by Mark Eller
Her strength held, barely. Legs trembling, she peddled toward the cave's opening where Leona Harbor crouched carefully before arranged artifacts and curiosities. Upon reaching the woman, Autumn leaped off her runabout and dropped it to the ground so abruptly her handlebars fell onto one of the artifacts. It, whatever it was, snapped. Leona yelled, and Autumn ran toward the cave, reaching it only moments before a man started screaming. His shrieks rose horribly in pitch and volume, making her nerves jump and her hands shake.
The screaming ceased.
Autumn crawled halfway into the cave's opening before Leona seized her feet. Protesting wildly, Autumn was hauled back outside.
"Stay there," Leona ordered before scrambling inside, a torch held in her hand
Autumn stayed. She had been lazy, and now she was late, and the disaster had happened because she had not been where she belonged. The blame for this lay at her feet.
Moments later Leona's frightened voice sounded. "Autumn! Get help. Hurry!"
Remounting her runabout, Autumn raced to obey, knowing her efforts were pointless. When help arrived, Aidan Franks would be only an unhappy memory.
* * *
Pausing on the top of one of the small hillocks, Heralda rested her weight on her staff while soaking in the vision of this new city rising up out of nothing.
Well planned, she conceded. Its essence reached out to her, speaking of solidity, care, and thought. The surrounding land murmured against her bare feet, speaking of the hardship it suffered so this city could exist. Rock had been torn from its soil. Earth had been removed and then replaced, though not always near where it had first been dug.
Sharpening her God-granted vision, Heralda focused on the buildings. The smaller ones were houses, she assumed. Other buildings looked like they could be warehouses, small businesses, factories, and apartments. A giant wall, surrounded by a field of tamped down earth, stretched around a series of buildings, feeling so solid to her power she knew they would stand for hundreds or thousands of years. Opening her senses, she felt the care and strength of each stone's placement. The work, she conceded, was very fine, although she could have done better.
Changing her focus, her senses took in the thousands of lives within the city. They were workers, she saw, temporary residents here only for the building, not for the living. Most were engaged in tasks which advanced the city's preparation, but a knot of discontent, of frustrated purpose and some small sorrow, drew her attention.
This was why she had been called.
Shifting her weary weight off her staff, Heralda walked down the hillside. Grasses and weeds and brambles threatened to impede her way, but their threats proved empty. As always, green growth bent and twisted to the side as she approached, granting her free passage. Even ill-tempered thorns moved so they would not prick her.
Heralda smiled faintly. The Blessing she bore was a heavy burden, but it offered a few advantages to help ease her way. Weaving between two solid buildings, she reached a stone-paved street set in front of the houses. The stones spoke to her bare feet. Not all were pleased with this new duty. Some longed for the cool depths from which they had been torn. Others wished for the free breeze and the sun's warmth they had known when only a touch of their hard surfaces peeked through the earth. Most spoke of acceptance. Before long, their individuality would merge into one entity which recognized itself as 'road'.
Such was the way of stone, just as people gave their identities to the idea of country.
She passed a cook fire where two women leaned over a sizzling roast. They glanced at her briefly, looked away, and then looked back with heavily weighted stares. Heralda had become used to this reaction. She now owned steel gray hair set above a too young although worn face. Except for her features, the vehicle housing Heralda's soul had aged far beyond its years.
The disturbance centered on one of the homes where tens of people gathered outside its door. Without asking permission, Heralda glided forward. Unknowing bodies shifted so she could pass. Others moved from before the doorway.
After entering the house, Heralda made her way to the bedroom to find a man lying supine upon the bed while two physicians leaned over him. A man she recognized was there, too, along with a few others. Grebfax and a dusty aristocratic woman with damp eyes kneeled near the bed. Amanda Bivins stood in a corner with her arm draped over the shoulders of Turner's daughter.
"Heralda!" Bivins exclaimed.
