Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (5 page)

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
quarter
staff
. 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 fl
ying 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 i
n
volve a child while training!
”
He quickly glanced to his assistant.

Lany took the
cue. “Eaton, calm your self. Th
ere 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,
sto
od transfi
xed.
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. W
e’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 walked 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. Th
e movement
was fl
uid, 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 acc
omplishment to notice. “Magnifi
cent 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 diffi
cult 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 briefl
y, his
face suddenly awash with a diff
erent 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,

Th
at on the heart are
graven;

A precious, soothing balm they lend—

Th
ey’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.

Dall
an’s bloodlust for Kwaku had fi
nally 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. Th
e day he could fin
ally, after years of waiting, have his revenge.

Ah, ‘tis a sweet dream, lad.
Dallan tho
ught to himself with a sigh. Th
e
problem was, no matter how hard he tried,
he
couldn’t quite make it a reality. And by all the Sain
ts, he could not fi
gure out how the blasted, good-for-nothing heathen beat him so repeatedly and consistently. Aft
er ten years of training and fi
ghting with the Azurti warrior, one would think him able to best Kwaku a few times a week, or even occasional
ly. How could that man fi
ght 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 t
he entire scene in his head. Th
e 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 fi
nish 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 pain
fully, his eyes now focused on a
wash bowl
and pitcher.

“On with what?”

Dallan looked up to fi
nd 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 fi
dget 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 it
s 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.
  T
he 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 fi
dgeting 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 h
im and hopped out of the chair. “Th
e Lord
Councilor is waiting for you in his quarters.”

“Aye, lad. I ken he is.” Dallan
wrap
ped
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 ho
using the pitcher and
wash bowl
. As he cleaned his physical wound, his emotional ones began to split and crack open with his thoughts.