Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance)

by Geralyn Beauchamp

  “And Kwaku will probably let Dallan go once he senses his wife is near. She’ll need to feed. She was getting pretty… hungry when we left Mishna.”

  John’s eyes bulged. His mouth, already half open, dropped the rest of the way like a heavy drawbridge. He looked Lany over quickly, checking for any signs of damage.

  Muirarans had one unsettling attribute John still wasn’t quite used to: a second heart. A near separate entity really that needed to be fed, and often. Quite often. What the heart fed on depended on the individual Muiraran. Some fed off visual beauty, others verbal stimulation or poetry, simple companionship, pleasure derived from various physical sources or activities. A Muiraran’s mate was usually the only one privy to those special needs and often the only provider. On occasion, however, if their life-mate was unable to care for their immediate needs, a Muiraran had to feed on whatever source was available. John, being in a politically high office and thus knowledgeable about Muiraran affairs, knew well what this particular Muiraran needed in order to stay alive. He swallowed hard and looked Lany over again.

  Zara Awahnee’s heart fed on intense, sexual, passion.

  Lany calmly held up one hand. “Not to worry, I kept my distance. Besides, she was hungry, Eaton. Not desperate.”

  John closed his eyes a moment and took a calming breath. “I’m so glad I’m married to one of my own species.”

  Lany nodded once in agreement. “That makes two of us.”

  They continued to watch the Scot and the Azurti have it out in the arena, John wincing and Lany displaying his usual imperturbability. Occasionally a villager would risk leaving the concealment of the woodbins and make a run for the door behind the weapons racks. Kwaku, always eager to test Dallan’s reflexes, dove for the hapless victim foolish enough to try for the door. He purposely attacked the villagers to force the Scot to protect and defend them.

  “Tell me this doesn’t happen on a daily basis.” Lany stated concerned as he watched a small blond-haired boy, mercilessly dared by his friends to leave the safety of the bins.

  John let go a nervous chuckle. “I’m told the village boys have actually begun using this as a rite of passage of sorts. Apparently, during the first few years of Dallan’s training, the boys treated it like a game, keeping score by whomever possessed the most, ah, well, wins or losses.”

  “You mean who had the most or least bruises.”

  “That would be a more appropriate description.”

  “So the idea is to get targeted by Kwaku early on while Dallan still has plenty of strength to defend them?”

  John nodded as he sighed. “Yes, that’s the general idea, because if Dallan doesn’t have enough energy left…”

  Kwaku’s booming laugh interrupted John and Lany as he cornered the blond-haired boy between the racks and bins. The boy’s companions squealed with delight and slammed the bins shut, leaving him nowhere to run. All he could do was wait and pray for Dallan to come to his rescue in time.

  “So! It is you!” Kwaku bellowed to the cringing youth. “Where is your fa-dar, Boyeee?”

  The small boy crouched on his haunches and watched Dallan painfully pick himself up from the hard ground. Lany leaned over to John, his voice a whisper. “Uh, I don’t like the look in the Scot’s eyes, Eaton. Am I missing something here?”

  “The boy is Padric Wren, his parents run the cookhouse here. I’ve spoken with his father. Padric is one of the few villagers Dallan will associate with. A good thing as I'm hoping the boy will help Dallan open up a bit. From what I observed yesterday the Scot’s very protective of him.”

  Lany watched as Padric’s eyes began to dart furtively about for an escape route. “Just how protective?”

  John smiled. “Let’s watch and find out.”

  “Answer me, Boyeee!” Kwaku bellowed loudly.

  Padric fell to the dusty ground as if pushed by the sheer volume of Kwaku’s voice.

  “Where is your fa-dar? Speak up little bro-dar, or…” Kwaku bent toward Padric’s trembling form and thrust him a wicked grin, “...fight.” The menace in the Time Master’s voice was obvious, his meaning clear.

  “I don’t know where my father is,” Padric managed, his young voice surprisingly low and rasping.

  “Den you choose to fight?” Kwaku challenged, his face inches from Padric’s.

