Traitor Book 1 of The Turner Chronicles



  Traitor

  Book One of The Turner Chronicles

  by

  Mark Eller

  In association with White Wolf Press, LLC

  Copyright 2009 Mark Eller

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my very patient wife, Daneen, and to my children, Troy Anne, Kameron, and Kris. It is also dedicated to the best sister in the world, Becky, and to the memory of my parents, Stanley and Shirley Eller.

  I miss you now and always.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I have to thank Daneen, my wife and friend and greatest fan who not only encouraged my writing efforts but also had the patience to deal with the long hours I was unavailable because I was hunched over a keyboard or hovering before a microphone. Huge thanks go to my friend and writing partner, Liz VanZandt, who writes under the name Elizabeth Draper, for all the time she has put in over the years critiquing and polishing my writing, ruthlessly insisting that only my best work was acceptable for the public eye. Dindy and Bill from Swimming Kangaroo Books are absolutely due for their share of thanks, and then there are my editors, Jess, Isaac, Laura, without whose input and suggestions this book would not have been complete. And who can forget Emz, nag and friend who shoved me toward Basil, and Basil. Which leads me to thank Basil Rathbone, my second publisher. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you for your time and effort on my behalf.

  Mark Eller

  Flint, Michigan

  February 2009

  Chapter 1

  On a cool spring day in the middle of May, Aaron's broom cast small swirls of dust into the air while he swept the boardwalk in front of his store. The dust rose around him, small particles hanging in the air, glistening beneath a noon day sun, but Aaron did not care about the beauty of a tranquil moment. Instead, he swept and sweated while Wagon Master Beech watched Marshal Townsend hang two of his Mover women from the tall oak tree outside the bank. Trouble was unlikely. This batch of Movers were mostly Zorists, believers in a single god, and Zorists were not normally known to cause difficulties, but this wagon train also contained a number of Opportunists and even a few Elitists. Because of this, town militia stood on roofs, in doorways, and in the street to stop any trouble the other Movers might cause. Last Chance had learned long ago that it always paid to be safe.

  Sarah Townsend's sun darkened features were set into hard lines when she instructed six randomly chosen citizens to haul on the two ropes that were wrapped around the condemned women's necks. The women rose high, kicked, and struggled, and then they died because women in Last Chance protected their sons. Looking lost and confused, Pate Moody stood off to the side, fourteen and strong, his bruised face a study of guilt and relief. He watched the women die and with their deaths he became free again.

  Pate was a farmer's son. His job was to milk cows. When the cows complained earlier that morning of full udders, Mistress Wim Moody realized her son had troubles. Knowing there were Movers nearby and not being a fool, she called her two co-wives and her husband, and they followed the road for three miles until they saw mules ground hitched near a small woods. Deep inside the woods they found their son tied to a tree, his face twisted in pain while he tried to break the thick ropes holding him. A young blond Elitist woman and her older companion stood by his side, garlands in their arms, smiling while they said the words of a common law marriage. Hard branches applied liberally to his bare back assured that Pate voiced his part of the ceremony.

  Once discovered, Pate was soon freed of the ropes, but the words had been said, and so he was irrevocably bonded to the two women. Laughing, the captured women confessed that they were Movers who belonged with Beech's wagon train. Despite the capital nature of their crime they were positive that their Elitist beliefs and family connections would win them free of any repercussions from this backward town.

  But they were wrong.

  And so Aaron swept while two women died because in this land where women were four times as plentiful as men, there was no such thing as divorce no matter the conditions in which the bonds were formed. Because of this, death was the only option the law allowed when a man was forced into marriage against his will, and the Moodies demanded justice.

  Beech nodded when the women stopped kicking, and then he turned his dark-eyed gaze to Mistress Golard, the mayor. Scowling, he ran work roughened fingers across the thin short graying bristles of his two day old beard. "Are we straight now?"

  Mistress Golard's narrowed eyes roamed over the length of wagons filling the street. Her frown drew the creases near her lips into deeper lines when her gaze shifted to the hanging women. "We're through."

  There were twenty-one wagons, Aaron knew. He had counted them and then counted them again because Movers and wagons made him nervous. During the year he had lived in Last Chance he had heard the stories. Two years earlier, Movers from a train just like this had attacked the town, burned buildings, and killed people before the town rallied and fought them off. When questioned, the surviving captives admitted they wanted easy land. They did not want to travel on through Banner's Loop, the only known mountain pass, because even though the Loop led to rich land, it also led to savage tribes and early death. Rumor said less than half of all Movers who made the journey survived a year. Very few people returned through Last Chance to say if those rumors were true. Beech, a few other Wagon Masters, and two wagons holding six children were the only returnees Aaron had ever seen.

  "They were two of my best people," Beech said. "I had plans for them."

  "Now you can bury them," Sarah Townsend told him. She gestured towards her conscripts. "Lower the ropes."

