Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  Dagr was gone. He had died more than two-hundred years before in the Scottish Highlands at the hands of a Cameron. She had seen him run through with a Cameron’s sword, she saw his lifeless body beside Kanor Bystrom. The man she loved was a part of distant history now, where his memory would stay.

  “Are ye all right?”

  Skye did not turn at the sound of Malcolm’s voice. How could she even look at him? Dagr risked his life to follow Malcolm to her time, and Dagr lost his life trying to protect them both. Spoiled Malcolm had never been a Laird, nor a leader, and when it came down to the fight, it was pure chance he survived.

  “No,” she whispered. She flinched when he shuffled to her side and placed his hands on her arms.

  “Yer freezing,” he said. She shrugged him off.

  “I’m fine.”

  Malcolm sighed. Rising to stand on unsteady limbs, he offered her his hand. She gazed up at him questioningly. She did not wish to follow him. Instead, she wanted to lay her head upon the ground, letting her tears mix into the earth as she cried for her loss. How could she simply take Malcolm’s hand and go on, as if she had anything to move forward for?

  He waited for a long moment before he kneeled down beside her, taking both of her hands in his. She could see the trail tears left on his dust-streaked skin. So did he mourn Dagr as well, or did he mourn the loss of his precious Lairdship?

  “Please, Skye, let me take you to my family. You’re – you’re shaking like a leaf. Let me help ye,” he said softly. Numb and past caring what might happen, she did not object when he gently pulled her to her feet. When her knees buckled, he swept her up into his arms, but it only served to deepen her despair. A fresh stream of tears fell upon her cheeks as the memory of the time she met Dagr surged to the surface. She recalled trying to explain why she was out in the glen by herself, with two bloodied feet and a pair of torn slippers.

  “So you see, I must be on my way,” she said.

  He turned his head towards her and held out one hand, which she gladly took. As she put her weight on her feet and tried to stand she let out a frustrated groan. Pain shot through her lower limbs, sending a rush of tears to her eyes which she hurriedly brushed away.

  “Of course,” he murmured as he swept her into his arms. Cradling her as easily as he might hold a child, he walked over to the shelter of the Rowan trees where he lowered her gently to the ground. “Seems we have need of each other,” he said softly, kneeling beside her. He took her wounded foot carefully in his hand, peering at the cut in her sole.

  “I can manage,” she said quickly.

  “You canna walk, yer feet are a bloody mess. My feet, ye see, are quite reliable,” he smirked. She scowled. She knew perfectly well she might not get far, but that was not going to stop her from getting away. She would make her way to The Seventh Key if she had to crawl.

  “Must ye make light of my situation?” she shot back.

  “Oh, for shame, no! I only propose to help ye.”

  “Do ye?” she asked, suspicious.

  He took the heavy cloak he wore and placed it over her, tucking it gingerly around her feet.

  “I shall take ye to the key, if you will show me which rune will send me back to my own time. I will need it once I find my brother.”

  “Oh, Dagr,” she whispered. She leaned her head on Malcolm’s shoulder, and she felt him shudder as he silently cried. His despair was much more controlled than hers, and it was with his quiet strength that they made it to the village down below.

  Malcolm carried her past the church to a large croft on the outskirts of town. The gentle glow of oil lamps illuminated their way, as twilight was among them and night was creeping in. Skye recalled Dagr explain such things to her, but she could not summon any of the wonderment she once held. How would she live in this place – or any place – without Dagr?

  Pushing open the narrow plank door, Malcolm let them inside a two-story dwelling. She assumed he knew the occupants, or that perhaps it was the home he left behind. He slowly let her feet fall to the floor, taking care to hold her tightly around the waist until her stance was steady.

  “Malcolm? Oh, you just wait until your father comes home!” a red-haired woman called out, racing down the loft stairs towards them. She pushed impatiently at her layers of skirts, finally lifting the edge clear up over her ankles so she might descend faster. Tiny lines at the edges of her eyes were the only tell-tale mark of her age, and her curious bright green eyes gave away her relation to Malcolm. Despite the apparent threat in her words, her face was creased with worry, and in no time at all she had crossed the room and tackled Malcolm in an embrace.

