Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  Benjamin met them where they stood. From the way his eyes shifted about the room, Winn could see his brother was uneasy, which only served to cause Winn more caution.

  Could he be trusted? Years before, Benjamin had abandoned his family and declared his allegiance to the English after the death of their father. Winn knew the reasons Benjamin left, but to see his brother in league with their enemies left one little choice but to question his loyalty. Although Benjamin claimed staying away was the best way he could protect his kin, for all outward appearances Benjamin was just as much a threat as his employer.

  Benjamin made a motion towards a table in the corner and they sat down. John Basse stammered a declaration about watching for trouble and left them to stand by the door. Slightly away from the bustle, the shadowed corner gave Winn and Benjamin some privacy. Winn sat upright against the back of the chair, considering his brother’s nervous demeanor with suspicion.

  “I give you my thanks for your aid to my family,” Winn said evenly, “yet I must ask where to find the men who raided my village.”

  Benjamin ran a hand through his hair, then opened his mouth to speak and reconsidered. With a groan he slammed his fist down on the table and glared back at Winn.

  “I dinna do it fer ye! And – and ye need to tell me what ye know! Why does yer wife know nothing of Agnarr?”

  Winn leaned forward, gripping the edge of the plank table with his hands.

  “She need not know of him,” Winn replied.

  “Why? D’ye truly think yer safe here? Why not take them away? Why stay here when ye run the risk of being found?”

  “So you think I must run from one man? Leave the place I was born, the place my children were born? I think not,” Winn shot back, feeling the heat rise to his throat as he bit back his anger.

  “D’ye know what they did to the Blooded Ones, in the land our father came from?” Benjamin asked. “How the women were fought over by the Chiefs – at least the ones that might bear children? The barren ones had only one use, and that was –”

  “I know the tales,” Winn growled. Yes, he knew what had been done to those like Maggie in the past. History was the very reason why the Blooded MacMhaolain needed protection, why the Neilsson Chiefs had sworn an oath to protect them.

  “Then why must ye stay? Ye’ve always been a stubborn lout, but I canna see why –” Benjamin’s mouth fell open as he sat back in his chair. “Oh, aye, I see. It’s like that? Yer wife really knows nothing, ‘tis plain. Who are ye serving by keeping her senseless? Maybe yer Indian uncle?”

  Winn rose slowly to his feet. His pulse throbbed in his ears, his muscles taut with desire to throttle his brother. Who was Benjamin to question his actions? Benjamin, who had abandoned them to seek refuge with their foe?

  “When you return to your kin, brother, you may question my command. Until that time, you have no voice,” Winn said quietly. Old wounds surged in the space between them, betrayal and anger spiking his words. “Tell me where to find the men I seek, and I will leave you to your duties serving my enemy.”

  Benjamin remained seated, meeting Winn’s gaze without waver.

  “Ye shall find them at the docks. Sturlsson is expecting a shipment forthright.”

  Winn loosened his fists and turned to go. John Basse stared inquisitively at him from the doorway.

  “He is the enemy to me, as well, brother,” Benjamin said, standing up and grabbing Winn’s arm as he moved away. “I pledged an oath to protect the Blooded Ones, and that is what I do. I know ye do the same.”

  Through the rank anger that flared, Winn realized the trace of truth in Benjamin’s words. It hit him like a hammer, the thought of his actions squeezing him tight.

  Did he stay in Tsenacommacah for his family, or did he stay to satisfy his own base desire to remain in his birth land? As a Paspahegh-born man, he knew he was tied to the land just as surely as his soul was a gift from the Great Creator. Yet he had made a promise to protect the Blooded Ones at all cost – even if that meant his own desires must stay buried.

  “Uncle!”

  John Basse stepped back a pace as Keke entered the tavern, giving the lean young brave a wide berth. Keke’s dark eyes were wide as he called out to Winn.

  “They went to the docks,” Keke said.

  Winn shrugged his arm away from Benjamin.

  Damn his blasted uncle-by-marriage, and damn his traitor brother. As Winn left for the docks, the others followed.

