The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  "Why hasn't he returned?" Filmore asked. "Think we scared him off?"

  Saundra found his nervousness irritating. "Don't care. All I care about is that we were given the go-ahead to torch this place."

  A chilling tingle ran through Saundra as she watched the flames eat the wood inside the firebox. Heat poured out the open door, washed over her face. The flames excited her, sent shivers of desire through her body. She wanted to thrust her arm into the firebox and watch her flesh bubble.

  Shuddering, she flicked her eyes over to the dwarf to see Filmore pour the last drops of oil from his three-gallon can. Trails of translucent fluid ran throughout the apartment, darkening the floor wherever it went. Finished, Filmore tossed the can to the side where it would be found by the arson investigators. The Mister had insisted on that. He wanted it known that this fire was deliberate. Well, the Mister would get his way on that particular--only the signs found would be more than the ones he desired. Filmore would see to that.

  Almost quivering with excitement, Saundra ran the tip of her wet tongue over rough lips. Her tongue tip felt out the small grooves and ridges of her upper lip. She allowed it to hover momentarily over the split crack in the corner of her mouth. The pain was small and mild, but it was a delicious prelude.

  "Now." She stood erect, leaving the doors on both the firebox and the oven open. Smoke made a haze in the room. "Now."

  "Here?" Filmore jerked his hands to indicate the entire apartment. The place was trashed. Furniture was tipped and drawers were dumped. To her surprise, their carefully orchestrated destruction had paid very handsomely. Filmore had danced a short jig when she showed him several large coins, each worth one hundred silver.

  Found money. Her money. Filmore, the little fool, thought she would split it with him. Fat chance, boyo.

  "You are one sick bitch," the dwarf said.

  "And you love me for it, don't you?"

  "I do," he admitted as he started taking off his clothes. "I really do. We're both too perverse for our own good."

  "I disagree," Saundra said as her fingers undid her shirt buttons. "I'm exactly as perverse as I choose to be."

  * * *

  After tucking her body back into her clothes, Saundra gazed down on the recumbent figure lying on the floor. Filmore glared hate and frustration and fear. She liked that. She liked it when people feared her. She enjoyed their hate.

  She finished tucking in her shirt and bent to check his bindings. They were adequate. He couldn't escape before he died.

  "I know this is a cliché," she said, her throat thick with the heavy smoke. She needed to hurry before someone called out an alarm. "But this really isn't personal. I love you. You know I do. It's just that the Mister ordered me to kill you. He thinks you screwed up really, really bad with the kidnapping and that it's too much of a risk to keep you around."

  "Mmmmph."

  Filmore's struggle with the gag was sad to see. Regret roiled through her. Kneeling on the floor, she pulled his head to her. Nestling it against her breasts, she looked down at the spot where his hair was starting to grow thin. "Honey doll, I really am sorry. I hate the thought of losing you as a lover. After all, perverted dwarves are very hard to find."

  Gathering his body in her arms, she rose. He really was a small man. His weight was almost negligible despite the width of his shoulders. Even his struggling and twisting did not upset her balance.

  Giggling, Saundra listened while air bubbled through his nostrils. The poor lad really was sick, and spittle darkened the rag she had shoved into his mouth. She hoped his plugged sinuses did not stop his breathing entirely. It would be a shame if he suffocated before he baked.

  Carrying her burden, she stepped over to the stove and moved so Filmore could look at the firebox's flickering flames. She spat. The spittle hit the side of the oven and slid downward in a hot ooze. Good, it bubbled but did not sizzle. She didn't want the oven to be too hot. That was why she had left the door open.

  "You don't know how much I envy you," she murmured as she closed the firebox door.

  "Mmmmph."

  Saundra sighed. "Sweet one, I told you to be quiet an hour ago. We don't want to wake the neighbors."

  Sometimes she couldn't understand why people insisted on being disobedient. Why couldn't they just shut up and do as they were told? Did the man not realize the favor she did him?