  Wheeling away from the bodies, Beech saw Aaron and spat on the ground. Aaron frowned and swept while worms of worry churned in his gut. A year previously, on a hellishly hot day shortly after Aaron had arrived in Last Chance, he and Beech had shared hard words within minutes of Beech leading a much smaller batch of Movers into the town. The matter had begun with little more than a brushing of shoulders that Beech, large and burly, had barely noticed. Aaron had fallen from the contact because he was slight and small and had not yet built up his strength after years of being a cripple. After painfully struggling to his feet, Aaron gave his temper full rein at Beech's expense. Beech had listened for a few moments and nodded agreeably before shoving Aaron back to the ground with contemptuous ease. The next day Beech had deliberately swerved from his path to bump into Aaron again.

  Four days later, his Movers in tow, Beech continued towards the mountains. Aaron had not seen him since, but apparently, Beech still held a grudge.

  Still attached to the wagons, mules snorted and shifted in their traces while flies droned around their heads. Movers stayed in their wagons. Some looked quiet and subdued. Others appeared angry. All held weapons. Staffs, spears, some bows but only three women in Aaron's sight carried a sword.

  "Mamma," a voice called from inside one of the wagons, "Harbor keeps hitting me!"

  "Harbor Patton, I've had enough of you!"

  Four, Aaron counted silently to himself while more worry worms writhed in his belly. Three other groups of Movers had traveled through the town in the past month. Last Chance fit its name well. Past this town there were no settlements before the trail reached the mountains. This town was their last chance to buy supplies, to rest their mules, and repair their wagons, and it was their last chance to change their minds.

  Aaron tried to act relaxed as he swept and watched. A person never knew when trouble was coming at the best of times. Colonel Klein and circumstances had taught him that. This was not the best of times. Two Movers had been hanged, and the people of Last Chance wore too many scars because of
Movers and savages. Almost every townsperson's nerves had to be raw.

  "We've covered a fair piece of ground these last few weeks," Beech said. "Mules are tired. Wagons need repair. We're asking permission to set up camp outside town for a few days. Now, we'll move on if you insist, but there are people and mules here what need the rest. We got children, and I promise nobody else will cause problems."

  Frowning thoughtfully, Mistress Golard looked toward Marshal Townsend. Miss Townsend nodded, but her eyes were narrow.

  "Same place as before," the mayor said. "Quarter mile down the road. Plenty of graze last I saw, and the water is still clear. Keep to the clearing. No more than six men can enter town at a time. Unarmed women and kids are welcome in any number."

  "Obliged." Returning to his wagon, Beech climbed in. He grabbed his reins, clicked his tongue, and his mules groaned as they leaned once more into their traces. Their pace was dispirited, but they pulled, and the other wagons followed.

  Aaron smiled at two children peering from under raised canvas walls. Walking a dozen paces down the boardwalk so he could catch up with them, he reached into his apron pocket and tossed half a dozen wax wrapped packets of lemon drops into the back of their wagon.

  "Harbor, let me have some. Mammaaa! Harbor is taking all the…"

  Turning, Aaron walked back to his store and allowed the twisting worms in his belly to settle. Trouble was averted, but two women had died. There would be tears tonight and silent curses in the town because Last Chance was a quiet place and peaceful. Its people were not used to serious lawbreakers and hangings except when Movers arrived.

  Hard heels rapping sharply against the floor, Mistress Golard entered his store moments later. Aaron nodded to her as she squared her shoulders and sucked in the slight bulge of her middle-aged gut.

  "Mayor."

  "Mister Turner, it's a wonder how you make a decent profit from this place when you keep giving your goods away." Her voice sounded subdued, sad. "I believe I saw you passing candy off to some children not too long ago."

  "I get by, Mistress Golard," Aaron said. "I wanted the children to remember something besides a hanging."

  She nodded and frowned. "I'm not sure anything can make this day look brighter. That was a bad business, sir. Bad." Gesturing slightly, she looked around the store and then back at him. "Mister Turner, you've been here for a year now. You've run your business and minded your business, and people generally like you. Now I'll admit that I had some doubts at first. You looked like a sneaky sort of fellow, all thin and wasted and not willing to look people in the eye, but I've been proved wrong--and not for the first time."

  "I was sick for a very long time," Aaron explained. "More than a decade."

  Mistress Golard tried to smile, failed. "I helped hang two people today, and I don't feel good about it so I have to do something to improve matters. I wanted to wait another couple days to tell you this, but I have to do it now."

  Aaron stilled. "This sounds important."

  Steady eyes pinned him. "You're no fool. Some people have approached me with a complaint. It seems that in all the time you have been with us you've never attended a town meeting. This is considered very antisocial around here, Mister Turner. Very antisocial."

  "Town meetings set town policy," Aaron said. "You made it evident early on that you didn't want a newcomer there. I agreed with the sentiment. A person should not have a say until they have proved themselves."

  She snorted. "Excuses. If you had been at the last meeting you could have protected yourself. Now it's too late. A proclamation has been passed against you."

  He raised an eyebrow and felt the worms return.

  "You are ordered to present yourself at the next meeting. Understand?"

