Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (57 page)

Ivar fell to his knees with a muffled groan. A single arrow protruded from his chest, and Kwetii rolled to the ground beside him.

“A warrior woman once told me to strike swiftly, when I meant to kill a man,” Rebecca said. Her chest heaved against her snug shift, her bow poised in readiness for another shot as she glared at the fallen man.  “I meant to kill that one.”

Kwetii burst into a panicked howl, and Maggie gathered her into her arms. 

Winn

Joseph Benning seemed like a competent man, and Winn thought he would serve Opechancanough well. Born to the Powhatans, Joseph had been sent to live with the English as a boy, and had even traveled across the ocean to England with the
Tassantassas
on several occasions.  He was a slight fellow, slim in build with his Indian coloring typical, but his manner and dress was purely English. Winn suspected they were of similar age, yet Joseph had a solemn disposition that made him seem much older when he spoke.  Like Winn, he was versed in several languages, trained from boyhood to be useful to his Weroance.  Winn felt little regret at turning over his duties to Joseph. In fact, he could hardly finish the journey fast enough.

Although leaving Teyas had been difficult, he knew she was in good hands with Makedewa and Chetan at her side.  They would see her settled with her new husband and escort her traveling party to her new home.  He was not certain yet what village that would be, but his brothers would bring word of it when they met again at the Norse settlement. Finally, he felt their struggles were nearing end; perhaps they could settle in peace, as Maggie wished among the Norse.  Knowing now what Marcus predicted of the future, Winn knew he could not settle with his family among the Powhatans. He would make his wife happy and keep her safe. Although it was in a different way than he envisioned for his family, it was the path they must take. It was all he could ask for.

Winn waited for Joseph outside the apothecary shop, where the other man had stopped for supplies. The sky overhead darkened with dense clouds, the signs of a storm moving in from the bay. He could see the pale underside of leaves as the wind whipped up the trees, and could smell the scent of salt in the air.  Yes, a storm was brewing from the water, and it would likely be a harsh one, all the more reason to complete his task without haste.

Winn checked the strap on his horse and patted the animal’s neck as he looked across the wide thruway. It was a quiet evening in town. John Jackson stood outside the smith’s shop, absently rubbing down the barrel of a gun with a rag. Winn met his gaze and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. He had not spoken to John during his visit, and it was likely the last he would see the man for some time. Instead of a wave or nod, John looked away, beyond Winn’s shoulder, and Winn suddenly felt the presence of others walking up behind him.

“The Governor will see ye before ye leave, Speaker.”

When he served negotiation to the townsfolk, they called him Speaker, but Winn did not miss the inflection in the Englishman’s tone. He did not recognize the man who spoke, but when he turned his head slightly to the side he spotted Thomas Martin among the group. He counted six men total.  With a quick glance at the shop for his companion, he determined two additional Englishmen detained Joseph inside as well, and he stiffened his shoulders as he realized he could not fight six men alone.

“I finished my business with the Governor.  Tell him I will call on him another day. It grows late, and I am weary of talking.” Winn spoke his words, slow and even, as he turned back to his horse.

One of the men raised a musket level with Winn’s chest.

“Ye’ll come now, or have a hole in yer hide,” the one with the musket said.

He heard Thomas Martin make a wheezing nasal laugh. Winn turned to the men, making a purposeful effort to relax his tense back as he surveyed them. The street was eerily empty except for the group surrounding him, with not even an English soldier in sight. It seemed the Englishmen had planned well.

That one
, he thought, glancing at Thomas Martin,
that one he would kill last
.

He saw John Jackson watching, unmoving as he stood by his shop. Winn squinted up at the sky and considered mounting up. He could get away, but he would not make it out of the palisades, which remained closed and guarded.

“Go then. Take me to the governor,” Winn said. He knew he was not being returned to the fanciful dwelling the Governor enjoyed within the settlement, but he complied nonetheless.

He left his horse tied to a post and followed the men.

*****

Winn twisted his wrists against the rope binding, but the jailer had done his job well and they would not loosen.  He sat upright with his arms bound behind him, and his ankles tied to the wooden legs of a chair.  The English did not have a large space for detaining men, so they used a storehouse adjacent to the Governor’s dwelling. It was a simple one-room structure fit for no more than housing vermin. His shoulders ached from the strained position, and his head throbbed from where he had been struck with the butt of a rifle near his temple.  Apparently, the English had more in mind for him than simply speaking with the Governor. He suspected Thomas Martin had much to do with his detainment. 

“If ye tell us where the village lies, perhaps we will kill ye quickly,” Martin said. Somehow, the English had knowledge of the Norse colony up in the hills, and they wanted it taken for their King. 

When Winn did not acknowledge the taunt, Thomas grabbed Winn’s hair and yanked his head up. The man’s squat, flushed face looked about to burst as he shoved it close to Winn, his breath nearly as rancid as the stench littering the storehouse.

“Nothing to say? Yer not so hard to kill now, are ye? Why, if a musket dinna finish ye, maybe this will,” Thomas said, letting Winn’s head drop. As his chin hit his chest and his gaze clouded over, he felt the burn of a rope twisting around his neck.  He summoned all the strength he could muster to fight then, wrenching his body away from the men as they cut his ankle ties and pulled him to his feet. His muscles failed him as they looped the end of the rope over a low-hanging rafter and stretched his body upward until only the tips of his toes touched the ground.

