Somewhere, in the far and distant future…
The distinct slow clomp, clomp of footsteps— big footsteps— slowly approached the training arena’s monstrous wooden doors upon which crudely carved fir trees stood like giant sentinels. Sentinels waiting to deny entrance to anyone and everyone not deemed worthy. The owner of the footsteps, his large sandaled feet taking up more room than the stone floor was used to, stopped at the doors and gave them a healthy push.
Tired hinges squeaked and groaned from the forced movement as the doors swung open to allow the huge man admittance into the brightness of the arena. He stood poised on the threshold and took in the villagers milling about nearby, whom, in turn, noticed him as well.
They froze.
He grinned.
One by one the rest of the villagers stopped their work as they caught sight of the new arrival. A resulting hush quickly rippled its way across the arena to bathe everything in deadly silence. No one moved. No one even dared breathe. And no one wanted to be there.
Every thing went incredibly still.
The man raised his ebony face to the sky, flung his long arms out to either side of his seven-foot-tall warrior’s frame and bellowed, “Greetings happy sunshine made by Creator’s hand!” His ancient African accent hung on the air before it was followed by a deep booming laugh. The long bright purple and yellow robes of his people, the Azurti, floated on the slight breeze passing through the arena as he inhaled a healthy lungful of crisp morning air.
The villagers still stood frozen to the spot. They’d been caught off guard. No one expected him this early. And they were all out in the open, all easy prey. Any one of their lot could be brutally snatched up by him. And everyone knew what that meant.
As if the horrifying realization could be made any clearer a woman’s high-pitched scream suddenly rent the air, the first of many, which of course set off the usual chain reaction.
Birds shot from the arena’s hidden nooks and crannies amidst a flurry of feathers and squawks. A horse threw its rider. Work baskets were thrown to the ground as hats flew through the swirling dust. An occasional foot even lost a shoe as the retreating villagers all became helplessly trapped in the now thick, cold, panic-stricken air.
Oblivious to the melee, the man in the doorway smiled at the sky, sighed, patted his broad chest in satisfaction as he always did, and blissfully ignored the wild shuffle of anxious feet as the villagers of Genis Lee continued to run for cover.
Kwaku Awahnee, Time Master of Muirara, had just arrived, and anyone with any sense at all was making tracks while there was still time. The villagers knew it best to get themselves as far away from Kwaku as possible before one of them got, well, volunteered for anything. Something most of their lot likened to being asked to go toss themselves off a thousand-foot cliff. Needless to say, none were too eager to volunteer or let themselves be volunteered for anything having to do with him. It was just too painful.
Kwaku, finished with his prayer, gave his chest one last pat and scanned the arena for any signs of life amidst the settling dust.
There were none.
Or so it appeared. He knew well all the hiding spots of the villagers that had to be there, those assigned to help in the day’s training. He was positive he could ferret one out when he needed help with the Scot.
Speaking of the Scot, where was he? Kwaku made a full circle and looked the arena over again, checking for any signs of his prodigy’s recent arrival. Nothing.
Undaunted, the Time Master grinned and began to stride across the arena with fluid motions, his robes streaming behind him as he searched for his ever-reluctant student. The Scot had to be around somewhere. There weren’t, after all, a lot of places he could hide. His build and frame, like Kwaku’s, was too big for the conventional hiding spots frequented by the villagers.
He reached the other side of the arena and scanned the weapons racks heavily laden with various swords, shields, lances and his personal favorites: the quarterstaffs. He grabbed a long wooden pole from one of the racks and began to spin it with one hand as if casually twirling a small stick. All six feet of smooth polished oak seemed to come alive with anticipation.
The anticipation of connecting with Scot’s flesh.
Kwaku continued his search and peered over the weapons racks at the open doorway of the wall beyond, its shadows purposely hiding any trace of his quarry. The Time Master’s eyes narrowed. “Boyeee,” he bellowed into the darkened hall. “De morning wanes, Boyeee. Der is much to do!” He began to chuckle to himself, one of his more irritating trademarks, before surreptitiously covering the distance to the doorway.
