by Mark Eller
"You are awake." She spoke in a whisper.
"I suppose I am." His voice was low and weak. It did not sound like him at all. It sounded like the voice of a man who had seen too many years and too much life. "The question is whether or not I'm going to live."
Leaning down, Cathy gently kissed the corner of his lips. "Oh you will live," she said, suddenly speaking in a normal voice while she tentatively dampened his forehead with hands that were nervous flutters. "Doc says you will come out of this in fine shape now that he has had his hands on you." Her lips turned down in a concerned frown. "Mister Turner, you had us all frightened. When you appeared inside the smithy you were a real mess. Fortunately, Mister Bran was in there, and he did not waste any time at all. He ran to Doc's house and literally carried him to you. Doc operated on you right there on the floor of the smithy while Mister Bran kept the curious out. I assisted him even though I had no idea what to do."
Aaron tried to chuckle, but that turned out to be a bad idea. Absolutely everything hurt.
"You have to lay quiet," Cathy admonished. "Doc used his Talent Stone on you, or you'd be dead now. He had to operate to pull bone shards out of your lung. Mister Turner, your lung was collapsed. You had broken ribs and a ruptured intestine, and you were bloody all over and Doc, said lots of small bug type thing got into your leg because you had an open wound that had been in foul water. It was horrible. Both your arms are broken, and so is your leg. What did you do to yourself?"
"Didn't Kit say?" Aaron whispered weakly, finding it hard to speak. His voice had a catch to it even with those few words.
"Mistress Turner hasn't been here to tell us anything. I'm afraid nobody thought to tell her you were here until this morning. In fact, Mistress Golard didn't send a rider out to the Manor until just a few hours ago."
Oh Gods, Kit would be furious.
"So?"
"Hmmm."
"What happened?"
Aaron tried to speak, only nothing but a gurgle came out of him. He tried again, cleared his throat as the unreality of just what he had done struck him.
"I did Beech," he finally managed, "but I guess he did me too."
"Beech!" Cathy's voice rose to a squeak. "The Talent Master Beech?"
"Yeah." He searched back in his memory. Events were fuzzy. He knew what had happened, what he had done, but part of him was not sure it wasn't all a nightmare. "I think I killed him. I must have killed him." Feeling weak, he closed his eyes and allowed weariness to wash over him, allowed it to pull him away from the waking world and draw him back into sleep because Beech was dead and nothing would ever make losing Sarah and his son any easier.
"By the lady!" Sounding incredulous, disbelieving, Cathy's faint voice came to him through his drifting mind. "You killed a Talent Master. Mister Turner, you killed a Talent Master."
The part of Aaron that was still aware did not blame her for doubting because he was not sure exactly what had happened anymore. He only knew that he was tired; he was sore; he was broken, and he was just plain sick of it all.
* * *
He next woke to the sound of loud voices shouting in the outside hall.
"You will let me see my husband. You will let me see him NOW!"
"He's asleep. It's not a good idea to wake him, Mistress Turner, because it was a very near thing. Right now, the more sleep he gets the faster he will heal."
Aaron opened his mouth. "Awake," he called hoarsely. His throat was sore, and just about everything hurt. Ominously, he felt dead skin peeling away from the roof of his mouth so he knew there was a chance he was forming ulcers.
Eyes glaring fury, Kit burst into the room. "Three days," she spat angrily. "Three days, that's how long I waited without knowing what happened to you. I waited for three days, three entire days before I knew a thing. What the he--what the heck did you think you were doing to me? I thought you were dead! Lord and Lady, I thought my children no longer had a father!"
Aaron thought of shrugging apologetically, but all the various hurting bits probably meant moving was a bad idea. Instead he smiled and tried to use the doubtful power of his voice.
"I'm sorry." He kept his voice meek and low. Maybe that would work. Kit sometimes responded reasonably to meek.
Not this time.
"I'm sorry! You come within a hair of dying, and I don't know where you are, and all you can say for yourself is I'm sorry?" Stamping her foot, she tried to kill him with her stare.
