Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  He could not let this go. She might hate him after this moment. Yet if he must choose between her hate and her life, he would always decide the same. She was his woman, his wife. His life. And he could not allow her to continue down this path.

  Her eyes shifted to his waist as he unsheathed his sword. Her new weapon was slightly smaller, fitted to her stature, yet just as deadly as his own if used well. He could see her effort to slow her breathing as he reached for her, and he knew she expected him to take it from her. Instead, he removed the padding from her blade and tossed it aside.

  The lesson between them would not be blunted. Maggie needed to feel the force of the truth, there was no other way his stubborn wife would yield.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” she said.

  He leveled the tip of his sword at her breast.

  “Why? Because you cannot fight? Because you are weak?”

  “I’m not weak. I’m–I’m good at this!” she insisted, her voice rising a pitch.

  “Then show me. I am your enemy now.”

  He struck first, his blade screaming as it crashed down on hers. She went down on one knee with her sword raised over her head, blinking rapidly as she recovered. When she thrust upward to shove him away he stepped back, giving her a moment to recover. Strands of her red hair peeked out beneath the cap she wore, and it took one flick of his wrist to snatch it from her head. She let out a screech as her hair fell loose about her shoulders, the thick mass now a burden that impeded her vision.

  He hated the anger in her eyes, the rank despair that swelled in her soul. Perhaps it was not normal to know another so well, but to him, it was akin to taking his next breath. He could feel her thoughts as if she screamed them, and when she raised her sword and charged him, he knew he had no choice but to carry on. It was a lesson she must learn, one he trusted no other to teach her.

  “Is that all you have learned?” he taunted.

  “I’m just as good as some of your men, and you know it!” she snapped.

  With some effort he blocked her blows, met each swing of her sword. Yes, she was strong, with a power born of pure frustration and ire. The future life she had been born to had given her confidence, and it was that fire that drew him to her flame. In the end that would not serve her victory; it was her strength that would take her from him if she did not submit.

  His eyes widened when she sliced the edge of his tunic with a glancing swipe.

  “Oh, you are good, Fire Heart,” he agreed.

  When he took a step back she grinned, and that moment of introspection was enough for him to pounce. He struck high, side-to-side, giving her half his might, until finally he put his weight into a crushing blow that flung her sword from her hands and sent her to her knees.

  She scrambled away to fetch it, and he knew he could not let her. His vision clouded with a haze, and he told himself it was for her that he did it.

  She must know she cannot fight like the men.

  She must understand.

  He snatched her by the back of her man’s tunic and shoved her to the ground, slamming her hand into the dirt when she reached for her weapon. As if she did not know she was beaten, she twisted beneath him and clawed at his face, drawing his blood with her jagged nails. He tried to see himself as a marauder, some enemy that would give her no quarter, yet it still burned him to feel her soft flesh gripped in his hands and see how he would leave bruises on the one he loved most.

  He tossed her onto her stomach and pinned her with his body, ending any question that she might escape.

  “You are not strong enough,” he growled. She bucked up against him.

  “Get off me!” she screamed.

  “I am your enemy! Is that what you say to your enemy?” he shouted.

  “I’ll kill you!” she insisted, even as he pressed her face into the dirt. He looped his hand across her shoulders from behind, drawing his knife and pressing it into her neck as he drew her upward onto her knees.

  With one hand he groped across her stomach, his heart like a blackened ember as he pushed her braies down around her thighs. She had been sneaky to steal his clothes. She writhed but did not cry, her chest rising and falling in rapid sequence as she struggled to free herself. He bent over her, his fingers digging into her hips as he yanked her body against his.

  “You are beaten, woman,” he whispered hoarsely against her ear. “I will have my pleasure – and perhaps give you to my friends. And then I will end your life.”

  He drew the knife slowly across her throat, careful to cover the blade with his fingers, but the intention was clear. When he released her she did not move, remaining bent over on all fours, her hair hanging over her face as she panted.

