by Mark Eller
"Think what you will," he added. "I am Prophet, and The Lord speaks through me. I will return to you on the morrow."
"Wait," Three insisted. "I only know you as Six. What's your real name?"
Leaning forward, he gently kissed her forehead. "You know my name. I am Prophet of the Lord. I will be back tomorrow."
Wrapping his Talent about him, Gary disappeared from their sight if not from their midst. Invisibility took no more than a trickle of strength.
"Is he gone?" Two asked.
"Yes," Three's cry sounded heartbroken, and Gary smiled. She truly was hooked past redemption. Sometimes it struck them like that. Some people, the addictive types, only needed to be struck once before they became his for life. Unfortunately, their numbers were few. Most managed to shake off his touch within a few weeks, but those few who could not shake him were his gold.
"He is Prophet of the Lord," Three repeated. "He really is."
"Shut up," Four snapped. "I don't care what or where he is. The Tyrant and Queen Sarena want us to build an army. Gary will do it for us, so he has my support."
"Why doesn't the Tyrant just round people up and stick them in the ranks?" the previously silent Five asked.
"Because," One answered patiently, "people fight harder if they believe in a cause. This way will take longer, but it gives us a more suicidal fodder we can use to weaken the Chins before our real troops close in. These people will be fighting for their Gods, their souls, and the souls of their children. They'll be unstoppable until they die."
"Where do you think you're going?" Four snapped to Three. He quit pacing and turned to face her. Three was almost out the door.
"I have to form a troop," she answered without turning her head. Her pace did not slow. "Prophet needs me to raise an army to defeat the Blasphemer." Her voice filled with holy purpose. "I will lead the first wave."
Smiling to himself, Gary decided it was time to transfer to his next Halimut stop. This would be his third visit to Yerhaven. The ocean port was filled with rough sorts, rough enough for the conspiracy's purposes. Gary knew he could recruit another thousand victims before finishing with the place.
He smiled. His Talent might not be strong, but it was effective as hell, effective enough to convince these pawns they still did the bidding of their rulers. If they were lucky, one or two would not live long enough to learn the difference.
Flicker
* * *
"There is no excuse for their failure. We are engaged in a war for survival, and they've shown me nothing but incompetence," Maldane, Tyrant of Nefra, declared.
"My queen was not impressed with their efficiency at the Efran conference," Willard Rebard, the Iruptk ambassador, agreed. "Our representatives reported their total failure to kill Turner, as well as the loss of several of your contingent."
"I recently spoke with Sarena, on this matter," stated the Tyrant, fighting back a shudder at the memory of Sarena's quiet anger. "Those losses were the people tasked with eliminating Turner. The Assassin's Guild has served Nefra well these past centuries, but I've lost all faith in their abilities. The time draws near when I must rethink Nefra's support of them."
She gestured toward the servant with the fire withered arm. Totally nude except for a covering around her loins, the slave did not appear nearly as beautiful as when Iruptk's queen gifted her to Maldane. The creature's features were still refined and aristocratic; her skin smooth, and her eyes remained clear. Worst of all, those damned perfect breasts held firm. The sight of them sickened Maldane.
For now, the slave's fire-charred arm and the twisted fingers on her other hand gave the Tyrant satisfaction. Vaguely, Maldane remembered ordering other tortures, but the particulars somehow escaped her. Of late, she'd had a few problems with her memories, especially those concerning this slave.
"Prepare my herbal infusion," she ordered.
The slave, still on her knees, fell to her one good hand and backed away several paces before daring to rise and walk to the throne room's central fire. Her back, the Tyrant noticed, bore a horror of whip scars. She smiled thinly, pleased at the additional reminder of her previous orders. Such youthful beauty as this woman once possessed had no place near Nefra's Tyrant.
Sarena, Maldane mused, was a ruthless bitch and a cruel master, but she did give thoughtful gifts.
"Don't let it cool down this time," she shouted after the girl.