  It was a good thing the oven was large because Filmore was not very cooperative. The noises he made as he went in were distressing. She had to close the oven door to muffle them, and that just wasn't fair because she couldn't watch him roast. She did, however, smell the sweet stench of his burning skin. As satisfying as that was, it wasn't the same as being able to watch him bang and claw at the closed oven's door. Part of her hoped the sound of his struggles would carry through the floor into the apartment below.

  Suddenly disgusted with the entire matter, Saundra knelt, opened the firebox once more, and pulled the burning chair leg free. It was an inch across, flame-tipped, and ember-red along half its length. Smiling, she imagined the joy she would experience if she were to pull her shirt free and run the red embers across her belly. She imagined the sensation of her skin sloughing away while flesh bubbled. The thought got her so excited she considered pulling Filmore out of the oven to have one more go at him.

  But no. He was only a man. Sad experience had proven that men often allowed these small matters occupy too much of their minds. Filmore would stay where he was, and her fantasy would remain only a fantasy until she didn't have to keep the exterior of her body unmarked.

  A sudden delighted smile overtook her. That time might be now. After all, she had discovered all this wonderful money. When added to what she had already saved, it was enough for her operation five dozen times over.

  Yes.

  Raising the folds of her shirt, Saundra pressed the burning embers into her belly. The sensation was exquisite, but she was saddened that she experienced only a small part of the pain Filmore felt. For just a moment, she hated him for that.

  Enough. The stink of burning flesh hung thick in the air--thick and sharp and exciting and mixed with the stink of wood smoke, but it was enough.

  She tossed the stick to a dry spot on the floor. The oil-soaked wood floor looked enticing, but she would ignore that. She had a better idea.

  Walking into the kitchen, she reopened the gas cock on the propane line. Gas slowly hissed out through the crinkled tubing. Since propane was heavier than air, it would eventually drift across the floor to the firebox.

  Filmore's muffled screams still sounded as she opened the apartment door to leave. She paused for a moment, and then shut it once more. Smiling at her own stupidity, she turned around and went back into the apartment. She had almost forgotten the money. Leaving that behind would have been an unforgivable blunder. Opening her pouch, she poured the money into it and headed for the door once again. Pausing one more time, she stooped to lift up the bottle of Runeburg White Filmore had wanted. She quickstepped over to the oven, cracked open the door, and slipped the wine inside. There. Nobody could accuse her of being thoughtless.

  She kicked aside a small collection of clothes on the floor as she went back to the door, opened it once more, ready to quickly close it again to keep the tale-telling smoke from pouring out into the hallway. The sight of a surprised face met her gaze.

  "Hey, the place is on fire," a boy exclaimed.

  "Shhh," Saundra hushed him while her rough shirt rubbed delightfully against her burned belly. "It was. I put it out. The couch was on fire."

  "Wow, can I see it?"

  "Why sure you can, hon. Anytime old--what was your name?"

  "Me? I'm Billy Severn."

  Saundra smiled. "Just step inside, Billy." She opened the door. Filmore chose that moment to let loose one last feeble scream. Billy startled and opened his mouth to begin his own scream, but she handled that. Young boys had very thin necks. They snapped easily.

  Chapter 18

  Aa
ron woke from dreams of holding Cathy to find a tongue gently probing inside his mouth. He kept his eyes closed for a few seconds, trapped between the dream of Cathy's kisses and the reality of this waking. He reached out to put his arm around Cathy and snuggle her close, but discovered that she was not where he expected her to be. Wet cool pressed against his cheek, and he smiled. Cathy had always been inventive.

  When he opened his eyes, the tongue withdrew and spread itself across his face.

  "GAHHH!"

  Aaron jerked upright.

  "HELP!"

  Throwing itself to the floor, a beast scampered into a corner. Trembling, with its tail tucked between its legs and its long pointed ears drooping, the beast cowered.

  Aaron had never before seen anything like it. The thing looked like a cross of fox and dog and weasel and cat, a concoction of nature that should not have been. Its coat was brown and red and yellow-blond with occasional splashes of green and orange. It even had patches of blue and white tips on its ears. Aaron guessed the animal was no more than a foot and a half high, but it could easily be half again as large.

