Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (58 page)

“So you’ve learned to kill?” Winn answered.

“I’ve changed a bit,” Benjamin said. “As have ye, brother.”

They fell silent at the use of the title aloud. It hung there heavy in the air between them, waiting for acknowledgement, for either of them to broach the damage that had been done. Benjamin cleared his throat with a cough and took a swig of the rum.

“I’m not like ye, Winn. I thought ye were dead when I sent ye back on your horse that day. I knew not what else to do. As for her,” Benjamin said, his voice lowering an octave as he referred to Maggie. “I did the best I could. I had no people then, no man to stand by my side. I know I wronged ye, and I will pay for it all my days. There was no way for me to keep her safe unless we wed.”

“It meant more to you than that,” Winn answered. He felt the old anger rise, the sting of betrayal knowing his friend had stolen his wife. As Winn lay feverish and wounded near death, Benjamin had taken everything from him. Was his brother asking for forgiveness as he made his excuses?

“Aye. I wanted her. I willna deny it. But if I thought ye lived, I would have returned her to ye. Believe it, or not. I tell ye now as the truth of it.” Benjamin passed him the rum. “She suffered much with Martin. To make the marriage contract he asked for twice the bride price, and I gave him all I had. I couldna see her treated so poorly.”

Winn raised his head.

“How so?” Winn asked. Maggie had hated living with the English, but she had not spoken of any mistreatment.

Benjamin sat up as he squinted at Winn’s question.

“Martin saw her run to ye when ye were shot, and she tried to take the gun from him. He dinna care for the sting on his reputation, I suppose. The man hates the Indians. Maggie would not tell me what had been done to her, but I saw her wounds. I couldn’t leave her there.”

“What wounds?” Winn asked. His chest tightened as he realized what Benjamin spoke of, and his heart sank with the knowledge that Maggie had kept it from him.

“He beat her. I feared the babe would not survive. There was scarce an ounce of her skin without mark.”

Winn stood abruptly to his feet. He strode a few paces away, his hands tight at his sides as he let out a low groan.

Why would she hide such a thing from him?

He knew the answer immediately, of course. Maggie knew Winn would have killed Martin, and it was the fighting and death that his wife feared the most. His chest ached as he drew in his breath, and he did not know if it was due to the trauma to his ribs or the fist that clenched his heart. She was a stubborn one, he knew that well, but keeping such a thing from him? He could only imagine how she must have felt. Trapped alone in his time, carrying his child, with no way to care for herself. It was no wonder she fought so hard to stay with the Norse.  Perhaps it was the only way he could make her feel truly safe.

Benjamin stood.

“Winn-”

His words were cut off by the roar of a rifle.  As Winn turned, he saw Benjamin thrown to the ground with a wound to his shoulder. Winn’s eyes darted to the periphery of the clearing to find the source of the shot, but in the cover of darkness even his sharp eyes were of little use. He grabbed hold of Benjamin’s good arm and dragged his brother into the trees for cover.

“Quiet!” Winn hissed when Benjamin let out a groan.

“Help me to the horse, we need to leave!”

Winn shook his head at Benjamin’s plea.

“I don’t know where they are. Stay down.”

Winn took a few precious moments to tear apart Benjamin’s shirt and put pressure on the wound. Although it surged with blood, it was not deep, the flesh only torn by the graze of the shot. It would not kill him, but Winn was sure it was painful. Benjamin pushed Winn’s hand away and applied pressure to his own wound as he tried to sit up.

“Come out, Speaker! You’ll fare no better for hiding!” an Englishman called out from somewhere beyond the tree line. 

Winn looked down at Benjamin.  The wounded man might be able to make it to the horses, if the English had not scared them off. If Winn distracted their attention long enough, perhaps his brother would succeed in getting away. There was no time to think of a plan, nor regret that they had stopped for rest instead of continuing on. Although Winn did not yet know whether to trust Benjamin or not, the man had saved his life, and for that he could not let him be taken by the English.

