Chronomancer (Time Mage Saga Book 1)

by Mackenzie Morris

  When Jack failed to comply with the unknown order, the slaver moved behind him and pushed his head below the surface. Jack squirmed and kicked, screaming into the water that filled his ears and nose. After a few seconds, his head was pulled up for just long enough for him to take a gasping breath before he was shoved under again. He bucked and struggled, but the iron grasp held him under. His lungs ached. His eyes stung. Every cell in his body cried out in agony. Jack clawed at the sandy bottom, trying in vain to find anything to use as a weapon. He was fished out again, but didn't have enough time to draw a breath between coughing out water before he found himself underwater once again. This time, the water filled his lungs and his vision began to darken. His muscles clenched as his body rebelled, convulsing against the arms dominating him. In the final moment when he knew the end was near, he was drawn out of the water and tossed roughly into the sand.

  Jack gasped, but doubled over as he vomited. Water and his stomach content surged from him, his body contorted and spasming. He broke down sobbing when he collapsed in the hot sand, submissive and defeated. He couldn't fight anymore. Whatever they wanted him for, he wouldn't complain. If they wanted to sell him, beat him, force him into labor, he would obey. He knew that was why they nearly drowned him. To break him to their will. Normally, he would have fought them off, but he was exhausted and wracked with pain.

  When the leader stomped up to him with a length of oiled leather coiled around his fist, slapping the end against his leg as he walked, Jack knew his taming was far from over. He was dragged to his feet then toward the camels. Ropes were secured to his armbands and his arms were extended to the sides between the saddles. He jumped when the snap of the whip cracked through the silence of the desert.

  "No, please. I'll obey. I'll do whatever you want. Please! Don't whip me. I'll be good." Jack's wrists were pulled tight, one tied to each camel's saddle, keeping him spread and his back open as the target for abuse. "Please. Don't."

  The first lash slapped against his lower back. The shock of it hit him before the stripe of pain. He threw his head back to scream just as the second hit slashed into his spine. Eight more cutting stripes left bloody welts from the top of the cloth around his waist to the base of his neck. His voice had become one continuous scream before the tears choked him. They left him hanging there for two minutes before cutting him down.

  Jack slumped to the sand, groaning and digging his fingers into the ground through his pain. He was done, finished. If he thought he had been broken before, he surely was now. He didn't even flinch when the leader's boot pressed against his shoulder, rolling him over onto his back. Jack squinted in the sunlight through his vision that was blurry with tears. He stared up at his tormentor's pudgy face.

  The man said something to him then pried his mouth open again. This time, cool water was poured inside from a leather water skin. Jack swallowed greedily, genuinely grateful for even this tiny bit of mercy. The skin was taken away from him, making him mewl out of dehydrated need. He propped himself up on one elbow to see the white camel that approached the oasis with a man in his thirties perched on top with bags and boxes of unknown treasures. The leader went to greet him with a bow.

  The two other slavers dragged him to his feet and began wiping off the sand. One of them pinched Jack's cheeks until they were flush with color while the other rinsed the grit from his fresh cuts that the lash had left behind. The one in front combed his fingers through Jack's messy hair then marched him over to the obviously wealthy man on the white camel that was piled with silk bags and a gold-trimmed rug rolled up behind him.

  The wealthy man dismounted then removed his white gloves as he stepped up to Jack. He stopped there, his hazel eyes trailing over his sunburned body. The more Jack took in about the wealthy man, the more confused he was. The man was pale like him with curly brown hair and rounded European features and a splattering of tiny freckles across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He was obviously foreign. The hefty green silks and embroidered gold sash, heavy gemstone rings, and braided green and gold hat reflected his affluence. There was something else as well. Even though he appeared to be an easy and lucrative target, the slavers made no move to attack him. Instead, they kept their heads down and spoke to him in respectful tones.

  The man unlaced the leather bindings from Jack's forearms then touched the hourglass tattoo. He raised Jack's chin up to look at him. For a moment, they had some sort of connection, as if the wealthy man was telling him something. Jack gave an airy gasp when the man pinched his newly pierced ears, yanking on the earrings until a drop of blood slid out of the holes.