  If they did not all end up dead by sundown, it would be only by the grace of the Gods.

  *****

  A seagull screamed as it dived down from flight, settling on the palisades as Winn and John approached the docks. Tyr and Iain stood beneath the low hanging roof of a mud and stud house near the supply post, close to the port where a newly docked ship was being unloaded. Standing a good measure taller than most young men his age, Tyr’s flash of auburn hair blazed like a beacon, making it easy to pick him out of the crowd. Winn knew Erich and Cormaic must be nearby if they had left the youths on their own. Iain nudged Tyr with an elbow as Winn approached.

  “Where is he?” Winn asked. He kept his tone even, despite his annoyance.

  “Inside,” Tyr replied. “The smithy knew a man called Hayes. Said he had half a tongue and spoke queer. Erich thought he might have a word with him since the man was ‘ere in thee tobacco inspector’s warehouse.”

  “Seems most reasonable,” John said. The Englishman removed his hat, wiping his face with a bit of white cloth he pulled from his pocket.

  “It is not,” Winn muttered. He had no doubt what he would find inside, and it would be a scene that was far from reasonable to the Englishman. “John, keep watch. Knock twice should any soldiers come near.”

  To Keke, Winn gave a curt order in Paspahegh so that John Basse did not understand. Watch for trouble, Winn said. Keke nodded.

  John eagerly nodded, and Winn could not help but think the man seemed relieved. If their meeting inside went badly, it would be unlikely John Basse would be willing to help them again. Winn had spent months cultivating a friendship with John, knowing the alliance with him would only benefit those in his village.

  They needed to maintain ties with the Christian landowner, despite what Erich planned to do to the man inside. Better John Basse remain outside, taking no part in their business.

  Iain and Tyr followed Winn inside. To Winn’s surprise, there were a handful of Englishmen standing in line behind a long plank table. One man sat before them, his dark head bent low over a ledger book. The man took receipts from those who waited in line, giving an occasional snort or grunt of acknowledgement as he scribbled furiously on the parchment.

  Cormaic and Erich stood at the rear of the line. While Cormaic noticed Winn’s arrival, Erich did not. The older Norseman was too intent on watching the man seated behind the table.

  “Him?” Winn asked as he joined them in line. There was no sense in berating Erich. Winn’s only hope was to keep them all alive while Erich satisfied the debt owed to him.

  “Perhaps,” Erich muttered, his stare unwavering. Cormaic leaned over, speaking quietly to Winn.

  “It must be him, but the bugger willna speak. Da needs to hear if his speech is queer before we do it.”

  “Do what?” Winn asked, not really wanting to know the answer. He counted four Englishmen in line and one behind the table. The odds were fair, yet it was still a risk he did not wish to take, especially when they were closed in by the confines of the small dwelling.

  “Why, have a bit of a talk with him, of course,” Cormaic said, uttering an undignified grunt.

  The current customer at the table raised his voice, slapping an invoice down in front of the clerk. Red-faced and angry, the man threw up his arms in disgust.

  “Ye know there are no worms in my hogsheads, ye bloody cuss!” he hollered. “I post my best share – ye have no need to cheat me!”57

  The dark-haired clerk stood up. Apparently, a simple snort was no longer an adequate
response. As the man opened his mouth to speak, Winn felt Cormaic and Erich lean forward.

  “Sturlss’n ha no need of yer stank tobacca’, now git ye gone – and ‘ust who da bloody hell are ye?”

  The clerk spoke only the once sentence with a slurred voice before Erich went for him, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him down on the table face first. The previous customer jumped obligingly out of the way, but several other Englishmen made as if they might be a nuisance.

  Cormaic brandished his knife, a particularly long serrated one, pointing it at the other men. One by one he addressed them, looking like a hulking bear about to eat his dinner.

  “Ye’ll abide for a moment, boys,” Cormaic advised them. “We have a bit of business and we’ll be on our way.” Iain and Tyr flanked Cormaic, standing tall and confident in the older Norseman’s shadow.