"It won't happen again," he tried. Dead skin fell on top of his tongue. His head throbbed.
Kit's face gathered dark clouds of anger. The storm was about to release its full fury.
"Here now." Pushing between them, Doc turned himself into a solid wall between Kit and Aaron. "I won't have you abusing my patient when he is in no condition to properly defend himself, Mistress Turner. If you want to abuse your husband, you'll just have to wait until next week since it's going to take that long before I have him back on his feet. Until then, Madam, he belongs to me. After I let him go, you are more than welcome to do whatever you like to him, but I will not permit you to damage him further while he is under my care."
"I understand." Kit's voice purred with suppressed emotion. "You get to heal him for one week, and then I am allowed to kill him."
"Exactly," Gunther agreed.
Aaron was not sure if he wanted to thank the good doctor.
"Aaron," Kit said in a more reasonable tone, "just tell me if it is over. Is it done with? Are you going to let Beech be? Will he leave us alone?"
Aaron closed his eyes and allowed a feeling of peace wash through him. His memory was back in full force. He knew. "It's done," he said gently. "He's gone."
"Oh." Gently. Softly. "Then--then I suppose I won't kill you after all."
Hard lips pressed down on his. "See, it wasn't our last kiss. Please hurry up and heal."
"I promise to give it my all."
"More importantly," Doc said, "I will give it my all. Move aside, Mistress Turner. I need to use this amazing Stone on your Mister again. Why, if it wasn't for this thing you would have to wait months before you got a chance to kill your husband."
"I don't feel like killing him anymore," Kit said.
* * *
Though he was still weak and officially bedridden three days later, Aaron could not wait any longer. He had a long discussion with the doctor and a longer one with Jorrin, but he had the ultimate argument to support his position. Neither of them could stop him from trying to do what he wanted. Not even straps and ties could keep him in his bed if he did not want to be there. So, Aaron gave them a choice. They could help him, or they could stand aside and watch while Aaron likely killed himself.
Since there did not seem to be much of a choice, Jorrin agreed to come along.
Aaron transferred them to the small, slime covered lake where he and Beech had fought their battle. Once there, he lay back in the tall grass and let the sun beat its warming rays into him while Jorrin did all the work.
Just to settle his mind that Beech was really dead, Jorrin spent a little time examining the corpse. He told Aaron that Beech was now lying on his side, curled up on himself, but the sword still pierced his shoulder and came out his back. Aaron had Jorrin pull the sword free and throw it into the lake, figuring that anyone who was willing to swim through the slimy water to search for it had to be a pretty desperate fellow indeed. Try as he might, he had a hard time imagining anyone being that desperate. Besides, the sword was only extremely dangerous when the person using it possessed a deadly Talent that was enhanced by a Talent Stone. Less than one percent of all Talents were actually deadly. Talent Stones were rare, and Talent Masters were almost unknown because very few people were born with the abilities needed to become a master. Fewer still ever found a Stone. The chances were very small that the sword would be found and used by someone who would cause further trouble.
Afterward, Jorrin gathered up the scattered shotguns from where Aaron had left or dropped them. He searched t
he area and found most of the empty shell casings and all of the full ones Aaron had dropped. While Jorrin searched, Aaron thought about Beech and his position among the savages. Beech was revered and hated by them. He was a messiah and a pariah. The more Aaron thought on the matter, the more uneasy he became. He did not want anyone to have any reason to search this area, because despite his reasoning, the sword was in the lake and could be found.
Jorrin carried Aaron over to where Beech lay. Looking at the man he had killed, Aaron felt nothing, no remorse, no anger, no hate, and no relief. His emotions regarding Beech were mostly dead, and yet he could feel other ones stirring about. Something inside him finally wanted to see his children.
As a last gesture Aaron transferred Beech to where the nomad camp might still remain. Hopefully, the natives would quit wondering and worrying about what Beech planned for them. They could get on with their own lives, lives that were no longer tangled with that of a charismatic monster.
