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Time Master's Blog Tour Starts Today! 1/6/2008 1:17:00 PM
Time Masters Blog Tour Starts Today!
A blogging we will go ... a blogging we will go ... high ho the merrieoooooooooo, a blogging we will go ... Hmmmmm some how I don't think that's an actual song, but it works for me! The Time Master's blog tour hosted by the Christian Fiction Review Blog will begin Sunday January sixth and run through Saturday, January twelfth. Who knows who will be stopping by to comment amongst the bloggers! The teens? The poet? Yes, I'm working with a poet for book two. In fact, he's the top contemporary poet in the nation right now, one Poet Bartoluciano! And a very popular fellow on myspace! http://www.myspace.com/bartleemusic
Let's see, who else might show up? How about the PUBLISHER! He's mentioned he'll take
peek during the week. I keep telling you how personable they are at Cold Tree Press! Let's see, who else ... hmmmm ... my sister? Ohhh you just never know during a blog tour! I tried to show up to Kevin Lucia's guest blogging to heckle him but was late in getting there! Heckled him anyway with a comment ... er ... sort of. At this point I don't remember what I said, but I'm sure I heckled him! Of course, now it's his turn to heckle me! I'll keep you posted as to how it's all going! I know that some folks from Myspace and Shoutlife are blogging! This will be fun! Check it out! http://cfrblog.blogspot.com
Time Masters is also in Barnes & Noble's stores. If your Barnes and Nobles doesn't have it in stock, you can ask them to order it for you- hint give them the ISBN and they'll pull it right up. Any bookstore can special order for you again the ISBN is the key to finding the book.
Now for the fun stuff!!!!!!
Time Masters Prologue and Chapter One:
Glencoe
They came in a blizzard, we offered them heat,
A roof o'er their heads, dry shoes for their feet,
We wined them and dined them—we gave of our meat,
They slept in the house of MacDonald.
They came from Fort William wi' murder in mind,
The Campbell had orders King William had signed,
"Put all to the sword," these words underlined,
"Leave non alive o' MacDonald."
They came in the night, when our men were asleep,
This band of Argylls, through snow soft and deep.
Like murdering foxes among helpless sheep,
They slaughtered the house o' MacDonald.
Some died in their beds at the hand of the foe,
Some fled in the night and were lost in the snow,
Some lived to accuse him who struck the first blow,
But gone was the house of MacDonald…
Cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe,
That covers the grave o' Donald.
Cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe,
And murdered the house of MacDonald.
Jim McLean
Prologue
Glencoe, Scotland, February 13, 1692
Snow swirled and rose in high drifts, the wind hard pressed to conceal the
glen and its cottage dwellings. It quickly piled the snow and beat against
walls as the storm intensified outside the tiny havens, serving well those
who would need it within the hour.
Dallan MacDonald lay wrapped in his plaid, his young brother Alasdair
beside him in front of the hearth. He mused over his unexpected arrival
and his grandfather's greeting when first they spied each other.The Mac-
Iain's eyes had been warm for the briefest of moments then suddenly
consumed by cold warning, the auld Fox's first words anything but friendly.
Of course Dallan had learned to expect nothing else from the chief of
the Glencoe MacDonalds. MacIain could be a hard man when he wanted
and usually became just that when in Dallan's company. In fact, Dallan
couldn't remember him being any other way.
Alasdair moaned softly in his sleep. Dallan turned to his brother and
smiled. The boy had not left his side since the big Scot came trudging
through the snow two days ago. He gazed thoughtfully at him with a slight
pinch of envy. Alasdair's face was peaceful, content. Soaking up the weak
glow of the dying fire as if 'twas all he was meant to do. The boy held not
a care. No. Not a one.
Unlike the rest of his clansmen.
Confused at the number of Lowlanders and Campbells residing in
the glen when he first arrived, Dallan made his way directly to his elder
uncle's house to find what was amiss. His uncle John had given him the
information he wanted to know but it wasn't what he wanted to hear.
