The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  Erich laughed, a hearty guffaw that brought a flush to her cheeks.

  “What is so funny?”

  “Ye think ye can turn that man’s vow once he’s made it? He’s a bull-headed lad if ever I met one, not likely ye have any say in it!”

  “Humph,” she snorted. She turned to him, lips pursed. “You have a lot to learn about women from the future, uncle.”

  “Aye, surely I do!” he laughed. She smiled along with him despite her annoyance.

  Her grin diminished when she saw the next warrior enter the circle. It was Winn, and he held a long sword. Sunlight shimmered off the polished metal as he turned it in his hands, as if he tested its weight. Makedewa and Chetan looked on from the sidelines, and several other Norsemen pounded him on the back as he adjusted his grip on the weapon. Cormaic stood a few paces away, stretching his arms above his head.

  “What is he doing?” she asked, more to herself than to Erich.

  “Fighting, fer sure,” he grinned. She stood up and made to move past him, but he caught her by the upper arm and deposited her back in her seat.

  “He’s never used a sword!” Maggie said.

  “He’s doing just fine. Keep yerself here, are ye daft thinking ye might stop them?” She blew out her air in a snort and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “This is ridiculous!” she hissed. “I’m going down there!”

  “No, my lady, ye are not!”

  He leaned down, so close she could see the crease across his forehead and the tiny flecks of gold within his green eyes. He placed a hand on either side of her on the bench.

  “If ye want to shame him before the men, then go down there. If not, I bid ye to keep yer arse on the bench and pay heed as yer man fights.”

  “I don’t want to shame him,” she said softly.

  “Then pay him honor by watching. Do they teach ye no manners in the time ye came from? I swear ye act right barmy!”

  She ducked her head as the unwanted grin crossed her lips.

  “You sound like Granddad. He used to say I had rocks in my brain.”

  “Well, Da was a sharp man. Might been some truth to that,” he replied. He stood back and opened his arms, waving a hand at the warriors. “So ye’ll sit then, like I bid ye?”

  “If you’re asking, then, yes,” she agreed.

  She flinched at the clash of metal upon metal, her attention captivated by the fight before them. Winn was not quite as tall as Cormaic, yet he was equal in musculature. Wearing only a breechcloth and leggings, Winn seemed less encumbered than his opponent, his gait swift and precise as he tested the limits of the weapon. Cormaic was more brawn than speed, yet he was no opponent to be dismissed as even she could see. Each blow connected with a squeal and thud of the weapons, and she saw his muscles standing out as tense sinews when Winn deflected each assault.

  Winn stepped back as he blocked an overhead blow, shaking his head as Cormaic advanced. He adjusted the sword in his hands, twirling it before he gripped it more securely. Cormaic’s skin was drenched with sweat as he approached, his chest heaving as he prepared his sword for another strike. When he struck high again, Winn went down onto one knee.

  Erich put a hand on her shoulder when she gasped and started to rise, and she sat back down with an audible thump.

  “Sit!” he warned. She gritted her jaw.

  Cormaic stepped back and Winn rose slowly to his feet. He adjusted the sword again, his face a blank mask as he considered it. Giving him no more quarter, Cormaic closed in, striking low as the men around them roared their approval. She felt numb and heavy all over as she watched, bound to the bench even without Erich’s hand keeping her there.

  Winn blocked the blow and threw Cormaic back with one powerful twist of the sword. Cormaic stumbled, recovered, and a perplexed look crossed his face as he looked down at his hands. Fresh blood stained his wrist where Winn had marked him.

  She put her hands over her eyes as the two men crashed together in a spray of metal and straining flesh. The sounds of the battle were worse than the vision, so it was not long before she parted her fingers to peer out between them.

  Suddenly, Winn had Cormaic in retreat, stumbling backward as Winn advanced with a series of heavy blows. Low to the side, low to the other, and then high overhead.

  Cormaic fell onto his backside with the point of Winn’s sword nicking his neck. She could see Cormaic’s throat as he swallowed and a trickle of blood ran down his skin where the sword pierced him, his chest heaving as he lay immobile in the dirt. There was no sound or movement from the men as they all watched.

