Traitor, Book 1 of The Turner Chronicles
* * *
Terweet Terweet
Fluttering its copper colored wings in protest, the startled perigal chirped and twittered and then flew off in protest when Aaron suddenly appeared. After he settled himself deeper behind the piled wood, Aaron's ears picked up the babble of voices speaking a language he did not understand.
He nodded with silent satisfaction because this space was better than he had thought. A pile of uncured hides lay at his back, hiding him from prying eyes. But he could easily hear the rumble of voices coming through the thick walls of the tent. Moving closer, he pressed his ear against the taut hide.
"It can be done." Beech's voice rumbled, low and insistent.
"An' we die again," another voice, female, said with vibrant tones of anger. Her accent was heavy, almost unintelligible. "Our shaman be dead an' we have no more magic rocks. Only you be left to us. Is it being you protect us warriors wit yer powers? Is it you stop the sting things that are flung at us with a burst of noises, the things that do be cut down our best leaders and our bravest yout? Aye, 'tis you who be more powerful than any they. We willing to admit thiz truth. You be are powerful an' you be frightful an' we grants you reverence yer power deserve. You be still are one man. There be are more are the enemy than you. They more of magic rock have than you." The woman's voice was hard and bitter.
"The tribes not rise 'til new shamans found are," said a male voice. "When come they into power, when tell uz they signs are right we ride into morning zun. We kill the dezolators an' claim entire land to shores endless water ours be. One God nurture us 'til time right. Until thenz the enemy mons tech us thiz thing called govmen. Enemy mons tech uz much."
"And what if I tell you I know how to get more magic," Beech asked in a voice so low that Aaron had to strain to hear it. "What if I tell you I know where we can get enough Stones so all of your people with strong Talents will have one?"
"The land will turn red with our enemies' blood."
To Aaron, the words seemed formulaic. The speaker did not sound like she believed such an event would actually take place.
Beech raised his voice. "I know a man who owns many Magic Stones. I can take those Stones from him and give them to our people. Better yet, I think he knows where there are many more. I think he can Travel to a land where Talent Stones lay on the ground like pebbles in a stream."
"And thiz mon iz where? He iz in land far way? He iz, perhaps, something you create in yer mind zo we commit our youts to yer cause?" The woman's gravelly voice was scoffing, doubting.
"He is outside," Beech said triumphantly. "This man has listened to the words we speak."
And then the shelter flap near Aaron was swept aside.
"Please, Mister Turner, come inside. I've waited very impatiently for your arrival for the last several days. However, I must say that I'm very impressed by the progress you made during the last two. I have no idea how you managed to move so quickly over unfamiliar territory, but that unhappy condition is only temporary. I'm sure that trick is one of the many secrets you will teach me before much longer."
Fingers trembling, filled with shocked realization and cold fear, Aaron rose. Fear told him to transfer, to run, but he would not do either. His knees quivered. His legs shook with every step, and his heart pounded because he was caught between trapped panic and a deep seated, almost overwhelming desire to leap into the tent and rip Beech's throat out. Blood pounded in his ears; hate ate him. He wanted to rip and tear, but his innate self-control insisted he bide his time and wait until the moment was right. His fear said it was useless to attack a man so obviously his superior. Unreasoning terror rode on top of his anger, threatening to consume him.
Hesitantly, he stepped inside the tent. Behind him, the flap dropped back into place. Once inside he stopped and waited for his shaking to ease, waited for his fear to subside and for his ragged breathing to smooth out.
"Thiz iz yer mon?" The woman who spoke stood beside a younger woman who had the longest string of dried trophies hanging on her belt. The speaker looked well into her forties, perhaps even as old as fifty, but she could have been as young as thirty. A hard life in the wind, the sun, and the cold had wrinkled and spotted her skin past the point where Aaron could reliably place her age at all. An enormous, dark brown wart, more than a quarter inch round and half an inch tall, grew off the side of her chin. White hair waved gently from it.
"Doesn't look like much, does he?" Beech stepped forward firmly. Grasping Aaron's chin in his hand, he turned Aaron's eyes up to look into his own. Aaron felt the power of the man through those eyes. They blazed with fury and purpose. They persuaded, demanded, and pulled.