Indeed, the Campbells had come into the glen almost two weeks ago with
papers signed by the king himself. Papers which demanded quarters be
given in Glencoe for two companies of his majesty's foot soldiers.
Dallan didn't trust the Campbells, nor did his grandfather. Fearing
disarmament, MacIain ordered his people to hide their arms in the peat
stacks or on the brae beneath the stones. If the soldiers were going to take
their weapons, let them take the old rusty ones.
Alasdair moaned again. Dallan thought of the harsh night and gently
pulled the boy into his plaid with him to fend off any chill. The small form
immediately snuggled close. Dallan again smiled and let go a lengthy sigh.
How he wished he could stay this time. Wee Alasdair had just reached the
age of six and would soon be old enough for fostering. Dallan wanted to take
him under wing but wasn't sure how he'd manage it. It would mean taking
the boy to France and he doubted the auld Fox would let him. Perhaps
their mother could be persuaded, and then she could work on the MacIain.
Dallan knew he needed something in his life besides weapons and constant
training. Alasdair would be perfect.
After twenty years of living Dallan still felt as if he'd done nothing with
his life. Something was definitely missing, but he couldn't figure out what
it was. Perhaps he just needed to feel like he belonged. If only the MacIain
would accept him, treat him with some respect instead of cold, silent disdain.
A shout from outside drew the Scot out of his musings and brought
his attention to a small window. The three Campbell soldiers sheltered in
his mother's house were reportedly pulling out in the morning. Could it
be they were preparing to depart? Perhaps the reason the three had not
returned to the house after meeting with their captain was due to the
preparation. But that wouldn't have taken them all night. What could they
be doing all this time?
Hairs rose on the back of Dallan's neck with the thought. He detached
himself from Alasdair and went to the window, dirk drawn. He'd had this
warning too often to ignore it; something was wrong. Bad enough a sense
of dread hovered over the glen yesterday to put everyone on edge. But later
the Campbell's own piper was the one to keep Dallan up most of the night.
He'd heard the piper play, knew it to be more than a pleasant passing of the
time. There had been something in the music. A message. Flee.
Yet his mother, along with many of his other clansmen, had not taken
heed and insisted on staying. The soldiers would be gone tomorrow and
all would be well…
Another shout. Dallan hurried back to Alasdair's sleeping form and
quickly pulled away the blankets. "Wake up, lad," urgency in his deep
velvet voice. "Alasdair, wake up!"
The boy opened his sleepy eyes and gazed at his older brother. "Wha…
what's wrong then?"
Dallan grabbed up his plaid, wrapped it about himself then reached for
his sword and shield near the hearth. He'd brought them out of hiding in
mute preparation for what he knew must surely be happening now. "Wake
mother and Fergus, tell them to dress quickly."
Alasdair popped up to a sitting position, his eyes blinking back sleep.
"What's wrong? What's happening?"
"I dinna ken, but I'm going to find out." Dallan hurried to the door.
"Wake them and prepare to leave. Ye may ha' to head into the hills, lad."
"But Dallan, that far? What are the Campbells doing?"
A woman's scream carried on the wind was answer enough. "Hurry lad!
I'll not see this family's blood spilled." He opened the door to a blast of
wind, "Go!" And as Alasdair scrambled to his feet, Dallan left the cottage.
Snow beat relentlessly against him as he stumbled out into the storm
while shouts and pistol shots echoed above the wind in the distance. Sounds
the wind carried ever closer to his family's cottage. He picked up another
sound among the rest, one much closer, and ducked into a sheltered area
between some of the houses. Sword drawn, shield ready, his every muscle
screamed for release for a few tense seconds before Dallan recognized the
labored breathing of his clansman and grabbed him. "Ian! What happened?"
He pulled his grandfather's servant into the shelter with him as the more
menacing noises drew closer.
"Dallan lad! The MacIain! Yer Grandmother!" The man pushed out
terrified. "The soldiers got into the house. We let them in! I swear we
didna ken what they were about!"