  “I… I…” Padric swallowed and quickly glanced to Dallan who stood breathing hard. His face and hair were covered with dust, his right shoulder badly bruised and bleeding. His body, Sark and kilt covered with sweat and even more dust. John watched intently as Dallan smiled at Padric with his eyes. Hmm…

  Padric looked back to Kwaku, blew his blonde hair out of his face and pressed his lips firmly together, his lower jaw jutting out slightly. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  Kwaku raised a wide brow at the boy and snorted. “You choose to fight den, eh little bro-dar?”

  Padric jumped to his feet and assumed a warrior’s crouch, the same John had seen Dallan perform the past few days. Of course, Dallan did not usually begin hopping about like a flea as Padric was now doing. “I’m not afraid of you, you big bully! Go ahead! Give it your best shot!”

  “Ohhh,” Lany began with a smile. “This is gonna hurt somebody.”

  John nodded, his eyes intent on the scene unfolding before them. “I believe you’re right.”

  Padric quickly glanced at Dallan who silently mouthed a single word to him. Now.

  Padric offered a barely perceptible nod and continued to hop about in front of the Time Master who followed the boy’s movements with amusement.

  “Den a fight is what you shall have my little bro-dar!” Kwaku took a step back and raised the quarterstaff over his head.

  With the most blood curdling scream anyone in the arena, or the woodbins for that matter, had ever heard, Dallan charged. With his own quarterstaff rocketing straight for Kwaku’s head he suddenly yelled through his warrior’s cry, “Now laddie!”

  Padric promptly dropped onto the seat of his pants as the Weapons Master changed positions and brought his staff well over the boy’s head to block Kwaku’s own quarterstaff. Dallan, his opening made, spun himself and smacked his weapon squarely against the most vital part of Kwaku’s anatomy, hitting so hard the pole actually broke in two, the free half flying into the weapons racks to knock shields to the ground with a clatter.

  Lany grinned. “Beautiful. A work of art.” He quickly followed John into the arena to survey the damage.

  Kwaku, still bent over in pain at the unexpected contact, his ebony face locked with indecision at whether to be angry or amused, began to chuckle. Sort of. Padric jumped at the sound and was off like a shot, running for the arena’s main doors as fast as his spindly legs could carry him.

  Kwaku began to laugh painfully at the boy’s retreat, while Dallan stood, half a quarterstaff still in hand, as John and Lany approached.

  “Time Master,” John began with as much seriousness as he could muster. “How dare you involve a child while training!” He quickly glanced to his assistant.

  Lany took the cue. “Eaton, calm your self. There was no harm done.” He shot a look in the Time Master’s direction and smiled. “Except to Kwaku, and I’m sure he’ll recover in no time, won’t you, Kwaku?”

  Kwaku, still chuckling, looked from one man to the other before letting his gaze fall upon the Scot who, half smiling, stood transfixed. The shock that his pride had been fed for the day had yet to wear off. Kwaku stood gingerly and began to laugh much less painfully.

  John ignored him and turned to Dallan, grimacing in empathetic pain as he took in the sight. “Ohhh,” he winced, then gave Dallan a stern look. “You are done for the day. Get cleaned up and meet me in the same place as yesterday. We’ll continue where we left off.”

  Kwaku’s laughter got louder.

  Dallan’s eyes narrowed on the Azurti who was now laughing so hard he had to lean on his own quarterstaff for support. “What’s so bloody funny?’

  Kwaku walk
ed toward the three and unexpectedly slapped the nearest man on the back to send him sprawling. “Did you see what de Boyeee did?” he chortled as he proudly looked to Dallan and yanked a now dust-covered John to his feet.

  Lany waved Kwaku away from John while he was still in one piece, and the Azurti backed up before Lany’s hand could reach him. The movement was fluid, graceful and to Lany’s irritation, carefully timed.

  Kwaku laughed again as he headed in Dallan’s direction, who unfortunately was still too stunned by his recent accomplishment to notice. “Magnificent move, Boyeee!” Whap!

  Once again, Dallan was face down in the dirt. He cursed under his breath in his ancient Gaelic and began to rise, but his injured shoulder had other ideas. He groaned and collapsed onto the ground in a painful heap.

  Kwaku nudged him with a huge sandaled foot. “You did well today, yes?”

