The women of the tribe would be pleased with the fine silks and brocades, bronze mirrors and scented oils he had bartered for in the east. Their husbands and fathers would be hard pressed to part with their valuables for his goods and he would be the richer for it. This was to be his last long trip.
The trade routes were busy this time of year, but they had only encountered two or three other such caravans on their way home. Thanks be to the Gods for that, he mused, brigands and thieves were a constant problem on the trade route. He calculated possibly three more travel days, if all went well. It would be good to see the huts of his people. There would be one other short trip to the eastern settlement to barter for more livestock, and with the added livestock and the goods he brought back, he planned to set up shop and barter with the trade caravans that passed through the oasis. He had been a trader for the past ten years and it was time to settle down and find a wife—one without too much family.
Kellach and Siran road in silence, each with their own thoughts, alert to any untoward movements outside the confines of the caravan. Kellach’s keen eyes spied a small movement far off in the distance. “I think we’ve found our traveler,” he commented. He whistled and waved for the outriders to move in closer to the wagons, and he, Siran and a number of scouts galloped ahead to investigate.
Fiona staggered, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other. Somewhere along the way, she had twisted her ankle and was only able to hobble along at a snail’s pace. She was sure that off in the distance, she could see trees and a water line, if she could only walk that far. She was probably hallucinating, but it gave her a reason to keep going. It was hard to think now, things were too disjointed and she wasn’t able to concentrate. Thirst ravaged her and pain wracked her body, both from the injured arm and the twisted ankle. Keep going, she urged herself, you don’t want to die out here, do you? One foot in front of the other, just keep going. She was leaning heavily on a walking stick she’d stumbled over earlier and muttering softly to herself.
Kellach and his scouts rode up and stopped a short distance behind Fiona. “Looks like an old hag,” Kellach commented, “all bent over and raving.”
Siran looked nervous, “Maybe she’s a sorceress! I don’t want trouble with a sorceress! We would never see the end of it.”
Fiona thought she heard talking, but it was probably just another hallucination. Just great, she was hearing things now as well. She couldn’t keep going much longer, but dying wasn’t so frightening now. Just to lie down and give up would be a relief. Nothing could be any worse than this.
“What should we do?” Siran asked. “The old hag doesn’t even seem to be aware of us.”
“Maybe we should just ride away and leave her be,” Kellach looked at the rest. They all nodded agreement.
“Better that than be cursed forever,” Darach, the youngest of the group said. They were a superstitious lot and prayed to the Sun God, the Horse god, and even the four winds and the elements for protection. Kellach didn’t place much weight on their Gods, but he didn’t try to anger them either. They nervously waited Kellach’s command as the horses stamped impatiently.
There it was again, Fiona thought, I definitely heard something this time. She slowly turned around and gasped. She was definitely hallucinating now. It appeared to her muddled mind that horsemen were standing in a line behind her. Because of the sun’s positioning and her injured eye, she wasn’t able to really see them clearly, but from their outline, they almost looked like Indians. But, no, the sun glinted off what appeared to be shades of blonde, red and brown hair. Perhaps they were from the festival, they certainly looked the part. It was all just too confusing and she couldn’t grasp the significance of what was occurring.
Kellach’s men recoiled. A dirt-encrusted plaid shawl wrapped the hag’s head covering a wealth of dirty white hair trailing from the edges. But it was the crone’s visage that caused the men to gasp. Dried blood mixed with dirt and grime covered the woman’s ravaged face. The left eye was swollen shut amidst a mass of purpling bruises. Her clothing was filthy and torn in a goodly number of places. From a quick perusal, Kellach could see that she had tied her left arm to her body and was leaning heavily on the stick she carried. Her swollen and chapped lips twisted in a parody of a smile.
Fiona dropped to her knees, “Thank God,” she croaked. “I had almost given up. What took you so long?”
Kellach looked around the group, “Do any of you understand what she said?” They all looked blank. He glanced down the line and mostly “no’s” and shrugs were their answers. “Siran, you’re good with dialects, is it anything like any of the tribes around here? Try talking to her.”