  Winn looked down on Cormaic for a long moment. Finally, he drew the sword away and extended a hand. A wide grin crossed Cormaic’s face, and he clasped Winn’s arm to get to his feet.

  “Well done, lad. Well done,” Erich said. “Son of a Chief, no doubt.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. The gesture was entirely lost on her uncle, but it made her feel better, in any case.

  Erich’s wife was a buxom woman, her smile a rash of round flushed cheeks and a sweet heart-shaped face. When Erich made a short explanation of who Maggie was, Gwen flew across the room and tackled her head-on, nearly knocking her off her feet as she cried.

  “Oh, child!” was all she said, repeating it as if it were the only thing she knew to say. “Oh, sweet Odin, child!” Although she struggled with feeling any connection to the strangers she now called kin, as the older woman embraced her and sobbed, Maggie felt tears rim her own eyes. She had never felt the embrace of a mother, nor anything close, and to feel the arms around her as she had often held her own child brought a sting of emotion she could not deny. Warm, soft, welcoming–the embrace of one who loved unconditionally–it was enough to thaw the ice in her heart.

  “What do they call ye? Margret, ye say?” she woman asked, looking toward Erich for confirmation.

  “Maggie they named ‘er. It’s like yon Margret, I suppose. But Esa’s daughter she is. My niece, all the same. Our own Blooded MacMhaolian, returned to us.”

  Maggie glanced back at Erich, who leaned against the doorframe, watching them. He smiled, but she could see the pain in his eyes when he spoke her mother’s name. She wanted to ask of her, but she feared the barrier it might bring to the blossoming relationship they had formed. After all, she had waited a lifetime to know her kin, a few more days would not be so long before she could demand answers.

  “Ye used the Bloodstone to come here? Dinna Dagr tell ye how dangerous it is? Even if he meant to see ye married to his son, he risks too much!” Gwen suddenly squealed, pushing Maggie back to glare at Erich. Erich shrugged, apparently expecting the question.

  “Dagr dinna send her back. It was an accident, ye know how it can happen, woman,” he answered, his words clipped. “And she is married to his son. His Indian son. It happened with no help from him or I, so bide yer venom.” She scowled. Maggie noticed the inflection in Erich’s tone, and the warning glance he shot his wife.

  “Well, good thing ye have yer aunt here, child. It seems like ye need a good dose of help if you’ll be using that blasted magic!” she grumbled.

  “None of that, Gwen. She’ll not be using any more of it, not while I take breath. I’ll not have ye foolin’ with it. Ye know the laws as well as I.”

  “What laws?” Maggie asked. Gwen and Erich fell silent. “Well, are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask Marcus? And what is this nonsense about marrying a son of Marcus?”

  Erich uttered a groan and waved his hand at them in dismissal.

  “Yer mother was the last Blooded MacMhaolian, the most powerful ones among us. We meant to protect her, and ye, by sending ye forward in time. But using a Bloodstone to return to the past like ye did is forbidden. No one will question Chief Dagr, but ye must know it’s not permitted among our people. Best ye forget about the Bloodstone. Leave off with it, aye?”

  “So Marcus can do whatever he wants. Must be nice to be the Chief,” Maggie muttered.

  “He followed ye back t
o see ye safe, child. He’s a good Chief, and a fine man. Ye’d do well to be wed to any son of his,” Gwen murmured. Erich shot her a seething stare.

  Gwen put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders and shuffled her away as she muttered under her breath. Maggie could not help smiling. Her aunt seemed like a right fine woman.

  “Here, take ye some mead, it’s from the old stock, but still fine,” she said to Erich, pushing a pewter tankard across the table toward him. He grunted in acknowledgement and sat down on the bench, his sword clattering against the wood and catching on the edge of the table.

  “Take ye sword off, ye bloody fookin idiot!” Gwen screeched. Maggie covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, pretending she needed to cough, while she watched Erich’s eyes open wide as he scrambled to right himself. Clearly he respected the woman, and she was certainly the kind of woman Maggie could see being friends with.

