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

by Geralyn Beauchamp

  Dallan reacted with a snort, turning his head away as the facial twitch began its dance. Suddenly he turned back, stabbing John brutally with a look of challenge. “What’s the next question?”

  John swallowed hard. “You haven’t answered the last one yet.”

  “No I didna.” Dallan gripped John even harder with his stare. “You answered it for me, remember?”

  For some insane reason, John was feeling brave at the moment. “You know the right answer.”

  Dallan’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  Well, maybe insane wasn’t the right word. Suicidal perhaps? “It’s the only answer. Stop fighting it.”

  Dallan’s nostrils flared as he sat straight and puffed out his chest before he suddenly fell back onto the bed, beat his head against the pillow a few times, and let out a frustrated sigh.

  John slowly inched closer and quietly observed him for a moment.

  Dark smudges had developed under Dallan’s eyes, making him appear like he hadn’t slept in days. His breathing was now ragged, his skin sallow, his body shaking with chills and his eyes… were in pain.

  The Call was back. “Are you all right?” John asked tentatively.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Dallan looked confused for a moment. “I… I dinna really ken.” He began to shiver again, prompting John to get up and reach for the plaid near the end of the bed.

  Dallan took it and gave a tiny nod of thanks as he brought it around his broad shoulders and lay back down. He tried to relax, but his once-controlled emotions were beginning to run amok as they had earlier. “What’s the next question?” he asked quietly.

  “Are you sure you want to continue? I think it might be better if we waited…”

  “The next question,” Dallan demanded, waving a hand toward the tablet on the floor as he wrapped himself tighter in the plaid with the other. “I can last a wee while longer.”

  John studied him, deciding. The Scot’s appearance grew worse as fatigue threatened to tear down the thin wall protecting the last of his inner strength. Both men knew the vulnerability being displayed at the moment.

  Dallan didn’t care. “A question if ye please.”

  “Just a few, then you rest. Agreed?” John was still studying him.

  “Agreed.”

  “Tell me about a time when you felt proud of yourself.” John peered closely at the Scot, who now lay, eyes closed, his breathing slow.

  “The first time I bested my uncle fencing with a rapier.” Dallan smiled briefly, then the smile quickly faded away.

  “How do you feel about growing older?”

  “That depends on where and wi’ whom I’d ha’ to grow old with.”

  John didn’t push it. In honesty, he had all he needed now; the rest of the questionnaire was barely a formality. He went to the next question, grimacing as he did. “What would you do if you had one wish, any wish at all?”

  Dallan’s steady breathing was the only answer. John sat back in his chair and smiled. Best to let him sleep. After a few moments, he rose to leave and was halfway to the door when he stopped, as if remembering something. He looked compassionately at the now-sleeping form on the bed. The big warrior looked so peaceful, even with the ravages of the Call. He reached for a blanket folded neatly near the trunk and spread it carefully over the slumbering Scot.

  By tomorrow night, John was sure Dallan would be declared by both the human and Muiraran Elders, the next Time Master of Muirara.

  John Phillip Eaton, Lord Councilor of Sutter’s Province, the man assigned to make the official declaration of the next Time Master to the people themselves, left the cottage, wishing to leave Dallan to his rest. The warrior was going to need every bit of strength he had for tomorrow.

  When he got the news…

  * * *

  “What would you do if you had one wish, any wish at all?” The question repeated in Dallan’s mind, mingling with fragments of his dreams.

  “I’d get bloody well out o’ here,” was his repeated answer as he tried to force his mind to concentrate on images of escape. But they eluded him each time he drew near forming instead into a place he had never seen before. A frightening place.

  Large piles of the Saints-only-knew-what were on fire everywhere, the air heavy with the smell of death. Dallan briefly closed his eyes as he realized they were piles of dead men burning. He looked about himself more closely and saw a huge cylinder of green metal pointed toward the sky. Everything near it—trees, the strange buildings, even the ground and burning piles—shook from its immense power. Fire exploded out of it, lifting if off the ground and into the air as he watched, half awed, half numb.

  Another noise caught his attention, pulling his gaze from the heavens.

  Bulky box-like things of the same green metal were crawling over the ground by themselves, tearing up the earth as they went, crushing anything in their paths. Long cannon-like barrels protruded from the top portions of the monstrosities, exploding repeatedly, annihilating anything they were aimed at.

  Dallan’s eyes widened at the destruction wreaked by the things as he covered his ears against the noise. They could easily blow his wee cottage to bits! He glanced up at the sky again, drawn by another loud noise, and saw gigantic birds forged of steel as they streaked across the blue expanse, roaring like lions. He looked around and jumped at the sight of several huge, green canopied horseless carriages, also of steel, moving about on their own on black roads as smooth as ice. They sped between tall buildings which rose high into the sky, some engulfed in flames. Yet despite the amount of fire around him, the air was incredibly cold.

  Dallan glanced about apprehensively as he surveyed the remains of what must have been not just a battle, but a brutal war. What sort of things were able to cause such overwhelming damage? The birds of steel? The huge metal boxes bellowing like cannons? The green cylinders pointed toward the heavens? He froze as an unfamiliar fear wrapped its ugly fingers around him, their grip tightening enough to make breathing difficult. By all the Saints, what could cause him to feel this way? He’d certainly seen worse in other dreams, and he was dreaming, wasn’t he?

