by Mark Eller
"Father," she said simply.
Grinning, Clack pulled free his holstered revolver. "Kim. I've been expecting you. Are you going to try killing me again? You're a little under-armed for it."
She shook her head. "My God won't let me kill you. The child shall not harm its parent. I could have killed you. Been working myself up to it for weeks. I've knelt by your bed at night, put my fingers around your neck and thought on just how easy killing you could be. Six times. You have almost died six times."
Her voice rang musically clear to Delmac.
"Zisst merged with me today," she said, "bringing the One God into my flesh. Father, I forgive you for what you have done."
Laughing gaily, Clack leveled the revolver held in his good hand. Watching, Delmac did not doubt the man would shoot his own child.
"You just proved you're not my daughter," Clack told her. "Clacks never forgive." His laughter rang louder, and then his voice rose, shouting out to the winds. "Girl, I ripped you from the belly of a woman I killed."
"You are the only father I know," the woman said boldly as Clack cocked back the gun's hammer.
"I hate him," Delmac said conversationally. Clack winced at the unexpected interruption.
"What?" His aim did not waver.
"Turner. I hate him. I've always wanted to spit into his dead face, but now I can't. Now I'll never see worms eat his carcass." He studied the side of Clack's face, seeing a cheek muscle twitch. "I just wanted you to know it's the only thing I regret, not seeing Turner dead. I'm not sorry I love her."
"Love who?" Clack said, sounding both curious and impatience. The woman standing before him remained still and calm. She seemed to have reached some place of secret peace Delmac had never discovered.
"Lioth," Delmac said as he gathered his strength and balance. "I love her. You won't kill her."
Glancing to the side, his gun still held steady, Clack gave him a contemptuous sneer. "Like you have any say in the matter."
Delmac swung. With all his might, he swung his wrist chains into Clack's gun hand. The gun fired as it fell free, and then Delmac struck again, crushing Clack's throat with heavy brass.
A quarter mile away, fifty thousand throats roared protest when Clack died.
"I cannot help you," the strange woman said. A brief gesture indicated Delmac's chains. "Not when you wear those."
Delmac watched as the hoard rushed toward them. "Run," he told her. "I'll keep them busy for a while." He grinned. "For half a second, anyway."
"God will hold you in His arms," she said with such total assurance Delmac had no choice but to believe. "Die well."
* * *
Without fear, Aaron approached the mob. They came toward him, curious and threatening, not yet knowing who or what he was.
I have no Talent Stone, he reminded himself. There is no escape.
Unhesitant, he walked into their midst, feeling love and understanding for these people who wanted him dead. Aaron's aura pushed them back, drew them in, brought them close so his God amplified voice was heard by almost all. The One God's power slowly trickled from Aaron's reservoirs as he threw out his influence. Before long the power would pour out like a flood. He wished he could somehow raise himself above the crowd so they could see him when he spoke. There were houses on which he could climb, but the climb would break the concentration he needed to maintain his aura.
Some of those nearby rooftops, he saw, were already occupied. On one stood a man wearing gaudy clothes and jewelry. Aaron assumed him to be the false Prophet. Others stood on the roof near him. Faith Crowley, dressed in chains, sat at his feet.
Aaron took a moment to smile at his friend. After separating out a small strand of aura, he shaped it around a thought and sent it to her.
"He lives," the aura called in a voice tuned only to her.
Faith stiffened. Her anguished expression lessened, changed, relaxed. She still appeared frightened, but Aaron knew a terrible burden had been taken from her.
He prepared himself.
"I am Aaron Turner," he said in a soft voice that reached nearly every ear.
Reaching inside, he opened the floodgates to his soul, opened the flow of Godly strength and poured it over the crowd. He allowed them to know his doubts and guilt. Aaron showed them he had been a failure and a coward, a drunkard and a man who willingly cast aside his honor for the sake of acceptance and sex.
Most of all Aaron showed them he was human.
Power poured out of him, tearing away his Zisst given inches, bringing him down to his true self as the substance of two absorbed avatars flowed into thousands.