Her voice captured the attention of the others, causing all eyes to focus on Heralda. Giving them a nod, Heralda approached the bed. The body, she saw, barely breathed. Its systems were shutting down. Its liver and kidneys had ceased functioning. Its heart beat erratically. Its lungs still sucked air, but its blood barely absorbed oxygen.
"She can heal him," Autumn said in a broken voice. "She's the Messenger."
"I will not," Heralda answered sadly. "The body can be saved, but no spirit lies within. This man's Talents have been overloaded. His mind is shattered. He is now in my God's keeping."
A sob broke free from the aristocratic woman. Autumn wailed.
* * *
"Heya! Ho!"
Creak Creak
Snap.
"I said hol' up thar, damn yer thick hide!"
"Jenks!"
"Sorry, Mist' Lindley. Begging the pardon of anyone what heard me say damn," the teamster called out unrepentantly before raising her voice to a screech. "Mabel! Ya fuckin' miscarriage of an aborted ox, I told ya to hol' up! We're stoppin', ya thick witted moron."
"Heya Up!"
"Well now, Mister Lindley, I didn't expect to see you come along with the wagons," Grebfax said congenially.
"The stuff we're carrying!" Lindley exclaimed. "Sir, I would never allow this load out of my sight. I've no timbers or pans for you this time. Barrels only and sealed orders from Mister Turner as to what you're to do with them."
Grebfax took a long look at the line of wagons still rolling into town. This train was at least two hundred wagons long, perhaps much longer. Each wagon seemed to carry eight barrels.
"I hope Mister Turner realizes I don't need quite that many nails," he said hopefully.
"Don't know exactly what's in them," Lindley said, "but it must be important because Mister Turner looked me up special to make sure I'd see to this delivery. He made sure to tell me this stuff's dangerous." Lindley took a look around. "What's going on? This place looks like a funeral about to happen."
"The funeral's tomorrow," Grebfax told him.
* * *
Dust, Armand decided, sometimes had an appealing ambiance which showed itself only to the most discerning of palates. Yes, its texture was sometimes gritty, and a person subsisting solely on dust had a tendency to drink more water than normal when water was available, but dust also had an amazing variety of flavors ranging from cloying red clay to the bitter taste of ground granite.
Remembing he had volunteered for this mission was depressing. Even more depressing was the fact he had also volunteered his wife. Eventually, this long stroll would end. He somehow doubted her memory of it would ever diminish.
Beside him, Faith made an abortive attempt to spit dust from her mouth. A heroic effort. Unfortunately, a person needed moisture before they could spit. Faith's effort was rewarded with coughing. Her coughs were answered by a companionable slap on the back.
"It's a hard thing now," the neighbor on Faith's far left, Heshel, choked out, "but think of the reward when we get the Blasphemer."
Heshel's voice was so thick, and her figure so dust encrusted, if not for a couple impressive bumps up front and riding high Armand could not have assigned a gender to the idiot woman.
"The Gods will bless us," Heshel continued. "They'll bless us with long lives and good ones, too. The Prophet says the Lord always cares for those few who follow His call."
The light of true fanaticism shone from her eyes. The sight made Armand feel slightly ill despite Heshel's effect on his body even under these conditions. Even though she
owned the intellect of a gnat, Heshel oozed more sex appeal by just breathing than any ten other women could create with smoke, dance, and aphrodisiacs. Beautiful and stupid, under the right circumstances she could prove useful, but he found it difficult to imagine those circumstances.
"Haven't heard the Prophet," Faith admitted. "Only read his pamphlets. They fired up me and my husband."
"True words always fire the righteous," Borland supplied from behind them. "Never fear. You'll hear him yet. He'll speak again before we join in holy battle."
"Glad to hear it," Armand said flippantly to the oh-so-superior woman. She and another woman named Lundy came from money, a fact they repeatedly announced to all. He thought about adding a line about how it was only right the man showed up to watch two rich bitches die along with everybody else, but for all he knew, Prophet might be a woman. The Gods knew women had caused him enough trouble over the years.