  Winn circled the men and joined Erich, who was grinding the man’s face into the wood. The clerk screamed his indignation, slobbering a slew of threats, which only came out as an unintelligible mess as he protested his treatment.

  “I’ll have yer name!” Erich growled. When the clerk did not answer, Erich picked his head up and slammed it back down, bringing a froth of blood from the man’s lips that splattered the ledger book.

  “Tell him yer name,” Winn said, lowering his face close to the man to look him in the eye. If he was the man who beat Gwen, there was no hope to save him. The Norseman had lived peacefully the village for many years, but there was still the beast of a berserker in Erich that flared darkly in his eyes.

  “Hayes, it is! William Hayes!” the clerk cried out. The name came out sounding like yillium aze, but it was clear to Erich nonetheless.

  The long table crashed to the floor, overturned by Erich as the clerk tried to scramble away. Although Hayes hit the floor on his knees and then scurried toward the open door, Erich took his time. Calm now, his face bereft of any hint of emotion, Erich unsheathed his knife and followed the crawling man as a lion might stalk his prey.

  Erich threaded his fingers into the man’s hair and pulled his neck sharply back, placing his newly sharpened blade under his chin.

  “Coward,” he whispered, his voice as steady as his knife. “Ye lifted yer hand to the wrong woman. A mistake ye shall not make again.”

  Winn did not look away. It was his duty to bear witness, to tell Gwen she had been avenged, and he must look upon it as if it was done with his own hand. Blood surged as Erich sliced the man’s throat, a stream pulsing out onto the wide plank floor. Behind them, one of the Englishmen retched.

  “Far vel,” Erich muttered, the farewell uttered in his thick Norse tongue. Erich let go and the man slumped to the floor, gurgling and clutching his throat as his skull hit the wood with a sickening crack. They watched him kick in his death throes until he choked and ceased to stir, and only then did Winn glance at the Englishmen who were left. They huddled together by a window, as far away from the dead clerk as they could manage to get in such a small space.

  When the one with fresh vomit on his jacket made a move toward the door, Winn met the man’s gaze and shook his head.

  “Stay and you will live,” Winn said. The flighty Englishman stepped quickly back with the others, cowering when Cormaic approached.

  “Aye, ye shall live – fer now. Many thanks fer keeping quiet, friends. I should not wish ye to meet his fate,” Cormaic commented, tipping his head toward the dead clerk. The remaining Englishmen eagerly nodded, wordless in agreement with the beast of a Norseman. There was a collective sigh from the bunch when Winn and the men left.

  John Basse had retreated a distance away, choosing to wait near the square. Keke explained John heard the scuffle and was none too eager to walk away when Keke made the suggestion. Winn thanked the young brave. It was better for them all if John Basse did not truly know what had occurred inside.

  “Oh, good! Ye all seem hale and hearty. I take it ye honored my counsel and resolved yer business peaceably?” John asked. Cormaic thumped John on the shoulder as he passed by, eliciting a startled whoop from the Christian as the breath was forced from his chest.

  Winn looked ahead at Erich, who was making his way in a decisive manner toward the tavern with the rest of their party. John grimaced as he rubbed his arm, following Winn as they left.

  “Resolved?” Winn replied. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Maggie

  the bucket splashed her skirts as she walked despite her attempt to keep it from smacking against her knee. Maggie knew she was not the most skilled worker in the village, yet she carried on with her tasks regardless of the snickers and teasing from the other women.

  Across the courtyard, Ellie sat beneath a thatched overhang with those who knew how to weave. As Maggie passed by, Ellie smiled and quickly ducked her head back to her weaving. It was just one more task that everyone knew Maggie was completely inept at, and as such she was never invited to sit with the group. Gwen claimed it was out of respect, that the other women would not presume to ask the Chief’s wife to do such things. Maggie knew it was just Gwen’s way of softening the blow.

  Truth was, there was nothing Maggie could do that would earn her their respect. She was painfully aware her only value surged in her blood, and most times, she did not understand why even that fact should make a difference. Yes, she was wife to Winn and mother to his children. Yet the twenty-first century woman inside her struggled with accepting her place.