  He stepped away and stumbled, his eyes fastened on his wife. She finally stirred. Pulling her braies up with one hand, she turned on him. She stalked toward him, covering the space in only a few paces, then flung herself at him. Her open palm connected with his cheek and then her closed fist pummeled his chest. He let her have her revenge, letting her blows fall on his flesh until she raised her knee with intent to smash his groin.

  “You fucking bastard!” she screamed. “You just couldn’t let it go? Do you have to prove to me how helpless I am? Well, I fucking know it! Every single day I’m reminded of it! I may be weak – I may be a woman – but I can still fight!”

  When she raised her hand to strike him again he caught her wrist, slipping his hand along the nape of her neck to still her struggles. She refused to let him hold her, and he did not blame her as she slapped his hand away.

  “No. When the time comes, you will not fight. You are weak. You are small. And you cannot win,” he replied. Her throat contracted as she stifled a furious sob, and though her eyes still flamed defiance she met his gaze.

  “But I can fight. I won’t just sit here and do nothing again,” she whispered. He tightened his fingers in her hair, as if holding her close was enough to shield her from the truth.

  “You can run. You can hide. When the time comes, that is what you will do.”

  “So I’m helpless.”

  “No,” he whispered. He clutched her face in his hands, smearing the dirt over her tear-stained cheeks as she clenched her eyes closed. He would not let her succumb to self-pity, forcing her to meet his gaze instead of run from it. “You are brave. You are clever. My woman is the most powerful one I have ever known.”

  “But you said –”

  “I do not doubt the strength in your heart. If it took only that to strike down your enemies, then I stand here, trembling in fear for them,” he said. “But it is more than that. If you fight you may take the life of a man, even two men. Will you be glad that you felled one man, while your children lay dead beside you?”

  A strangled moan escaped her lips. Tears spilled from her jade eyes as she shook her head.

  “No,” she said softly. Whether her response was to deny him or the truth, he was not certain.

  “Then give me your trust. Do as I ask. If a time ever comes where I am not standing before you with my sword, you will run. If you have a choice, you will go, you will take our children and hide. You will see them safe. Only you can do that. Leave this fighting to me. It is my burden, the vow that I made. Yours is only to…go on.”

  He sighed when she allowed him to pull her to his chest. She shuddered, with rage or fear he did not know, and as she succumbed to his embrace, he felt the fight leave him. The stark anger at her impudence and foolishness ebbed away, replaced with the heavy mantle of devotion he felt for her.

  “I will strike our enemies down. I will wield my sword for you. It is I who will carry that task. It is I who will bear that promise. In this life and all others, I swear this to you.”

  He felt her lips move against his skin.

  “Because I am a MacMhaolian?” she whispered.

  He clutched her harder.

  “Because you are my beating heart.”

  *****

  Winn joined the men in the Northern Ha
ll after Maggie returned to their longhouse. As much as he wished he could simply stay with her, it was for her and his children that he must make plans. The sooner he could discuss the future with his men, the better off they all would be.

  “That went well for ye, I see,” Erich chuckled, his eye on the tear in Winn’s tunic as Winn took a tankard of ale from him. It was not as sweet as the mead, but supplies had been scarce over the winter and mead making was no priority. Cormaic joined them, a burly eyebrow raised in question.

  “No thanks to you,” Winn muttered. He glanced at Maggie’s cousin. “And no thanks to you, as well.”

  “What harm is it, if it gives her peace?” Cormaic said. Winn winced at the whiff of Cormaic’s ale-tinged breath.

  “It will give her no peace when she is dead. If there is a fight, she must take our children to safety. That is all I wish of her.”

  Cormaic and Eric erupted into laughter, with Cormaic staggering into Winn with the force of his guffaws. Winn scowled.

  “Do ye not see the Norse in yer woman yet, ye bloody fool?” Erich asked, taking a gulp of his ale. “Our women fight, they doona hide. ‘Tis not in ‘er nature to do anything else.”