Eldrach gave the slave one brief frown before restarting his habitual pacing. Eldrach was a good man, she reassured herself. A good captain. Nervously energetic and always suspicious, he constantly checked and rechecked the security at her doors and windows. Archers personally trained by him were permanently stationed behind curtains on the upper balcony. At the first sign of trouble, they would sweep the curtains aside and fire at whatever target she indicated.
"Perhaps we could declare an unofficial truce," General Palac Urlanda suggested. "As yet, Turner has made no aggressive moves toward us." He paused and cleared his throat. "Well, no aggressive moves other than killing several of our assassins, but we can't really hold it against him since they were trying to murder him."
"Turner's failure to accede to your Tyrant's and my queen's will is arrogant defiance and proof of his ill intent," the ambassador stated.
"Exactly," the Tyrant snapped. Her habitual frown grew deeper. Her mouth felt uncomfortably dry, and new cancers were starting to form within her gums. Of late, it seemed her body was little more than erupting lesions and aching joints, proving ownership of a Talent Stone was not all frosting on the cake. If she had owned the courage to cast her Stone aside, she would have died years earlier, relieving herself of almost half a century of slow decay.
"Turner hasn't taken any overt steps to overthrow my government," she admitted. "Not yet. He's too busy putting his own affairs in order. The thing we must remember is his affairs will come to order. He's proven to be far too efficient and organized for anything else. We must also remember he has publicly declared he will bring an end to slavery. Nefra, Iruptk, and Halimut are not the only slave owning countries, but we're the most vocal ones. Furthermore, Turner knows I sent assassins after him. When the time is right, he will set his sights on Nefra, and then he will destroy us."
"Perhaps the guild will succeed in killing him," Urlanda encouraged.
"Perhaps," she conceded, noticing the slave stood quietly nearby, a steaming cup held in her broken fingered hand. "I lost my faith in their assassins some time ago."
"Then we have to depend on our new tool," Rebard said soothingly. "Our Prophet and the anti-Turner organization his movement has built up across several nations. That's the wrench we'll use to turn this particular nut."
Maldane's eyes grew hard, and her suspicions flared. Did Sarena play a deeper game than Maldane knew? "From several nations? I never agreed to anything so extensive with Sarena. In fact, we had an agreement to keep things local. This Prophet is only supposed to drum up volunteers among our own people. He is not supposed to seek recruits outside our borders."
"I'm not sure he did it on purpose," Rebard said. He gave her one of those smiles she hated, wide and open, showing two complete rows of totally white teeth. "My queen pulled her agitators back in, but his recruits spread out further than we expected, and we had trouble contacting the Khante brothers. I've had reports of trouble among several industries and businesses we never suspected would be affected. Protesters are blocking transportation. There have even been riots."
The slave girl's forced smile became a fearful grimace as she held up a cup which no longer steamed. Wooden teeth showed where white ivory once resided.
"Majesty," she whispered in a voice so low it barely registered. Even so, it still held pride.
Eldrach instantly spun on his heels. His backhand caught the slave across her cheek, forcing her to take several staggering steps back. Desperation caused her to keep a firm hold on the cup, but much of the infusion spilled over its rim, splashing onto her wrist and down her side. Her
skin instantly turned red.
"Never speak in the Tyrant's presence!" Eldrach spat.
Maldane studied the slave. Too much unflawed beauty remained. "This one has been particularly recalcitrant. She has been deliberately slow to learn her job."
Squaring her shoulders, the slave remained firm despite stinking of fear. Narrowing her eyes, the Tyrant scowled. She nodded, suddenly feeling tired. She had felt irritable and unreasonable for most of this meeting, wanting nothing more than to have her slaves draw her bath to soak her aching muscles in hot, herb-scented water.
Shifting, she grunted with the sudden discomfort of teeth scraping against a cancer sore on her inner lip. Her scowl grew deeper.
