not sound like she believed such an event would actually take place.

  Beech raised his voice. "I know a man who owns many Magic Stones. I can take those Stones from him and give them to our people. Better yet, I think he knows where there are many more. I think he can Travel to a land where Talent Stones lay on the ground like pebbles in a stream."

  "And thiz mon iz where? He iz in land far way? He iz, perhaps, something you create in yer mind zo we commit our youts to yer cause?" The woman's gravelly voice was scoffing, doubting.

  "He is outside," Beech said triumphantly. "This man has listened to the words we speak."

  And then the shelter flap near Aaron was swept aside.

  "Please, Mister Turner, come inside. I've waited very impatiently for your arrival for the last several days. However, I must say that I'm very impressed by the progress you made during the last two. I have no idea how you managed to move so quickly over unfamiliar territory, but that unhappy condition is only temporary. I'm sure that trick is one of the many secrets you will teach me before much longer."

  Fingers trembling, filled with shocked realization and cold fear, Aaron rose. Fear told him to transfer, to run, but he would not do either. His knees quivered. His legs shook with every step, and his heart pounded because he was caught between trapped panic and a deep seated, almost overwhelming desire to leap into the tent and rip Beech's throat out. Blood pounded in his ears; hate ate him. He wanted to rip and tear, but his innate self-control insisted he bide his time and wait until the moment was right. His fear said it was useless to attack a man so obviously his superior. Unreasoning terror rode on top of his anger, threatening to consume him.

  Hesitantly, he stepped inside the tent. Behind him, the flap dropped back into place. Once inside he stopped and waited for his shaking to ease, waited for his fear to subside and for his ragged breathing to smooth out.

  "Thiz iz yer mon?" The woman who spoke stood beside a younger woman who had the longest string of dried trophies hanging on her belt. The speaker looked well into her forties, perhaps even as old as fifty, but she could have been as young as thirty. A hard life in the wind, the sun, and the cold had wrinkled and spotted her skin past the point where Aaron could reliably place her age at all. An enormous, dark brown wart, more than a quarter inch round and half an inch tall, grew off the side of her chin. White hair waved gently from it.

  "Doesn't look like much, does he?" Beech stepped forward firmly. Grasping Aaron's chin in his hand, he turned Aaron's eyes up to look into his own. Aaron felt the power of the man through those eyes. They blazed with fury and purpose. They persuaded, demanded, and pulled.

  "A frightened little man is all he is. There is nothing special about him physically. There is nothing much to him at all except for the knowledge he holds in his head, but that knowledge, that wonderful alien knowledge, will do us well."

  "Chosen," one woman said, and she kneeled to Aaron while the trophies at her belt swayed. "Is your time?"

  Ears, Aaron saw. The trophies were dried ears.

  "Stand up!" Beech demanded. "You kneel to me. Not him. To me!" He fastened angry eyes on Aaron when the woman refused to move. "Look. The little coward has nothing to say. He will be easy to control."

  Aaron finally captured his rebellious breath. "How--how did you know? How did you know I was out there?" The Master's shield glittered, making Beech's skin sparkle in the dim light of the tent. Eight other faces stared at Aaron. He had the uneasy
feeling that most of those stares were sizing up his ears, gauging the exact place to bore a hole through his lobes. He wondered if the rituals of the natives allowed them to string both of an enemy's ears from their belts or only one. Even the kneeling woman's eyes looked predatory. She wanted or expected something from him.

  "Oh really, Mister Turner," Beech said. "Unlike you, I am a true Master of Talent. In fact, I am more so by several orders of magnitude since you so generously allowed me to take my toy away from your late wife." Beech gestured expansively toward his sword handle. "I am also much smarter than most of the people you encounter. Do you really think I would neglect to check up on your whereabouts from time to time?"

  "I saw how long it took you to transfer when you were in town," Aaron taunted. His heartbeat had slowed. Beech's mention of Sarah had shoved his anger to the fore. That anger pushed fear aside. Rage waited to devour the anger. "It took you a long while. You aren't very good. Not good at all."

  Beech frowned. "Because I am a just and honorable man, I will tell you a secret of the Masters, Mister Turner. Like other Talent Masters, all my Talents are not at the constant reach of my fingertips. I can only call up two or three of them at once, and even that takes more than a moment to do. We Talent Masters are generalists, not specialists. Besides, sir, you will recall that I was distracted at the time." The frown turned into a smile.