  “Ah!” Winn growled, shaking his head. There were differences between how women behaved in Norse society and Powhatan, but Winn refused to consider that his wife might fight at his side.

  “Go easy on my niece,” Erich said as his laughter dimmed. He placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder.

  “I will not, and neither will you,” Winn replied. “There is more to this. I spoke with Pepamhu. Some of the Nansemond will join with the people at Basse’s Choice.”

  Erich and Cormaic both quieted, the mood turning decidedly somber.

  “So ye think we should as well, is that yer plan?” Erich asked.

  Winn nodded.

  “We know what the future brings if we stay here. We cannot stop it. Maggie says some of the Nansemond survive to her time, and they come from those who live at Basse’s Choice.” 59 Winn turned to Cormaic. “And what do you want? What say you?”

  Cormaic downed his ale and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “To lay down my head at night without fear of being killed in my sleep? To have a woman and some weans, like ye? Aye, it’s nothing much, really. I just want to live. Just live,” Cormaic answered. He muttered something under his breath and walked away, shaking his head. As Erich shrugged and took the opportunity to refill his tankard, Winn followed Cormaic out of the Northern Hall.

  Cormaic staggered into the courtyard, taking a seat on the edge of the well. At first Winn thought he engaged in drunken nonsense, but he quickly realized Cormaic’s mood was much more dangerous. The copper haired Norseman shouted a slew of oaths in his ancient tongue seeming directed at the sky, then idly sliced his own palm with his knife. As he reached for something inside his shirt and Winn came closer, he could see it was Cormaic’s Bloodstone pendant.

  Winn watched, frozen, as Cormaic closed his bloody hand around the pendant.

  “No!” Winn shouted.

  Cormaic grinned. His eyes met Winn’s and he started to speak, but Winn could not hear what he meant to say before he faded away.

  “So it was tonight. I thought ye had more time here, son.”

  Winn turned to Erich, who had come up beside him.

  “What do you mean?” Winn demanded, his head spinning at the realization that Cormaic had just disappeared in front of him. Eric seemed exceedingly calm for a man who had just watched his drunken son fade into time.

  “He’s not meant fer this time. He ne’er was,” Erich replied. Winn was shocked to see him take a long swig of his drink, as if neither of them should be concerned with Cormaic’s leaving.

  “Where will he go?”

  “Oh, to the past,” Erich replied. “How do ye think I knew what to name him?”

  Erich muttered something about speaking to Gwen and made his way across the courtyard, leaving Winn standing alone. Winn stared for a long time at the well where Cormaic last sat, until finally he thought he might have the words to explain it to his wife.

  CHAPTER 13

  Makedewa

  It was dusk when Makedewa reached the village. He hunted alone, unwilling to walk among the Powhatan men who hunted in groups. Although he took shelter at night with his uncle’s family, he rarely remained near them, choosing instead to spend his time away from the others. He could see they feared him from the way the children stared, and the way the women stepped back when he passed.

  It mattered not. He had never been well liked, in the Norse village or with the Powhatan.

  Through the cover of swamp Cyprus he sat for a moment to watch, crouched amongst trailing Spanish moss with his feet burrowed in the mud. His toes ached with the numbness of the cold, and in another time he might have asked his wife to bring him a dry set of moccasins. Ever attentive, always his partner, Rebecca had known his needs before he even knew them himself.

  Yet his wife was cold in the ground. Gone.

  That tightness in his chest returned, sending his heart racing into a frantic tempo until the pain exploded between his ears. It tore through him, a scream of all his tears unshed, until he gasped for a breath and gripped his head in his hands.

  Cool mud smeared over his face from his fingers, the heady scent of earth a temporary distraction from everything that was her. It did not soothe him, but it reminded him of when he was a boy and played in the woods with Winn and Chetan.

  Winn, the brother who controlled the power of time travel. The brother who could wield that power to save Rebecca.

  Winn – the brother who would do no such thing.

