savage 05 - the savage protector

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “The Clan. It be the Clan I saw.”

  Charles face instantly relaxed. “Ah! Then it is not a dream of prophesy but one of chance.”

  He shrugged. His tweed coat stretched across his shoulders, almost too light a blend for the season.

  He had offered to oversee the traders Outside, where the air was frigid compared to that of the interior of the sphere. Trading Outside was the singular concession she had made to help those who were essentially homeless.

  Clara felt responsible for their well-being. She traded her ample goods for their meager ones. Without some of the Clanspeople, Clara would be without sufficient expertise to be self-sustaining with so many spheres compromised by the salt siege.

  They had cultivated pearls, and thanks to Billy, they were also known for the fine wheat fields that he had planted. They used the wheat to make breads, pastries, and the like. Though sugar cane was rare, needing a highly cultivated process of humidity, heat, and fertile soil, they had enough to fashion treats.

  Clara hated to admit it, but the other spheres had been a mainstay for greens to eat, silks and woolens to wear, and milk, butter, and cream.

  Many times Clara had wanted to take in a skilled loomer, a cow to be milked, or a cultivator of the garden. However, she knew that she could assimilate no one, for to take in one would spark rancor and mayhap a revolution. Nay, she needed to remain steadfast in her mindset to keep the sphere whole and well. She knew that Raymond's sacrifices had not been for nothing.

  For the greatest sacrifice had been for her.

  She finally answered Charles's question, though it had been more a statement. “I do not know if it be chance, circumstance, or both.”

  Her turquoise eyes met his brown ones. “But I cannot discount it.”

  They stood quietly for a moment.

  He said, “We have trading in the morrow.”

  Clara nodded. “Aye.”

  “It would be very good if you accompanied me.”

  Clara gave him a sharp look, searching for the guile. Finding none, she said, “Matthew thought it unwise that I make too many appearances Outside.”

  Charles made a sound of dismissal. “We have a strong battalion. None shall get past.”

  Clara was sure that was true, yet Matthew was a man of war. That had always been the way of it. “I do not know.”

  She was sorely tempted. It had been months since any of the people of the other spheres had seen her. It was good to put a royal face to the doings of the world.

  She smiled at Charles. “I shall think on it.”

  He grinned and extended his arm so she could loop hers through it. After a small hesitation, she did.

  He said nothing of the wardrobe that she should wear in the morrow, though he bit his tongue to keep from making suggestions.

  Charles wondered with some distaste what sort of monarch the savage Matthew would make.

  Likely, they would wear tunics after a time, similar to the ill-fated Romans of the past.

  Charles kept his musings to himself, very glad to be alone with Clara, if but for a moment.

  It would be broken only by the brute of a suitor's return.

  He fantasized that he could be so lucky that Matthew would perish in the dream that Clara had.

  That would be a divine intervention, he was sure.

  *

  Things were not so dire that Matthew could not enjoy the wonder of being out of doors once again. He appreciated the bite of the wind at his back and the breakneck speed of his horse as it galloped toward his Clan His Clan was not the Fragment with whom he had been raised until ten and two years, but a true Clan. His home clan was yet unknown to Matthew, for his mother had perished years ago and only by the grace of who knew had Matthew found a way back to being Band. Through torture and perverse treatment, he had managed to return to the true way. Of course, Clara had played no small part in that metamorphosis.

  He arrived at the back entrance of the Clan, and immediately something terrible assaulted his senses. His throat slits closed. Receiving air through his nose alone was a foreign sensation.

  The odor was indescribable. He scanned the feet of the great logs of the Clan. They were damp, and the wretched unnatural smell emanated from them.

  Matthew quietly slid off his mount and tied her to a nearby slim-trunked tree. He moved to the hidden back entrance.

  There, he saw a hardened warrior with a highly stylized bunch of grapes sewn onto his vest. Though it was a formal badge, Matthew recognized the warrior as a member of the undermining royal battalion of the drunken sphere that was a neighbor to Clara's.

  His suspicions confirmed, Matthew reviewed the pressing matter of the dispatching of liquid at the base of his Clan.

  It burned his nostrils and insulted nature with its distribution.

  Matthew went from a dead standstill to a sprint. In seconds, he was upon the male, dagger at his enemy's throat, the smooth agate embedded in the hilt pressed reassuringly against his thumb.

  Matthew grimaced as the foul brew pooled at their feet.

  “Speak now,” Matthew commanded, desperate to gain the knowledge his instincts begged for.

  The man gurgled something.

  Matthew lightened the metal against his neck.

  “Fire,” Theo choked out.

  Instantly, Matthew made the connection with Clara's dream. He let go of the warrior and whipped around, dagger at the ready.

  Theodore had fought very little with males of the Band.

  For when they roamed, they did so together and were not to be approached. They could dispatch six to eight Fragment for each one of their own.

  Theodore was also Band and saw fit to distract the one in front of him while the others laid fire to the fort of his clan.

  Theodore did not stand on pretense but leaped from where he stood. His bound hair behind him acted like a rudder as he sailed through the air, legs splayed, dagger advanced in his dominant hand.