The English came out of the trees, and Winn could see that they had gathered more men before they pursued the escaped prisoner. Winn crouched at the waist and shifted his stance so that he stood between Benjamin and the approaching English. He adjusted his grip on his knife as he eyed them. More than a dozen settlers all held muskets, a show of firepower against the single knife Winn held and the flintlock rifle tied to Benjamin’s horse. Winn weighed the probability of winning the fight.

No, he might not win it, but he would take many of them with him when he fell
.

Winn saw one man raise his musket, wavering as he pointed it into the trees near where Benjamin lay. Instead of waiting for the sound of the shot, he dug his heels into the soft earth and took off at a run toward the man.  As Winn uttered a guttural scream, the startled man fumbled the weapon and nearly dropped it, leaving Winn the opening to launch himself at the Englishman. Chaos exploded around them as he tackled the man to the ground, and he heard the scuffle of bodies and shouts behind him, yet all he could focus on was the one lowly man he held in his grasp at that moment. His gaze became a tunnel, seeing through his opponent, yet narrowed on the prize, and as Winn thrust his knife into the side of the man’s shuddering chest, he could see only blood cloud his vision.

Winn took the gun from the dead man and used it to smash into the head of the next Englishman who dared challenge him.  Winn dipped his shoulder and rammed it into another, slicing his knife upward across the next throat with a shrill scream. The remaining English seemed to recover from their panic at his distracting warrior bellow, and from the corner of his eye he saw Benjamin grappling with two men as Winn crouched to face yet another attacker.

Two attacked the wounded Benjamin. If he could kill three more that stood circling him, he might help his brother.

His fist slipped when he clutched his knife, holding it out in front of him, and he was perplexed to see a smear of blood trickling down his arm when he glanced at his palm.  He had not felt it when the Englishman sliced his skin, and he did not feel it now, it was only a semblance of distraction at losing his grip.  He tossed the knife to his dry hand and wiped the blood off on his bared chest. His blood or that of another, he would wear it until he ended them.

Thomas Martin lifted his flintlock musket, standing no more than a few paces away. Winn lurched for the man, grabbing the barrel of the weapon before the man fired it. The shot rang out close to his ear, but Winn found Martin’s neck with one hand and squeezed it as
he felt his strength begin to fade. His damaged ribs screamed with each breath as Winn thrust his knife up into the man’s chest.

Martin glared back at him, his black eyes forming a look of defiant surprise as Winn held him.

“I should have made sure ye were dead,” the man groaned.

“Yes,” Winn muttered. “You should have.”

Winn dropped him to the ground, and the remaining Englishmen closed in. He refused to retreat as he felt Benjamin scramble up behind him. 

“We should run,” Benjamin said.

“No,” Winn replied evenly, his eyes on the advancing men.

The decision was suddenly taken from them. He heard the bellows before they came into view, the sound of the pounding hooves and fierce war cries piercing the air and causing even the English to shudder. Norse and Indians rushed upon them amid a clash of metal and bodies, and suddenly the upper hand in the fight changed. Winn heard the shout of his father and the screams of his brothers as they ran into battle.

The English were outnumbered, and although most continued to fight after the initial burst of surprise, a few tried to run away and were quickly cut down. Makedewa and Chetan fought alongside each other, cutting through men who challenged them. Crouched down beside Benjamin, Winn watched as Marcus brought his
bryntroll
down with a sickening thud across the chest of a fleeing Englishman he knocked to the ground, and then calmly wrenched it from the fallen body as he surveyed the scene.

“Is that all of them?” Marcus called out. Cormaic approached, his face flushed like a ripe cherry and his reddish blond hair hanging streaked with blood. His breath came rapid, but Cormaic nodded, a smug grin on his face as he looked to his Chief.

“And that one?” Erich asked, nodding toward the man fallen next to Benjamin.  Benjamin tried to rise, but faltered with the use of only one arm.

“Aye, he’s dead,” Benjamin said.