  Dallan turned over, stared up at Kwaku and with teeth clenched from bruising pain, climbed to his feet. “Dinna ever threaten wee Padric like that again, ye heartless heathen.”

  Kwaku broke into hysterics before he fell into an unusual calm. “You of all people, Boyeee, should know a good Master does not take advantage of de weak.”

  John and Lany exchanged a look, each thinking the impossible. Was Kwaku Awahnee being serious?

  “Take advantage! Ye good-for-nothing, ye could ha’ hurt the lad!”

  Kwaku chuckled lightly. “No, Boyeee. I knew I would not get de chance.”

  Dallan’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head slightly to one side.

  Kwaku leaned into the Scot’s face. “De young one had too much trust in his eyes. Trust in you, Boyeee. It is difficult for harm to come to anyone with such a treasure in his… or her possession. De boy knew you would save him, even if you were unsure.”

  Dallan closed his eyes briefly, his face suddenly awash with a different kind of pain.

  “Trust, Boyeee,” Kwaku began on a whisper, “is a precious gift, yes?”

  Dallan opened his eyes and shot the Azurti a penetrating stare. “Trust must be earned.”

  Kwaku chuckled deeply. “Yes, Boyeee. And how do you suppose you earned de trust of de young one? Hmm?” He laughed and spun on his heel toward the huge doors.

  Dallan, John and Lany watched as Kwaku left, all pondering the Time Master’s last words, with Dallan’s own thoughts coming to an unsettling conclusion. How had he managed to win Padric’s trust?

  Dallan honestly didn’t know.

  Th ere are three words that sweetly blend,

  That on the heart are graven;

  A precious, soothing balm they lend—

  They’re mother, home and heaven!

  Mary J. Muckle

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dallan groaned, not with pain, as one might expect considering the state of his right shoulder, but with pure aggravation.

  Dallan’s bloodlust for Kwaku had finally reached the boiling point. He wanted nothing more than to lay the heathen out, make him land on the hard ground for once, let him all but crawl to the healer’s quarters to have his tired, bruised body tended to. Let the bloody heathen hear for once the words Dallan had heard countless times since his arrival in the village long ago. So, he got you again, did he?

  Let him be the one to get up every morning praying to the Almighty that today be the day. The day he could finally, after years of waiting, have his revenge.

  Ah, ‘tis a sweet dream, lad. Dallan thought to himself with a sigh. The problem was, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite make it a reality. And by all the Saints, he could not figure out how the blasted, good-for-nothing heathen beat him so repeatedly and consistently. After ten years of training and fighting with the Azurti warrior, one would think him able to best Kwaku a few times a week, or even occasionally. How could that man fight and never seem to tire, while driving Dallan to the point of exhaustion and beyond?

  Mayhaps the heathen was bewitched, or had access to some healer’s draught that enabled him to go past what any normal man could stand. There had to be something! No one could be that good. It just wasn’t natural.

  Yes, it was a sad fact. Bashing in Kwaku Awahnee’s head seemed naught but a dream.

  Yet there was still hope. Today with Padric’s help, Dallan had come close. And the taste, no matter how slight, had been excruciatingly sweet. He smiled as he replayed the entire scene in his head. The look of pain on the heathen’s face was worth every bruise endured that morning and countless other mornings as well.

  Dallan’s mouth twisted out of his earlier smile into a grimace as he began to remove his sweat-drenched clothing. Again he groaned, but not with aggravation. Now he hurt. He cursed as he tossed his Sark across a chair and wearily sat upon the bed, his weight making it creak and groan in protest.

  Dallan didn’t want to finish the interview. Come to think of it, he didn’t feel much like doing anything except lie down and sleep the rest of the day. His whole body seemed to throb with the mere thought of it. He glanced out the window above his bed. Judging from the sun’s position it was nearly noon.

  “Best get on with it, then.” He sighed painfully, his eyes now focused on a wash bowl and pitcher.

  “On with what?”

  Dallan looked up to find Padric peeking around the half open door of his one-room cottage. The boy looked at him timidly and waited for permission to enter. Dallan motioned him inside and watched as Padric took the soiled Sark from the chair and sat.