  “I thought something happened to you!” the woman admonished him, kissing him soundly on the cheek despite his efforts to brush her off. “Daniel told us about the Leabhar Sinnsreadh! What were you thinking, Mal?”

  “Mother –”

  “Where is your brother? And who is this?” Malcolm’s mother demanded, her head cocking slightly sideways at Skye. Skye made a tight curtsy, not entirely sure what the proper manners were when meeting folks of the future.

  “This is Lady Skye, mother. She – she’s my betrothed,” Malcolm said.

  Skye backed up, feeling the blood rush into her feet. Of course, what did it matter? She was in a strange time, with no one to look out for her. What else could she do but stay by Malcolm’s side?

  “Your what?” a voice boomed.

  When Skye turned to the sound of the voice, she immediately felt the earth sway beneath her feet. Standing there, his body outlined in the doorway so that it blocked nearly all the light, was Dagr. Tall and healthy, with his dark hair falling straight down his back, he wore the white fur-lined Chief’s mantle that he wore on the day they met. There was a bloodstone hilt-blade at his waist, and the tip of a bryntroll protruded from a harness on his back.

  “You’re here,” Skye whispered, sinking down onto her knees. She felt Malcolm’s mother at her side as her vision blurred.

  “My husband has that effect on most women,” Malcolm’s mother said, her voice edged with amusement. “But I willna hold it against you. Where did you say you are from, dear?”

  Skye wanted to answer, but her vision stretched into darkness and the last thing she recalled was the way her cheek slammed into the floor.

  She woke to the pressure of a wet cloth on her forehead and a trickle of dampness running down her cheek. As her eyes fluttered open, she could make out the gentle glow of a fire in the hearth and the thick beam rafters overhead. A soft plaid knit blanket covered her, lined with the thickest fur she had ever touched. As it brushed her cheek, she smelled the smoke and leather that emanated through the cottage, scents that vaguely reminded her of Dagr for a fleeting moment. She was lying on a cot, and she could feel the warmth of the woman sitting next to her.

  With her red-hair pulled back over one shoulder, Malcolm’s mother took the cloth from Skye’s head and twisted it out over a basin of water. With a slight sigh, the woman placed her hand over Skye’s and smiled.

  “Better now?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” Skye replied, at loss as to what to call her.

  “Please, I’m no lady. Call me Maggie,” the older woman insisted.

  Skye nodded, speechless.

  “Come out then, girls. I suppose ye can meet her now.” Maggie waved idly with one hand, and two round pale faces peeked out from the loft above. Two little girls ran down the stairs, long nightgowns streaming behind them. Their bare feet made soft sucking noises as they scattered towards her on the plank floor, sliding to a stop at her bedside. The older girl with long blond hair peered curiously past Maggie’s skirt, but the younger, dark-haired girl stayed safely out of reach.

  “Lady Skye, this miting is Rebecca, my daughter Kyra’s eldest child,” Maggie explained. “And this one,” she added, snatching the dark haired girl in a hug, “this is Susannah. Say hello to Lady Skye, girls.”

  “Hello,” the two children sang in unison. Skye smile
d, sitting up.

  “Pleased to meet ye,” Skye murmured.

  “Go on now, ye’ve met her. Enough of your pestering,” Maggie teased the girls. They giggled but obeyed their grandmother, returning to the loft upstairs. Once they were safely out of earshot, Maggie’s smiled dimmed. She settled down next to Skye, her green eyes fastened on Skye’s face.

  “So I’ve heard Malcolm’s version of what happened, but I fear there is more to this then he lets on,” Maggie said. Skye found it difficult to follow her meaning, since Maggie’s accent was quite odd and she used combinations of words that did not make sense. Still, Skye struggled to gleam her meaning, and she realized that Maggie doubted what Malcolm had told them.

  “What questions do you have for me?” Skye asked. Please, she thought, please do not ask me about Dagr.

  “Is it true?” Maggie asked, suddenly grasping both of Skye’s hands in her own. “Dagr – my son – is he gone?”