  With a humph, the man took a step back and nodded his head before speaking to the slavers. They bartered back and forth until the wealthy patron took out a velvet coinpurse and dumped multiple coins into the head slaver's hands. One of the other slavers slid the rope back around Jack's neck and tightened it before handing the length of rope to Jack's new owner.

  The owner led Jack to his camel and said something to the animal. The camel knelt down in the sand, waiting for him to mount. He then placed his hands on Jack's hips and helped to boost him up. Jack slung his leg over the back and steadied himself on top of the rug. His owner joined him then clicked his tongue, making the camel stand up back.

  Jack held onto the rug as best as he could, scared to fall off. With his owner still holding the rope leash that wrapped around his neck, one false move and his collar would become a noose. He rode into the narrow streets of the nearest village where fanned trees offered little shade to break up the harshness of the desert sun. Sun-bleached brick buildings were clustered together with wells dug for water, plots of fertile soil for growing plants, and troughs of water for the cats and camels that wandered the streets. The fragrance of spicy foods spilled out of the nearby windows of single story and two-story buildings where red, yellow, and brown blankets hung over the doorways. Egyptian children played in the sand surrounding the buildings, their giggling filling the village.

  The wealthy man stopped his camel outside the nicest home in the village, a two-story building on the far edge next to a pond with bright green reeds and white ibises wading in the water. He dismounted then helped Jack down onto the sand-strewn stones that made the path from the well to the front door. The man tugged on the rope, leading Jack past the thick blanket and into the small first floor where a green and yellow rug was laid out next to a set of shelves on the wall that held numerous scrolls. Smoked rabbit haunches, sprigs of herbs, and dried dates hung on strings from the ceiling.

  Jack held his breath when his owner removed the rope from around his neck. With a strong hand, he was pushed down onto his knees next to the rug that was covered in freshly-cooked food. Unleavened bread, plates of olives with lentils and stuffed grape leaves, and hunks of meat glistening with fat taunted him, calling to him with their spiced aromas that made his weary body twist with aching need.

  The owner washed his hands in a basin before sitting on a silk pillow across the rug from him. He began eating with his hands, scooping up the meat and lentils with sections of bread and washing it down with dark wine from a clay cup. Jack's tongue scraped across the roof of his dry mouth and his stomach growled noisily, but he dared not reach out for any morsel of food. There was no way to know what punishments would await a slave who attempted to eat without permission. He was young, but he was far from naive. Starvation was another way to keep him compliant.

  His owner wiped his mouth on his sleeve then spoke to him in words he couldn't understand. When Jack didn't respond, the man continued asking questions in various languages. Finally, he said something Jack recognized. "How about English?"

  Jack nodded.

  "You speak English? Say something, then."

  His voice was nearly strangled in his sandpaper throat. "Jack."

  "Hmm? Is that your name?"

  "Yes, Master."

  "That's not necessary. I apologize for the way you were treated by those slavers. They're a brutish lot
. Go ahead and eat. There's water and wine in those two vases next to you. There's plenty. I know you have to be starving after walking across the desert like that. Your poor skin. It's a wonder you're alive after that abuse. I saw the welts. I can put some salve on them. They're not too bad, luckily. I know that doesn't help take the pain away."

  Jack kept his eyes locked on the man who bought him as he slowly reached out for the vase of water. He picked it up, half expecting it to be slapped out of his hands and earn him another whipping, but the man kept eating. With shaking hands, he lifted the lid then brought the cool clay to his lips. He closed his eyes as the sweet water filled his mouth and ran down his throat. It was like heaven. He suckled at the spout like a baby, whimpering with each mouthful.

  "Slow down. I know you're thirsty, but you'll make yourself sick doing that. Put it down and eat something solid."

