The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (6 page)

“Your grace, spare ye a moment?” a deep voice thick with foreign burr begged from the darkness. It came from near the stone gate of the orphanage, where a knight stood in watch over the yearlings’ home.

Jareth pulled the reigns tightly, clamped his thighs around the girth of the horse and came to a complete stop as to not run over the man. His eyes searched the darkness until the hooded, cloaked figure stepped up to his mount. The contour of the garment was odd, misshapen. The man was hiding something.

Jareth said nothing. The plans of his night were thwarted. His heart beat in his throat; anxiety had crept up and settled under his breastbone. Suddenly, he forgot about the orphans and the translations. Adrenaline made his thoughts swim as if he were entering battle. He said nothing, because his tongue refused to move. The entire world as he knew it was spinning toward a single moment in time that would change his life forever. Fate was knocking on his proverbial door. It was no longer a wait for a month to pass. The time was here. The awareness of that made the air around him sizzle. This was the moment Gabriel and Minh had prepared him for.

Percival steered his horse between them, leveraging himself as a protective divergent between him and the unknown person. Jareth craned his neck to see over the large horse. The veiled person did not move, nor was he intimidated by the squire’s defensive stance.

“Be gone, ye beggar.” Percival touched the pommel of his sword, then shook the blade free from its scabbard to bare the steel. He spoke French, regardless that the man spoke in clear English.

“I am no beggar,” the stranger growled.

Jareth stood in the stirrups for a better look.

“Tis a strange tongue ye speak,” Percival said. He glanced over his shoulder to the duke. His lips turned downward at the corners when he saw the duke’s curious stance. “What business have ye?” He reached with his free hand and fumbled at the coin purse tied to his waist.

“I don’t want money,” the man spat—both in words and physically near the hooves of the horse that was sidestepping dangerously close to him.

Jareth swung off his mount, ignored the pinch of the sutures and the grueling pain it brought. “Do you have the stones?”

“Yes,” the man answered quickly. He came forward.

They met at the rear of Percival’s horse. Jareth looked down to the lump in the man’s cloak. “Give me the stones first, and then I will see to your boy.”

“I see someone has been playing with time.” Gyula shook his head and thrust his arms forward as if to show it was impossible to hand anything over but the load he was hiding.

Jareth gripped the man’s lapels to tear back the cloak. Gyula took a step back, but Jareth advanced, and leaned forward with narrowed eyes to peer into the ashen face of a dying child. The boy’s skin was so pale it reflected the moon’s light with an eerie glow; his lips were rimmed in blue. Vibrant baby fine red hair was plastered to the child’s skull. He touched the boy’s cheek. “How long has he been unconscious?”

“A while,” Gyula answered. He spoke briskly as his dull eyes searched the duke’s face.

Jareth gazed up into the face of the worried father. He glanced over the rough features of Gyula the Mad, a famed warrior who once rode in the last crusade, or so was said. He was named mad for the fact he smiled while killing the heathen. It was also said he had such a great hatred for non-believers that he could not help but be joyful when one fell at his hand in battle.

Not that he was a religious man, but rather mean and spiteful. The man’s face was mutilated, as if someone had taken a blade to the left side of it. Even if the scars had not been present, he was still a strange, ugly man. He was short, broad shouldered, and appeared to waddle when he walked.

“You have the gift of the future.” Jareth referred to what he knew as fact in the man’s language. “Why not save me some time and tell me what ails the boy.”

“Meningitis,” Gyula responded. His arms shifted as though the burden he carried had suddenly become too heavy to bear. Perhaps it was his heart and his soul failing at the mere thought this child could die. The disease process seemed to be advanced by the looks of the fevered child. “But it’s evident that you, your grace, also have the gift of the future. Do you judge me because I dare use it to my advantage?”

Touché.

“Percival,” Jareth said, his eyes on Gyula. He took in the harsh lines around the man’s mouth. “Ride before us and prepare a place in the infirmary. We will follow at a slow pace. I have yet to pay my visit to Friar Ephraim.”

Gyula stiffened. “You dare risk the life of my only son for a Church that will see you burn?”