"A frightened little man is all he is. There is nothing special about him physically. There is nothing much to him at all except for the knowledge he holds in his head, but that knowledge, that wonderful alien knowledge, will do us well."
"Chosen," one woman said, and she kneeled to Aaron while the trophies at her belt swayed. "Is your time?"
Ears, Aaron saw. The trophies were dried ears.
"Stand up!" Beech demanded. "You kneel to me. Not him. To me!" He fastened angry eyes on Aaron when the woman refused to move. "Look. The little coward has nothing to say. He will be easy to control."
Aaron finally captured his rebellious breath. "How--how did you know? How did you know I was out there?" The Master's shield glittered, making Beech's skin sparkle in the dim light of the tent. Eight other faces stared at Aaron. He had the uneasy feeling that most of those stares were sizing up his ears, gauging the exact place to bore a hole through his lobes. He wondered if the rituals of the natives allowed them to string both of an enemy's ears from their belts or only one. Even the kneeling woman's eyes looked predatory. She wanted or expected something from him.
"Oh really, Mister Turner," Beech said. "Unlike you, I am a true Master of Talent. In fact, I am more so by several orders of magnitude since you so generously allowed me to take my toy away from your late wife." Beech gestured expansively toward his sword handle. "I am also much smarter than most of the people you encounter. Do you really think I would neglect to check up on your whereabouts from time to time?"
"I saw how long it took you to transfer when you were in town," Aaron taunted. His heartbeat had slowed. Beech's mention of Sarah had shoved his anger to the fore. That anger pushed fear aside. Rage waited to devour the anger. "It took you a long while. You aren't very good. Not good at all."
Beech frowned. "Because I am a just and honorable man, I will tell you a secret of the Masters, Mister Turner. Like other Talent Masters, all my Talents are not at the constant reach of my fingertips. I can only call up two or three of them at once, and even that takes more than a moment to do. We Talent Masters are generalists, not specialists. Besides, sir, you will recall that I was distracted at the time." The frown turned into a smile.
"There now, see how honest I am with you? I will always be honest with you, Mister Turner. I want to deal with you, and there can never be a proper deal except between two men of honest intention. So, in the light of honest revelations, let me tell you exactly what our bargaining chips are. You have items and knowledge I desire. I, on the other hand, have nothing you want except, perhaps, my life and some knowledge of my own. I am not willing to give you my life so all I have on my side of the slate is the knowledge that you have another wife and three living children. I know your wife recently conceived, and that she is in the process of losing the child already. I know that I can very easily kill her and all your remaining children. Afterwards, I can kill your blacksmith friend and the people in the Traveler's Rest, and then I can kill all sorts of other people who, I assume, have some meaning to you. In fact, Mister Turner, I have the ability to destroy your own particular conceit. I can tear down those nice little Turner Houses you have spotted around the countryside, and then I can kill the people in them. Do you see the possibilities of a deal? Do you see something you are willing to trade for?"
Aaron saw a lot. He saw filled
graveyards. He saw a pile of new skulls looking accusingly at him--again. Damp sweat made the shotgun feel slick and unsure in his grip. Moisture trickled down his back. Building rage threatened to steal his voice. "Why do you threaten them? Why don't you threaten me? Tell me that, Beech."
"Mister Turner," Beech admonished, "please be respectful. I am used to being called Master Beech, Storeman." He smiled winningly, but his eyes bled death. "Now, an honest answer to your question. I do not threaten you because I cannot threaten someone who can flick out of my reach in an instant. Though I am able to follow your whereabouts most of the time, there is someplace you go that I am not able to reach. You once took Eric and Melissa and most of Gregory there. Fortunately for me, your family and friends are not so easy for you to protect. Them I can threaten. By the way, whatever did you do to my friends? I would like them back."
"Dead," Aaron supplied. "Eric never learned to fly, and Melissa met the wrong end of Mistress Turner's knife."
Intently studying Beech, Aaron gathered his courage and his fury and placed them within that part of himself where his Talent lay. He kept in mind that Beech was more than the sum of his body. His shield occupied a certain amount of space that had to be accounted for.
"Too bad," Beech said. "I have need of their Talents. See what you have done. You have harmed me in yet one more way." He shook his head sadly. "Really, Mister Turner, you do have a lot to pay for. Shall we get down to the particulars of our deal?"
