Time Masters Book 1, The Call

The Call Part 3

TWO 

Dallan groaned, not with pain as one might expect, considering the state of his right shoulder, but with aggravation. His bloodlust for Kwaku had finally reached the boiling point. He wanted nothing more than to lay the bloody heathen out.

The problem was, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite make it a reality. And by all the saints, he could not figure out how the blasted, good-for-nothing heathen beat him so repeatedly and consistently. After ten years of training and fighting with the Azurti warrior, one would think him able to best Kwaku a few times a week, or even occasionally. How could that man fight and never seem to tire, while driving Dallan to the point of exhaustion and beyond?

Yet there was still hope. Today, with Padric's help, he had come close. And the taste, no matter how slight, had been excruciatingly sweet. He smiled as he replayed the entire scene in his head. The look of pain on the heathen's face was worth every bruise endured that morning, and countless other mornings as well.

Dallan's mouth twisted out of his earlier smile into a grimace as he removed his sweat-drenched clothing. Again he groaned, but now with hurt. He cursed as he tossed his sark across a chair and wearily sat upon the bed, his weight making it creak and groan in protest. He glanced out the window. Judging from the sun's position it was nearly noon. "Best get on with it, then," he sighed painfully, his eyes now focused on a washbowl and pitcher.

"On with what?"

Dallan looked up to find Padric peeking around the half-open door of his one-room cottage. The boy gave him a timid look and waited for permission to enter. Dallan motioned him inside and watched as Padric took the soiled sark from the chair and sat.

"Yer mother sent ye after my clothes, then?" Dallan asked and slowly stood.

Padric began to fidget in the chair. "Yes, Weapons Master. She wants your plaid, too. She'll have them ready for you tomorrow."

Dallan held back a smile. Padric's voice was back to its normal high pitch, his English accent smooth and almost musical, not clipped like the English of ...

Not a good subject to get started on. Best get off it while ye can, lad, Dallan thought.

He forced the unwanted emotions back and watched Padric continue to fidget. The boy was nervous around him, but that was Dallan's own fault. He was the one not letting the boy get too close. It wasn't as if Padric even reminded him of Alasdair. It was the fact that Dallan couldn't bear the thought of losing someone again.

"Ye did good today, lad. I'm proud of ye," he said as he pulled on a fresh sark.

Padric stopped fidgeting and grinned. "I wish the Councilor's son could have seen it. But he was in the cookhouse."

"Councilor's son?"

"Yes, Weapons Master. The Lord Councilor's Assistant brought his son with him. All the boys are talking about him. We've never met anyone from Sutter's Province before."

"Ye mean ye've never met anyone yer own age from there?"

"Yes."

Dallan thought a moment, his head cocked to one side. "Tell me, laddie, just where is this Sutter's Province?"

Padric's eyes widened as he swallowed hard. He looked ready to bolt for the door.

Dallan sighed and handed the boy his dust-covered plaid. "Forget I asked."