Jareth stepped back, his hand protectively touching the satchel that hung over his shoulder, the strap across his heart. He felt it to be sure it was still safe and secure. “What do you know of this?” he asked. His eyes flickered to the orphanage where his contact awaited. “What do you know of my standing with the Church? Speak or so help me, I will kill you first and then watch your child die at your side.”

“The gossip about you is true,” Gyula sneered. “How eager you are to kill, even those who live in your province. I’m your servant, my lord. Why would you kill someone who is in service to you and your castle?”

“Tell me what you know. Or shall I show you that the stories are true?” Jareth could not let that slip by, even though a child was literally dying before him. He considered his relationship to the Church his greatest secret, not that he was a guardian of the future Amalgam. Not even the fact he was soon to be an avid time traveler held a candle to the idea that he was aiding a great reformation. Innocent people could be killed just for being linked to him.

“We are running out of time and you are my only hope,” Gyula said. His voice quivered slightly—the only sign that he was remorseful for his verbal attack. He looked around in the darkness as if searching for another to help him if Jareth refused. “You must take him to Dover or he’ll die. I’ve seen his death, your majesty. It’s why I’m willing to make this exchange with you. The stones for the boy’s life. It’s all I ask.”

“Precisely so,” Jareth said. “You had better speak quickly, then, Gyula the Mad, or his blood is on your hands. I grow weary of begging your compliance. What do you know of my relations to the Church of Rome? “

Gyula seemed to gauge the opposition, his gaze traveling between Jareth and Percival. Jareth’s spine straightened to full length. Percival’s face hardened; his hand rested on his sword’s grip. Both dared him to make a move he would be sure to regret. They did not leave room for escape or for treason.

Jareth’s deep voice boomed through the night air like gunshot. “What do you know of me?” he repeated. He used force to attain the man’s compliance. An invisible timer had begun for the boy’s life and Jareth was not heartless, but neither was he stupid.

Gyula’s gaze darted around, panicked but also rebellious as he appeared to gauge the distance between squire and knight, and then to the orphanage. Did he wonder if he could possibly get away with his life if he ran? But then his face dropped and his lips quivered as the truth seemed to dawn on him. No one could save his son’s life except the man before him.

“Forgive me,” Gyula blurted. He bowed low and held his son close. “Your majesty, I speak out of order. I’m a simple man whose only child is dying.” He held his arms out. “Please, have mercy on your servant. Do not hold my foolish ramblings against me. I beg you. Take the stones. Save my son.”

“Mercy is what is keeping me from taking your life,” Jareth said. He gazed at Gyula’s bowed stance; his lip was curled in anger, but his heart was pliant. He did not want the boy to die, but would allow it if it came to protecting the future of the Protestant Church. “You have failed to answer my question. Must I keep repeating myself, vassal? What do you know of my relation to the Church?”

Gyula’s gaze darted to Percival, but he received no aid there, so he bowed again, so deep this time that his son almost tumbled to the ground. His eyes narrowed as he tightened his hold on the boy. “I know that you translate scripture.”

Jareth waited a beat to see if he would reveal more, and when nothing came, he prodded. “Go on.”

Gyula licked his lips as he straightened. He glanced at Percival, who spurred his horse forward and bared his sword in the moonlight. He would find no mercy with the squire, either. “It is true, your majesty. I jump time. I know of your league. Is that your concern?” Jareth shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. Gyula looked unsure of what was being asked of him. “I know you are aiding the Church in translation.”

“The Church that is forming is not the Church as God intended,” Jareth said. It was a sore spot for him. He always felt the need to defend his position when the topic was breached. No matter that this man probably could not care less about Church error. “It is most certainly not the Church that I help.”

“Of course,” Gyula sputtered. Jareth could almost see the wheels of his mind turning, searching for the proper response that would not get him and his son found buried. “What I meant to say was that you are tied to early reform. The reformation of the Church. Wycliffe and his Lollards.” He smiled weakly and shrugged. “It’s legendary, sire. I didn’t mean harm. Please . . .” He held out his arms that held his limp son and his voice cracked. “He’s dying. I can’t bear to lose him. “

Jareth’s head tilted a fraction; his gaze briefly paused on the boy’s now wan appearance. “Do I have your allegiance? Will you swear an oath to the flag of Dover?”