  Skye dropped her head, tears spilling from her eyes. She could not stop it even if she had wanted to, but for the first time since it happened, she felt she could let it go. She needed to feel that sorrow, to hold it and mourn, and to know that the woman holding her hands felt it just as deeply as she did.

  Shaking, she nodded. “He’s gone,” Skye admitted.

  Maggie pulled her into her arms, and they swayed together on the narrow cot as they wept. Skye thought there would be bruises on her arms where Maggie clutched her, and she feared she had marked the older woman in the same way. Yet grief was a shared thing among women, and although they did not know each other, they both recognized the heart of the man they loved in their tears.

  Was this what Dagr meant, she wondered, when he said he missed his family? The love of kin was something Skye never knew, only glimpsed as a child, so to hold a woman Dagr so loved in the joined desperation of loss was something Skye did not know how to handle. She wanted to hug Maggie and tell her how much she loved Dagr. She wanted to tell her all the beautiful moments they shared, all the stories they confessed to each other. Yet a part of her selfishly wished to keep it secret, as if she needed something of Dagr that belonged only to her.

  “My son,” Maggie said softly. Shaking her head gently, Maggie pulled slightly back. She placed her flattened palm on Skye’s cheek. “And you loved him.”

  Skye knew she should not admit it. She was betrothed to Malcolm, and Malcolm had openly made the declaration. No matter what time they were in, a betrothal was a contract, and she was bound by it. Yet what harm could there be in telling Maggie what the woman already suspected?

  “I love him still,” Skye whispered. “I shall never stop.”

  “Oh, dear,” Maggie sighed, wrapping Skye in her arms. “Oh, my dear daughter.”

  Chapter 7

  Dagr

  “LIE STILL. Ye’ll tear yer wound and bleed out, and I willna help ye.”

  Dagr pushed at the hand holding a damp cloth to his forehead. Kanor uttered a low snort and gave him a shove in return.

  “Let me up,” Dagr snapped. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He had no idea how long he was unconscious, but he had to make sure Skye was safe.

  “Ye ungrateful pissant. Bleed then, I care not!”

  “Where is she?” he demanded. Dagr sat up. Kanor tossed the cloth into a basin filled with pink water, and Dagr reached gingerly to feel his belly with one hand. As he pressed his fingers into the wide bandage he winced and coughed, sending a spasm of pain through his gut. Oh, he thought. So that is what it feels like to be run through.

  “She is safe.”

  “I must go to her,” Dagr said quietly. Kanor held out a cup of ale. Dagr took a sip to quench his dry throat, and passed it to the Norseman.

  “Not just yet. Ye owe me a debt, and ye’ll settle it. I dinna save yer hide because I am some tender heart.”

  Dagr considered the response, and it made sense. He recalled Kanor fighting alongside him in the courtyard, and the way the Norseman saved him when Dagr was stabbed. Dagr recalled seeing Skye and Malcolm before he fell, but he knew they were safe since all the Cameron men had already fallen. Kanor had helped Dagr afterward, and Dagr had a vague memory of being lifted from the ground by the hulking Norseman.

  “What ye ask, I will gladly give,” Dagr replied, tilting his head as he looked at the man who was one of the Five North Men. Kanor let out an insulted sigh.

  “Ye dinna hear my terms yet, Time Walker. Do I look like a man ye can trust?”

  Dagr nodded, a wry grin stretching across his face. “Yes. You saved me. Now tell me your terms, so I can rise from this bed,” Dagr answered. Kanor was an unlikely ally, but at that moment, Dagr was glad to have him.

  “First, tell me what time ye hail from,” Kanor said. “And who are yer kin.”

  “My father is Winn Neilsson,” Dagr replied. “My mother is a Blooded McMillan.”

  Dagr relayed the story as quickly as possible, giving Kanor the information the man desired. There was no other way to placate the Norseman, and since Dagr was wounded, he had few options. He tried to remember the lessons his father had taught him, how one was indebted to another who saved his life, but all he could recall was the story of how Winn and his uncle, Benjamin, fought beside each other against the English. Although Dagr told Kanor the story of where he came from, it was the story of where he would soon go that occupied his thoughts.