When that task was finished, Jorrin lifted Aaron in his massive arms, and Aaron once again used his Talent.
Flicker
Chapter 35
The compound looked as if it had been the center of a minor war. All the buildings around Klein were skewed and broken and burned. Brick littered areas that had once been lawn and road. Glass shards pointed out of the ground and trees. Yellow tape and men dressed in real military uniforms walked with determined purpose.
Smiling grimly to himself, Helmet cautiously looked around. Possibly, he might have made a small error in deciding to return to Jefferson one last time. It looked as if sad fate had finally caught up to Mister Albridge Field and his toy Militia. So far, only pure luck dictated that the same fate had not yet landed on Helmet.
He took one more look at the remains of the Everlasting Life Militia Field Division Compound before he crawled back into the crumbling building he had arrived in.
Once there, he frowned. This turn of events was not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. He had counted on fresh supplies from the Militia, especially ammunition because his people thought rifles were a great idea. Rifles made a nice banging noise, and when used properly, rifles had it all over bows as a weapon of war. His tribes people loved their rifles to distraction, carried them everywhere they went, and used them in every battle and skirmish they managed to get themselves caught up in.
No problem. That was what the rifles were for.
The problem was that the tribes people loved their rifles too much. They loved their rifles so much that they constantly fired off any ammunition they got their hands on. The damn savages would shoot at rocks, bushes, and drops of water falling from the sky. Hell, they shot at the clouds and then looked disappointed when the clouds refused to fall down. Rationing ammunition helped some, but it was not the total answer.
Unfortunately, Helmet had to give them bullets so they could practice hitting what they pointed at. Also, they had to have bullets to make their weapons effective if they ran across hostiles. However, despite all his admonishments, most of his people could not keep a full clip for more than a day or two before they gave in to impulse and fired most of their rounds off.
And now he was here, stuck in the middle of the wrecked compound, surrounded by a few dozen too many uniforms because his people sometimes acted like children more than they acted like hardened warriors. No. This was not good.
Okay, Mister Klein, he told himself, now is the time for all the good little boys to turn deceptive. The first order of business was to get rid of his uniform and its identifying insignia. As best he knew, Field's Everlasting Life Militia was not all that overcrowded with Colonels. The last time he checked there were only four. Investigating four different names when they caught someone wearing a Colonel's insignia was not one hell of a lot of work, even for a government man. It wouldn't take the dimmest clerk more than about one short minute to decide he was the Colonel they wanted above all the others.
Well, if they wanted to talk to him they would have to work for it. Of course, if he did not want to have that confrontation, he would have to do a little work himself. For now, his first task would be stripping down and getting naked. The idea did not bother him because he was now a man of Chin. Modesty was a rare item among the nomads.
Helmet wasted no time stripping off his clothes, right down to and including his monogrammed underwear. Footsteps passed his hiding place as he stuffed the clothing into the smallest cubbyhole he could find. After the footsteps passed, he covered the cubbyhole with about three hundred pounds of debris.
When he finished, he stilled and took stock of himself. His lungs pumped a little quicker than he liked. His heart beat heavily, a faint sheen of sweat covered his bare torso, and his head felt light. Adrenaline high. Gods, wouldn't Sheem have a laugh if she were here now. Imagine, the indomitable Shahalla being excited by the small matter of being surrounded by enemies while he was naked and unarmed. She would ridicule him, and then she would show him exactly how SHE would rectify the situation.
Helmet chuckled, reflecting that this was not a seemly situation for a would be emperor. He doubted if the King of Jutland would ever be found running around nude in a destroyed camp while the enemy searched the area. Then again, he doubted the fat bastard completely disrobed even when he tupped one of the servant girls. King Fulgis was a man well known for his modesty. Since he had met the man once, Helmet fully understood Fulgis' reasoning. Anyone with that much fat rolling over his many ceremonial belts could not be a pretty sight in bare skin. Hell, the man had to be downright repulsive to any woman with standards.
