Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (3 page)

The villagers still stood frozen to the spot.
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.

As if the horrifying realization could be made any clearer a woman’s high-pitched screa
m suddenly rent the air, the fi
rst of
many, which of course
set off the usual chain reaction.

Birds shot from the arena’s hidden
nooks and crannies amidst a fl
urry of feathers and squawks. A horse threw its rider.
Work baske
ts
were thrown to the ground as hats flew through the
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 door
way
smiled at the sky, sighed,
patted his broad chest in satis
faction as he always did,
and
blissfully
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. Th
e
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 thou
sand-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, fi
nished 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 fl
uid 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 persona
l 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 anticipatio
n of connecting with Scot’s fl
esh.

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 skull-shattering blow from the missi
ng Scot’s own quarterstaff. Th
e 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 ev
ery blow skillfully without eff
ort, countering wh
en he pleased, directing the fi
ght 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. Jus
t once for his pride’s sake. Th
e Scot had, after all, passed every test designed for him and was doing much better wit
h 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 wick
ed auld heathen,” the Scot
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 b
een ready. Kwaku laughed again.
“You are clumsy, Boyeee! Der wi
ll be times when you cannot aff
ord 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 hi
mself, 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 unscath
ed. This neg
ligible 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
thwac
k
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.
No, make that twice, John thought.
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 b
ack into man’s past to fi
nd 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.
They hoped …

John watched the warriors in the arena solemnly a moment, his own personal bat
tle with the Muiraran issues fi
nally over.
He’d finally accepted them. They were unquestionably and undeniably real.  They weren’t going anywhere.  And he had to admit, w
ithout 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.

John sighed and continued to watch the two warriors. 
If only the Muirarans wer
en’t so reclusive, he mused. 
Then perhaps more of
John’s own race would believe in their existence rather than passing off any contact with them as phony.
A trick. 
Like the
legendary creatures of old
.
 
Yeti
s, Sasquatch, Dragons, and the like.
How does one prove they exist? A difficult thing when m
any humans, he had to admit, had never even seen one.
As it was with the Muirarans.

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 prep
ared to accept his new offi
ce
and all that it entailed. There were, however, still a few slight problems.

“Really Eaton, don’t get so worried. The Scot can take it. He’s taken it
this long.” Lantzaro Mosgofi
an, 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.

“What are you smirking at?” John asked, glancing from h
is assistant back to the two fi
ghting 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, wincing
at the sight of Kwaku’s quarter
staff moving so fast it was practically a blur.
“Not if he continues to take a beating like he’s
had
so far this morning...”

Thwack!

“
OW!”  John
cried
,
both eyes now tightly shut. “
By the Creator, that must hurt!”

“Kwaku does seem to be having a good time with him today,” L
any stated while also cringing at the sight of a now obviously injured and st
umbling Dallan MacDonald as he vainly tried
to recover from the horrific blow he’d just been dealt.

John’s eyes sprang open.
“A good time? Great burning Bells! At this rate, there won’t be anything left for me to work with!”

Lany
sighed in agreement and
clasped his hands behind h
is back, his gray robes of offi
ce 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 fl
inched 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? Th
e diff
erence 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 nos
e 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.”