He craned his neck to see into the gloom and unexpectedly, at least to the villagers hiding in the nearby woodbins, laughed. It was a deep, boisterous laugh. One the villagers of Genis Lee knew all too well.
The woodbins shivered.
Kwaku’s laughter abruptly stopped as he spun and blocked a skull-shattering blow from the missing Scot’s own quarterstaff. The Highlander was good at seeming to appear out of nowhere, and the Time Master’s reluctant charge, now far from reluctant, attacked the big Azurti warrior with a viciousness bordering on insanity.
Kwaku blocked every blow skillfully without effort, countering when he pleased, directing the fight as he wished. Never one to let the Scot know what he was doing. His surprisingly still-in-one-piece student of ten years had done well with his studies. In fact, perhaps today he would allow the Scot to best him. Just once for his pride’s sake. The Scot had, after all, passed every test designed for him and was doing much better with his control of a quarterstaff. Yes, perhaps he would let him have the upper hand. Maybe. “Ready, Boyeee?”
The Scot’s piercing green eyes narrowed on Kwaku, his own voice a hiss. “Dinna try to provoke me.”
Kwaku laughed. Both knew very well he had already succeeded in provoking him; the intense glare in the Scot’s eyes was proof enough. He was hopping mad and sure to make a mistake somewhere along the line. Kwaku had promised himself to do something about his prodigy’s temper, but hadn’t quite decided on what. “Come, Boyeee, show me dat you learned someding yes-dar-day.”
“Ye’ll no get the chance to see anything, ye wicked auld heathen,” the Scot spoke assuredly, his burr thickening with his building anger.
Kwaku laughed as his staff suddenly sliced through the air, missing the Scot by inches. The Scot spun to face him and blocked a blow sure to have split his skull wide open had he not been ready. Kwaku laughed again. “You are clumsy, Boyeee! Der will be times when you cannot afford it!” For emphasis, he plunged his quarterstaff into the Scot’s stomach to double him over in pain, then smacked it across the Highlander’s shoulders before he could right himself, landing the Scot face first in the dirt.
Kwaku smiled to himself in satisfaction. After ten years of seeing the Scot endure every kind of bodily abuse imaginable by his hand, he could always count on one sure thing. Dallan Keir MacDonald had if nothing else learned how to land in the dirt without doing too much damage to whatever parts of him Kwaku had chosen to leave unscathed. This negligible talent had kept Dallan in one piece all these years and more than likely would continue to do so.
Kwaku fell into a crouch, staff in hand, as Dallan jumped to his feet and assumed the same position. “Now, Boyeee, you try again, yes?” The two men began to circle each other, both with the same thought in mind.
This was going to be a long morning.
* * *
“Oh, that must have hurt!” John Philip Eaton, Lord Councilor of Sutter’s Province, watched and winced in response to the two huge warriors battling in the center of the training arena. The Azurti and the Scot, each a skilled weapons master, fought one another with a combination of brute strength, cunning, agility and—for Dallan, anyway—barely controlled rage.
John’s body shook and started with each blow the Scot absorbed, closing his eyes whenever an especially lethal thwack sounded from the combination of Kwaku’s staff and Dallan’s body. He co
uldn’t fathom what it would be like to be the one out there with Kwaku and shuddered at the thought of the Time Master, a usual reaction for most.
His brow furrowed as he cringed. “Time Masters,” he whispered as if it were the name of a difficult child, then reminded himself where his people might be had it not been for the Muirarans and their Time Masters.
The Lord Councilor’s world had nearly been destroyed once. No, make that twice, John thought. The reclusive race had stepped in when needed and saved John’s own race from near extinction. They helped man to rebuild, rebirth and repopulate the Known Lands by allowing their Time Masters to go back into man’s past to find out what went wrong. Reconstruct and correct some of the mistakes made. To this day the Time Masters still labored with humanity’s past, to make sure that certain mistakes were never repeated. They hoped …
John watched the warriors in the arena solemnly a moment, his own personal battle with the Muiraran issues finally over. He’d finally accepted them. They were unquestionably and undeniably real. They weren’t going anywhere. And he had to admit, without the Time Master’s and Muiraran’s help, man would not be where he was today, at peace with himself. Or at least more so.