Aaron would only have the one chance. If he failed, Beech would slip free and go after his family. Beech's shield made Aaron's task more difficult. It felt slick and unreal to his Talent. It defied him.
One of the savages rose. A male, Aaron guessed, though it was hard to tell in the dark interior. The man pulled a copper knife from his thigh sheath and pointed it at Aaron's shotgun.
"That be a the noise stick. I want."
"Delmac, sit down," Beech ordered. "Well, Mister Turner?"
"He not Bringer," the savage said. "Too soon. Give noise stick."
When the shape of Beech's shield finally firmed in his mind Aaron suddenly felt good. Standing up straight, he looked the defiant savage in his eyes, and then he smiled as the barrel of his shotgun swung through the air.
"Come and get it," he said just before he shot Beech directly between the eyes.
Flicker
Aaron landed on dry land. By design, Beech was not so lucky. Looking shocked, surprised, and angry, he landed in water that was almost up to his waist. His shield blazed off light as it absorbed hits from the pellets. Beech lifted a hand that had green slime clinging to it. Ice eyes fastened on Aaron as the flaring lights settled down. Beech growled.
"Damn you, Storeman. Nothing is worth this kind of crap. How about if I just rip a few things off your body? You will tell me what I want, and then I will kill you and your family. Yes, that seems right. I'm done trying to be reasonable."
Aaron swung the shotgun around until its barrel pointed straight at Beech. Beech sighed.
"Haven't we tried this before? I could swear we have. If you give me what I want, we won't have to go through this again." His voice sounded smooth, but his expression was wary.
Aaron fired.
Shield flaring with a half dozen spots of blue and green, Beech staggered back a step. He chuckled while the shield settled back to almost transparent, and then his hand raised with a ball of glowing energy resting on his palm.
Flicker
Beech stood half out of the water. A crater smoked where Aaron had stood and the energy ball was gone.
Aaron racked the shotgun. Fired. Racked it and fired again.
Beach stood on dry land, laughing. "Try this." An electrical storm formed between his cupped hands.
Flicker
Lightning shot from Beech's hand. Land disintegrated where Aaron had stood.
"Oh, good dodge," Beech called encouragingly. "You might even make this fun."
Aaron jerked the Model Twelve to his shoulder and released two quick shots.
Shield flaring through the color spectrum, Beech staggered, but the shield did not flicker or die.
"Some more of your steel, Storeman?" Beech crowed triumphantly. "What a fool. Steel only makes me stronger."
Without knowing how, Aaron found himself holding a new gun. He did not remember going after it. He did not even know which one it was. No, he was standing by the small tree, so it must be one of the two he had left there.
Eyes narrow, mouth set in a straight hard line, Aaron jerked the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. His first shot knocked Beech to his knees. His second sent Beech falling to his stomach. Laughing hysterically, Beech lay on the ground while Aaron pumped shot after shot into him. Aaron emptied the gun while Beech laughed and chortled, and Beech's shield flared colors so intense they tore at the mind. Waves of energy roiled off it.
"Shit!"
Bad choice. Wrong guess, and that meant that the other guns were useless. Aaron had been so sure the steel would do the job that he had filled every gun with it. Only it now turned out that his preparations were worse than useless; steel shot built up Beech's strength even without it being in his personal possession.
Holding onto his empty shotgun, Aaron flickered a hundred yards away from Beech. Beech looked around. His body straightened, his head slowly turned toward Aaron, and his smile showed filed teeth.
Reaching into his vest with trembling fingers, Aaron managed to fumble two shells free. He shoved one through the loading gate and had the other halfway through when a hammer blow struck him in the ribs.
"Ooomph." He dropped the shotgun as another blow struck the pit of his stomach. He doubled over. A third blow knocked him off his feet.
Eyes dancing merrily, Beech stood in front of him and gestured toward the shotgun with a casual hand.
"Go ahead, Turner. I find this amusing. I'll wait." A ball of rotating air formed in front of him, large as a fist and harder hitting, as Aaron well knew.
Gagging and coughing, tasting blood, smelling defeat, Aaron reached out with feeble fingers, pulled the shotgun to him, and roughly pushed shells into it. He was not sure which shells he shoved into the receiver. More shells lay on the ground than were in his gun. Had he put in steel, the buckshot, or had he put in the target loads?