“I didn’t recognize anything she said—not anything,” Siran shrugged. He leaned slightly ahead over his horse’s neck and shouted. “Who are you?”
The crone didn’t answer and appeared as though she hadn’t heard him.
One of the horsemen said something, but she was too confused to be able to understand him. Fiona coughed and tried again, “I’m really thirsty, could I possibly have some water, or better yet, Gatorade, if you have some. I’m pretty dehydrated. You know, Gatorade, Gatorade?”
The horsemen all shrugged, shook their heads and looked at each other—what was this “Gatorad” the hag was saying over and over. Perhaps it was her name.
“Okay, guys, this is all very entertaining and you’re definitely staying in character, but I’m hurt and I need to get to a hospital. Please,” Fiona pleaded.
Kellach looked at the others, “She seems to be asking for something, but I don’t know what.”
“She’s probably cursing us for eternity,” Elochad, one of the older scouts said. Nervously, they looked around.
“Why would she curse us? We’ve done nothing to her.” Siran comment received nods of agreement from the others. As in unison, they all turned back to Fiona.
She sighed heavily, too tired and disoriented to even get mad, “Okay, guys, I’ll play your game. I’ll do anything if it gets me something to drink.” She turned her head slightly to the side, tipped her chin up and pretended to drink from a cup.
Durlach exclaimed, “She wants a drink of water!” He beamed as though he had made an important discovery.
Kellach nodded in agreement, “Go give her your waterskin.”
“My waterskin! Why mine? Why do I always have to be the one? What if she tries to poison me?” Durlach argued.
“If she does, then it’ll be over for you and you won’t have to worry anymore. Just give her your water,” Kellach commanded.
Behind the horsemen, a train of wagons and camels escorted by more horsemen pulled up and stopped. Fiona studied them, they were most certainly another part of her delusion, but they were a colorful sight in the drab surroundings. Strong hues of red, blue and brown decorated the wagons with myriad designs and symbols. The camels were scary looking beasts, but if they offered her a ride on one of them, she wouldn’t refuse.
Durlach slowly climbed down from his horse and pulled the water skin off. He cautiously edged toward Fiona and, as he neared her, she reached out to take the skin. Her movement so startled him, he fell over backwards and scrambled wildly out of reach. Snickers sounded and a few of the men laughed outright. Durlach whirled around and glared at them.
Tanith, Siran’s wife and Kellach’s younger sister, jumped off the first wagon and walked around to the front of the horses. “Is this what has been worrying you for the past two days?” she questioned. “I was expecting an attack, not this poor thing.” She walked over to Fiona and knelt down. “She’s badly hurt—why haven’t you helped her?” She uncorked the waterskin and tilted it up to the poor woman’s mouth. “I can’t believe you let her sit here and did nothing,” her eyes flashed.
“Stop your nagging,” Siran scolded her. “We were just deciding what to do.”
“Deciding what to do?! What’s there to decide? She’s hurt and we help her, it’s very simple.”
Tanith
took the waterskin away from Fiona and patted her gently. “That’s enough for now.”
Fiona reached for the waterskin again, but the young woman shook her head “no.” The woman had a kind face and she appeared to be trying to help, but Fiona was at a loss to understand what she was saying. It all sounded like Greek to her and she was too tired and ill to make sense of it, not that she knew how to speak Greek anyway.
“Help me get her into the wagon,” Tanith ordered. Kellach nodded at his men and two of them slipped off their horses. Under Tanith’s direction, they lifted Fiona gently up, carried her to the wagon and laid her down on a makeshift bed of furs. Tanith stooped down beside her, “You poor thing, just look at you. I wonder how long you’ve been wandering out here.”
She covered Fiona up with one of the bed throws and began to unwrap the plaid drape from Fiona’s shoulders. Fiona gasped and tears sprang up in her eyes.