John sighed and continued to watch the two warriors. If only the Muirarans weren’t so reclusive, he mused. Then perhaps more of John’s own race would believe in their existence rather than passing off any contact with them as phony. A trick. Like the legendary creatures of old. Yetis, Sasquatch, Dragons, and the like. How does one prove they exist? A difficult thing when many humans, he had to admit, had never even seen one. As it was with the Muirarans.
Enough. He had other business to attend to. Now was the time for Kwaku Awahnee to pass on his Time Mastership to his pre-chosen successor. Dallan MacDonald, the Weapons Master of Genis Lee. John was to make sure the Scot was fully prepared to accept his new office and all that it entailed. There were, however, still a few slight problems.
“Really Eaton, don’t get so worried. The Scot can take it. He’s taken it this long.” Lantzaro Mosgofian, Assistant to the Lord Councilor, spoke with his usual apathy as he approached his superior. He stopped and brushed his disheveled premature-gray hair out of his blue eyes. John, his own blonde hair neatly combed, unconsciously copied the action. Lany smiled at the thought of a job well done.
“What are you smirking at?” John asked, glancing from his assistant back to the two fighting warriors. “I see nothing funny about the Scot being bullied around by Kwaku.”
“Sorry. How is MacDonald today, by the way? Have you had a chance to spend any more time with him?”
John let go a frustrated sigh. “No, and it looks like I may not get the chance. I told Kwaku I needed Dallan this afternoon, but I’m not sure he’ll be in any condition.” He gave his attention back to the arena, wincing at the sight of Kwaku’s quarterstaff moving so fast it was practically a blur. “Not if he continues to take a beating like he’s had so far this morning...”
Thwack!
“OW!” John cried, both eyes now tightly shut. “By the Creator, that must hurt!”
“Kwaku does seem to be having a good time with him today,” Lany stated while also cringing at the sight of a now obviously injured and stumbling Dallan MacDonald as he vainly tried to recover from the horrific blow he’d just been dealt.
John’s eyes sprang open. “A good time? Great burning Bells! At this rate, there won’t be anything left for me to work with!”
Lany sighed in agreement and clasped his hands behind his back, his gray robes of office rustling as he did. “Well I’ve completed all the preliminary preparations for the journey. Now the only thing left is to get MacDonald ready.” He shot John a concerned look. “He, uh, is ready, isn’t he?”
John shook his head and flinched slightly as Dallan again hit the ground. Hard. “I honestly don’t know, Lany.” He looked to his assistant, his brow furrowed in frustration. “I’ve spent less than a day with him and have come to the conclusion that he is one of the most bitter, cynical, vengeful men I have ever met. Not to mention he’s totally consumed by hatred for Kwaku.”
“Who isn’t? The difference is Dallan’s big enough to do something about it. Don’t worry about that part of him—it comes with the territory for anyone having to deal with Kwaku. Worry about how he’s going to react to the Muiraran; leave the rest until later.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose in response and said nothing.
Lany put a hand on his superior’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “He’ll pull through, Eaton. I know he will. Living stars, if the Scots were able to survive the way they did two thousand years ago with their constant feuding, cattle thieving, brutal winters and virtually no decent medical knowledge, then the one we’ve got can surely last the next few months.”
John turned his attention back to the arena and watched Dallan’s long black hair, now unbound by the fighting, fly every which way as he dodged and blocked Kwaku’s staff, looking as if at last the fight was his. Yet sure enough in the blink of an eye he was in the dirt, hair plastered across his rugged face, hiding his rage-filled eyes.
John sighed again and shook his head. “Dallan’s never even been allowed to leave Genis Lee. Not even to go to the city.”
Lany glanced over his shoulder to the topmost part of the trees around them. The Muiraran city of Mishna lay ten miles beyond the village.
“He doesn’t even know where he is, Lany. For all Dallan knows, he’s somewhere in ancient England. How do the Elders expect me to explain to him about the Muiraran Maiden?”
