Chosen (11 page)

Feeror forced himself to gaze at the tiny, helpless pup as it lay squealing and writhing on the cold floor. The high-pitched keening was like a bolt straight to his brain. It was so young that it hadn't yet begun to form the rigid outer layer of scales and its tender, pink skin shone brightly in the light.

The pup opened its eyes and looked at Feeror, unshed tears of agony hanging in its ebony eyes. Feeror clenched his jaw and tried to close out the sound of the dying pup and the terror in its eyes..

Feeror shook his head to shake the memory and stood to face the dead Gorkon lying on the floor. He felt a surge of rage and hatred so strong that he found himself moving toward the body, almost against his will. He began to kick the corpse, each blow more savage than the last. He screamed out his frustration of being forced to live below ground like some animal, the exhaustion of fighting, the guilt at having to use a comrade's pup to test the machine, the rage at that pup's death being for nothing. A life's worth of hatred came pouring out of Feeror and unleashed itself on the Gorkon lying on the floor. He growled and kicked the dead Gorkon until he was too exhausted to kick anymore.

He sat heavily in a chair, breath coming in gasps, his body covered with sweat beneath his armor. He called several younger Volgons into the weapons room to dispose of the body. They stared open-eyed at the bloody mess that used to be a Gorkon warrior. They glanced uneasily at Feeror as they did their best to bundle the mangled corpse in some sturdy cloth. The young Volgons took the body to Myrloir, who disposed of the carcass in the incinerators.

The Volgons returned to clean the blood and tissue off the floor. Feeror thanked them and they stammered a hasty response. The two were disturbed. While they had seen death, it had been
clean
death from plasma rifles, not the bloody, smelly, violent mess Feeror had left behind.

Feeror sat awhile longer, staring at the infernal weapon. He had been so
sure!
He picked up several long pieces of paper containing the read-outs of the pup's brain wave pattern, the dead Gorkon's pattern, and a read-out from the sound machine.

While a Volgon's and Gorkon's brain wave patterns were similar, there were major differences that Feeror had utilized when modifying the sound weapon. The pattern from the machine seemed to match that of the Gorkon perfectly.

There must be something I missed.
Feeror's eyes were grainy from lack of sleep. He still had his bunker duties to attend to, on top of the work on the weapon. He was getting little sleep and had a very short of temper. He found himself snapping at the others, demanding the impossible. He knew he was being unfair, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he
needed
to perfect the sound weapon. This obsession puzzled him.

Feeror could not give up. Not now, not after sacrificing Seelyr's pup. He looked at the printouts again with renewed vigor and purpose. He compared the print-outs down to the most minute peaks and valleys. He made careful notes as to the number of these, hoping to catch the difference he had missed.

Small bump, then peak followed by larger peak, then a deep trough…wait a minute, what's this?

Feeror pulled the printouts close to his face, repeating the pattern he had noticed earlier.

Suddenly his eyes grew round.
That's it! A peak where there should be a valley!
He radioed the others and told them to bring the Gorkon prisoner to the weapons room.

* * *

Premier Viisyr arrived at the weapons room. Feeror was already there, waiting patiently for everyone to arrive.

Kyron and Voilor, the Gorkon prisoner shackled hand and foot between them, sauntered into the weapons room, fangs bared in anticipation. Seelyr and Moylir were the last to report. Kyron shoved the Gorkon next to Feeror in the activation area. Viisyr studied the Gorkon. It was taller than most Volgons, and thinner. His head was very round, with a large wide mouth containing three rows of razor sharp teeth. His eyes were small and black, like a bird's, and held the faint sheen of fear, though he tried hard to hide it.

You should be afraid.

“Kyron, go to the machine and be ready to activate it on my signal,” Feeror ordered.

Kyron looked puzzled. “Where are you going to be?”

“I am staying right here.”

Seelyr stepped forward. “No, Feeror! You don't know that the machine will work this time!”

Gerok lurched forward, his heart falling to his feet. In his mind's eye, he saw the fate of the galaxy die with his brains leaking out of his ears and nose.

“Are you mad?” Gerok glared at his Chosen, bringing all of his will to bear. “You cannot do this.”

“I have found the differences in the read-outs and changed the sound device output accordingly, Premier. We have no other Volgon, or other creature for that matter, to test the device on.” He gazed at his fellow Chosen. “I made the mistake of trying the device on a Volgon before I had scrutinized the printouts. If I had taken the time to study them, I would have found the differences and Seelyr's pup would have survived the test. But its life was not taken in vain.”

“Feeror, please do not do this.” She reached out, but he had already activated the shield. Her hands stopped as though they had hit a wall of solid rock.

Gerok watched as though from a great distance, the voices of his Chosen nothing but a slight buzzing in his ears. He watched dully as Kyron ordered everyone out of the room.
Do something, you fool!

Gerok grabbed Kyron's arm. “You can't be serious! We can't go through with this!” Gerok was tempted to tell Kyron everything, if it would stop the madness. Kyron shrugged. “He says he fixed the problem. I believe him.”

“It's not that simple.” Gerok snapped. “It's too dangerous and we can't afford to lose him!”

“We have lost people before, Premier.” Kyron looked at Gerok as though he had grown another head. “This could be the weapon that ends this war once and for all.”

“There are other things at stake. Things more important than your stupid war!” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had said too much.

“
My
stupid war?”

“Kyron! Activate the machine!” Feeror barked into the communicator.

Kyron turned back to face Feeror behind the shield. “The Premier is having doubts.”

“This is the only way. I am willing to make the sacrifice. There is nothing left to discuss. Now activate the machine!” The communicator crackled with the force of his words.

Gerok stared at his Chosen. He couldn't stop the experiment. Any more protests on his part would arouse suspicions. A Volgon's life was his own, to do with as he pleased.