Being naked did have some advantages. Naked was not only nameless, it also gave the appearance of vulnerable.
Somebody approached. Helmet heard only one set of footsteps, and that made him grin. One set was good. He could handle one. Two would be a problem because people sometimes had a tendency to shout when they were set upon. The last thing he wanted was an alarm.
Hating it, he grabbed a sharp bit of broken brick and gouged deep scratches into his skin. Blood welled forth from his arms and his chest and his bare legs. He dug the rubble into his sides and the small of his back and then he scratched his buttocks. When he was done, he tossed the broken brick away, rubbed his hands over his body to smear the blood, and then rubbed the blood over his face.
The footsteps paused outside as he artfully lay himself down. Moving almost soundlessly, he draped broken blocks and strewn furniture over himself, while the scratch of a striking match and the faint smell of cigar smoke reached him. He breathed the smoke in appreciatively.
Gods, he missed cigars. Smoking was one of the vices he would have to introduce to his Chins. Actually, it was the type of thing many of them would enjoy. He could just picture the consternation of some of the enemy tribes while his people ate fire and breathed smoke before a battle. Now that would be fun to watch.
Another set of steps approached just as Helmet was about to go through his routine.
"Got another?" a voice asked.
"What? Don't you Army boys get paid enough to buy your own?"
"We don't get paid crap. The army sees no reason to pay us when we can cage what we want off all you dumb Rangers."
"Well, it looks like you just found yourself another dumb asshole. Here you go."
"Thanks."
After several moments of silence Klein heard the hiss of a flaring match, an inhalation and then a satisfied sigh.
"Damn, you buy the good ones."
"No, I don't." The Ranger sounded smug. "Didn't buy these at all. Found them in the remains of an office three buildings back. Do you see that tire laying out there all by itself? These cigars were right by a hole in the wall to the east of the tire. Found them in a desk drawer by a bunch of clippings about the Vipers."
"What kind of idiot follows the Vipers?"
"The same kind of idiot who buys really good cigars," the Ranger answered.
"Are there any more?"
"I got all the ones in the desk, but I t
hink there are some laying around on the floor, and maybe in some of the other desks too. I'll find out once I finish this smoke and do an official search."
"You really are a fool. I'm not going to let a treasure trove like that run free. You stay right here and smoke your cigar because that room is mine."
Footsteps hurriedly moved away. Helmet heard another slow inhalation, and then he heard the Ranger release a satisfied laugh.
"Gullible idiot," the Ranger breathed so low that Klein had to strain to make out his words. "I'd rather you do the searching than me, my friend. You just let me know what you find, and then I'll tell Sarge about it and get any of the credit due. There's a reason you're army, and I'm not."
Breathing in the rich aroma of a very fine cigar, Helmet smiled, released an artful groan, and then coughed.
"What?"
Helmet groaned again. He heard shuffling steps, and then the light striking his closed eyes was momentarily blocked.
"Well damn. It's a naked little oyster what lost its shell. Hang on, Mister. I'll be there soon as I finish my smoke."
Helmet heard another couple inhalations and a satisfied sigh.
"Ah now, army is right about one thing. This is a good smoke. I'll have to steal Sarge's cigars more often, but business first. Here I come, dude."
Clunk
"Shit. A person could get hurt in here. Mister, you got blood all over you. I don't know what mountain lion you tangled with, but I don't want none of it. Okay, got you uncovered, so let's see what we have."
When a shadow loomed over him Helmet opened his eyes to see the young visage of a uniformed Ranger. He smiled at the concerned face.
"Idiot indeed," Helmet said as the man's eyes began widening.
He struck.
After dressing in his stolen clothes and scrubbing his face clean of blood with a handful of dirt, Helmet bent to peer at his handiwork. The man lived, but he was definitely out of it. Helmet figured the Ranger had at least a concussion. He might have even given the man a small fracture.