The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (2 page)

Gabriel hunched down a notch and took a defensive stance as Minh advanced with murder in his eye. He reached for the sword slung over his back. Although a spear was his weapon of choice, he did not have time to be choosy; there was an Asian assassin stalking him. “It felt like I was carrying more of the load, you bastard.”

“What a vile word.” The words that drifted up from their patient were weak, but deep and audible. The pure English dialect was refined and proud. Their heads jerked to the fallen man they had just dragged half a mile.

Gabriel’s mouth snapped closed on his war shout, while Minh slowed his brisk wiping of guts from the arrow against his pant leg, as well as his pace. The blood and matter would undoubtedly ruin the leather of his favorite pair of pants. It took a fraction of time to absorb that Jareth was actually speaking—to them. Calling them out for uttering a word he despised.

“I am quite sure that I am the only bastard present,” Jareth said as he attempted a seated position and failed. He cradled his abdomen and grimaced. “And either I am dying or covered in ketchup.” His lips twisted wryly as he got a good look at what was exposed of his abdomen. “Dying. Let us not overlook that I am dying for the sake of your arguing.”

“Your Excellence,” Gabriel’s lips lifted in a wry smile. He sheathed his sword as if a dead man was not speaking and he wasn’t a moment away from gutting his friend. That Jareth mentioned ketchup would be comical if not for the circumstances—the duke refused any food that so much as touched the stuff. He narrowed his eyes on Minh. “We were just discussing your shrewdness.”

Minh was already rushing to the duke’s side. He uncapped a flask of water. “Try not to speak, your grace. You need strength. We have far yet to carry you.”

The water gushed the same way Minh’s words did—fast and unbridled, and sloshed over Jareth’s parched lips.

“Maybe he can walk,” Gabriel said.

Minh looked horrified.

Jareth turned his head from the flowing water as he brought his hand before his eyes. Blood trailed down his fingertips and onto his palm like a scarlet glove. He winced as he looked between Gabriel and Minh. “You request that I walk, Spartan?
You were trained to be heartless in battle, but are you daft as well?”

“I vote daft,” a female voice offered from the copse they had just departed.

Gabriel grabbed his sword and pivoted for attack. Again, Minh had failed to keep them safe. A growl rose in his throat. “Where is that razor sharp hearing, Mr. Minister of War?” he asked Minh, who was already beside him with a bow drawn and aimed at the two cloaked figures emerging from the dense area of trees.

“I was busy,” Minh hissed.

The warriors stood side by side, ready as the two approached. One of the strangers was short, and wore a red cloak of no marking. The other was stout and medium height, dressed in a traditional black cloak worn by the royal archers. Both of their faces were hidden by the darkness of their hoods. The only thing for certain was one was female.

“Let them pass,” Jareth said, his voice low. Gabriel used his body as a protective barricade while Jareth struggled to keep his head elevated and eyed those who approached.

“You’re wounded, your grace,” Minh said over his shoulder. His eyes never left the cloaked duo. “And delusional,” he added under his breath. He tightened his grip on the bow as he aimed at the shorter, leaner prospect that was quickly approaching. “You don’t know what you’re saying. They could be assassins.”

The short one uncovered her head to reveal pale, multi-colored hair, and narrowed her eyes on Minh as if daring him to fire the arrow he pointed at her breast.

“At least one of you is sensible,” she said. Her jaw was set in stone so it was a miracle her words were audible. “Funny, it’s the one dying.” She waved a hand toward the duke. Her dialect was familiar to them. The way her tongue dragged her words lazily in a distinct southern drawl was singular. And that hair. They would recognize it anywhere.

“Your grace?” Minh’s face went from fierce to undefined confusion in a second flat. His hooded eyes tapered further as he looked from the girl to Gabriel.

Gabriel lowered his sword. “You were supposed to meet us at the castle.”

Minh cleared his throat as he bowed to the small lady who shoved between them, shouldering her way to the one they were protecting. The duke was supposed to be dying, but instead he spoke quickly, explaining his injuries in broken Norman French and Modern English as the girl approached. Her face was a mask of concern as she crouched down and raked her gaze over his bloodied torso.