Gerok sighed and waved his hand, giving silent, though unnecessary, permission. He stayed next to Kyron, refusing to exit the room with the others. If his Chosen was to die, he would stay to witness it.

“Activate the weapon Kyron!” Feeror stood in front of the Gorkon prisoner, defiant, proud, and unafraid.

Kyron hit the button.

Gerok held his breath as he saw the Gorkon fall, twitching and writhing, every nerve thrumming with terror that his Chosen would soon fall and die a horrible death, thus dooming everyone in the galaxy to an even worse fate. His heart raced as he saw Feeror still standing, a look of disgust wrinkling his forehead. Kyron fired the weapon for a full five minutes. At a signal from Feeror, Kyron powered down the device. Feeror exited the sound-proof barrier.

“I told you it would work.” Feeror grinned at his Premier.

A
STRA

Master Brok kept the Chosen moving at a fast pace since leaving Heart Stone. He had traced the boy using the locator spell to the town of Ashford. It didn't take long to determine that Jon had stayed at the Gentleman and the Maid, told a few stories in the common room in exchange for some coppers and some food, and then left after three days.

From Ashford, Brok had traced Jon to Faerow. This was the first city that any of the students had ever seen. They stared open-mouthed at the grey stone walls surrounding the city on three sides. They stood fifteen feet tall, with towers at thirty foot intervals. The large wooden gates were open. At night, these gates, as well as their pair on the other side of the city, were closed. The gate watchmen entered the name of every citizen entering through the gates in log books. Anyone leaving had to have their names checked off of the list. Patriarch Mordaen liked to keep careful tabs on all who entered and left the capital city of the Western Continent.

The Tarrow River bordered the southern portion of Faerow. This area was heavily guarded at all times. The dockmasters kept careful watch on all ferries and boats entering and leaving Faerow's ports. Every vessel was thoroughly checked, bills-of-lading inspected, and all who entered or left Faerow by boat were entered into the dockmasters' logbooks. The Patriarch tolerated no smuggling; those caught doing so were put to death.

It was here in Faerow that Kaelin's curiosity and awe won out over despair. She, along with the others, tried to gaze in every direction at once, so as not to miss any of the sights. There were more people milling just inside the open gate than lived in the whole village of Heart Stone. Some folks were on foot, some on horseback, while still others rode in horse-drawn wagons.

The girls stared open-mouthed at the well-muscled male servants carrying curtained palanquins on their heavily muscled shoulders. Kaelin's eyes widened as a pale dainty hand, bedecked in rings and bracelets of gold and silver, slipped from between curtains of sheerest silk, indicating the direction the owner of the arm wished to go. Kaelin imagined the woman to be delicate and beautiful, graceful and charming, with a voice like a thousand nightingales.

Kaelin looked at Saemus, a grin splitting her face. He rolled his eyes. No one would ever catch him carting some rich twit about on
his
shoulders!

Saemus stared enviously at the men. Most were dressed in rich woolens and doublets. More importantly, they carried swords. While he knew that he could disarm any man using his magic, he often wished he had one anyway. He imagined it would make him appear quite dashing. He glanced down at his robes and shook his head ruefully.
Not with these robes.

Brok kept the students moving, frustrated at their dallying. Since entering the city, he had been feeling that something was wrong, terribly wrong, though he couldn't quite put his finger on the source of these misgivings. But the feeling was strong, and growing stronger.

Brok gave Jon's name and description to the gate keeper. The burley, unshaven man rubbed his pock-marked face in concentration as he checked his log book, and then brightened as he found Jon's name. He had given the lad directions to a cheap tavern on the southern edge of town, near the docks. Brok thanked the man, herding his ogling students down the street toward the Crows Nest tavern.

The throngs of people got more concentrated as the villagers from Heart Stone made their way down the dusty road. The noise of the city was deafening. The clamor of horses and tack, the creak of wagon wheels, the bellowing of drivers as they tried to get their
beasts of burden to move at more than a slow crawl, voices crying out, often from windows and balconies as the owners of the voices saw someone they knew, the Patriarch's soldiers patrolling the streets, asking people to keep moving, please, in a monotone. Young boys with whips yipped and hawed to the cattle and sheep they were driving toward the river, to be sold at market. The animals themselves made quite a racket, the ones walking in the streets and the chickens, geese, turkeys, and other birds in cages being carried in wagons and carts.

The villagers from Heart Stone caught the whiff of delicious food on the breeze. Their mouths watered as they closed their eyes and inhaled deeply. Along the main thoroughfare food vendors of various sorts were crying their wares, selling everything from meat pies, roasted venison, whole turkey or chicken legs, bird dumplings dripping with gravy, hot, roasted corn, roasted peppers and onions, fluff candy, candied apples, a myriad of pastries and treats, fruits and vegetables. Most food vendors set up their carts and stands here, rather than closer to the river, where the stench often stole the patron's appetite.

Vendors from out of town could be found here, selling anything and everything a person could need or want. Clothing, jewelry, shoes, bonnets, tools for any trade imaginable, pottery, rugs, tapestries, and all manner of exotic treasures.

The streets were teeming with people. They were dressed in a variety of fashions, giving an indication of where they originated.

Gwen gasped and blushed as she pointed to one woman in particular. She wore a slinky dress made of deep purple silk that shimmered as she turned this way and that in the sunlight. Gwen noticed that her gown plunged in a V almost to her waist, threatening to give passersby a glimpse of more than just cleavage..

“How does she keep from falling out? Some sort of magic?” The woman fascinated Kaelin. She sighed as she imagined what such a life would be like. Wearing all the latest fashions, being invited to all the exclusive parties and social events. Eating the most exotic foods and drinking the most expensive wines.