  He must find Malcolm. Dagr would wait no longer. He must mend the rift with his brother. Then he would be free to claim Skye, without the shadow of lies and deceit among them.

  “So then Malcolm’s claim to these McMillan lands is true,” Kanor said, when Dagr had finished his tale.

  “He is not Duncan’s son, but yes, he is a McMillan of this line,” Dagr agreed.

  Kanor seemed to consider that for a long moment.

  “Then I can accept that he is the true Laird. I’ll have my debt from ye now, Neilsson.”

  Dagr nodded.

  “Yer a first son of a Chief Protector. ‘Tis a duty ye did not expect to take before the death of yer father, but I give it to ye now. As one of the Five North Men, I can give you this honor. Do you accept it?”

  Dagr did not hesitate. Of course he accepted. It was his duty, his birthright. It was everything he had ever been taught, every way he meant to live his life. No, he had never thought to have it while his father still lived, but these were different times and he could accept a change in what he was taught.

  “Yes, I accept it,” Dagr replied.

  “Know ye that this is no light promise; this is no easy debt. Ye will serve to protect the Blooded Ones, above all else, for the rest of yer days. Cast no promise to any other, for ye shall uphold what we know to be true and right. It may take ye from this time. It may take ye from yer people. But it is yer duty now, and you will honor it. The magic of Time Travel is ours to bear, ours to guard. As long as ye hold this blade,” Kanor said, thrusting his knife into Dagr’s hand, “Ye shall be true to yer word.”

  It was with some impatience that Dagr gripped the knife. Yes, he understood the consequence of his vow, and still, he made it willingly. Yet a current of unease surged through him as he looked into the Norseman’s weathered face.

  “I will. Now, where is Skye?” Dagr asked.

  Kanor squinted at Dagr’s question.

  “Well, ye’ll need to fetch her.”

  Dagr’s chest tightened as he realized there was much more to Kanor’s request than a simple vow.

  “Fetch her?”

  “Give me yer knife. The exchange is even. What is mine is yours; our bond is shared now,” Kanor replied, ignoring Dagr’s question. “’Tis the Fifth Key on the blade. It belongs to you now. Cut yer hand and hold yer blade, and ye will go to the place where she is.”

  Dagr knew the answer immediately, of course. His chest ached sharply as he drew in his breath, and he did not know if it was due to the trauma to his belly or the fist that clenched his heart. The place where she is? He took his knife
from his belt and gave it to Kanor.

  “Where did you send her?” Dagr demanded.

  “I sent them both. Make no mistake, I took great pleasure in carving the Key into yer brother’s hand. Even if he is a Blooded One, he deserves a good thrashing fer what he’s done.”

  Dagr lunged at Kanor, grabbing the Norseman by his collar.

  “No more games! Why must I take your knife if we only need the mark on our flesh to travel?”

  Kanor chuckled. “Because you are a Chief Protector now, Dagr Neilsson, and this is the way we travel. Put yer new blade in your belt and hold yer Bloodstone. Ye’ll go back to the place ye came from.”

  Dagr’s desire to find Skye outweighed his will to argue. It was impossible to know what his true motivation was, but for some reason, Kanor had sent Skye and Malcolm to the future.

  He sliced his palm and slid the knife into his belt. Swinging his legs off the cot, he ignored the tearing pain in his side and took the Bloodstone from beneath his tunic. He closed his fist around it in anticipation. It was not so long ago that he traveled by magic, and this time was no better. He squeezed his eyes shut and let the darkness swallow him whole.

  When he woke hours before on a bed of soft moss in the woods, he looked up at the familiar Cyprus trees around him. It was possible he was mistaken, but he was willing to wager he was back in the forest beyond Basse’s Choice. He compared his view to what he recalled of his homeland, from the size of the trees to the sound of a seagull crying overhead. Even the sunset looked familiar, an orange sky streaked purple and yellow as the sun descended over the horizon for the day. It was his homeland, he had no doubt.