His being stuck here was directly attributable to a woman, his wife, in point of fact. Fourteen years earlier, female slavers had tied him and Turner up with the intention of turning them into breeding slaves. At the time, Armand had been working undercover at his superior's orders. The superior, who happened to be Faith, posed as one of the slavers. The revealing gauze she wore for the part caught his attention in a less than professional way. If Faith had not worn that gauze; he would not have married her. If he had not married her, he would not be here now learning to eat dust. Really, all of this was her fault.
The rationalization made him feel better.
Faith gave a warning elbow to his short rib. Armand fought back an involuntary grunt and glared. Predictably, she ignored it.
And why should Faith not ignore him? It wasn't as if she didn't have ten or twenty thousand other people to pay attention to, most of whom walked in front of them, stirring up dust. Only the lucky or exalted, he had discovered, traveled near the front. One of those lucky few was a woman named Brenda Montpass.
Which left him wondering how a recently released jailbird managed to capture Prophet's attention.
Armand frowned. Brenda Montpass was another woman likely fated to give him problems. Sometimes, he wondered if women were worth the irritation they provided.
Looking at Faith, he admitted the answer was yes.
* * *
Leo Khante used an already sopping kerchief to wipe sweat from his face. The day was not something most people would have called hot. Most would have said it was merely warm, but he was not most people. He was a Khante. Others were meant to be worked and used. A Khante was designed by the Creators to give orders and be served. Khantes were people of the mind. They were created to order others to battle while watching from the rear. This strategy worked well for him and his brother when they were teens running a neighborhood gang. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to be working out so well now.
How in the hell did I end up here, he wondered? Not once had he intended on actually leading this rabble. Worse yet, even though he led, a woman he barely knew gave him orders.
Brenda Montpass had come from nowhere with his brother's letter in hand. She was not someone with whom Leo had held a former acquaintance. She was not even an early convert to the cause. She was a Johnny-Come-Lately, and though he was supposedly in charge, she had the presumption to order him around. Worst yet, the woman was not who she said, or perhaps she was, but if so, she seemed to be changing into someone else.
"There are people who own Talent Stones," she told the 'inside group' a few nights earlier. "Some can change a person's appearance. During my trial a large number of newspapers made free with my image so I thought it would be useful to look like somebody else for a while after my release. A caster was found by my advocate, and my image changed. However, no matter how powerful the caster, shape changes aren't permanent so I'm slowly reverting back to my real self."
Several hours after this conversation, word reached them Nefra's Tyrant was dead. Not bad news in itself, but where Nefra had been expected to deliver twelve thousand warm bodies, less than three thousand reached them.
According to Four, Nefra's Advisory Council had seated General Palac Urlanda on the throne. Urlanda instantly forbade any Nefran citizen, upon pain of death, from participating in the crusade against Turner. He also razed every known house of the Assassin's Guild and put a price on the head of every assassin. It was rumored, Four informed them, that Palac contemplated other, more extreme, measures.
Four, a direct representative from the throne of Nefra, informed them patriotism left her no choice but to turn state's evidence against the far reaching conspiracy as well. One immediately ordered Four's death. Montpass shoved a knife into her throat, not only proving her loyalty by doing so, but also gaining greater access to Prophet.
"Coming up, there's a fork in the road," Montpass said curtly.
Leo shrugged. "We take the right lane. It's been all planned out."
"We take neither," she said. "We angle off at ninety degrees."
"But there's nothing but wilderness out there," he protested.
"Wilama Lake is less than a two mile walk. These people need water."
"No!" Now was as good a time as any to set his foot down. After all, he had been put in charge. Not her. "I've mapped out our course. If we continue straight on, we'll reach fresh water by noon tomorrow."