Marcus gave a few curt orders, and the men scattered around the clearing gathering up weapons from the dead. Winn moved to join them, but Marcus put a hand on his arm.

“Are ye all right?” Marcus asked, the words coming out part choked, half-whispered. His father stood before him, his face creased, his blue eyes hooded with rancor.  Yet Winn could see the gleam of fear there as well, and as Marcus darted a glance at Benjamin, Winn knew what that fear felt like.

It was the fear Winn felt when smoke rose above the trees the day deserters attacked his family. It was the fear Winn felt when his scheming uncle stole his wife and child. It was the fear Winn knew every time he thought he alone might not be enough to keep his loved ones safe.

It was the fear of a man for the life of those he loved.

“Good timing, father,” Winn replied. Marcus stilled, his hand clenched on Winn’s arm, and his eyes widened before they softened. His mouth thinned into a grin, and he nodded.

“Aye. I’ll help Benjamin to the horses, you go help the men.”

“I will help my brother,” Winn replied. He turned back to Benjamin and extended his hand, helping him to his feet. Benjamin’s face was careful, his expression relieved yet sheltered. Things were not mended between them, but they had a start of it, at least.

Winn grimaced when Cormaic thumped him heavily on the back, and Erich made an offhand comment about the state of the Englishman’s ballocks. They all joined in the laughter, a welcome reprieve as they gathered in the clearing among the dead. Englishmen littered the ground in various states of demise. Their defeat was due to their own insatiable need of conquering the land, and Winn knew it would not be the last time they fought the settlers. Although Winn would kill any man that threatened him and he had taken the lives of many an Englishman, he did not view it in delight, rather as necessity. It was simply survival, and suddenly he was glad to have the men at his side that would ensure it.

He helped Benjamin mount, and suddenly a shot rang out through the laughter. The horse reared, but Benjamin held on, and Winn grabbed the reins to steady the animal as he turned to look toward the explosion.

The Englishman whom Benjamin had thought dead sat up, perched on one shaking elbow with a smoking musket jammed against his shoulder. Winn reacted with a swift motion, sending his knife through the air to land in the man’s chest, ending his life for sure with the blow. As Winn stalked back toward the body to retrieve his knife, the sight of a Norseman lying too still on the ground stopped him quick in his paces.

Blood pulsed from a spreading wound to his belly. Winn sank down to his knees beside his father in the dirt.

Maggie

Smoke filled the yard from the remnants of the storehouse fire, the breeze a hazy curtain as the men filtered into the yard. Old Ivar had set the storehouse aflame to distract everyone from his crime, and it still smoldered even though the fire had been doused hours before.

Winn stood apart from the others. Covered in grime, his face stained with the crimson mask of a dried handprint, Maggie trembled to see him meet her eyes across the courtyard. She had seen him in such a state only once before, and that had been when he painted his body in war grease and arrived to slaughter the English on the day of the massacre.

Winn walked toward their Long House, but when he saw her, he stopped. Although he had returned safely to her, she could see something was terribly wrong. His grey eyes seemed to stare through her as she approached him, and she saw his fists clenched at his sides in unspoken rage. The despair in his face should have made her afraid to approach him, but she had tamed her warrior husband before and would do it again if needed. If she had power over nothing else in their life together, she had that. She refused to fear the sight of his berserker eyes and rigid muscles.

“Winn,” she said softly as she joined him. As he stared down at her with haunted eyes, she could see the handprint on his face was blood, and if it belonged to him or another lost soul, she did not know. She braced her own trembling as she reached for him, running her palm over his chest, then up to his shoulder. He stood straight, unyielding, until finally he let loose and pulled her into his arms. She felt her breath leave her chest as he squeezed her, and she let out a little cry when she felt him shudder.

“
Ntehem
,” he said. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, then buried his lips in her hair as he clutched her to his chest. The torn skin on his neck bled as she felt the sticky blood of her husband on her hands, but it did not sway her as she cried and he whispered sweet words in her ear.  “I am so sorry,” he murmured.