“That hurt you, did it?” Tanith said, “Well, let’s get a look at that arm.” The wool sleeve of the woman’s dress was ripped to shreds and Tanith used a sharp knife to cut the remainder of the sleeve off. The poor thing’s arm was badly swollen and almost black in appearance. Tanith probed the arm as gently as she could and with every touch, her patient cringed in pain. “Just a little more and I’ll be done,” she crooned as she finished her examination. “Well, I’m pretty sure your arm’s broken but I think we’ll just wrap it up and leave it for now. Not much else we can do. If you last until we get home, I’ll have the yellow healer look at it.” Her patient regarded her blankly. “Can you understand anything I say?”
The wagon started off again with a lurch and the woman cried out. Tanith stroked her forehead and spoke soothingly to her. Soon the wagon settled into a regular rhythm and she quieted. It was warmer here inside the wagon, the cover provided shelter from the never-ending wind and the sun’s glare. The wagon was loaded with merchandise bartered for in the east, as well as miscellaneous cooking utensils and personal items Tanith had collected for the journey. The bed in which the woman rested belonged to Tanith and her young son, Machar. The men generally slept out in the open. Machar had escaped to join Siran at the front of the caravan when Tanith brought in the injured woman. Her face softened as a vision of Machar flashed through her mind. A tiny replica of Siran, he was a rowdy and curious four year old, and would one day be a fine warrior.
Fiona eyed the woman above her. The woman was talking softly in that strange language again. I wonder why she isn’t speaking English, everyone speaks English these days, she thought. The woman appeared to be young, healthy and quite tall. Her dark blonde hair was braided in what best could be described as cornrows and tied at the back with a leather thong. Her features were pleasant, handsome rather than pretty, and when she smiled, dimples deepened each cheek. Small tattoos in horizontal lines decorated the outermost points of her cheekbones. She had discarded a fur skin wrap upon entering the wagon and her underclothing consisted of a tunic in bright blue, with straight sleeves reaching to just below her elbows and a calf-length leather skirt. Bracelets decorated her arms and she sported a strange necklace, perhaps a torque, if that was the word, Fiona thought. Her bright blue eyes questioned Fiona and though she appeared to be friendly, a look of concern marred her features. Fiona pointed at the waterskin again and the woman lifted her head up and helped her to take another drink.
“Thank you,” Fiona whispered. The woman tilted her head as if to understand better and regarded her questioningly. Fiona attempted to smile, but her mouth refused to respond. The woman seemed to understand, though, and patted her gently. She reached over and began to clean Fiona’s face with a soft cloth.
On close examination, Tanith could tell that the woman was much younger than first assumed. She was small by their standards, but a woman full grown by the shape of her. Most of the women she knew were tall, often as tall as the men, unless you considered the women of the yellow people, they were all small. This one was too delicate to be one of her people and it was impossible to really tell what she looked like, given the condition of her face. “Your poor face, just look at you, who would do such a thing?” she said as she gently wiped the dirt and grime away. Someone had abused this young woman sorely and it would be sometime before the bruises and swelling would be gone. As she cleaned the young woman’s face, Tanith noted that the skin on the uninjured side of her face was very soft and, except for a few small cuts, was clear and unblemished.
Cleaned of the grime, her right eye was beautiful, large and a clear light green, the color of spring leaves, with long dark lashes all around. Tanith worked the headdress off her patient’s head and, even though tangled and dirty, her hair was long and thick. The color reminded her of a newborn lamb’s wool, almost white. She smoothed it out as best she could and then braided it loosely. She worked quickly and quietly and eventually had the woman cleaned up and resting more comfortably.
Fiona was beginning to relax under the woman’s ministrations. Her pain had eased somewhat and feeling safer than she had for some time, she allowed unconsciousness to finally overtake her.
Tanith waited a few moments to be sure she was resting soundly and then climbed out of the moving wagon. She walked quickly ahead and soon joined Siran and Machar at the front of the train. Machar was riding in front of Siran, and she reached up and lifted him down. “Run back to the wagon and watch over the sick woman for me,” she instructed him, “and let me know if she wakes.”