  Matthew saw him come and shifted in time to avoid the brunt of the full impact, but not soon enough to stop the strike. The blade caught his shoulder, and Matthew grunted with the rolling blow as the man crashed into him.

  Matthew turned into his assailant's body, swinging around his dagger. He tried to punch a hole through the back of the one who was Band and also enemy.

  They rolled, daggers sticking straight out, and rose at the same instant. Matthew gave a great shout as he slammed into the male. He used his shoulder like a battering ram and lay low and deep as he surged into the man with all his momentum.

  As Matthew flew toward him, Theodore grabbed the hilt of his dagger and lifted it. Matthew unerringly moved at the last critical moment and jerked his blade out of Theodore's back.

  Matthew began to pound Theodore in the face, knocking him back and putting him down on the forest floor.

  Theodore had never before received such a brutal beating. Rather, he had been the giver on such occasions. The sheer strength of the male of the Band was unprecedented in his experience, and Theodore found himself, for the first time, fighting for his life.

  Matthew was very good at close fighting. If he could get the male to the ground, the man would be as good as dead. It did not matter that he be Band. He moved like a Fragment, dressed like one, and attacked like one.

  He would die.

  Theodore slammed his knee into the groin of the one who straddled him.

  Matthew moved to deflect blow. The impact sent a numbing tide of nauseating pain into his gut, and Matthew staggered to his feet. The other male sailed into his side when all Matthew wished to do was to retch up his guts, a luxury he could not afford.

  Theo finally got to his feet. He was thrilled at the prospect of killing the new arrival. He was pleased to dispatch anyone who stood in his way. He moved in for the attack, while the Band member's balls were curled up in retreat.

  Matthew popped out his fist and heard the satisfying crunch of a nose breaking above him as he rolled the Fragment off him. T
he pain from the injury to his groin receded just enough for him to breathe shallowly.

  He bounced up and belatedly realized he had been distracted.

  Low flames licked the hundred-year-old trees that had been erected in the time of the elder Band. Matthew wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, he leapt for the door, the Fragment at his heels.

  He slid through the passageway.

  Bracus looked up, startled.

  A large warrior of the Red Men stood next to him.

  When the Red Man raised his bow and arrow, Matthew ducked. The arrow flew over his head and entered the chest of the one who had followed him inside.

  Matthew glanced over his shoulder. The other Fragment did not enter. Smarter than they looked.

  But they had only to wait until the Clan evacuated the fort.

  Matthew caught sight of rising smoke. The few women and children were surrounded by men of the Band and the faithful males who were bound to protect, though they had not the natural defenses of the Band.

  Bracus went to Matthew and gripped his shoulders. He withdrew his hand and held it up to inspect the blood. “What is this?”

  Matthew told Bracus of the fight in the most succinct way possible. “We need to leave here and move to the sphere.”

  People were yelling. Smoke infiltrated through the gaps between the logs.

  Bracus shook his head. “We kill those that threaten the Clan, as we always have.”

  “No, Bracus!” Matthew yelled over the din. “They mean to have this. We are safe at the sphere and nowhere else. We are not defensible any longer without the fort.”

  Bracus stared, the reality making his brutish features turn haggard. “Edwin and Evie…”

  “I understand. Yet look at all who we have that need safeguarding.”

  Adahy tore the arrow from the neck of his Fragment victim then turned to the arguing men.

  “We go,” he said in his abbreviated English.

  The women collected the foodstuffs they could carry, and the males readied the weapons.

  They poured out of the front entrance, two of the Band at the front. The gate was beginning to smolder with the flames that had already taken over the back of the structure.

  Matthew scanned the perimeter and found nothing.

  Why burn the Clan to ashes if not to reap the spoils? The very illogical part of it struck another chord of unease, for he knew the way of the Fragment but could not make sense of the royal’s involvement or motivation.

  Too quickly, Matthew was distracted from his reasoning by the mayhem of assembling a desperate crew of females, males, and the strong contingent of Band who had remained behind.

  Then there was the matter of Evie and Edwin.

  Matthew wanted nothing more than to return to the sphere. He did not like that the male Band was about, yet not there.

  A portentous alarm bell was ringing deep within Matthew's marrow.

  It would not silence until he got to the heart of what their nefarious scheme be.

  Matthew was not aware that, in the distance, Clara raised a hand to her brow during trading.

  She watched smoke spiral in rising coils where she knew his Clan to be.

  Clara rose, tipping over her chair and knocking over the basket of pure white baroque pearls some women had been hunting through. They scavenged her wares as Clara locked her eyes on a target with absolute accuracy.

  Matthew was in danger.

  Her portent had come true.

  CHAPTER 8

  Clara's hand fell from her brow, which furrowed with new worry. The small pleasure of trading with the peoples from her neighboring spheres was gone.

  She allowed the women to scurry around and steal the pearls, for her primary concern was ascertaining what was happening with the Clan of Ohio.

  Though Clara feared she already knew.

  The guard who remained at the portal of the sphere grew still at her tense posture and the way she moved purposefully forward.

  “Queen Clara!” Clarence shouted from his post. Though he had in the past been a bit of a pest with royal propriety and his prejudice against the Clansmen, Clara could not fault his strict standards of convention. He had seen her set the sphere to rights and assisted along the way. He was a good man.