“For what?” she asked. “Here, come inside, let me help you, you’re bleeding—”

“No, not now,” he said. She pulled back so that she might see his face, yet when she saw the echo of despair in his eyes she was not reassured.

“Come to the Northern Hall. The others are there,” he said.

It was then that she saw it. The litter was carried by four warriors, one at each corner. On it was the still body of Winn’s father.

Time halted to a blur as they followed the litter inside.  Among the sounds of weeping, Maggie and Winn kneeled down by his side. Marcus was not yet gone, but it would not be long. She watched as Gwen peeled back the torn tunic to reveal the injury. Across his navel was a deep, jagged wound, pulsing with each staggered breath he took despite the pressure one of the men held on it with a makeshift bandage. Maggie felt the hot tears on her cheek as Gwen pulled away with a grim shake of her head.

“I will bring him a drink to ease his journey,” Gwen said as she left and pushed through the gathered crowd. Maggie heard Gwen shout a barrage of orders, and soon the others moved away. Erich and Cormaic stood nearby.  Winn put his hands on her waist as she sunk to the ground beside Marcus, steadying her as if she would fall.

His skin had drained to a grey pallor, the hollows of his eyes standing out like shadows on his face. She could see he still breathed by the occasional rise and fall of his chest, but with each movement his face winced and he uttered a groan.  When Gwen returned with a
cupful of liquid, Winn helped him sit up to take a sip.  As Gwen pressed the cup to his lips, Marcus opened his eyes.

“Is this the drink of the Gods?” he asked. Gwen nodded, tears in her eyes.

“Yes, my lord,” she said.

“Good then. Help me rise, so I may take it.”

Gwen helped him drink, and then she placed a series of rune stones on his chest when she laid him back down. They were round and flat, lying stark against his pale skin as he struggled through each breath.

Maggie bit back a sob as she watched him drink the thick honeyed liquid. As her eyes darted to those watching, she realized with a sickness in her belly that they all knew what it was.

They were sending their Chief on his way. They eased his journey with a sweet nectar drink, a gift to lighten the load he must bear.

“No,” she whispered, starting to rise. Winn held her tight, refusing to let her move from his father’s side. Marcus finished the last swallow, some of it leaving his mouth in a drip to stain his cheek. Maggie reached for his face to wipe him with the edge of her
gunna apron and he smiled, closing his hand over hers. Her fingertips tingled where the nectar smeared her skin.

“No crying, lamb. Ye know I canna stand it, not from ye,” he said. “Here, lay yer head down. It’s been awhile since ye were a
bairn, but I see ye as that, always.”

She did as he requested, placing her head gently on his chest as he gripped her hand. The sound of his heart was far away, a slow thud that would not be chased, its message fading with each breath he took. She felt his hand on her hair, and the soft touch of his chin on her forehead. Whether it was the strength of the drink or the despair in her soul she did not know, but at his touch, numbness seared her skin.  She hoped that same numbness gave him comfort as the last of his lifeblood drained away.

“Yer grandda would be happy to see ye with yer kin again. It’s where ye belong, make no mistake,” Marcus murmured. He tried to push himself up again, but fell back down at the effort with a strained moan, his hand moving to his wound. His fingers were stained with blood. “Go now, Maggie. I must speak to my sons for a bit. I’ll see ye later.”

Her teeth closed tight over her lower lip at the attempted jest. They both knew quite well there would be no later, yet they were the parting words they had shared her entire life.

When she left for school each day. When she took her first drive in their farm truck as a reckless sixteen-year-old. When she left on her first date as a teenager in the car of a boy he did not like. It was a promise between them, one she always knew he would keep.

“I’ll see you later,” Marcus promised.

“All right, then,” she whispered. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and her lips immediately felt numb. “I’ll see you later.”

She left him there, tears hot on her cheeks, even as she did her best to hide them. Winn and Benjamin knelt down at his side, and as she walked away she could hear the murmur of his last words, fading like the whisper of sunshine on an autumn evening as he spoke softly to his sons.