  People. Where were all the people?

  Dallan found himself in the middle of one of the smooth streets turning in circles as he searched for any sign of life. Anything that would rid him of the bone-chilling fear threatening to squeeze the life from him. He had never experienced such fear, not even when the ‘Call’ had come. Not even when he had seen the wee lass fade from his sight, perhaps forever. Not even with Alasdair. Nothing he had been through before came close to preparing him for this…

  Suddenly Dallan realized his strange surroundings were somehow familiar. There was something in the landscape, in the far off hills beyond the buildings. The knowledge sent a chill up his spine as his stomach tied itself into knots. He fell to his knees as his strength suddenly drained from him to leave him helpless for another revelation.

  This was home. Scotland! No, it couldn’t be!

  It was then he felt her.

  No! Dallan thought to himself. Not here, not in this horrible place. Please, God, not here!

  She stood on the other side of the street, arms outstretched, begging him to come, tears of longing and fear streaming down her pretty face. The wee lassie. The Faerie child.

  Dallan was not a boy now. Now he was a powerful warrior, a strong and cunning Weapons Master feared by the most ferocious fighters in Muirara. Many had answered the heathen's challenge and traveled great distances he was told, to have the chance to best him. None had ever succeeded.

  But fear now caused the images of his competitors to flee like hunted rabbits as the lass looked to him for safety, his comfort and strength. Needing a haven from the fear he knew she must be experiencing as well.

  He couldn’t move. All his strength had suddenly left him, as it did during the Call, leaving an unexplainable wall between them.

  She slumped to the street and tried to call out to hi
m, yet nothing came from her open mouth, her lips trembling uncontrollably.

  “No,” Dallan heard himself say. “Please, can ye no leave her alone?” His voice carried through the smoke filled air to the clusters of tall structures surrounding them and echoed off the lonely walls.

  The lass suddenly smiled through the tears and lifted one hand, finding the strength to reach out to him once more.

  “By the Saints,” he whispered in surprise. “Ye can hear me?”

  She breathed hard, straining against the invisible wall, her eyes answering him by reaching out and touching him as her hands could not. Dallan’s body shuddered as the gentle caress thanked him for the strength and comfort he had given her by the sound of his voice. He shook his head in helplessness. How could this be? How could he understand her so well? He held his hands out to her, copying her own gesture. “I canna come to ye, lass. I’m trying, but it wilna move out o’ the way. I canna move.”

  She sent him a comforting look, encouraging him to keep talking, but Dallan found it hard to say anything, his mind thick and clouded with helplessness, his throat raw from the smoke drifting over them from the many fires. “I canna get past it.”

  The lass nodded in understanding.

  Dallan’s eyes suddenly captured hers as long buried emotions he thought never to find again, raced to the surface of his heart, nearly taking his breath away. It happened so fast, he hardly noticed he was suddenly six years old again. Just a boy. But a boy with words formed on his lips, not out of passion but of soul-searing need. By the Saints, could this be the answer to the Call? The words pushed themselves forward, demanding release as he silently pleaded with the lass. Was this what the bloody heathen was talking about? Was it really that simple? Nay, how could it be? ‘Twould be too easy. They were just words.

  And yet, deep in his heart, he knew them to be right.

  “I love you,” Dallan whispered as the Call burst through him. His body jerked at the sudden impact of odd warmth mixed with indescribable pain and his own desperate need.

  The lassie’s head shot up at the confession, her eyes a brilliant green. And just as suddenly she reeled to the ground from her kneeling position, clutching her stomach as the pain of the Call overtook her. She unexpectedly looked up at him, and their eyes locked. She then bent her head to her chest, her hair covering her face, and began to rise.

  Dallan’s pain disappeared as he watched her get to her feet, but it was not the wee lass who now stood before him. The change had been so fast, so subtle that he wasn’t even sure he had witnessed it. Yet he knew he had not taken his eyes off her as she rose, her head bent to her chest as she did so, her long hair hiding her face from him.

  She threw her head back, hair flying behind her as she did, revealing the face of a woman-child. One of the Faire folk.

  She was the most beautiful thing Dallan had ever seen. He tried to rise to his feet and was amazed as his legs brought him to a standing position. “My God,” he rasped, staring at her in fascination and awe.

  The woman-child stood quietly watching, longing still evident in her eyes. “Ceannsaich?” she mouthed silently, sending shivers down Dallan’s spine. His strength returned in steady waves, the same waves that drew it from him every time he received the Call.

  She had just mouthed the Gaelic for “conqueror.” “Master.”

  Dallan stood before her, and she suddenly looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  He smiled, realizing he stood proudly before her as a man now. The boy he’d been was gone.

  Dallan tried to go to her, intending to gather her up and get out of this awful place as quickly as possible. But his feet would not obey him. “It’s no good, lass. I canna move.” He said in frustration and gestured to her his helplessness.

  She responded, looking at him, then to her own feet, and moved them experimentally. One foot forward, followed by the other.