“My name is Elizabet,” she said as she untied her cloak and let it fall. She placed her fingers over his lips; her eyes paused on the stained and ripped gambeson. “You’ve got to speak slower. I don’t understand French. Slow down. English—please.”

Jareth shook his head to rid her fingers from his mouth. “The wound is deep.” He articulated each syllable, and spoke slowly by her command. “I can tell you how to treat it if you can tell me what is severed. What do you know of anatomy? Are you a physician?”

She worked quickly over him; assessed the wound and removed the mail that was heavy over his ripped clothing. Jareth’s face went from wonderment and confusion to a mask of pain as she seemingly ignored his words to probe the wound. Finally, his head fell back onto the soft ground with a dull thud and his eyes squeezed shut.

Gabriel caught Minh’s gaze in the moonlight. “Elizabet,” he said. “Her name is Elizabet. And he’s going to tell her what to do.” He rolled his shoulders. “Looks like it’s going to happen here. On the battlefield. Here’s the fate you were begging for. Just a change in scenery.”

“I heard her,” Minh said, and his brow wrinkled. He lowered the bow that was still raised, and pointed it nowhere in particular. “Them.” He waved the arm holding the bow toward the duo he spoke of. “And yet, my eyes do not believe my ears. Why do things like this still take me by surprise? Who would bring her to a battlefield? It isn’t safe. Now we have another person to drag to safety.” He jerked his head toward the yet unidentified cloaked person. “What the hell?”

“Shut thy mouths,” the stout, forgotten one said as she barreled between them on the same path Elizabet had taken. The fat one spoke in French—the king’s language. “Make that three. You have to get us all from here safely.” Her hands clenched as she shook her head. “What are you waiting for? His grace will bleed to death while you stand about all agog. We should move him to the castle. Now.”

“All agog?” Gabriel asked, using his fingers as quote signs. One eyebrow arched as he gazed at Minh. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, turned to watch the ladies worry over Jareth, and with the other hand, waved toward them. “Here’s your answer to what the hell. Bloody Mrs. Wheatley comes to save the day and as always, she hasn’t thought anything through. Of course it would be Jareth’s
baby
sitter who thwarts the plan of the Amalgam. . Do you ever do as you’re told?”

Mrs. Wheatley bristled and her large backside swayed as she aided the girl, going to her knees beside the wounded duke. She ignored Gabriel. Obviously, some things stayed the same no matter what year it was.

“I dare say this is a breach of trust.” Minh came out of the fog of confusion he had managed to create for himself. Quickly, he clothed himself with the same righteous indignation Gabriel wore. “And of safety. Of confidentiality.” He stood a bit straighter. “It’s a battlefield, woman. What were you thinking?”

The hood on the elderly lady’s cloak trembled as she shook her head and worked to rid the duke of his chain mail. The vigorous efforts had the cloak spill off and reveal the white hair beneath. “I did what I had to do. And I’m not his babysitter.” The words hissed from her mouth in distaste. “I’m the closest thing to a mother he’s got.”

“And doing what goes against code is in whose best interest?” Gabriel asked in smooth Norman French. “You’ve risked the life of the duchess by bringing her here.” He felt a twinge of guilt for badgering the woman. She was more than a nursemaid to Jareth, but she had no right to play guardian in this arena. “As Leader of the Amalgam, I have to ask what you were thinking.”

“I was thinking he would die unless I fetched her,” Mrs. Wheatley said. She used the hem of her cloak to press the wound. “We all know this is how they meet. I had to get her. It’s the way of things.”

“There’s the crux of the problem.” Minh switched languages, which was more discreet. “We know how this ends. Why not bring her to the castle and wait for us?”

“It’s obviously the best choice—isn’t it? Considering
how
it may end.” Mrs. Wheatley gave them both a view of her aged face as she defied ideations. “Do I need to remind the two of you imbeciles that he
is
the Amalgam? Did you stop to consider that this is how it’s supposed to happen? That it was I all along who brought her here?” Her face became sheepish suddenly; her movements slowed. “Besides,” she said as she motioned to where they had come from, “I brought a portable gurney so we could carry him.”

Minh smiled a true, full on grin. “Bless you. I shall never doubt you again. My back thanks you.”