  He reluctantly set the vase down and turned to the food. He took a piece of bread that his owner handed him then copied the way the man had scooped up the meat pieces and lentils. The first bite relaxed him as the warm nourishment filled his stomach. He let out a slow sigh then continued munching on the hearty foods, still aware of the danger he was in. One wrong move and he could have been whipped, drowned, or worse.

  "Do you like it? My . . . uh, my servant made it. He's at the market right now. He'll be back soon."

  It was honestly some of the best food he had ever eaten. Maybe it was because he was starving. "It's good. Thank you for feeding me."

  "Drink some more water now. I can't have you passing out on me from dehydration."

  "Yes, sir." Jack obeyed, drinking another gulp of water that he could feel going all the way down to his stomach.

  "You don't have to be afraid. How old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  "A child, then?" His owner scooped another bite of food into his mouth. "Tell me, Jack, do you know what that mark is on your arm?"

  He instinctively covered his hourglass. "Do you?"

  "You show up here, looking confused. You have a mark on your arm, you're foreign, you speak a language that doesn't exist yet, and you have a legendary sword that I bought from those slavers as well, by the way. I don't know if you noticed. All of those things lead me to one conclusion. You are like me. We're not from here, this place, this time." The owner pushed up his sleeve on his left arm to show him the black lines of the hourglass tattoo near his elbow. "Look familiar?"

  "You're a Chronomancer."

  "As are you. Who are you working for?"

  "No one."

  The wealthy man sipped his wine. "How did you get here?"

  "I don't know. I fell asleep next to my Time Knight and I woke up by the river. I don't know where my Time Knight is now. Sir, am I your slave now?"

  "If anyone around here asks, yes. In reality, no, not at all. I despise the practice. I even feel horrible having a Time Knight to serve me, but sometimes it's necessary. Oh, and you can call me Sam."

  Jack's mouth opened, but he had no words. He stared at the man across the blanket of food from him. Sam? As in Samuel?

  "What's the matter?" Sam asked, his thin brows bunching together. "Are you hurting, Jack? I do love that name. If I ever have a son, I'll name him that."

  "I know who you are. You're Samuel Carter."

  He smiled. "I am. Director Samuel Carter of the Zurvan Syndicate. You've heard of me?"

  "I need to . . . oh my God. It's you. I never thought I'd get the chance to see you. I didn't know this was a possibility."

  "Tell me why you're fascinated with me."

  How many time travel laws would that break? "I don't know if I can. I . . . I don't know what could happen to the timeline if I did. Tell me, Sam. Tell me what the year is in the present for you."

  "2002."

  "2002. I see."

  "Are you from a different date?" Sam asked, leaning closer in his growing intrigue.

  "I'm from 2021."

  He smiled, flashing his straight white teeth. "I have so many questions. This is unbelievable."

  "Trust me, there is so much you don't know."

  "Tell me. Tell me, Jack. Whatever effect it has on the present, either of our present, I'm sure the Zurvan Syndicate can make it right. It's all right. Let me know."

  "Are you married yet?" Jack asked, holding his arms around himself.

  "I am married."

  "How is she? How is Irene?"

  The man's smile vanished. "How do you know about my wife?"

  This was it. He had to tell Sam the truth. Jack laced his fingers together in his lap. "My name is Jackson Kai Carter. I was born in 2004 in Memphis, Tennessee. I grew up in Mana Glen. Irene adopted me. You had an affair with Marjorie Dunley and she got pregnant."

  "How can you know about Marjorie and me? That's a secret. It was a moment of weakness. I won't deny it, that we have something, but I'm trying to stop seeing her."

  Jack shook his head, pleadingly. "Please don't. If you stop seeing Marjorie, I won't be born."

  "You . . ."

  Jack nodded his head. "I'm your son."

  "No."

  "Yes."

  "Well, I have an easy way to prove you wrong." Sam fished around in his robes until he took out a silver disk. "Arm."

  Jack held his arm out over the rug then grunted when the disk pricked his skin.

  "Let's see. It's processing. When this says I'm not your father, you'll still be free to go once we figure out where your Time Knight is. I'm not cut out for owning people. I . . ." Samuel's eyes grew wide as he read over the results on the disk. "I can't believe this."