"You could always do what I tell you," Beech called. "You might as well. I'll have it out of you one way or another."
Aaron pulled back on the pump until the open chamber stared at him. His trembling fingers managed to slide one shell in. There now. He was full up, maybe-maybe, if he had counted right.
He closed the chamber.
He looked at Beech just as Beech laughed and released his ball of air. The ball raced across the distance separating them and slammed into Aaron's leg.
"Arrrgh."
Something snapped and then Aaron found himself laying face down with the shotgun three feet away. Sucking in a sharp breath, he jerked his gaze toward his leg to see jagged bone poking out of his bleeding thigh.
"I suppose you could go home," Beech said reassuringly. "Then again, I'd just follow you there. Tell me, Mister Turner, how will you feel when I kill the rest of your family? How will it feel to know that they are dead because you refused to be reasonable?"
Another ball of air floated in front of Beech. His shield had quieted back to its normal strength, so the effects of the steel shot had worn off.
"Why don't you give me what I want? Why do you have to be so stubborn? Just give me what I want."
Reaching quickly, Aaron grabbed the shotgun and…
Flicker
Standing precariously on one leg, holding the shotgun waist high, Aaron was eight feet to the side and fifteen feet closer to Beech. He pulled the trigger, rode the recoil, and eight lights flashed on the shield. The shield flickered stressfully then quieted.
Beech stopped smiling. "Well damn--you brought some of the other stuff too. Well the hell with you then. Die." He threw the ball of air straight
at Aaron's eyes.
Flicker
Boom Rack Flicker Rack Flicker
Aaron's shot staggered Beech sideways as five buckshot connected. Earth erupted upward a split second after Aaron transferred away from where he had fired. Flame roared through the spot where Aaron finished racking his shotgun. Damn, but he had almost been too slow that time. Wisps of smoke rose from his charred shirt.
Twisting, broken leg screaming pain, Aaron racked in another shell, and fired.
Beech's shield flared brilliant white when hundreds of pinpoint lights blew into energy all across the face of it.
"Turner!"
Staggering like a drunkard, Beech tripped and fell to his knees.
Aaron used the few precious seconds of Beech's distraction to beat out the building flames on his shirt. His chest yelled agony. His broken leg shrieked pain, and trying to breathe was pure hell.
Cursing, eyes singing murder, Beech rose to his feet and pulled Sarah's steel sword free of its sheath. "Enough of this shit. Game's over, Turner."
Rack Rack
Four flashes lit up the strengthening shield. Beech shrugged them off. The sword tip flared white heat--
Flicker
Earth exploded, thunder rolled, and a twenty-five foot wide swath of destruction stretched out in a hundred foot long swath.
Half of Aaron lay in water but his shotgun was clear and his powder was dry.
RackRack
BOOM
"Arrrrgh."
Beech's shield flared incandescent as hundreds of small pellets struck it almost simultaneously. Trying to raise his sword in a shaking hand, blood pouring from his nose, Beech jerked around to face Aaron. More blood seeped from the pores of his skin.
Aaron smiled grimly through the pain of recoil on his broken ribs. At least one of his ideas had born fruit. Talent took energy, and Beech's shield used as much energy to repel one large missile as it did a single smaller one. Bird shot might not have much weight. It might not be powerful or damaging when compared to larger shot--but there sure was one hell of a lot of it in a shell. Four hundred and sixty pellets, and each one took the exact same energy to repel as a larger, more dangerous missile.
Raising a hand, Beech pointed it at Aaron. A small ball of air formed.
Closer, Aaron thought. Closer.
RackRack Flicker
BOOM
The shield flared and died as more than three hundred pellets slammed into it. Opening his mouth in a soundless yell, Beech spun sideways and fell to the ground once more while the sword flew from his grasp. More than two dozen late arriving pellets bypassed his failed shield and peppered him.
Beat, exhausted, barely able to focus, Aaron dropped the empty shotgun because his vest held no more shells. He coughed, tasted blood, spat out red froth, and grimaced. At least one of his broken ribs had punctured a lung. No wonder he could hardly breathe.
Flicker
Falling to his knees, he felt the jagged end of his broken leg bone rip more flesh as he reached out, pulled the sword to him, and lifted its heavy, impossible weight. Sarah's sword. Haarod Beech's sword. It was the sword he had brought into this world. A sword of needless death.
