Sean Dalton - Time trap

He did not know what she was talking about. He kept silent. After a moment his hand reached out to touch her cheek. “Pretty.”

Her face flamed with color, and she slapped his fingers away. “Try that again, and you’ll lose your hand,” she said.

He smiled at her and sank bonelessly back to the ground.

“Theodore,” she said, gripping his shoulder and leaning over him. Her face and voice were anxious. “I can find no broken bones, although you cried out when I felt your ribs. It is a miracle you are not dead after such a fall. Where are you hurt? Tell me. Theodore?”

“Not Theodore,” he said in irritation. “Where’s Trojan? Find him. Tell him something’s wrong.”

She bent even lower over him until her hair was a veil beside his face. It was tangled and snarled, but it smelled of the wind.

“You are Theodore,” she said in a low voice. “Remember that, even if your wits have been rattled. Sir Geoffrey is within hearing, so guard what you say.”

“I can’t get home,” said Noel worriedly. He wanted her to understand. “I need to get home. Call Trojan and tell him to help me.”

She frowned. “You make no sense. You babble as though you have fever, but your skin is cool.”

“Want home,” he said, and then even talking was too hard. He shut his eyes until the sound of someone else approaching roused him.

“How is he?” said Sir Geoffrey.

“Not good,” said Elena. “His wits are gone. He makes no sense when he talks.”

“Small wonder of that,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Your brother shouldn’t have used a slingshot on so valuable a head. He must have been addled to even try such an escape. How many bones broken?”

“None.”

“Impossible.”

Elena shrugged angrily and gestured. “Examine him for yourself.”

“I shall. Stand over there.”

“Why should I?”

He pointed angrily. “Just stand over there!”

She flounced away. Noel gazed up into Sir Geoffrey’s face. The knight’s dark eyes were troubled. He had lost his habitual mocking expression. His mouth set itself in a thin line.

As his hands moved with surprising gentleness along Noel’s limbs, he said, “Can you hear me, Lord Theodore?”

“I’m not-ow!”

“Sorry.” Sir Geoffrey’s hand came off his rib cage. “What were you saying?”

The pain of cracked ribs drove away the cloudy haze within Noel’s mind. Behind it came clarity and renewed caution.

When he could catch enough breath to speak, he said, “I’m not dead?”

“No. God spared you. I cannot say why. A haze of unreason must have asserted itself upon your brain. Do you not know there is only one path to Mistra from this accursed mountain?”

“Seem to have forgotten that.” Noel winced and reached his hand across his side, feeling gingerly. “Damn.”

“If a few ribs are all that ail you, you are blessed indeed.” Sir Geoffrey sat back on his spurred heels. “We are losing the day. It took the devil’s own time to get down into the ravine with the horse. You must give me your word and bond that you will try no such stunts again.”

“Why should I?”

Sir Geoffrey met his gaze with open exasperation. “Is dying a better alternative than being ransomed? Our terms will not bankrupt Byzantium. You had no cause to do such a foolhardy thing.”

“Perhaps not,” said Noel.

“Can you stand?”

Sir Geoffrey helped him sit up. Noel held his side and grimaced as he was pulled to his feet. The world spun around him. He nearly swayed over, but Sir Geoffrey steadied him.

“Let me go free,” said Noel in a whisper. “Say I broke my neck in the fall and leave me here.”

Sir Geoffrey met his pleading gaze for a long moment, then slowly he shook his head. “I must obey my orders,” he said. “Elena!” he called, “help me get him on the horse.”

There was something about the posture required to sit a horse that made Noel’s side ache constantly. His head still throbbed, but that pain was almost an old friend compared to the newer discomfort in his ribs. He realized now he had used his emergency medication too soon. Now it was spent, and he would just have to grit his teeth through the rest of this ordeal.

Elena and Sir Geoffrey walked at the horse’s head, leading it down into the bottom of the ravine. Gazing up at the vast mountain rising above him, Noel saw the buzzards still circling the sky. He shivered as though a hand had touched his soul.

Eventually, they emerged in the broad river valley where once, centuries ago, the proud, ancient city of Sparta had stood. Now there were only fertile fields and groves of orange and olive trees to mark the banks of the Eurotas River. Long rays of sun slanted shafts of gold and coral into the shimmering fields of tender barley. Twilight deepened within the folds at the base of the mountains. From the city of Mistra a church bell tolled.

As though summoned by the bells, peasants headed home from their fields. The men’s tunics were grimed with dirt and sweat. Beneath the red, brimless caps that most wore, their swarthy faces shot Noel impassive glances. They kept their distance from Sir Geoffrey, with the cautious air of men who have lost their security. They looked tired; scrawny donkeys trudged behind them with heads low from fatigue.

Children carrying long staves made from the stalks of century plants ran for home, herding small flocks of goats or sheep before them. Noel listened to the rhythm of their chatter. They squealed with laughter or scolded an errant animal for trying to break away from the flock. The worries of war and revolt had not touched them.

Or perhaps it had. They did not pause to stare at Noel, perched on the horse with his hands bound in front of him. They did not trail after Sir Geoffrey in his mail and spurs, pestering him with questions. They dodged the trio and went on their way quickly, as though their parents had given them explicit instructions to avoid all strangers.

From up on the mountain came the lone cry of a wolf. The eerie, primeval howl sent prickles up Noel’s spine. He could not help glancing over his shoulder. The mountain stood black in silhouette as the sun disappeared behind it; a corona of umber and crimson shone around its peak. Mt. Taygetus was where the Spartans had exposed children who were born with imperfections. Noel himself had arrived in the world with his left foot turned in. It had straightened itself out within a few months following birth, but the Spartans with their rigid codes of life would not have given him the chance to live. He heard the wolf howl again and shivered, imagining babies lying out there a thousand years ago, shaking in the cold, crying in fear and hunger, slowly being extinguished by the impartial elements.

Perhaps he should not have specialized in the ancient world. Right now he rode by the toppled drums of old temple columns. The horse’s hooves scraped across pavement that had once been dressed marble. Now it was weathered and pitted from the years. Weeds choked the faint outlines of the temple steps. Noel saw a crumbling chunk of iron lying on the ground. The Spartans had used iron bars for currency, fearing that gold would corrupt them.

Iron money… iron bodies… iron minds. Where were the Spartans now? Not even their city still stood. At least in this century, primitive as it was, people understood the quality of mercy.

If he did not return by the end of his time loop, he must accept the fact that he was stuck here forever. Until he accepted it, he could not cope with it. If he could not cope, he could not survive.

Church bells stopped ringing. The chant of a religious order, voices smooth and controlled, lifted like smoke to God in the following quiet.

A peaceful scene spread before Noel. Sir Geoffrey led the horse across a stone bridge spanning the river. The road wound up through the walled gates of the town. A sentry called out to Sir Geoffrey from the gate tower.