  “Yer mother sent ye after my clothes, then?” Dallan asked him as he slowly stood.

  Padric began to fidget in the chair. “Yes, Weapons Master. She wants your kilt too. She’ll wash and have them ready for you tomorrow.”

  Dallan held back a smile. Padric’s voice was back to its normal high pitch, his English accent smooth and almost musical, not clipped like the English of…

  Not a good subject to get started on. Best get off it while ye can, lad.

  Dallan forced the unwanted emotions back and watched Padric squirm in the chair. The boy was still nervous around him, but, that was Dallan’s own fault. He was the one not letting the boy get too close. He was the one keeping the distance. It wasn’t as if Padric even reminded Dallan of Alasdair. It was the fact Dallan couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone close again.

  No! He wasn’t going to start thinking about any of it. He had the interview to contend with today and that was enough. Besides, he should be in a good mood. He’d almost laid the bloody heathen out!

  “Ye did good today, lad. I’m proud of you.” Dallan told the boy as he pulled on a fresh Sark then began to remove his kilt.

  Padric smiled shyly and bobbed his head up and down like a bird.

  “The lads will no tease ye now, will they?” Dallan stated more than asked. He knew how the other boys treated Padric, knew what it was like to be teased about one’s small size. At Padric’s age, Dallan hadn’t been much bigger. He’d made up for it over the years, however, and could already see that Padric would one day grow up to be much like himself. Convincing Padric of that fact was another story.

  Padric stopped fidgeting and grinned. “I wish the Councilor’s son could have seen it. But he was in the cookhouse.”

  “Councilor’s son?”

  “Yes, Weapons Master. The Lord Councilor’s Assistant brought his son with him. All the boys are talking about him. We’ve never met anyone from Sutter’s Province before.”

  “Ye mean ye’ve never met anyone your own age from there.”

  “Yes.”

  Dallan thought a moment, his head cocked to one side. “Tell me, laddie, just where is this Sutter’s Province?”

  Padric’s eyes widened as his body began to involuntarily shake. He swallowed hard and looked ready to bolt for the door.

  Always the same reaction. From everyone. Dallan sighed and handed the boy his dust-covered kilt. “Forget I asked.”

  Padric quickly took the kilt from him and hopped out of the chair. “The Lord Councilor is waiting for y
ou in his quarters.”

  “Aye, lad. I ken he is.” Dallan wrapped a clean and readied kilt about himself and again stared at the water pitcher and wash bowl. “Tell him I’ll be along. Off with ye now, dinna keep yer mother waiting.”

  Padric stepped to the door, paused a moment, then turned to Dallan. “You fought Kwaku good today. He really is proud of you.”

  Dallan’s face nearly fell at the pleased tone in Padric’s voice.

  “I’m proud of you, too.” Padric quickly added then scurried out of sight.

  Now Dallan’s face did fall, into regret. He shouldn’t have tried using the lad to obtain information he wasn’t about to get anyway. No one in the village would tell him where he was, who they were, what he was doing here, why he was being trained as a Weapons Master.

  Dallan would have to face it one day. He was doomed. Doomed to spend the rest of his days in the company of a seven-foot-tall heathen whose only purpose was to make his life as miserable as possible. Och, by all the Saints how he hated that man!

  The Weapons Master grabbed a hand towel and went to the small table housing the pitcher and wash bowl. As he cleaned his physical wound, his emotional ones began to split and crack open with his thoughts.

  Dallan, by his own admission, had two goals in life. The first, and often foremost, was to finally get his hands around Kwaku’s heathen neck, take his time with the slow, steady, pleasurable squeezing of it and ignore the strangled pleas for mercy the good-for-nothing might manage to squeak out.

  The other, equally unlikely goal was to get out of wherever he was and back to Scotland and his people. To just go home. And at this point, Dallan was ready to do almost anything to get there.

  Dallan tossed the now dirt and blood stained towel on the table, reached for his plaid, and headed for the door. Perhaps this interview was what he’d been waiting for. Perhaps this time he’d find an ally in the Lord Councilor from Sutter’s Province. Perhaps, at long last, he’d find a way to be rid of the painful company of Kwaku Awahnee.