"This session is over. I've no more patience for it. Tell Sarena I'm still on board, but ask her to contain how far this thing spreads. Tell her I'm still considering my stance on the Assassin's Guild. Eldrach, remove this slave's tongue within the hour."
Fearful protest rose in the slave's eyes. For the first time in two days, Maldane allowed her lips to twist into a caricature of a smile. She gestured toward the open windows which allowed a cooling breeze into her throne room.
"Be grateful girl. I could always order your impalement. You won't like living without your tongue, but you'd like being spitted lengthwise even less."
* * *
Toodaroo Toodaroo
Ard Chuk crouched deeper in the tall grass when he heard the archangel bird call. His spear lying beside him, he held his bow in one hand and a ready arrow in the other. Today, for the first time, he would lead people into battle without the prior approval of his uncle or brothers. Being in charge with no one to turn to was a lonely feeling and sobering. He suddenly wished he had not joined forces with Aaron Turner. Life would have been simpler if he followed the rest of his warrior family when they sided with Bill Clack.
Ard frowned with worry. For all he knew, he might be required to kill a brother on this day. Duty required he do so if the opportunity arose, but by the Gods, he had no idea how he could go home and look into the eyes of his mothers afterwards. Facing them if he forewent his duty and withheld his hand would be equally hard.
Sometimes belonging to a family blessed by multiple male children was a curse. Ard's father, Lon Chuk, had been a strong and charismatic man. His charisma gained him ten wives, and his strength planted seventeen sons in their bellies. Ten sons lived to birth. Six reached adulthood. Thirty living daughters were the price needed to gain those six sons.
Ard Chuk's father was a strong man, unlike his sons. Although they were all skilled in war, not one of Lon Chuk's sons had engendered a child, female or male.
Lon Chuk was strong, the women said. It was unfortunate his sons were only useful in war.
Groaning, Ard Chuk pushed the shame behind him, choosing to believe he was more than a toy put upon this earth. He existed for a reason. He was made for war, not to pleasure women, even if going to war meant he had to kill two of his brothers.
The sleepy complaint of an early dropped calf drifted across the night air. A breakaway segment of the main herd wandered out there, split free from the others early in the last day. The people Ard hunted had broken off with it. Being a small grouping, they probably thought the herd's leaders would rejoin the larger group in a few days. This happened frequently, but sometimes the herd never rejoined and a new tribe was created.
Toodaroo Toodaroo Toodaroo
The archangel's voice called out over the plains again. The sound sent a chill down his spine. Archangels were a rarity in the spring. Most did not finish migrating until early summer. Possibly this one was an early arrival but not likely.
She hunted out there, Ard knew, the killer, the ghost. Even now she would be carefully sliding from one post to another, killing with the simple prick of a poisoned thorn. When the ghost drew near, a sentry always died. Her slow poison brought gentle sleep, taking its victims unaware.
He shuddered. War and death were supposed to be events of strength and courage. Warriors were meant to stand defiantly erect while trading blows. War was not this sneaking from one place to another, not murder in the night.
Ard's frown deepened. To fight in any other way meant losing. Losing would mar his honor. His brother, his one-time general, would spit on Ard's grave if knowledge of him shunning an advantage came to light.
While he was willing to kill his family, Ard could never face losing their respect.
Toodaroo Toodaraoo
There, all the sentries were poisoned. Some were already dead. Within moments, the remaining sentries would be too weak, too sleepy, to sound the alarm.
He raised his eyes mere inches above the weed tops. Yes, the nearest sentries sagged. Rising to one knee, he set an arrow to his string, knowing his people followed his example. They would have time for only one shot before running into the camp.
Left arm extended, he drew the string back to his cheek with his right hand and found his anchor point at his mouth's corner. Picking out a sleeping target in the flickering firelight, he focused his gaze three inches above his arrow's point.
"Ready," he whispered, and the whisper repeated in a ripple down the line.
Soon, his aim would waver from holding back his string for such a long time.
Now.