  A rumble of laughter surfaced, followed by gleeful shouts. The hum of a rhythmic beat called to him. So it was a celebration in the village, he thought as he rose to his feet. The Powhatan village was well-attended, especially around the yehakin where his uncle slept. Makedewa recognized the men standing guard and was relieved; he knew them well, and he was sure they would permit him access.

  He stepped away from the wood line and made his way to the yehakin. Weapons were drawn as he approached, and he was not surprised to hear the rustle of footsteps following him from behind. It eased him to know his uncle had so many warriors guard his people, unlike other tribes who had abandoned the old ways and opened their homes to the English.

  “Tawnor nehiegh Opechancanough?” Makedewa asked, keeping his tone respectful as he spoke with the guard to inquire of the Weroance. Although he knew his uncle must be inside, he dared not assume, especially when he had been gone from his Powhatan kin for so long. He must be forthright with his requests, leaving no cause for distrust.

  If they suspected he was an assassin, he would be dead before he passed through the door.

  The warrior smiled when Makedewa lifted up two hares tied together by the feet. With a nod, the guard let him pass, and Makedewa entered the yehakin.

  Opechancanough sat by the fire, tended by only one of his wives. When Makedewa approached, the old Weroance waved the woman away.

  “Son of my sister,” Opechcanough said.

  Makedewa obeyed the flick of his uncle’s hand and sat down before him. Although it was well known the Weroance preferred his solitude in the evening, Makedewa wondered if he was suffering from some malady. The Great Creator had favored Opechcanough for many years, but even the grace of the Gods was not enough to hide the evidence of his decline. Opechancanough was not well. His eyes were mere slits hidden beneath drooping lids, his skin a yellow pallor despite his brown color.60 When the Weroance raised a shaking hand to reach for a cup, Makedewa quickly fetched it for him.

  Opechcanough sighed but did not thank him.

  “You hunt alone again.” The words from his uncle held the tone of accusation, and Makedewa responded by placing the dead hares in front of him.

  “I need only my two hands, uncle,” Makedewa replied.

  “So I see. And when I have need of your two hands, what kind of man will se
rve me?”

  Makedewa frowned.

  “One who is loyal. One who honors you with the death of many Englishmen.”

  The Weroance uttered a snort.

  “My warriors say your brother will not send men. They say he is a woman who will not fight.”

  At the mention of Winn, Makedewa felt his throat go dry. Although he was aware Opechcanough sent men to Winn’s village, it had not occurred to him that Winn might refuse a request for aid. Surely, Winn had lost all sense. Was his blind devotion to his Norse kin worth more than the Powhatan people who raised him? Was his vow to protect the magic bloodlines the only vow he would honor?

  “His Blooded One tells him what must be done. She claims the Powhatans will not win this battle. She says our end is near, and it cannot be changed,” Makedewa said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. He refused to speak her name, refused to feel any remorse for his words. Maggie had deserted him, just as Winn had.

  Yet the image of Rebecca burst through his hatred and he could almost smell the scent of her hair as it lay across his skin. The memory of that morning burned bright.

  “It is her birthday today,” Rebecca said as she snuggled closer against his chest. He absently twisted one of her golden curls between his fingers, enjoying the feel of her palm placed flat over his heart.

  “So? Why must I care?” he muttered. She immediately pinched her fingers together and squeezed his chest.

  “Because she is my sister, and we shall give her a marvelous gift!” she shot back. With a grin, her deflected her outraged blows and tossed her onto her back, dropping kisses along her neck and breasts until she screamed with laughter.

  “Fine,” he growled through his smile. “A gift for your sister then.”

  Rebecca loved Maggie. Yet Maggie stood by and let his wife die. Had Rebecca meant nothing to Maggie?

  “Tell me more of what the Red Woman speaks. Tell me about the end,” Opechancanough demanded.

  Makedewa raised his eyes, staring at his uncle yet not truly seeing him. Instead he saw his despair, swirling as a haze in front of his eyes as the thud of his heart slammed against his ribs.