“Well, that’s another reason I’m here.” Lany clasped his hands in front of him and rocked toe to heel a few times.
John frowned. “Oh no, what now?”
“The Elders have voted with Kwaku. You are not to tell the Scot anything until after he has secured the Maiden.”
“What! How do they expect Dallan to hold together, for the Creator’s sake?” John began to pace. “Great Bells, they can’t possibly expect him to accept responsibility for a Muiraran when he doesn’t even know what one is!”
Lany calmly shrugged. “Tell the Scot she can get him home.”
John stopped his pacing and spun to face his assistant. “I can’t. I already played that card.”
“And?”
“He called my bluff.”
Lany’s lips pressed together firmly for a moment. “What did you tell him?”
“The only thing I could think of that wouldn’t reveal everything.”
Lany raised a brow and leaned forward slightly. “Which was…?”
“I told him the Muiraran was a weapon.”
Lany Mosgofian’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but only for a moment. He then laughed. Loudly.
“I don’t think it’s very amusing!”
Lany tried to calm himself down and failed miserably. “Eaton… it’s positively perfect! Ingenious!”
“Perfect? Ingenious? You didn’t see the look on his face! Dallan thinks the Muiraran is a weapon, for the Creator’s sake!”
Lany finally stifled his chuckling. “Well, isn’t she, in a way?”
John hadn’t thought about that. Muirarans had abilities even he had trouble believing when first introduced to them. Some could heal, others plant ideas and false memories in people’s minds or weaken a man’s will, even communicate with certain species of animals, to name a few. They also possessed the most uncanny camouflage instinct. When around humans, they appeared as one. An involuntary ability if John remembered correctly. And of course, the big one, the one only a rare handful possessed—the ability to split time. Hands down the most frightening aspect of the Muiraran race. How they were able to do it no one knew, and it was a well-known fact the Muirarans wouldn’t be letting the race of Men know anything any time soon. The foremost question of the Elders was if the Muirarans had the power to do that, then what else did they have the power to do? And that wasn’t the only aspect of the Muirarans Man had to worry about. When joined an
d mated with a compatible human, a Muiraran’s abilities grew even stronger. Now that John thought about it, it was probably the main reason they chose to stay hidden all this time. The havoc that could ensue if John’s race were to breed with that of the Muirarans unchecked would be devastating. He shuddered at the thought and resumed his pacing.
Lany clasped his hands back together. “Eaton, calm down. Believe it or not, I think Kwaku’s right.”
John shot him a bewildered look.
“Think about it. If Dallan takes responsibility for the Muiraran Maiden, and we both know what that means, how can he back out? You know as well as I he probably won’t be able to once he’s bonded with her.”
“If he becomes bonded, you mean.”
“Ancient Scots tend to be a little superstitious, Eaton. Kwaku knows that. He’s not going to throw the Maiden and Scot together and hope they live happily ever after. We’ll never get our new Time Master that way. He also knows Dallan won’t accept her if he finds out too soon she’s, well, not exactly human. I don’t know what you’re so worried about. I’m the one Kwaku stuck with telling the Maiden what’s expected of her in case Dallan can’t do it. Let’s face it, it’s not going to be easy convincing this woman she’s not a human being, in the conventional sense at least, which hopefully will have happened before Dallan figures it out. Not complaining, mind you. Just saying things aren’t as bad as they seem.”
Lany took a deep breath and grinned. “Besides, I hear Kwaku believes Dallan has already seen her.”
John’s pacing ground to a halt. “Who told you that?”
“Zara." Lany stated calmly.
John’s eyes widened. He looked about apprehensively before turning his attention back to his assistant. “Zara is here? In Genis Lee?”
“Of course she is. We just rode in from Mishna. Kwaku left a message for her to come directly here as soon as possible. He won’t be going home to the city today. And, well… you know they can’t stay separated for long.”
John absently stared at his booted feet, his mind a confused jumble of thought. “Of course,” he mumbled. “How could I have forgotten?”
Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) Page 2