Tighter it pulled, the pain of the rope burning like fire as he gasped for air, straining with all his might to keep his neck stiff against the hanging. His hands and legs fell numb and useless, like pins sticking him over every ounce of his skin, and when he thought he would take his last breath, they dropped him to the floor.

“We know they live near the Nansemond! Tell us where, save yer own life, ye filthy fool! We know it’s a bunch of Spaniards or worse up there, hiding in the hills! Why do ye protect them?” Thomas shouted as he kicked Winn in the ribs. The impact of the boot was a dull strike, yet an effective one, knocking the breath from Winn’s lungs. He knelt over on both hands, gasping shallow breaths against his screaming chest as he struggled for air.

He would not tell them. Let them hang him, let them take his life. He would not give up the last place his family could be safe.

“There is no village in the hills,” Winn said, spitting the blood from his mouth onto the dirt floor.

The Englishmen strung him up once more.

*****

It was well into the night before Winn’s captors tired of the game. Finally they closed the door to the storehouse and left him in the shadows, the only light a glimpse of the moon from between the slats of the window shutters. He pressed his face to the earth as he lay on his belly, his arms still bound behind his back. The packed clay felt cool upon his skin, numbing the swelling of his jaw as he closed his eyes to the sensation. He considered the Bloodstone pendant still hanging from him neck, crusted into the wounds on his raw throat. If his hands were free, might he have used the magic to escape? It was better to have no choice, he imagined, rather than risk leaving his
family.  As he felt the wings of sleep take him into the darkness, the door burst open.

“Wake up!” A voice whispered. He felt hands on his wrists, and the smooth metal of a blade as it sliced through the rope. Unbound after hours of torture, his arms fell to his sides, limp and tingling. Winn kept his face flat to the floor, wondering what further punishment they sought to inflict at such a late hour.

“Can ye stand? Hurry, before they find us both!”

Winn opened one swollen eye, the one that was not plastered to the floor. He knew that voice, and he knew that face. It was Benjamin who kneeled over him, shaking Winn by one sore shoulder.

He had little enough strength to protest as Benjamin hauled him to his feet and looped Winn’s arm over his shoulders. His legs failed him at first but he gained his stance quickly. They had no time to lose, and for whatever reason his brother was there, it would likely be his only chance at survival. As Winn stumbled beside Benjamin through the door, his foot hit something soft and large lying on the ground.

“Lucky they left only one man to guard ye. It seems they
dinna expect a rescue tonight,” Benjamin muttered. “That one was full in his cups when I came upon him.”

Winn was shocked that Benjamin had killed the Englishman, but would not dwell on it further. They had more pressing matters to deal with at that moment.

“The gates are guarded,” Winn said, his voice strained through his dry throat and cracked lips. He took in a breath and then bent abruptly over at the sharp pain in his side, coughing up a froth of bloody mucus. Benjamin held him by the shoulders to keep him upright as Winn heaved, and then pressed a flask to his lips. Winn took a gulp of the rum, spit it out, then took another.

“Ye ready?” Benjamin asked.  Winn nodded as Benjamin pressed a knife into his hand. He rose up on shaking legs and followed of his own accord as they left the building.

The streets were dark and quiet. A sliver of a crescent moon still graced the purple sky, assisting their escape, but daylight would be upon them soon. Instead of making toward the gates as Winn expected, Benjamin led him behind the storehouse where there was a rope coiled in a heap on the ground.

“Can ye climb? The only way is to go over.”

Benjamin threw the looped end of the rope over the pointed tip of the palisade fence and gave it a yank.  It held. Facing Winn, Benjamin could not see the Englishman sneak up behind him, but Winn did. Winn snatched the knife from his belt and threw it at the intruder, narrowly missing Benjamin’s head, but hitting the man squarely in the throat.

His brother slumped back against the fence, holding the side of his face where the knife had sailed past him.

“Could ye warn me, next time, ye think?” Benjamin snapped. Winn made a harsh snorting noise as he nodded.

“Yes. Next time,” he agreed. He bent to the fallen man and pulled the knife from his throat. Winn wiped the blade with his fingers. As Benjamin watched with his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tightly closed, Winn placed the palm of his bloodied hand flat against his face. There the sticky, hot blood left a mark, one he would wear until he repaid the English in kind.

“Good Christ, man,” Benjamin muttered, shaking his head. They scaled the fence and made off into the woods behind Jamestown.

*****

There was only one way out of town. Since Jamestown was almost completely surrounded by water, travelers to and from the town always took the same path. Benjamin, however, knew the area well, and he had used an unchartered trail through the dense forest that would be less likely to draw attention. It might delay an English search party, but Winn knew it would not deter them for long.

They walked for more than an hour before they found the place Benjamin tied the horses. The two men spoke little.  He was not so dense as to be ungrateful for the help, yet Winn wondered why
Benjamin had taken the risk of freeing him.  Even more so, how did his brother know Winn had been detained?

Benjamin tossed him the flask as they sat down by the horses.

“How did you know?” Winn asked quietly. He took a sip, and passed it to his brother.

“Old Morgan’s son rode to the village for help. Sent by John Jackson.”

Winn considered the response, and it made sense. He recalled John Jackson watching from the gunsmith’s shop, and the lack of surprise the man showed when the English surrounded him. It seemed John had helped Winn in his own way, without the risk of showing involvement to the other Englishmen.

“We will be followed. Are you ready to fight?” Winn asked, tilting his head as he looked at the man who was his brother. Benjamin let out an insulted sigh.

“Ask yourself such. I’m the one that saved yer bloody arse, didn’t I? I can kill a man, the same as ye.”