Along with the substance, he gifted each crusader with the surety of the One God's forgiveness. Aaron gave them knowledge of His love, His strength, His compassion, and His promise. Through this giving, Aaron let them feel the weight of the One God's protective hand on his shoulder and on theirs.
When it was over, Aaron had little to say. The mob's angry stirrings were gone. Indeed, the mob was no longer a mob. It had become a close knit grouping of thousands, a siblinghood captured by newfound religious knowledge. Prophet's Talent driven bindings released their hold. Twisted strands of logic straightened. Angered eyes lost their glint of insanity as rekindled memories rushed in.
"He loves you," Aaron told them as the last of the One God's power radiated from him. "There is One God. He is Father to the Lady and the Lord and to seven others. He loves you all."
His task finished, Aaron felt empty. Drained. Weak. His knees sagged.
Slow clapping sounded.
Looking up, Aaron saw the fraudulent prophet, the lying mountebank; the Talent loaded master standing two stories above him on a rooftop's edge.
* * *
"What a rush," Heshel breathed softly.
"What a crock," Prophet answered, although Turner's onslaught had been a near thing. A very near thing.
Refusing to show his shock, Prophet of the Lord dropped the shields that had protected his mind from Turner. After taking a moment to gather the remnants of his strength, he sent out a blast of Talent to reclaim his slaves. Dropping the lead to the Crowley bitch's leash, he grabbed Montpass by her wrist and pulled her two steps closer to the roof's edge.
Turner, he saw, appeared exhausted, obviously on his last legs. Any unnatural strength and vitality he once owned had been burned away.
Good. The fool had drained his Talent.
Releasing his hold on Montpass, he raised his hands and began a slow clapping. "Very impressive, Mister Turner, I didn't think anyone could steal my slaves. Unfortunately for you, the channels I burned into their minds still exist. All I have to do is tweak them a bit, and I'll be right back in charge. After all, the common rabble are such malleable things."
He held up one of the steel balls, enjoying his enemy's resignation. "This will make things a touch easier."
Grinning, Prophet waited for Turner to realize all was lost, but Turner no longer watched him. Instead he looked at Brenda Montpass.
"Yes," Prophet gloated. "Another failure. By now you should be used to them." Running a possessive hand along Brenda's flank, Prophet enjoyed Turner's stricken expression. Around them, Prophet felt the mob's growing anger. Most were coming back where they belonged; coming back to his enslavement, but some remained stupidly resistant. He needed to contain those before they grew violent.
Allowing his senses to take in the entire crowd, Prophet reached within, drew on his Stone enhanced Talent, and opened himself to the crowd. In only moments, they would be controlled.
* * *
A trickle of hope and courage touched Faith when Aaron's message pierced her belly. Armand was alive. He was alive, and she would be damned if he'd discover his wife gave up this battle without a fight.
Gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached, Faith struggled against the brass chains and the Talent driven compulsion trapping her. Prophet's Talent soured her stomach and shackled her mind, but Faith discovered the locks on those mental shackles were weak.
Prophet had made a mistake. In his earlier cruelty, Prophet of the Lord allowed Faith to keep the steel ball Brenda Montpass had given her.
Well fie on him. If Faith had any say in the matter, Prophet's sadistic streak would soon bite Prophet of the Lord in his too tender ass. The pathways burned into most of the mob barely existed in her. More importantly, Faith still had the small shielding provided by the steel.
And so, slow moment by slow moment, Faith picked away at the soft Talent locks Prophet had just placed inside her head. Slow strand by slow strand she pulled away fibers and then threads and then the locks sprang apart.
Faith fought back a cheer. She felt weak. Her arms shook, but by the One God her mind was her own, and the bastard would pay.
Chained at her ankles and wrists, shaking and weaponless, Faith did not care. The most cowardly of rats would bite the mastiff savaging it. Faith would die as bravely as any rat and bite twice as hard while doing so.
Prophet stood before her, speaking with a damned supercilious smile in his voice.