  “I should clapper yer tongue, ye know that, woman?” he snarled, taking a swig of the mead once he was settled. He raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth twisted in a half-grin.

  “Aye, and yer arse needs a good washin’, ye bletherin’ fool, but ye no hear me makin’ sass about it, do ye?”

  “Ah!” Erich growled.

  “Right then!” Gwen retorted, as she glowered at him. “Here, keep the girl company whilst I tend to the lucht.”

  “What does lucht mean?” Maggie whispered. Erich grinned.

  “It’s not fit fer yer ears,” he replied with a chuckle.

  The older woman swung one thick blond braid over her shoulder then grabbed a pitcher and a stack of linen. Erich shrugged and waved her off, so she followed Gwen into the back of the house where she ducked behind a curtain hanging across the thatched roof.

  Lying on a narrow cot was a sleeping, or unconscious man. He was too tall for the bed, his feet hanging off at the ankles, and his shoulders resting a good two inches off each side so much it appeared he might topple over. A thick dark beard covered his face, and as Gwen knelt down next to him and put a sponge to his forehead, Maggie sucked in a sharp breath.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she whispered.

  “He took a blow to the head. He’s been like this for past a sennight. Why does it trouble you, girl?” Gwen asked as she wiped his sweating brow.

  Maggie sank down beside her and took the man’s hand.

  “It’s Benjamin. We’ve been looking for him.”

  Maggie watched as Marcus sat in silence beside him, unmoving as he stared down at his lost son. Finally, he bowed his head, his thick curling hair falling gently forward to shield the sadness on his face, and he placed one large hand over Benjamin’s. Clasped together and folded on his chest, Benjamin looked like a body prepared for burial, not a man who might yet live. There were no outward signs of severe injury, yet his skin held a grey pallor and the right side of his forehead had a slight swelling accompanied by a bluish-yellow bruise. To her it did not appear serious, yet evidently, it was the injury that put him down.

  When she confided to Gwen who Benjamin was, both her aunt and uncle were shocked. Erich confessed his culpability in Benjamin’s current condition. About a week prior, the English stranger came into the village asking questions about Bloodstones and Time Walkers, and then became violent when they told him to leave. It was Erich who clouted him in the head, intending to give him a chance to cool off. Instead the blow rendered him unconscious, and he had been unresponsive ever since.

  When she heard Marcus sigh, she could no longer let him suffer alone. Although she knew Erich did not want her to intervene with their newly restored Chief, he knew nothing of her relationship with Marcus. Yes, things between them had changed irrevocably, yet he was the same man who had raised her. She would give him no less than the comfort he had always shown her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, placing her hand on his shoulder from behind. His throat contracted as he swallowed.

  “The last time I saw him, he was only a lad. Look at him now, a man full grown,” he said quietly. “We canna take care of him here. Not like this,” he said.

  She held her tongue. What he alluded to was clearly forbidden, as both Erich and Gwen had proclaimed. Yet Marcus was their leader, a man they called Chief. Would he challenge them all by using the Bloodstone magic again? She had little doubt. If she knew anything about Marcus, it was that he would do whatever it took to keep his family safe. If he thought returning Benjamin to the future would save him, then he would do it, and God help any man who would stand in his way.

  “He could wake up anytime. There’s no wound, just some swelling,” she said.

  “It’s been more than a week, Maggie. Ye and I both know enough of modern medicine to see it’s serious. They canna care for him here, not like doctors do where we came from.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. You can’t leave,” she replied.

  “Says who? I’ll do as I need, as I always have.”

  “You’d leave me? And your son? For Christ’s sake, if you do that, I will never forgive you!” she snapped, trying to keep her voice level, yet failing miserably.

  “He’s my son. He needs a hospital, and I don’t see one here for three hundred years!” he bellowed back. “I’ll do what I must to see my son healed!”

  “There are laws on using the magic, aren’t there?” she shouted. “You can’t just jump around through time however you please!”

  “I can if I see fit, it’s my right!” he bellowed.