  "Completely," Aaron said, and the worms bit down because this could be nothing less than his unofficial acceptance by the town's leaders.

  "Good." The weight of Mistress Golard's eyes lessened. "See you at the next meeting."

  She left just as Mister Moody came through the door with Pate in tow. Moody was a large man who farmed and earned extra money by building outhouses and selling milk. Though usually affable, his expression was dour while he arranged to sell Aaron fifty gallons of milk. Moody hung around the store afterward. He talked of the different styles of outhouses, the proper construction and placement, the types of wood best used, and the best sized holes to cut for the seat openings. Meanwhile, Pate remained silent. Risking a glance, Aaron saw that guilt resided in his eyes.

  Moody left just before Aaron's next customer pulled up in a flatbed wagon.

  The Wagon Master looked around the store and then fastened his eyes on Aaron. Rancid waves of stale sweat and the heavy scent of mules rose from him. "Every time I see you, you're looking. You some kind of spy?"

  "That's me," Aaron admitted, knowing he would not be believed. "Aaron Turner, International Spy. I'm planning on taking over the world."

  "More likely you work for the savages," Beech said. His eyes flicked to a bronze sword hung on the wall behind the counter. "You use that, or is it just for show?"

  "For sale," Aaron answered. "If I tried to use it, I'd end up hurting myself."

  "Figures." The Master grunted disapproval. "Thing like that ain't just for show. Man owns a sword he should be able to use it. I need supplies."

  "It's what I'm in business for."

  "Wasn't sure if you were still mad at me about that little spat we had. I need three hundred pounds of flour and two hundred of potatoes. You got that?"

  "It's in the back."

  "Good." Curling his upper lip slightly, the Master spat on the floor. "I need twenty hams too, and I've a harness to replace. Need a couple of spare wheels, a bit of canvas and some wheel grease."

  "Everything can be provided locally." Although distaste curdled Aaron's stomach when he looked at the wet spot on his floor, he decided not to say anything. Beech had reason to feel surly today. "But a couple of the items will take a bit of effort to get."

  "Now I won't be paying no jumped up prices to this town. Do you hear? I'll pay fair and not one copper more. I won't allow no thieving townies to steel me blind after they hung my best people."

  "You'll get the same price from me that I charge the locals," Aaron said shortly. "And I'll tell you what, the other locals will treat you just the same unless you go insulting them in a like manner or steal their sons."

  Frowning, Beech shook his head slightly. "Fair 'nough, I suppose. Seems like a man places an order this large he should get some kind of discount." He gestured toward a display case. "Those knives look fair different." Leaning forward, he peered at them more closely. "Damn near look to be made of silver."

  "It's a new metal," Aaron said stiffly, feeling offended by the man's attitude and his use of foul language inside town limits. Hanging or not, Sarah Townsend would have fined or jailed Beech if she had heard him curse. "They call it steel. Supposed to hold its edge better than bronze. Won't bend or break as easily either."

  "Well now, do you suppose I could have a look at one of those things?"

  Aaron unlocked the case and opened it. The Master reached in and pulled out an eight inch knife, sharp edged and saw toothed along a third of its back spine.

  "Supposed to be this and supposed to be that," he said. "I've heard sale pitches before. How does it stack up in real life?"

  "It's good enough to cost six full silvers, one and a half gold. Expensive, but a leather sheath comes with it."

  "Six one and a half! Damn! I can buy a good custom-made knife sixty times over for that price."

  "It's a rare knife."

  "Too rare for me." Beech set the knife back on top of the case. "I'll leave the wagon out front for loading. What do I owe?"

  "One moment." Aaron figured prices quickly, added an extra ten-percent despite what he had said earlier because he really did not like the man. He passed the figure over. Appearing satisfied, the Wagon Master nodded.

  "Better than I expected," he relucta
ntly admitted. "Look, sorry about how I sounded a bit back. I ain't the best when it comes to talk."

  Aaron refused to touch the subject. "The harness maker is five doors to your right on this side. The wheelwright is at the far end of the street. He will have your canvas, too. The hams will be harder to come by. I'll have to send out word at the inn. It will be tomorrow before I get an answer back."

  "Good 'nough. I'll be back in a couple hours." Beech stuck out his hand. "Name's Haarod Beech."

  Aaron reluctantly shook the hand. "I know. I asked around the last time you were here. Aaron Turner."

  "Then good day to you, Master Turner."

  Beech left, and Aaron spent the next twenty minutes putting the order together. He spent another fifteen minutes loading it. Finished, he locked up the money box just as Cathy Bayne stepped in. She was fifteen, brunette and thin as a waif, and her voice lacked its usual good humor.

  "Do you want me to watch the store today?" Cathy studied the store shelves a moment and then turned her eyes back to him.

  "Just for an hour," Aaron answered.

  "Good, Missy and Doyle will be here by then, and sir, could I speak to you later? When you're not busy."

  "Sure." Aaron watched her put on an apron before he stepped out of the store and saw a wagon roll by, two bodies laid out in the back.