Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (44 page)

Maggie

Traveling with their party was by no means speedy, as Winn had predicted.  After three longs days of being astride a horse she was ready to wash the sweat from her skin and catch a few hours of rest. When her feet finally hit the ground again her legs felt like jelly and she suspected she walked like an old cowboy, bowlegged and bedraggled to boot.

“The village is not far from here. We should reach it in the morning,” Winn assured her when they stopped. As she helped Teyas start a fire while the men tended the horses, she took a look around.  The forest was filled with dense growing cypress, the ancient trees more common the deeper they traveled inland.  She had never been so far away from the banks of the streams they typically lived near, so although she expected the different terrain it still made her uneasy. The soil was less sandy than the lowlands, and the men were pleased to find small game more plentiful for hunting.  Winn was right.  Their lives would be better the further they lived from the English towns.

Makedewa resumed teaching Rebecca how to shoot the bow, and Maggie settled down by the fire to watch them. Exhausted from the travel, Kwetii slept curled into a ball on the furs beside her, with her tiny thumb pressed up against the roof of her gaping mouth as she gently snored.  Maggie brushed the child’s dark hair off her heart-shaped face with a smile.

Winn sat down beside her while the other men stood watching the lesson. He offered her a sip from his flask that she gladly took. It was the last of the sack Makedewa had won playing dice and it left a pleasant burning warmth in her belly as it settled.

“Is Rebecca well?” he asked. He sat resting his arm on one bent knee, watching his brother.  Maggie raised an eyebrow.

“Why do you ask? She’s fine, as far as I know.” She noticed the subtle nuzzle Makedewa gave Rebecca when he leaned close in his instruction, and the way Rebecca leaned into him with a smile. Apparently, they were getting on quite fine.

“I thought she lost her sense.  I never thought to see her use a weapon.”

Maggie rolled her eyes.

“Oh, yeah, why not? She’s as capable as anyone else is. She just needs a little confidence,” Maggie replied. “Rebecca, strike quickly when you mean to kill a man! A warrior once told me that!” she called out. Winn chuckled.

“Leave them be, woman,” he grinned.

“Us girls need to stick together.”

“No doubt.”

She snuck a sly glance at his profile. Sculpted and strong, with bright blue eyes set against thick brows, he still made her breath hitch when he looked at her. The way he cocked an eyebrow at her, or twisted the corner of his lip in that secret boyish grin, it was enough to render her senseless, even after all they had been through.  Would it always be so between them?

She reached for his hand and he smiled, clasping it firmly in his own. He rubbed the base of her wrist with his thumb, a firm yet gentle pressure, sending a shock of goose bumps over her skin.  She felt the warmth spread at the contact, and a flush rose to her cheeks.

Yes. It would never change. He would always be a flame in her darkness, searing her with his heat. As if he sensed her thoughts, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the scar upon her palm.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“For what,
ntehem
?”

“For tending the fields that day. I didn’t think any harm of it.”

He squeezed her hand.

“You are no obedient wife. I know that well.” He ran his fingers up the length of her arm and pressed a gentle kiss to her bared shoulder, where he rested his lips for a moment. “There are things I fear losing in this life now. Before you, I feared nothing.”

His words were gentle, considering the circumstances. It was not the first time they had such conflict. Despite her desire to behave like a proper wife, it was an endless struggle to subdue what was left of the twenty-first century woman inside her. At times she feared the way their pasts pulled them apart, yet she knew it was their differences that also bound them together. 

She stiffened and sat up as he pulled abruptly away. She saw them at the same time as he did, the strangers standing at the edge of the clearing. Two men, both tall, both fair skinned, with full beards and long, unruly hair.

Rebecca dropped the bow when Makedewa pushed her behind him, and Teyas grabbed her hand.  Chetan crouched, hand on his knife, and Marcus unsheathed the axe on his back. The sound of metal sliding from the sheath screamed in the silence, followed by the clang of weapons revealed by the newcomers. Other than drawing weapons, the men remained still as they inspected each other.

Winn slowly stood, his eyes never wavering from them. Marcus stepped forward in front of the others, standing between all of them and the intruders. 

“
Hvata bak, ofugr
,” one said, taking a step toward them. He was taller than the first but younger, nearly as broad as Marcus was through the shoulders. His hair was a russet gold hue, hanging thick down his back with a series of tiny braids edging his scalp. Crisscrossed over his chest he wore flat leather straps, which secured several weapons including a knife. The handle of a sword protruded over his shoulder from where it was secured to his back. She did not recognize the language he spoke, yet she suspected Marcus did by the way his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

“Go back where you came from. You are not welcome here,” the stranger said in stilted English.

There was a rustle from the woods beyond the clearing and suddenly a half-dozen more men came forward. All attired in a similar manner, every man appeared ready to fight.

“
Sa er tala?
Show me who commands ye,” Marcus replied, his arms flexed with gripping the sword. Maggie gasped when Winn moved to stand beside Marcus. His knife was drawn, his muscles tensed, his body coiled like a spring as he shielded them from the intruders. Makedewa and Chetan flanked them.

An older man stepped forward. His russet hair was similar to the first, his beard longer and streaked with scattered grey. He put up his hand and motioned to the younger man, who immediately sheathed his weapon.

“
Dagr?”
the older man said. Marcus did not waver when he moved closer, his stark blue eyes widening. Marcus dropped his hand to his side.