Gathering her strength, Faith pulled herself forward. An inch. Two. Panting, she dragged her chains behind her as fatigue slowly fell away and new strength entered her limbs.
"Pay you bastard," she muttered too low for even herself to hear. "Pay."
Faith dragged herself faster as she saw Prophet rear up in preparation for striking with his Talent. Still a yard away, despair filled her. Too far. Too late.
Brenda Montpass moved. With fierce protectiveness blazing from her eyes, she jerked her arm downward to stick the point of her hair cutting scissors into the back of Prophet's neck.
Stumbling, Prophet screeched surprise. He spun, tearing the scissors from Brenda's grasp, sending them over the roof's edge.
"How?" Prophet yelled, blood flowing from his wound. "How did you do that?"
"You won't harm him," Brenda whispered. Defiance and anger poured from her. "You will not hurt him."
Faith found the woman's mental strength and courage amazing. Even without a steel ball, Montpass was fighting Prophet's influence off.
Prophet's eyes fastened on Brenda. Faith felt him tearing at her with his will and Talent. Like a cut flower in the sun, Brenda Montpass began to wilt and fold.
Faith pulled herself closer, crawling by inches, feeling too weak to rise. Her chains rattled but nobody noticed.
"You will die before I kill Turner!" Prophet shouted.
A scream sounded over the mob's growing mutters. Aaron, Faith realized. The scream belonged to Aaron.
Prophet reached out, spread his fingers, and wrapped them around Brenda's neck just as Faith Crowley jabbed her hardened, needle sharp fingernails into Prophet's right knee. He stumbled, staggered, cursed, and then Prophet of the Lord fell off the roof's edge.
Around her, the guards and whores collapsed. Heshel landed almost on top of Faith. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Once again, Brenda Montpass shook herself free from Prophet's spell. Her breathing ragged, the eyes she placed on Faith were wild, but a small smile touched one corner of her lips as she nodded.
Faith nodded back. "Would have been embarrassing to cross an ocean and walk my legs off over two countries just to let that sorry sack of shit get the best of me."
"Me too," Brenda whispered.
Faith felt beat. She wanted to pass out and wake up in a bed with a handsome man leaning over her. If this had been one of the adventures Armand liked to read, it would have happened by now.
Faith ran a mental check on herself. Nope, not ready to faint. She would have to settle for feeling miserable. Maybe Armand would give her a backrub later.
The mob's rumble grew louder. Brenda peered over the roof's edge.
"Is he dead?" Faith asked.
Brenda shook her head. "Not yet, but the fall seems to have shaken him up."
The rumble became a roar, became a scream. The building began to shake.
"Dead now," Brenda said unsteadily. "I've got to sit down."
She lay down more than she sat. She sighed, and then stilled. Her arm rose. Her finger pointed. "There," she said, sounding hurt, almost childlike. "He's going away. Aaron's leaving me." Her attention changed. "Dust."
"Get used to it," Faith said tiredly. "Men always leave. It's when they come back you know you've won." Like Armand would always come back for her. Not only did Armand say he loved her, he had proven he would die for her.
She sighed. Maybe, just maybe, she should take it a little easier on the man. Pretend she believed a few of his outrageous lies or act a little jealous every now and again. Then again, if she didn't take every advantage, would Armand still respect her?
She would have to think about it.
* * *
"He came back," Patton said when Aaron staggered through the open gate with Kim by his side. "I didn't think he would."
Patton studied his friend as Aaron approached. Once again, Aaron was a short and slight built man, telling Patton the One God's blessing that had given Aaron inches and breadth was now gone. His face was set and bitter.
"He did it," Melna said, wonderingly. She stood beside Patton, strong, sure, and his, just as he now belonged to her. "He looks so insignificant. He's always been unsure, torn, and doubting, but I've never understood why. Everything always seems to go the way he wants."
"Except his life," Patton said sadly. "His marriages." Guilt rumbled within his belly, cramping it with gnawing pain. Because of him, Aaron Turner had lost another wife. It was a hell of a way to treat a friend, but damn it, he loved Melna, and Aaron didn't.