  “Do you see the smoke?” Clara asked. Suddenly, he was no longer at the portal but at her back.

  Clara turned, gazing up into his hazel eyes, which were a touch wide for a man's but aided with an angular face that could never be mistaken for soft or feminine.

  “Aye, I do,” he responded.

  Clara watched his expression take on one identical to her own. A flutter of fear surged inside her.

  She turned to check on the women. They were still roaming the many tables of pearls, baked treats, oyster meat, and breads.

  Their conversation remained private for the moment.

  Clara could hear Charles berating the pathetic thieves of her pearls, and she let him. The matter at hand was more critical.

  Clarence looked over the fields. “We can do nothing.”

  The Great Forest traveled the border like a deep emerald strip, even at the deadest point of winter, along the wheaten fields of Outside. Though the temperature was not truly freezing, the bite of winter was evident everywhere, with small patches of the previous week's snow surrounding stranded islands of blond prairie grass.

  Clara could see her breath as she asked, “What if Matthew needs us? The guard?”

  Her voice had taken on that edge of hysteria she loathed. However, she could hardly help it. Her groom was she knew not where, and the Clan had the greatest fire in their existence.

  Clara bit her lip. She vacillated between ordering the royal battalion to march for the Clan's fort and remaining, which was what Matthew would want of her. After all, endangering them both was unhelpful.

  “Your Majesty,” Clarence said.

  She started from her deliberations, glancing up at him. Then she realized Clarence was not addressing her. She turned to where he was looking and caught sight of King Otto and one of the Band. Two of the Kentucky Royal guard accompanied them.

  Finally! Clara reflected in annoyance. She had sent no less than three couriers to Otto's sphere with offers of assistance. She was happy they would finally ally.

  There was no love lost with regard to King Otto, for he was the relation of both abusive monarchs that she had barely managed to escape.

  However, he was in dire straits, and Clara felt honor-bound to assist. That was what being royal entailed.

  Clarence watched as the small group made their imperious way towards the sphere and did not like it. Not one tiny bit. Yet he understood his role very well and walked with Clara toward the small contingent.

  His disquiet deepened as his eyes slid over the one Band member who was part and parcel to their mixed group. He recognized one of the royal battalion, Cyril, and felt his upper lip lift in distaste.

  A ruffian without honor.

  His eyes moved over the king, who was in a state of some disrepair with regard to wardrobe and bearing, then he looked at the disheveled males who made up the back of their party.

  It took a full minute before Clarence understood what this might be about. However, royal protocol had dictated his behavior, and now it would be to his detriment.

  All those machinations raced through his mind in seconds of understanding. Too long a pause to retreat, too short to give warning.

  Theodore watched a young woman approach. She was clearly sphere, and judging by the small crown she wore atop her blazing hair that nearly matched the deepest fire of embers, she was also royal.

  She be the one, then. Theo gripped the handle of his dagger. Queen Clara.

  He scanned the trading just outside the sphere's doors and frowned. It was a most odd arrangement.

  “Theo,” King Otto said as though bored and discussing the morrow's weather.

  Theo stepped forward.

  When the guard who strode alongside t
he impossibly small female was two horse lengths from him, some subtle tell of Theo’s body alerted the man. The guard shoved the royal female behind him even as Theo charged without hesitation.

  Clara's eyes widened in belated realization, and she tore the small dagger that Matthew had gifted her from the secret pocket fashioned inside her skirts.

  She stumbled when Clarence shoved her behind him, and her hands scraped on the cold ground as she landed.

  Impeded by her velvet dress, Clara pulled herself forward with her left hand while unsheathing her small dagger with her right. All the while, the horrible clamor of battle sounded behind her, not only of metal, but of flesh rendered.

  The smell of copper permeated Clara's nostrils as a hand clasped her shoulder and rolled her over.

  Clara did as she had been trained and slashed with some precision in a diving and sideways reflexive motion. She split the throat of the Fragment. His eyes held hers for a heartbeat of time before the light faded from glee to death.

  The heat of his blood sprayed over her like metallic rain.

  Clara choked on it, lurching to her knees as he fell to the side.

  She stood, stumbling into a jog, still clutching the small knife. She caught Charles' eye and interpreted his warning before he could voice it. She bent in half and felt the wind from a hand passing over her back.

  Five of the portal guards were already halfway to her position. She screamed for them not to come. All her mind could conjure was the fire about which she had dreamed.

  It had not been the fire of the clan that Clara had envisioned but of the men who ran to protect her. She recalled the scene in vivid detail. Though they be alive now, she could see them clearly in death.

  The déjà vu of the moment crippled her.

  Clara smelled the foulness as people screamed and ran away. The guards reached her and were sprayed with a clear fluid that was viler than any Clara had ever smelled.

  She covered her mouth and nose with her filthy palm.

  The horrible stench stung the men's eyes, and they dove to the ground, wailing. They were effectively blinded. Clara was wrenched back by the hair, and a strong hand clasped her jaw, forcing her to look upon the scene as it unfolded before her.