  “Benjamin is not the only son you have, Chief Dagr!” she shot back. She felt a hand on her upper arm and shook it angrily off. “No, leave me be! If you leave, I will never forgive you! Do you hear me, Marcus Nielsson? Never.”

  She swung around on her heel, and crashed into her husband, who had been standing behind her. Her heart sank as she realized he must have heard the entire exchange. She shrugged past him and left the cottage, back to her own temporary space.

  The drying line was too high for her to reach, so she searched the room for something to stand on. Makedewa had hung it for her earlier in the day, stringing a thin piece of braided rawhide across two rafters on the roof so that she could dry clothes more effectively by the fire. As she jumped and tried to toss a damp swaddling cloth across the improvised clothesline, she heard a chuckle behind her.

  “You do it, then,” she said, handing the nappy to her husband. He laid it carefully over the line, adjusted the adjacent garment, and gave her a smirk.

  “Have you always been so small, wife?”

  She smiled in return, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. She ducked her gaze and grabbed a pile of clothes, sorting through them to keep busy. His breath on her skin was warm, his unique scent sending goose bumps down the back of her neck. The smell of damp earth from training and a touch of evergreen, mixed with the sweat of his work, it was his smell, and she closed her eyes to it for a moment. He put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her ear very softly.

  “Will you tell me?” he asked.

  “Tell you what?” she murmured.

  “What troubles you.”

  She turned to face him, wringing her hands in the damp shift she held.

  “I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

  He nodded.

  “As am I. Do you think he will live?”

  “Does it matter?” she said, regretting the words the moment they left her lips.

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. She watched as he silently removed his weapons and placed them on the table, first his knife, then the new sword at his side. It was heavy, a broad steel blade, the handle encrusted with colorful stones. Along one edge near the hilt were symbols she could not decipher, but she suspected they were runes. She had seen rune symbols carved into nearly everything in the village.

  “A sword?” she asked.

  “From Erich. He said it belonged to Drustan Nielsson, father to Pale Feather. It is still quite sharp.” Winn traced his finger along the length of the blade, looking up to
meet her stare. “I will leave today to fetch the English prisoner from the Nansemond. Then I will bring Finola here. Chetan will ride with me. We will not be gone long.”

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

  “Makedewa will stay here.”

  “I don’t want your brother, I want you,” she insisted. She saw his jaw flex and his brows dart down. Could she put her foot in her mouth any further?

  “I meant–” she added quickly, but he cut her off.

  “I know what you meant. It changes nothing. You will stay here. I will return soon. Prepare to leave when I return, we will join the Nansemond.”

  “But–”

  “Enough!” he snapped, snatching the linens from her hand. “I say where we live, not you. I will hear no more on this, woman!” He looked at the clothes for a moment, then bunched them up and tossed them into a basket on the floor. He threw his hands up and made an agitated grunting sound, cursing in Paspahegh from what she could gather.

  “Fine. Do what you want. I’ll just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you’re gone, like a good little wife!” she shouted. She grabbed the linen basket off the floor and moved to stalk past him. When she reached the door she paused, her chest heaving with shallow breaths and her heart racing. What on earth were they fighting about? Was it Benjamin’s presence bringing so much strife between them? She heard him let out a long sigh and then felt his presence at her side.

  “Here. Let me help you,” he said, his voice strained.

  “All right,” she agreed. She handed him the basket. He tucked it under one arm, and cupped her face with his free hand.

  “A good little wife, hmm?”

  She smiled despite her annoyance. When he kissed her, relief flooded through her. They would not part angry at each other.

  “As always,” she murmured.

  CHAPTER 17

  Winn

  It had been nearly two years since the Great Assault. Although his uncle, the Weroance Opechancanough had envisioned it would drive the English back across the sea, the coordinated effort served only to worsen conditions for both the Indians and the English. As Winn and Chetan rode through the lands of Tsenacommacah to the village of Mattanock, he felt a growing sense of dread. Perhaps it was his imagination, or only his own bitterness, but he could swear the songs of the birds had deserted the Powhatan lands, and the very earth they rode on wept for a time long destroyed. He knew Chetan noticed it as well, as the hollow tap of hooves on packed clay emitted the only sound in the forest.