  His mouth tasted bitter and foul. Leaning over, Aaron spat. The animal whimpered and hugged the wall's corner tighter. Its mouth chewed frantically.

  Somebody laughed, and that was followed by more laughter as others joined in. Aaron turned until he faced the opposite direction and found himself staring down the length of a longhouse. Other beds were laid out near his. Further out, pegs had been driven into the stone slab walls with tables and stools beside them. Smoke rose from the central fire. In all, the hall was more than fifty feet long. No one was inside except Aaron Turner, the cowering animal, and about fifteen laughing children.

  They obviously thought their joke was hilarious. For the lack of anything better to do, he pointed at the animal. "What is that thing?"

  The children chatted among themselves for a while before one girl of nine or ten pointed at the animal and said, "Zisst."

  Aaron nodded as if he understood. In a way, he did. The thing was Zisst. He didn't know if that was the animal's name or its species, but he did know that it was a Zisst.

  Aaron snapped his fingers. "Come here, Zisst."

  The thing stopped trembling and cocked its head. Straightening, it took one hesitant step forward, released a short bark, and leaped to land in his arms. Aaron used one hand to pull the animal back to a safe distance from his face and patted it reassuringly. Zisst wiggled like a lost puppy that had just been found.

  "You and I will get along just fine," Aaron told it. "I'm not yet sure about the rest of these people. I wonder how they got you to do that."

  Something round and clear yellow-gray arced through the air and landed on Aaron's lap. Zisst was on it in an instant. That answered more than one of Aaron's questions. The ball smelled as bad as his mouth still tasted. He had given Zisst spit a poor rap. It was Zisst food that was disgusting, not Zisst tongue.

  "Gllarand," the girl said. She held another yellow-gray ball.

  "Glererand," Aaron replied brokenly.

  The children laughed. Smiling sheepishly, Aaron pushed Zisst away and rose to his feet. "Maybe I ought to hook myself up with someone who speaks Jut."

  The girl tossed the ball to Zisst. She moved forward and took Aaron's hand. "I speak it better than anyone. Teacher says I have a Talent for it. She hardly had to work with me at all."

  "I'm Aaron." Manners were different here. Many of these people only had one name. There would be no Mister this and Mistress that while living in this village.

  She shook her head. "You are Death, both Bringer and Chosen. I'm Patea." She started pointing. "Urgunda, Bitor, Verladase, Mercator, Keralad--."

  "Whoa, girl!" Aaron stopped her. "Hold up! I'll never remember all those names on this short notice. You have to give me some time to get to know them. I already can't tell you which is Bitgunda and who is Merlad."

  They laughed and hooted again, Patea worse than any of the others. "That was funnier than when you said you farted," she chortled.

  "I said what?"

  "You said glererand. That means I farted."

  "Well, I certainly did not mean that," Aaron stated. "I am far too well mannered to do such an indecent thing in front of a young lady like yourself." For some reason, that just set her off again. She rattled off a string of words to her waiting audience. Some of the children actually fell to the ground and start rolled around.

  Aaron didn't need to have pictures drawn for him. "At least not when I'm awake," he clarified.

  That set her off again. Smiling because of their infectious humor, he shook off her hand and headed for the outside door. Zisst and Patea followed on his heels. Aaron realized he would have a hard time shaking either of them loose.

  He stepped outside, surrounded by children who shot out of the longhouse and ran in the same general direction he headed. The sun had gone into hiding. Dark, low-hanging clouds floated overhead. A brisk wind blew, and he saw the flicker of lightning in the far distance. Sections of fields showed in the gaps between the buildings, and further away, rows of plowed land spiraled up the hillsides. Women and a few men worked in the fields where green heads of plantings peeked above small mounds of earth. A single-bladed plowshare sat on the ground less than fifty feet from where Aaron stood.