Dallan shook him, his grip tight on the old man. "Campbell has set his
dogs on us, then?"
"Aye! Get yerself and yer house to the hills! Be quick!" He struggled to
get away, his clothes tearing with the effort.
Dallan held him fast. "Th e MacIain?"
"I dinna ken! There were shots! The Lady, she screamed something
terrible! We tried to get to them, but there were too many soldiers. We got
out as fast we could, and they came after us!" Ian glanced fearfully about,
body trembling as more shots fired. Closer. "Believe me lad; there was
nothing we could do to help them! Get ye gone to the hills! Now!"
Dallan loosened his grip. Ian wrenched his arm away and ran into the
storm as sounds of the soldiers' slaughter neared, death with them.
Within moments Dallan burst through the door of his family's house,
the snow and wind with him. His mother gasped at the sudden entrance.
She and her husband of eight years, Fergus MacDonald, stood against a
far wall wrapped in whatever they could find to bear the storm outside.
Alasdair huddled between them. Dallan gave his step-father a curt nod. "It
is as we feared. We must flee. Now."
Fergus closed his eyes and lowered his head a brief moment in mute
acceptance, then ushered his wife and son to the door. They allowed
Dallan out first and, at his signal, followed him into the blinding snow.
Cold bit through the plaids they wore, the wind nearly tearing the
clothes from their backs. Yet the small family ignored the harsh elements
that greeted them. As long as it was not Death extending his greetings this
day, the light of dawn only an hour or so off , the elements were welcome.
Dallan silently vowed to keep death from his family as long as he could, no
matter what the cost. They were all he had.
Screams rent the darkness around the four as they haphazardly fought
their way through the storm. They'd managed to get themselves some distance
from the house, and Dallan, now grateful for the storm which kept
them hidden and would perhaps see them to some semblance of safety,
allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. It was then his mother screamed.
Her voice and the clash of steel were quickly carried away by the
wind. Dallan hoped not in the direction of more soldiers as he felled the
first of two of Campbell's men. He recognized him as one of the soldiers
who partook of Fergus's hospitality. Irony has a strange way of working.
The second soldier lunged, bayonet in hand, as Dallan tried to wrench
his sword from the first. The big Scot leapt to the side, the deep snow
thwarting his movement as the bayonet missed its mark yet scored all the
same. Pain seared through the back of his left shoulder as the blade cut
its way to the bone. Dallan clenched his teeth against a sick wave of
dread, only two thoughts in his mind. He had to save his family. To do
that he had to fight.
He didn't remember falling, but found himself in the snow next to
his shield, his sword no longer in his hand. He must have let go of it
when he was hit, or perhaps as he fell. Either way, there was no sign of his
sword anywhere. Dallan looked up and dark as it was, met the eyes of the
man about to kill him, the bayonet already on its descent. Dallan briefly
contemplated closing his own eyes when the soldier suddenly fell to the
snow next to him. Dead.
"Go!" Dallan commanded as he struggled to his feet. He gave a thankful
nod to Fergus as the older man pulled his dirk from the soldier's back. He
then sought and retrieved his own weapons and reached for his mother.
Her face turned frantic as Dallan took her by the arm. "Alasdair!" She
screamed and turned a circle in the snow that nearly pulled him off his
feet. "Where's Alasdair?"
"Quiet woman!" Fergus warned. "The wind will carry yer voice!"
Dallan scanned the area and cursed. The boy was gone.
"He must ha' panicked and run back to the house. I thought he was
right behind me." Fergus told him in a low voice.
"Take her to the hills, man. Keep her safe." Dallan grasped his mother's
hands firmly in his own. "I'll see to him. Go with Fergus now." He gave
Fergus another quick nod then wheeled back in the direction they had
come, his tall form quickly swallowed up by the storm.
He carefully picked his way through the blinding snow to avoid as
much as possible the nearest sounds of pistol shots and shouting, praying
he didn't pass the boy. Dallan knew he was not only losing time but blood.
He had to find Alasdair, and fast.