His fingers snapped open.
Tung
Tung Tung. Other bows answered.
Thwick
He'd held his string too long. Ard watched his arrow sprout from his target's leg. Not waiting to see her reaction, he dropped his bow, grabbed his spear, and sprang erect as one more sentry slumped to the ground.
"Ki Yi!" he screeched, leaping out of the weeds and into the clearing. His scream was answered by those of his warriors and by the enemy.
His warriors closed in. Some enemy hands missed their grab for weapons. Others jumped erect, instantly ready for battle.
None of it mattered. For every ready spear the few remaining enemy brought to bear, three stood in answer.
Stopping his charge, Ard allowed his spear's point to droop and then fall, burying it into the dirt at his feet. Too few remained. He had no need to kill. Not when the ghost walked the night.
The last enemy fell, pierced through and through again by half a dozen thrusts. Ard's eyes wandered to the woman he had shot. The arrow still protruded from her leg. Her position had not changed. Many bodies without apparent wounds lay still.
"A success," a woman's voice said from his side. "I doubt we took a single wound."
Ard refused to jump. His lack of reaction was not as difficult as it had once been. During these last weeks, she had given him more than enough experience with her sneaky ways.
"This was no battle," he told her. Sadness welled up in him as he looked at the dead. These deaths were what he wanted. They had been needed, but this--this was not the way war should be fought.
"We are alive, and they are dead," Kim said evenly. "It's the result I wanted. If I hadn't run out of thorns, I'd have killed them all."
"But that is murder, not war," Ard replied, watching Han Luc raise her spear over her head, clenched crosswise in both hands. Its tip dripped red as she screamed victory. The sight unsettled him. Han Luc was a warrior, bloodied enough to have earned her second name. He'd seen Han Luc cry victory before, but never from such a perfectly formed face. The scars and divots she once wore were gone, making her a living legacy to the healing touch of the witch woman, the God woman, Heralda.
"Call it murder if you must," Kim, said without a trace of venom. "After all, I am trained to murder." Her eyes appeared flat in the dim starlight. "I will murder anyone who opposes him."
Against his will, Ard Chuk shuddered. The ghost raised his fear like no other, this cold woman who killed without remorse. Even his hardest and deadliest warriors walked careful around her.
A strange character, this woman, and barely twenty years old. He had observed her when they were not in the field. She had been wary then, careful of her master and the things belonging
to him. Sometimes she laughed. She seemed to care for those within the emperor's most inner circle, and her eyes often took on the semblance of warmth when among them, especially for the one called Missy.
So yes, warmth and life existed in this woman, but they were easily put away when a task needed doing. And when doing it, she became walking death.
"All right people," he called out carefully. "Let's quiet it down. We don't know who else is out there."
The voices continued, but quieter.
"Gather the weapons," he reminded them. "Especially the rifles and ammunition. Collect any booty you want, and let's get out of here."
They followed his orders, though not as quietly or as organized as he would have liked. His people were trained for war but not so well trained for victory. Someday, their disorganization might get them in trouble. Ard hoped it would not happen through a lack of his effort.
More than ten minutes passed before his warriors were ready to leave. Five minutes too long. Another area needing work.
Ard did not waste the excess time. While waiting, he walked among the dead, kneeled down, looked into their faces, and moved on.
Han Luk approached. Blood drawn lines decorated her smooth cheeks, and her booty sack bulged.
"Did you find a brother?" she asked.
"No," he said, not telling her his first lover lay among the dead. L'mane bore no visible wound. She had been one of those killed foully in her sleep. "Get everyone together. It's time to travel."
She nodded. "It's best. The cattle are moving off. They don't like the blood smell. Where's the ghost?"
"I don't know." Wiping his brow, Ard stared into the night. Kim was out there, somewhere, but for all he knew, she could be lying at his feet. She was that good and that scary. "More importantly, I don't care where she is, or what she's doing, just so long as she's not doing it to us."