Almost as if she could read his mind, Melna peered into Patton's face. "He never had me. Not really. We were lovers by default, good friends, and I think he still has Missy."
Harvest nodded while his insides twisted. Missy was one of those things he did not want to talk about.
Taking his right hand, Melna squeezed it hard. "Harvest, I know Aaron. He's lots bigger inside than his outside. We betrayed him, and it probably hurts, but he'll wish us only the best. Look what he did. He gave us each other."
"And his empire once this is over," Patton added. He shuddered at the thought. "Gods, I hope it's just a joke. I'm not Aaron Turner. I can't fill his shoes."
He ran his free hand across the back of his neck. It felt damp. Sweaty. Harvest smelled his own stink and knew it was fear.
Melna squeezed his hand again. "Nobody can be Aaron except Aaron, but Harvest, he wouldn't put us in this position if he didn't think we could handle it."
Nodding, Patton waited nervously while Aaron approached. Aaron stopped before them, faced them while thousands of Chins looked on. His expression seemed weary, drawn, and his eyes were haunted. From beside him, Kim looked resigned and a little sad.
"The Prophet's hold on the mob was broken when he died," Aaron said, low voiced. "Thousands of malnourished and thirsty people will soon storm this place looking for food and shelter. We need to prepare or things will get ugly fast."
He gestured toward Kim, and a lone tear leaked from one eye. "I ran across Kim on the way in. Delmac is dead. He killed Bill Clack before he was murdered."
Kim nodded slowly. "And Han Chuk is dead, too. Martha Heins killed him before she died."
Looking defeated despite his recent victory, Aaron's hand fell slackly to his side. "More friends gone, and it's my fault because I trusted the wrong people and didn't move fast enough."
"But you couldn't─" Melna started.
Aaron's eyes suddenly blazed. They landed on Melna and Patton with an unconscious ferocity that made Harvest want to fold. This was the Aaron Turner who made even strong people fear, and yet Aaron still did not believe it about himself.
"My fault," Aaron said quietly, but his burning gaze gave the lie to his soft tones.
After several moments, the angry light in his eyes faded. His shoulders slumped. "I quit."
"What!"
Clamping his mouth shut, Patton realized the surprised shout had been his.
"I
quit," Aaron repeated. "I'm done, and you're emperor." A faint smile touched his lips. "On the one hand, you have a mob of starving thousands about to storm your walls. On the other hand, you have enemy soldiers who have lost their best leaders but still retain the drive to fight for what they believe. Tell me, Emperor Harvest Patton, what are you going to do?"
"We have an empty city," Melna answered.
Harvest looked at her thankfully. Melna's mind was always quicker than his.
"We've empty buildings," Melna continued, "but not enough. We've tents set up and a whole slew still in storage. One of the warehouses is full of canned food so we should be able to feed everybody for a couple weeks. If we send out word quickly, more should arrive by the time ours runs out thanks to Miss Bivins having cleared the waterways for us. By that time, we can stick these people back on the trail and tell them to find their way home."
Kim snorted. "Some will leave, but not all. Most gave up everything to follow Prophet. Homes. Jobs. Families. Everything. A good many will want to stay right here."
"It's an empty city," Patton pointed out. "There's plenty of room."
Kim started raising fingers one at a time. "Different languages. Different cultures. Different expectations. Different moral codes. Different religious practices." She paused. "Should I continue?"
Patton was suddenly struck by nervous apprehension. "We have problems."
"You have problems," Aaron corrected. "I just quit."
"There's still Clack's Chins," Melna pointed out to Aaron. "They won't go away just because you don't want them here, and you certainly can't leave us while they're still a danger. Clack's people want to kill us, and I'm so not in favor of that."
She gestured toward the town hall. "I've drawn up some ideas of how to best place our troops. Harvest looked it over but refused to comment because you were in charge, so we were going with your ideas even if they are bad ones."
Palm out, Aaron raised one hand. "They want to kill me, not you. If I die, they'll be less angry."
"We may be divorced," Melna snapped, "but I'm not in favor of you dying, either."