After agonized minutes of bracing himself against the blinding snow
he reached the house. A dim light shone through the window. A candle;
someone was inside. Dallan stilled his labored breathing and melted into
the shadows at the rear wall of the house. The door to the kitchen area lay
open. Alasdair must have gone though the back. Carefully, he made his
way to the door, peeked inside, then silently entered. The hairs on the back
of his neck immediately rose and he quickly crouched behind the thin
curtain separating the tiny kitchen from the hearth room.
"Search the house!" A man shouted in a husky voice. "No one lives!"
Only three of them, a preview to the bulk of the slaughter Dallan
quickly surmised. But where is Alasdair?
He got his answer quick enough. Alasdair screamed as one of the men
pulled him out from behind a chair and threw him to his superior. The
captain grabbed the boy by the back of the neck and eyed him with an odd
sort of numbness, as if he wasn't sure of what he was. He then looked the
boy over carefully, as one might a chicken or a cow at market, his mouth
curling into a crooked smile. "Ever been buggered, lad?" he asked and
grabbed at his own groin for emphasis.
Alasdair cringed and shrank in the man's grasp.
"Well then," he chortled, "there's always a first." With a wave of his hand
he sent his two men to search the back of the house. They laughed, knowing
they were to take their time, and headed for the curtained doorway.
Dallan's dirk plunged into the first man, the action tearing the feeble
curtain. The second man, too stunned to react in time, heard only the
snapping of his own neck as Dallan let him drop to the floor next to his
fallen comrade. That left just the leader. A man Dallan knew immediately
and just as immediately, hated.
Robert Campbell of Glenlyon held Alasdair by the hair, a dirk poised
at the boy's throat. Never taking his eyes off the scene before him, Dallan
took a pistol from the nearest dead man, trained it on the Campbell, and
stepped out from behind the half torn curtain.
"Surrender and I'll spare him," Campbell pushed out, his face pasty,
sick-looking, and full of lust.
Dallan's jaw twitched with revulsion as he judged where the ball might
hit. "Let the boy go first," he countered his own voice soft and menacing.
Alasdair let out a yelp of pain as Campbell's grip tightened. "You fool!
My men are next door and come even now! You are dead already!"
Dallan's green eyes grew fierce. "Only a fool and a coward would harm
an innocent lad while one o' his clansmen has a pistol pointed at him." He
took aim and prepared to fire, praying the Campbell would either throw
Alasdair out of the way or think to keep himself shielded with him. Dallan
sighted for the man's face instead of his heart.
Campbell's eyes suddenly widened with fear.
Good, Dallan thought. He could kill the man, take Alasdair through
the back and hope the storm was still enough to conceal them in the predawn
light. He put the first traces of pressure on the trigger. Campbell
watched in horror and looked as though he was going to scream.
But it was Alasdair's scream that pierced the room, bringing Dallan's
attention to his rear. Too late.
The big Scot's breath was crushed from his body as blood from his
forgotten wound gushed anew, pushed as if everything within him could
be squeezed through the jagged cut in his shoulder. Th e pistol in Dallan's
hand dropped to the floor, useless, as two thick black arms wrapped
around him from behind and mercilessly smashed him against a huge
body. He fought the giant holding him, but it was no use. The strength in
those arms was like nothing he had ever encountered or would ever want
to. Suddenly a deep laugh penetrated the air as an odd tingling sensation
began to course through his body. The giant seemed to move but Dallan
wasn't sure, his feet no longer touched the fl oor, or did they? By all the
Saints, what was happening?
Alasdair screamed and watched in horror as Dallan was dragged into
the shadows. "Dallan! No! Dallan!" He squirmed against the stunned
Campbell leader who, too shocked to cuff the boy into silence, merely
stood, his grip tight, the dirk unmoved. Dallan tried to cry out but his
lungs had no air. Th e tingling sensation only increased with his efforts
to an odd burning, as though his skin were on fire. And of all things he
thought he heard some sort of music. Dallan couldn't afford to lose consciousness.