“I’m giving you something of great price,” Gyula nearly growled. He took a heavy step forward and thrust the boy’s body against Jareth. “How can you ask for more, you selfish bastard? I don’t care what you believe or what you teach your mutant freaks. Isn’t it enough that I’m giving you your destiny?”

The squire had dismounted when Gyula’s tone changed. He stood next to Jareth, ready with sword drawn. “I request permission to execute, your majesty.”

Jareth’s jaw stiffened as he gazed at Gyula. The man was enraged, but so was he. The travel stones were useless if his election was thwarted. There was no life for him if he did not complete what he started for the future of Christianity. It was vital to him—as essential as the life of this man’s son was to him.

They were at an impasse and Jareth prided himself on being a good judge of character. One gift he felt he had been given was one of discernment. He lifted his hand. “No, Percival.” He shook his head as he pressed his squire back until he was a safe distance from striking Gyula. “I believe he means us no harm. He has spoken with honesty. He is stupid, but he is frightened. His son is dying.” He leveled a stare at Gyula. “I will have your allegiance, however, or I will not cure your son. “ He made a chopping motion with his hand. “No compromise. Take it or leave it.”

“So be it,” Gyula agreed and dipped his head in reverence. His voice held a semblance of humbleness, but lacked conviction. The words tumbled from his mouth like rapid rain, the rebellion of them thinly veiled. He made his oath rapidly and without apparent thought. “I swear my allegiance to the Duke of Dover, to the crown of England, to the flag that bears Dover Duke’s colors and mark.”

Jareth removed the satchel and slipped it onto the blade Percival held. His eyes stayed on Gyula in weighed thought. “See it to the hands of Friar Ephraim.” He did not like the way the oath tumbled from Gyula. Also, he had an answer to a previous question presented to him by Gabriel. Gyula was Hun—he was sure of it. He had the look and the manner. The breach of the Huns had started with this man; he would bet on it.

An alliance with Gyula was the only way Huns would have access to twentieth century firepower. It troubled him that he was entering a deal with someone who would wage war on his people, but it was necessary. He needed the travel stones to form the Amalgam. The future needed the League to create a balance and refuge for host. Gyula was merely an end to his means.

“Your majesty,” Percival responded with his chin touching his chest, his bow was so pronounced. He rose swiftly and gave Gyula a severe warning look. “I will deliver it into the hands of thy servant or die. And then, I shall be your rear guard.”

Jareth waited until Percival was on his way before he held out his hand.

Gyula’s mouth twisted. “My hands are full, your majesty.” He shifted the boy in his arms and thrust out his right arm from under the folds of the cloak. “But you can have a look. They’re here. All seven.”

Jareth’s eyes touched on the seven bracelets; a smile curved his mouth. “Yes. I can count. How thoughtful of you to be precise.” He looked into Gyula’s eyes. “Just so you know. I shall kill you and your son if you ever break treaty.” He reached out and removed the bracelets from Gyula’s wrist. They slipped off with some effort.

“I can teach you how to use them. The travel essence is stronger in your country, particularly Dover,” Gyula said. “I don’t know why this is, but it is so. I can travel to any time in Dover, ancient or modern.” His weight shifted under the weight of the child he held. “After you save my son, I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“No need.” Jareth peered at the boy whose breathing was becoming erratic. He had wasted enough time. He held a vast amount of information concerning the travel stones that would shock Gyula. Dover was the main conduit of the wormholes, which was information he was not willing to share. It was time to save a life. He slipped the seven bracelets onto his right wrist. “I have been properly trained in their use. As you so rightly ascertained, I am a man of the future.”

Chapter 4

Vermilion Parish, Southern Louisiana. Present time.

THERE WAS NOTHING
more to do but change the hydraulic hose—again. Elizabet kicked the side of the motor and silently cursed whatever fate caused the demise of crawfish boat motors. Somewhere in a heavenly place, a flock of beings was laughing hysterically. The irony that she actually could diagnose what was wrong with a broken crawfish boat was not lost on her. Being a seventeen-year-old female who could double as a middle aged farmer did not appeal to her.