  As she set the bucket down inside the door of her longhouse, the men returned to the village. The playful banter coming from the weaving house immediately ceased and the women paused in their duties. It was not the usual greeting given to the men, but it was no simple day of hunting they had returned from, as every person left in the village was keenly aware.

  Winn handed his horse off to one of the young boys. She noticed he did not speak to her uncle, or acknowledge the other men as he left them. Even across the span of the courtyard, she could see the distress etched into his face. Whatever had happened, she was sure he would tell her, but she counted each of the men even so. Yes, they had all returned.

  He brushed her arm with his fingertips as he passed by, entering their longhouse without a word. She closed the door and followed him inside, unease washing through her.

  “Winn?” she said softly. He discarded his weapons into a pile by the fire, taking care to settle his father’s knife on the mantle. When he reached to shed his tunic she placed her hands over his, helping him untie the strings and pull it over his head. It was a gesture that often made him smile; his lack of response only served to frighten her further.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He raised his eyes to hers.

  “Gwen is avenged,” he replied. Maggie sighed as he looked away, focusing his gaze on the fire instead of her.

  “And you’re home safe. All of you,” she said. He nodded.

  “For now. For now, we are all safe,” he murmured. “Sit, wife. I would have your ear for a moment.”

  She wanted to declare he could have any part of her he wished, but she could see it was not the time for such words. It tore at her to see him so pained, as if what he meant to tell her was something so terrible he could not bear to speak it.

  “Your father is a man named Sturlsson,” he said. She nodded, not surprised. She knew he was a Sturlsson, but she did not know his first name. It did not matter to her, nor should it matter to Winn, and it was not worth causing her aunt or uncle stress by asking upon it.

  “So why should I know this?” she said.

  “He is the tobacco inspector for Elizabeth City. Agnarr Sturlsson is a powerful man, one who does the Governor’s bidding. He –”

  “Wait…what did you say? Agnarr?” she interrupted. The events of the day prior rushed back. Sending the children off, hiding in the woods with Benjamin. Watching helplessly as Gwen was beaten.

  Watching the way that man’s face looked when he stared into the woods where s
he hid, disgust and triumph seared into his sculpted features as if torturing women was just another day’s work.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew he was alive,” she whispered. She sat down, as the floor seemed to drop from beneath her feet.

  “I did.”

  “Why tell me now? Why am I suddenly worthy of the truth?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. She did not wish to rail at him, yet the sting of betrayal was too harsh.

  “Because we must take a new path if we wish to see our children grow old,” he said, his voice low. “I cannot protect us here. If Sturlsson discovers you, he will bring the force of the English down upon this place.”

  Winn turned his back to her, placing his hands upon the mantle. Across his thick back, his muscles surged tight, tense as he lowered his head. “What they did to the Blooded Ones…in the time of my father’s father…I will never let that happen to you. To you – or our children.”

  “Tell me all of it,” she said. The sting of her jagged nails bit into her palms as she clutched her hands in her lap, trying her best to beat down the betrayal in her heart.

  “Those of your kind,” he said quietly, “the women…they were fought over. Those of your blood have all the power – power to bend time, control the Bloodstone, to heal the dead…and to bear children who can do the same. As long as you can bear children, men like Sturlsson will hunt you.”

  “And when I can no longer have children? What use am I then to someone like my father?” she whispered.

  “You can bring life to the dead.”

  “I cannot heal the dead. Only the newborns have that gift,” she said.

  “It is not only the newborns who hold that power.”

  She swallowed hard.

  He turned to her, his pained blue eyes meeting hers.

  “You can heal the dead,” he replied. “By giving your life.”

  She knew the way it worked, but until that moment she had not considered the horror of what it meant. A few drops of blood from her infant son’s heel had saved Makedewa once; her own blood smeared on a Bloodstone had brought her to the past. Yet the magic was nearly a myth to her, spoken of only in whispers and guarded by the men she loved. The reality of what it truly meant to those who came before her was so much more.