  "What did it say?" Jack asked.

  "You're my son. This proves it. Can I . . . can I hug you?"

  "Um, sure, yeah." Jack stood as his father came around to meet him. "Hi, Dad."

  "Hi, son."

  Jack breathed in his father's light mint and incense smell as he relaxed into those arms that he had dreamt about on so many dark nights. He pressed his face into his father's stubble-covered neck, relishing in the warmth and love that he had missed out on. There was an instinctual familiarity there, one that some part of him remembered from when he was an infant. He had been in those arms before. He had felt that warm breath on his face before. He had smelled him before. All of the pent-up worry and doubt he had been harboring melted away into tears that wetted his father's tunic.

  "It's all right. We're together right now. I don't know you, but you're my blood. I can tell you're a good person, Jack. You've obviously been through a lot, and in time, you can tell me. I want you to know that I'm here for you and that the Zurvan Syndicate can help you."

  "Thank you."

  Same held him at arm's length and examined him. "I am beyond sorry for buying you like cattle."

  "It's okay."

  "It's not okay. My boy, my son. Let me look at you. I see it now. You look like my father. You have my mother's eyes." He tapped his fingers across Jack's cheekbones. "My freckles."

  Despite the harsh temperatures outside, the cool breeze that filled the shaded house made Jack's skin prickle with goosebumps.

  "Oh, you're cold, huh? Um, I'm sorry. You're wearing next to nothing. I've never owned a slave before. Not that you're a slave. That's not what I meant. Oh, damn, I'm so bad at this."

  "It's okay. I get it."

  "I have extra clothes over there in the chest. Help yourself."

  Jack went to the corner and lifted the lid of the wooden chest. He picked up the first pieces of clothing he could find. A knee-length white tunic, a pair of baggy green silk pants, a black vest, and matching slippers with golden toes. They fit perfectly and were much more modest than the scrap of fabric the slavers had tied around his hips. Jack turned and held out his arms for his father.

  "They fit perfectly. Wonderful."

  A shorter brown-haired man with a rotund stomach hidden under a common white tunic and brown pants entered the house with a bag slung over his wide shoulder. "Chronomancer, there's been an influx in slaves today. I d
on't know what it means or what it has to do with Cleo, but it's . . . oh. Company?"

  "Allen, we have a guest."

  Jack gawked at his teacher. He was younger, not wearing glasses, and not as bald, but it was definitely him. Mr. Allen.

  Mr. Allen stepped up to Jack and grabbed onto his ears, yanking at the rings. "A slave boy. Why did you buy a slave, Sam?"

  "He's not a slave."

  "The rings in his ears say he is."

  Sam crossed his arms. "He was a slave, but I rescued him."

  "Why? He's light-skinned. Is he Greek?"

  "He's French, German, and Iskaydrian."

  Mr. Allen raised an eyebrow at Sam. "You're French, German, and Iskaydrian."

  "Yeah."

  He took Jack's left arm and slapped his tattoo, making Jack yelp. "A Chronomancer."

  "Don't handle him so roughly. He's my son, Allen. He's my son from the future."

  Jack couldn't do it. He pushed away from Mr. Allen, backing into the corner. "Don't touch me. I know who you are and what you've done. I mean, what you'll do in the future to my Time Knight, my brother."

  "I don't hurt kids."

  "You hurt him. I don't know why, but you will. And you'll film it then post it online for everyone to see. Then you'll leave him to die."

  He appeared to be genuinely upset by the accusation. "That can't be true."

  "It's true. And he's not a stranger to you. He's your stepson. You love him like he's your own flesh and blood, but then you turn on him and I don't know why yet."

  "I won't do that. I can't do that."

  "You will, though."

  Sam stepped between them. "Please, Jack, we will do everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen in the future, our future. Tell me, how am I in the future? Do I look the same? Do we go camping? Because I love camping."

  He bowed his head, his eyes averted to his slippers. "I wouldn't know."