Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (19 page)

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

Dallan’s nostrils fl
a
red as he sat straight and puff
ed out his chest before he suddenl
y
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 h
and toward the tablet on the fl
oor 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 t
he Scot, who now lay, eyes
closed, his breathing slow.

“Th
e fi
rst time I bested my uncle fencing with
a rapier.” Dallan smiled briefl
y, 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. Th
e 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 le
ave Dallan to his rest. Th
e
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?” Th
e 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 eac
h time he drew near
forming instead into a
place he had never seen before. 
A
frightening place.

L
arge piles of
the Saints-only-knew-what
were
on fi
re everywhere, the
air heavy with th
e smell of death. Dallan briefl
y 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 f
rom the top portions of the mon
strosities, 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 building
s which rose high into the sky, some
engulfed in fl
ame
s. Yet despite the amount of fi
re 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 cau
se such overwhelming damage?
Th
e birds of steel?
The huge metal b
oxes bellowing like cannons? Th
e green cylinders pointed
toward the heavens? He froze as an unfa
miliar fear wrapped its ugly fi
ngers around him, their grip tighteni
ng 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 sm
ooth streets turning in circles as he searched for any sign of life. 
A
nything 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 stoma
ch 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 str
eaming down her pretty face.
Th
e 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 f
i
ghters in Muirara.  M
any 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 competito
rs to fl
ee 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 stree
t and
tried to call out to him, yet nothing came from her open mouth, her lips trembling uncontrollably.

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

The lass suddenly smiled through th
e tears and lifted one hand, fi
nding 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 drif
ting over them from the many fi
res. “I canna get past it.”

The lass nodded in understanding.

Dallan’s eyes suddenly captured hers as long buried
emotions he thought never to fi
nd 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 la
ss who now stood before him. Th
e 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.

S
he threw her head back, hair fl
ying 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 fi
rst time.

He
smiled, realizing he stood prou
dly before her as a man now. Th
e
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.