Gabriel frowned. Minh was so easy. “This does not excuse the danger you have brought upon the Tremaine household. If anything happens to the—”

“His wound is fatal,” Elizabet cut in. Everyone had disconnected her from the picture until she spoke. Never mind that her presence was like ice water poured down a shirt on a winter morning. Elizabet was the future, not the past. Her blunt accent and loud volume brought her to the now with them. But his wound was not fatal. Gabriel had eaten breakfast with a twenty-eight-year-old Jareth that morning. “I can’t help him,” she said, and closed the exposed wound with quivering, bloodied fingers. She worked quickly, as if she wanted to flee.

Gabriel and Minh blinked in disbelief, tried to translate and process what she had just proclaimed. They stared at one another blindly. A lone holler of agony drifted from the battlefield and jarred Gabriel back to the present. He looked down on the man whom he called his best friend.

There was not an ounce of disbelief that this was Jareth’s finest hour—not his death hour. Mrs. Wheatley was not misled when she said the girl was his only hope. What was done was done. Gabriel would make her the future and the past. This was the way it was written to be.

“You’re mistaken,” Gabriel said gently. He placed his hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

The girl’s body trembled as she fumbled to reclothe the bloody man before her. She yanked at the chain mail while she attempted to disengage Gabriel’s hand from her shoulder. Her smallest finger snagged on a broken link of metal and it sliced a neat, deep gash along the side of her digit. It bled onto the duke’s torso, adding her blood to mingle with his.

“I understand you are distraught . . .” Gabriel went on.

“My daddy takes care of animals,” Elizabet stated baldly. She flexed her shoulder until his hand fell away, and she pulled the chain mail closed as best as she was able. She then went to work on what was left of Jareth’s tunic, as if hiding the wound would make it go away. “He’s a vet. As in veterinarian. I thought that I could do this, but I just can’t.” She shook her head and her hands stilled. Everyone heard the audible swallow of bile as her body shuddered once. “I can’t.”

“Please,” Jareth said, his eyelids fluttering. His hands trembled as he reached out to her. “I can teach you . . .” The blue of his eyes were hidden behind closed eyelids as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Elizabet brought her bloodied hand to cover her mouth as if she wanted to scream. Her gaze traveled over the young duke. His black hair was matted with sweat and blood, squashed from his previously discarded helmet. The face that was hailed as handsome was dirty and caked with dried blood. Unrecognizable. There was a gash under his left eye. His dark, bushy eyebrows were in a relaxed pose as his body shut down from pain.

She turned her head and vomited all over Jareth’s fallen sword and shield.

Gabriel shared his shocked reaction with Minh. Minh rolled his shoulders after a split second, gave him the impression he was done trying to sort this mess out.

The gravity of the situation hit Gabriel. Elizabet had no idea who Jareth was. This Elizabet was a younger version who had been dragged here by a bossy servant. It would take time for her to thaw to the situation at hand. They would have to be careful how much they revealed and when. She would flip out if they told her she was looking at the father of her children, the love of her life. He guessed she was around seventeen given the youthful plumpness of her face.

“Fetch the gurney, Minh,” Gabriel directed. He couldn’t allow any more time to slip away. He reached down and squeezed Elizabet’s shoulder as she wiped her mouth. Tears dripped from her eyes. “Let’s get him to the castle posthaste. We’ve no more time to lose.”

Chapter 2

JARETH THOUGHT THEY
were ghosts when they first appeared years ago. He had been seven years old and a new resident of Dover Castle. He had also been young and foolish. That was how he categorized his life: the time before and after he was enlightened. Wisdom and foolishness.

Gabriel and Minh came to him in the east tower where he was locked away, translating documents for the king. It was unnatural how they appeared from behind the locked door and spoke of future things he had difficulty understanding—thus the conclusion of thinking them lost souls or ghouls. But they wore his color blue and each had his coat of arms tattooed on their right arm—a Catherine Wheel with a white Talbot dog in the center. They revealed them to him to garner his trust and prove they were allies.

Jareth was responsible for their lives. He had traveled through time, saved them from certain death, and gave them new lives. He taught them to fight for justice and mankind. To save the future from turning on itself and destroying life by way of fear and lack of knowledge. In turn, they came to him when he was young, before he was a time traveler, and taught him the way of the future so he would be prepared for what was to come.