“
Erich?” Marcus replied.

The man called Erich suddenly reached out and clasped both hands around the one arm Marcus extended. They stared into each other’s faces for a brief moment without words, and then the stranger dropped down on one knee before Marcus and Winn.

His deep voice was strangled yet loud when he spoke.

“Chief Dagr has finally returned to us! Thank Odin for his safe passage! Long life to Chief Dagr!”

Maggie let out the breath she held as the strangers fell to their knees, the sounds of their reverence a growing murmur which rolled through them as a gathering roar.

“Long life to Chief Dagr! Chief Dagr!” they shouted. She saw Winn take a step back and look to his brothers, who were staring at the kneeling men in wonder.

She had never seen Marcus so unsettled.  His back straightened and his eyes swept over the men before him. Biceps tensed, the veins standing out like a web over his skin, she watched him tremble as he spoke.

“Rise. Stand up, ye needn’t kneel to me,” Marcus said, his voice strained and low. The man called Erich stood with a grin spreading across his face. The others remained bent in deference.

“Ach, no, ye never did wish to be Chief. But Chief ye are, and thank Odin you’ve returned to us. You’ve come back from Valhalla, yet you’re no spirit.”

“Nay, no spirit. Just a man,” Marcus mumbled. “I thought you had taken the others and left for Vinland, Erich.”

“Then you are just in time. We near gave up on seeing you again.”

Maggie watched as the men clasped arms again.

“This is Winkeohkwet. My son,” Marcus said. Erich made a half bow, his head lowered in respect to Winn. “And his family. I—”

“By the Gods!
Esa?” Erich whispered. The color drained from his face as he looked to Maggie. She stayed kneeling on the ground next her sleeping daughter, unwilling to risk waking the child in the midst of such confusion. She had no idea who the men were or what was going on, and until her husband made indication it was safe she would not leave the child. Erich started to approach her, and Winn immediately stepped between them with his knife drawn. Makedewa gripped his knife and Chetan moved closer to Maggie at Winn’s motion.

“Please,” Erich said. “I mean no harm.” He slowly placed his sword on the ground and then held up both hands extended in a gesture of submission to Winn.  Marcus put a hand on Winn’s shoulder. After a terse exchange in Paspahegh between the brothers, they lowered their weapons.

“He willna harm them. He’s kin to her,” Marcus said. Maggie’s head snapped up. Kin to her? She had no family, other than the loved ones she shared with Winn.  The sting of realization of yet another betrayal by Marcus was only dampened by her curiosity.  Who was the massive beast of a man staring at her?

“What is
yer name,
astin min
?” he asked. He knelt beside her with his hand extended.  She did not flinch when he gently touched her cheek with his calloused fingertips, too entranced by his deep jade eyes to move. It had been a long time since she had seen her eyes in a mirror, yet she knew the ones staring at her mimicked her own.

“Maggie. Maggie McMillan,” she said softly. His eyes widened and his lips parted. 

“Maggie
MacMhaolian
. Aye, of course. And this wee miting by yer side, she be yer child?”

She nodded. “Winn’s daughter and mine. Who are you?”

“I am Erich MacMhaolian. Thank ye, my lord,” he said, bowing his head when Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “My greatest thanks for keeping her safe.”

“Ye would do no less, in my stead,” Marcus answered.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Yer uncle. Erich is brother to yer mother,” Marcus said.

It was fortunate she chose to remain seated, for if not, she was certain she would have fallen on the ground.

“I thought my family was gone,” she replied, glancing up at Marcus, who had the good sense to grimace at her accusation and bow his head.

“Aye, I was dead to ye, as far as a man in the past would be. We hoped to have ye returned to us one day, but it’s been so long…one never returns to a time once lived, even with the magic of the
Gothi.
I only thought to meet ye someday in Valhalla, with yer mother.”

“My mother?”

“And what of my sister, my lord?” Erich said to Marcus, although his eyes remained still fastened on her as if he feared she would disappear.

“I’m sorry. She’s gone, and Malcolm as well.”

Erich’s jaw tightened and he nodded his head. He slowly rose to his feet and extended a hand to Maggie.

“Come. We have much to celebrate.”

*****

At first glance, the Norse village could have been mistaken for Powhatan.  A straight central path divided two rows of long-house style dwellings, taller and larger than the
yehakins
the Indians used, but similar in structure with thatched roofs and bark slat shingles. As they rode the path through the village, the sounds of crushed stone beneath the horse’s hooves announced them.  Wide-eyed women and children peered out from doorways as they passed, clad in homespun tunics with cord-wrapped waists, with long locks braided amongst red and golden hair.  Maggie did not know if she felt sheltered or trapped as she rode surrounded by the Norse, her heart pounding against the toddler bound in her lap. As they came upon a massive Long House at the end of the path and dismounted, several young boys ran out to take the horses. She was stunned to see a copper-skinned youth among them, a boy with long black hair and eyes like coal pellets, dressed in breeches like the others. He was clearly part Indian, living among a colony of Norsemen.

The men walked clustered behind Marcus and Erich. They were an intimidating bunch, all brawn and steel weapons among bared chests and fur-covered shoulders. Most were brawny, like Marcus and Winn. Many were fair-haired like Erich, with reddish blond locks lying long down their backs. They carried decorated weapons, lavish appearing items that seemed out of place considering the simple way they lived.