He again struggled against the arms holding him; he had to
get to Alasdair! But it was no use. Helplessly he watched his brother, now
cut and bleeding from Robert Campbell's unmoved dirk; slowly disappear
behind a blanket of darkness.
Dallan MacDonald contemplated if he was dying but honestly didn't
know; all he did know was he had not saved Alasdair and the deep booming
laugh behind him was getting louder. These were the only two realizations
to accompany him into the blackness that took him from his brother, his
home, and his very life.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here.
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands wherever I go.
Robert Burns
Chapter One
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, obviously 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 in the doorway took one step forward. His foot made a loud
thud as it hit the dusty ground, the impact sending tiny tendrils of dirt
into the air. It was the only movement in the entire arena.
All eyes widened in response, muscles tensed and ready.
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 and stared wide eyed at the
man. 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. t
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 served to 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 and hats dropped to the thick 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, then patted his broad chest in satisfaction as he always did. A
sure sign he was now ready and eager to start the day. A nearby flock of
wide-eyed children squealed and scattered like rabbits in response to this
action, whilst various wails of despair rose up from all over the arena. In
turn, the man bowed his head, thanked his Creator for another beautiful
day, and 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 quarterstaff s. 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 skullshattering
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
Highlander 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 fi rst 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 couldn'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. Man's
success always was his own worst enemy. His lust for power and twisted
sense of right and wrong had nearly obliterated the planet, including him.
If it hadn't been for the Muirarans… well, no one could have possibly
survived. 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.
John watched the warriors in the arena solemnly a moment, his own
personal battle with the Muiraran issues finally over. 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.
If only the Muirarans weren't so reclusive. If only John's own race
would believe in their existence rather than passing off any contact with
them as phony. Many humans, he had to admit, had never even seen one.
Yet it had been nearly four hundred years since they first became involved
with humanity. How can so many not believe? Could mankind still be that
ignorant? And to think so many continued to label them as mere legend. If
only he could convince more of his people not to give way to fear…
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. Th e 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. He often swept his hair off his
brow just to see if he could get his superior to do the same. It never failed.
"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. "Not if he
continues to take a beating like he's had so far this morning... OW! By the
Creator, that must hurt!"
"Kwaku does seem to be having a good time with him today," Lany
stated while also cringing.
"A good time? Great burning Bells! At this rate, there won't be anything
left for me to work with!"
Lany 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-fi lled 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 towers of the Muiraran
city of Mishna peeking over the tall trees in the distance.
"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.
Lany then did something which shocked John. He 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 stifl ed 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 in people's minds or weaken a man's will, even communicate
with certain species of animals, to name a few. And of course, the big one,
the one only a rare handful possessed—the ability to split time. Moreover,
when joined and mated with a compatible human, a Muiraran's abilities
grew stronger. It was probably one reason they chose to stay hidden.
The havoc that could ensue if John's race were to breed with that of the
Muirarans with no control 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 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
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, Kwaku believes Dallan
has already seen her."
John's pacing ground to a halt. "Who told you that?"
"Zara." Lany answered 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 stared at the stone walkway beneath his booted feet, lost in a
confused jumble of thought. "Of course," he mumbled. "How could I
have forgotten?"
"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 draw bridge. 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 aff airs, 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 wood bins and
make a run for the door behind the weapons racks. Kwaku, always eager to
test Dallan's refl exes, 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,
and watched a small blond-haired boy, mercilessly dared by his friends to
leave the safety of the bins.
John chuckled. "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. "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. 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. "Watch."
"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.
"Eaton, Kwaku's not really going to hurt him, is he?"
"Keep watching, Lany." John told him.
"I don't know where my father is," Padric managed, his young voice
surprisingly low and rasping.
"Den you choose to fi ght?" 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 fl ea 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."
Padric quickly glanced at Dallan who silently mouthed a single word
to him. Now.
Padric off ered 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 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 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 . The
Time Master 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 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. 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. "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 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.