Montpass shrugged. "Tell you what, you go straight on and see how many follow. Me? I'm heading for the lake, and I bet more go with me."
Fighting back his anger, Leo literally bit his tongue. This was not happening the way it was supposed to. Not at all. The bitch had hamstrung him at every turn.
Bloody Gods, what he wouldn't give to trade places with his brother. It seemed like all through their lives, Roger always got the breaks.
* * *
Aidan Franks was laid into the ground at eleven a.m. on Thursday, July the twenty-seventh. His funeral was attended by two people who knew him and by three dozen who thought they did. The words spoken by the strange shaman were more of a sermon extolling the virtues of the One God than a liturgy for the dead. Nobody seemed to mind. A quality in the woman's voice drew and compelled. Her intonations did not force a person to believe, but something about the words said they were Truth.
Listening to Heralda's speech, Amanda felt for the first time ever there might be some greater purpose than fulfilling her ambition. Looking inside her being, she took out her agnostic beliefs and shook off a lifetime of accumulated dust. Maybe there was more to life than a few brief years of pathetic scurrying, soon followed by an eternity of nothing. She hoped it might be true. The longing inside her said it was true.
The funeral barely ended before an argument began. "You're not going into the cave again," Leona Harbor snapped to Autumn. "None of us are, not until we discover what fired off Aidan's Talent so strongly it killed him."
"But I have to do something," Autumn insisted. Her face appeared red from crying; her eyes swollen. "It's my fault he's dead. I could have saved him."
"Or you would have died along with him," Sybil Lesson pointed out. "There were only a few minutes between your vision and his death. If you had been at the cave, you might have been warning him when he was struck down. Whatever killed Aidan could have killed you, too."
"I might have saved him," Autumn insisted.
"You would have died," Heralda broke in. "I don't know why, but you would have died, and not from what killed him."
Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her chair at the dinner table. The room around her was austere because the house had been completed less than a week earlier. Aidan and Leona had moved their belongings out of their tent and into this building only a day before he died.
She wondered if there was a message in there someplace. Aidan thrived when nothing but thin canvas defended him from nature's fury. While surrounded by stone walls, he died.
But no, her analogy sounded as confused as she felt. Probably pure chance or circumstances assigned his death to the cave. Maybe Heralda's One God decid
ed it was time for Aidan to move on.
Renford, the new man Aaron brought with him a week earlier, spoke up.
"Somebody has to go in there." His too pale eyes were filled with determination. For a middle-aged nondescript man possessing an unimposing physique, Renford carried an aura of unexpected confidence.
"It's dangerous," Amanda found herself saying.
"Mister Turner put me in charge of this city's defense," Renford said coldly. "I cannot feel comfortable while something deadly and unknown is inside the cave. Whatever killed Aidan Franks might be turned into a weapon if the wrong people discover it. I need to know what it is."
"Maybe Heralda─" Amanda began.
"Not her," Autumn instantly replied. "She wouldn't survive going much past the entranceway." She grimaced and then shrugged. "Don't ask me how I know. I just do."
"She said Franks was a sensitive," Renford noted. "I doubt anyone's more sensitive than her. She possesses a lot of presence for such an old woman."
"She's not yet thirty," Autumn said quietly.
"What?"
"She isn't even thirty. I talked to her last night. She says she pays for the honor of being the One God's conduit. She says she's almost the only living person capable of carrying the burden, but her body is not perfect. It has too many interior flaws."
"Hell of a price," Renford said bluntly. "I've heard this One God is after your father."
"He is," Autumn answered unhappily, her face troubled. "I hope something is discovered about the cave before he returns. He's even more sensitive than Heralda."
"Aidan mentioned the place made him feel uncomfortable," Leona said, low voiced. "I wish I'd listened to him."
Amanda looked around the table, seeing people who were confused and stymied. They ached to enter the cave but were more afraid than driven. Of them all, only Autumn would have entered it willingly and only from misplaced guilt.