  “That’s it, lass. Come to me,” Dallan breathed, his elation mounting, not able to believe that one of them was actually able to move now.

  She took a few more steps, and his whole body tensed with fear that the immobility would return, but at least she would be closer to him.

  For Dallan, it was agony. He strained against the longing, the emptiness, fulfillment just feet away, getting closer with each small step. Now she stood not five feet from him. Dallan frowned; why did she not come closer? He gave her a reassuring look, noticed the caution in her eyes, and frowned deeper.

  By the Saints, was she afraid of him?

  She swallowed hard, confirming his suspicions. He softened his look as much as he could. “Dinna be afraid,” he whispered, “I wilna hurt ye, M’eudain.” The Gaelic endearment ‘my little one’ came naturally to him, as if meant for her.

  She trembled in response, and took another step closer, never taking her eyes off him. She reached a hand cautiously forward as if to touch him, but quickly withdrew it, tucking it close to her chest, looking as though deciding whether or not to try again.

  Dallan motioned her to come forward with one hand. Just another step, perhaps two and he could take her and be gone from this horrible place. Just one more step…

  She took one… two?

  Dallan reached out… and… got her!

  She shuddered involuntarily as he pulled her close and clutched her to his chest as if she might disappear. He groaned as his body shook with relief, then suddenly wondered if he might be holding her too tightly and cautioned a look at her. She was frightened, but also thrilled, as if she’d just remembered who he was.

  This encouraged Dallan, and he swept her into his arms, hungry to have full possession of her. “Dinna be afraid, M’eudain. Yer safe now.” He felt her relax, whether from his words or his voice he had no idea. At the moment, he didn’t care. Holding her was all that mattered now, that and getting out of wherever they were. But all he could do for the moment was hold her, reveling in the wondrous feeling of being suddenly, finally, complete.

  By the Saints, he held one o’ the Faerie folk in his arms! He wondered briefly if she had used some sort of magic on him but suddenly didn't care. She could wrap him up in as many of her spells as she wanted. He would go willingly, now understanding the stories told to him of people having disappeared into enchanted woods, never to return. Nay, he didn’t care, not so long as the wholeness was there, the feeling of completion, the emptiness banished, hopefully forever.

  He held her as tightly to himself as he could and murmured to her softly in Gaelic. He scanned their ravaged surroundings, looking for a safe route to take her away from the horror they were in, but found none. Each street appeared as badly battle-worn as the next, many buildings looking like they could collapse at any time.

  Dallan decided it best to start moving, to do anything other than stand there, especially now that the lass in his arms showed signs of apprehension. “Let us leave this place, m’Flur.” His voice was gentle, calling her “my Flower,” ceasing the tremors running through her. She reminded him of a beautiful and rare flower he’d seen once in a garden in France.

  He held her tighter, made to move and discovered he was still immobile. He cursed to himself in Gaelic, allowing the lass to see his warrior’s side, scanning the area, forcing himself to ignore the need to comfort her. He needed all his senses alert for other things, most importantly to protect her.

  The hairs on the back of Dallan’s neck suddenly rose, a sure sign trouble approached. He knew something, someone was out there. Watching them.

  The lass heard it before he did, her body stiffening as she looked to the nearest street, eyes wide. He followed her gaze as she drew closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

  Dallan read her sudden change and began to speak soothingly in Gaelic again, never taking his eyes off the smoke hazed street in front of them.

  Waiting.

  Times I remember, images the same, I have been here before.

 
My heart yearns at the mention of your name,

  The faintest whisper of your voice.

  This smell is like the flesh of a rotting corpse

  Yet has an irresistible sweetness, one which cannot be ignored.

  Firm is my stance however my heart will flee,

  For I stand on the banks of fiery confusion

  Shadows of a great cataclysm…

  David Gingrich

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dallan heard the thing moments before it rounded the side of the building in front of them. The metal carriage stopped more than a hundred yards away and faced them. The strange noises it emitted echoed off the buildings that lined the wide street, sounding like a challenge. As if daring him to set the lass down.

  The Weapons Master swallowed hard, knowing he would have to let her go if he was to fight the thing, whatever it was.

  The carriage began to slowly move toward them. He quickly put the lass on her feet but did not relinquish his tight hold, his fear of losing her still at the forefront. The steel box-like carriage let go a loud roaring sound, and the lass jumped against him with a gasp of panic. He narrowed his eyes on the monster, offering his own challenge as he clutched her tighter and murmured in Gaelic to quiet her.

  The metal monster drew closer.

  Dallan tried to make his legs move, Nothing. “Ye may ha’ to run, lass,” he told her firmly as he looked into her frightened eyes. Fear had control of her now, making her grip his arms as if they were her only lifeline.

  The steel monster stopped now fifty yards from them and again offered up its vibrating roar of challenge.

  Dallan quickly pushed the lass, grabbing her wrists in one hand, still unwilling to let her go completely, but prepared to get her out of harm’s way. “Get ready to run, run as fast as ye can, M’eudain, to yon building there beside ye! ‘Tis not burning. Dinna stop no matter what happens. Just get yerself away from that… thing!”