  The scene was ominous and threatening and domestic and so ordinarily commonplace that if it were not for the primitiveness of their tools, Aaron would have had a hard time saying whether he was in Isabella proper or the captured territory. The strange part was that he knew, from the little bit of Isabellan history he had read, that the tools and implements used by these people were the same ones used by the more 'civilized' Isabellans only a hundred years earlier.

  Zisst, busy entwining itself through Aaron's legs, was well on the way to becoming a bother.

  "It is going to rain," Patea said. "Teacher told me to get you into the dun since its roof will not fall in."

  Moisture kissed Aaron's cheek. Another drop fell on his nose. He looked to the field and saw people shouldering their tools and heading back to the village. "Guess you better take me to the dun. I learned a long time ago that few people win an argument against her."

  Patea nodded. "That is because she is sad. People do not argue so hard with someone who is sad."

  The dun was a round, dome-topped building that could easily contain every person in the town. The fit inside was tight, but nobody was crushed. The building appeared to be made of the same stone as had the broch, but the stones were of a smaller size and unshaped. He asked, but few people understood him, and none of those were willing to guess the building's age. It was their dun. It had always existed, and as far as they were concerned, it would always remain.

  People chatted and laughed while thunder cracked overhead, and rain began to pour. He heard one or two arguments, but nothing that looked like it might come to violence. As always, most of the people were female, and yet there were far more men than he had expected.

  Somehow, the people of Telven had escaped the usual ratio of women to men. As best Aaron could tell, about one-third of this town was male. He wasn't sure if this indicated that Telven's women lived shorter lives or if the village miraculously bypassed this world's high male infant mortality rate.

  "The thatching is old." Cathy pushed and maneuvered her way to him. Her face was flushed with heat and effort. Aaron remembered that she had always remained separate from gatherings when he first met her. She had been a child raising children, and so she had worked to support herself, her sister, and her brother while others played. After opening her Reading Emporium, she had enjoyed the life of a social butterfly. She liked the crowds and the talk and the challenge of personal interaction.

  "What?" Gods, she looked lovely.

  "It's old, the thatching on all the other roofs. It hasn't been replaced since last year. That's why some of the buildings leak and why we don't trust any of the roofs not to cave in."

  "Replacing the thatching seems
like a good idea."

  "They do replace it but only toward the end of summer. I think they like crowding in here like this. It's possible this is a social necessity, a way of binding them together."

  "Or maybe they're just lazy," Aaron half-shouted to be heard over the general bedlam.

  Her eyes sparkled. "That too. These people are some of the hardest workers I've ever seen, but I have to tell you, they work hardest at finding ways to not work. I described a modern plow to one of them, and I swear she was drooling by the time I finished. She wanted me to go right to the metal worker's home and make him a mold for one. Mister Turner, I don't even know how to carve a straight stick, let alone make a sand mold for an entire plow." Her eyes dimmed and faded into seriousness. "Come on, there are some people you'll want to talk to."

  She grabbed him by the wrist, only inches from holding his hand, and pulled him along with her. The building was crowded, but the crowd somehow melted away when Cathy worked her way through it. She stopped before a small group of half a dozen people who were separated from the rest even in these overcrowded conditions.

  Heralda was there. So was Delmac. "Death is with us," he intoned.

  Aaron frowned and wished the man would find himself another act. He glanced at Heralda, looked to an older man dressed in elaborately decorated leathers, and jerked his eyes back to Heralda. Her hair was now shorter than his. He thought about asking why and decided against it. He wasn't here to discover every nuance of their culture; he was here to see if he could minimize the damage he had done to them.

  "This is Jerkak op bin Frae," Cathy said. "He's their priest."

  "Do you know of the God?" Jerkak asked, his voice deep and resonant. Like so many others, he stood inches taller than Aaron, but something made him larger still. He seemed huge enough to encompass all of life, and yet his body was so thin it seemed almost frail.

  "I know of the Lord and the Lady," Aaron said, although he knew the answer would not satisfy this man. The question implied the worship of a singular god. The Lord and the Lady were one, but they were not singular. For one, the Lady was seen as the more powerful of the two.