Machar drew himself up, proud that he was given such an important job. “I’ll run fast and I won’t move at all,” he said and off he ran.
“Don’t make my son into a nursemaid,” Siran gently rebuked her.
“It’ll take more than that to make a nursemaid of him,” she retorted.
Tanith watched until she was sure Machar was safe in the wagon and then turned to Siran. “Well, I’ve done all I can for now. The rest is up to her.”
“Do you think she’ll live,” Siran questioned.
“She’s young, that’s in her favor, and she appears healthy otherwise. She’s running a fever, but that’s to be expected.”
“I thought she was old.”
“I thought so, too, until I cleaned her up. I would guess she’s probably around the same age as me, maybe a little older. I wonder where she came from.”
“Maybe she’s a runaway slave, or she could be one of the women destined for the harems to the south.”
“Possibly, but her clothing was too fine by far for a slave. The cloth of her dress was the finest wool I have ever seen, far better than any woven by our women, and we have some of the finest weavers around. Only a woman of some importance would have a dress so fine.”
“She could have escaped from one of the northern nomad’s tents.”
“I doubt it, once a woman enters one of their tents, no one ever sees them again.” She walked quietly beside Siran’s horse for a few moments, dark thoughts clouded her mind. Raiders from the tribes to the north took two or three women each year and, despite efforts to find them, none had ever returned. Their fates were left to the Gods.
“Mayhap she has a brutal husband and she was escaping from him, although she didn’t appear afraid.”
Siran reached down and rubbed her shoulder affectionately. “If that’s her story, then she’s better off with us. If there’s trouble looking for her, maybe they’ll think she’s dead and forget about her.”
Kellach rode back and joined them. Tanith eyed him appreciatively. He might be her brother, but he was one of the finest looking men she had ever seen, next to Siran. Taller than most, few men could match the breadth of his shoulders or the strength of his arms, or long muscular legs. A shaggy mane of dark blonde hair hung to his shoulders, held back by a leather thong. None could dispute the fairness of his face, although it was chiseled and masculine. Tattooing was a customary and usual practice among the people and a bird of prey rode high on Kellach’s left cheek, extending up to his forehead. His mouth was sculpted and when he smil
ed, dimples danced in his cheeks. But it was his eyes that held you. They were the color of warm honey, an unusual color among the tribe, and it was said he could see into one’s soul. To be sure, there wasn’t an unmarried woman in the village who didn’t harbor secret hopes that one day she would be mated to Kellach, and every mother of an unmarried daughter kept tight rein whenever Kellach was around. He was a skilled warrior, as well as a Lord of the people, and his holdings were vast. A woman chosen by him would be gifted indeed. Tanith knew him to be a good man and a fair one, as well.
“How does the woman fare?” he asked.
“She’s resting, I think better, but it will be a few days before we know more.”
“Do what you can for her, though I think perhaps she was left to die. Decisions will have to be made, if she does survive.”
Fiona moved restlessly, and consciousness came slowly as something tickled her face. She slowly opened her good eye. She was nose-to-nose with a small red-haired angel. They stared at each other for a few moments. She must be dead, she thought, and with that thought, drifted off again. Machar scrambled down the side of the wagon. “Momma, Momma” he yelled as he ran towards Tanith, “she opened her eye!”
She turned and caught Machar as he ran towards them. “Did she wake up?”
“No, she just opened her eye and looked at me, and then she closed it again.”
Tanith smiled and ruffled his hair. “Were you bothering her?”
“No, Momma,” he exclaimed. “I was being very quiet and just watched her.”
Tanith scooped him up and sat him on her hip. “I’ve no doubt you were doing a very good job,” she said and kissed his chubby little cheek. She lifted Machar up to Kellach, “Wouldn’t you like a fine son of your own?”
Kellach hugged Machar to him. “Why, when I can just have this one, he’s already here,” and began to tickle Machar.
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 4