Aaron's sword.
But he had remained still too long.
"GAHHH!"
Ribs cracked beneath the hammer weight of another ball of air. The blow pushed him across the ground, but it was survivable because Beech no longer held the sword. Lying on the ground, curled around his pain, Aaron watched Beech pull himself up to his knees, and then his feet. A bloody mess, too weak to shield, the man still had enough strength to raise a hand and point it at Aaron. A small ball of air formed.
"Damn you Turner! Why won't you die!"
Flicker
Aaron flew while Beech twisted around in a desperate search for Aaron's new location. Aaron struggled to straighten his fall, to correct his aim. Bracing the sword in his hands, stiffening his elbows, Aaron silently laughed while blood dripped from his mouth and poured from his leg.
Though he looked almost everywhere, Beech was too late, too slow at engaging his Finder Talent for it to do him any good. Most of all, he never looked in the right direction. He forgot to look up.
Bleeding, vision fading, but with the sword held in steady hands, Aaron fell. Finally, just before impact, something told Beech to raise his eyes, but by then it was too late.
The sword pierced Beech where his shoulder joined his neck. It reached down hungrily into Beech's body, propelled deeper by Aaron's falling weight, drove deep into him until its point burst from the small of Beech's back. Releasing a surprised grunt, Beech fell bonelessly. Still falling, Aaron's weight drove him into the ground faster than Beech's failing knees wanted to bend.
Aaron's body hit Beech and the unforgiving earth, and then it felt like everything he had inside him broke apart when the sword's hilt jammed into his already shattered ribs.
"GODS!"
Scrabbling, rolling to his side, Aaron's left arm flopped into slimy water, feeling numb from his effort of holding the sword steady as he fell twenty feet straight down to land on top of Beech. His right arm, he saw, was broken, snapped at the wrist.
Suddenly weak, unable to fully breathe, he stilled, turned his eyes towards Beech, and saw the man set a hand to the ground in preparation of rising.
Foam bubbling on his lips, Aaron collapsed. It was over. Haarod Beech had won because Aaron had nothing left to fight with.
But no! Damn it! No. Beech would not get his hands on Kit and…
With pins rippling up his left arm as circulation returned, Aaron tried to remember where he had left the remaining shotguns. Maybe he could club Beech if only he could…
Beech's eyes blinked-blinked again. His bloody mouth opened, and more blood poured from its opening. He started to stir, stared spite, hatred and disbelief.
"Why won't you d--," he began, and then his body relaxed and his lungs released his last breath.
Aaron watched the body slump, and he started laughing, only it hurt too damn much to laugh. It really was over. The fight was over, and that was good because he had nothing left but one leg and his head to fight with. A two year-old child could take him, only he did not have to contend with a child. He did not have to contend with anybody.
Vision failing, he turned his clouded eyes once more toward Beech, saw that Beech sat up and-
No-Beech had never completely fallen. He sat half upright, head lolling loosely, supported by a sword buried hilt deep through his body and into the ground.
Aaron closed his eyes in strained relief and distantly wondered if he would ever open them again. He felt weak and beaten and knew he was dying, but he wasn't angry, and for that he was glad. A man's last feelings should not be anger.
Forcing his eyes open once more, he looked at Beech to make sure that the man was really dead. Satisfied, he tried to spit to clear a foul taste from his mouth. Bloody froth rested on the surface of the torn earth immediately before him. Froth ran past his lips, dribbled down his chin. His lungs were on fire. His heart stuttered.
Sarah. Sarah. Coming to you girl. Coming to you.
No. Go home. Go home.
Miss you Sarah. Going to be with--
No. Go home love. Go home.
Terweet Terweet
Wings fluttered overhead.
Kerlew Kerlew
Terweet
Go home my love. Death is not for the Bringer. Not yet. Not yet.
Gods. Oh Gods. He wanted her. He wanted to be with--
Your tasks are not finished, a deeper voice rumbled. An old woman's ghostly image hovered before him. Go home Chosen, and prepare to save my people.
Aaron shut his eyes and let his mind drift free.
Kerlew Kerlew
Firmed, the little resolve he still owned drew on the dregs of the energy remaining to him. His heart stuttered, and he coughed up blood, and his eyes began to lose focus and--
Flicker
Terweet