Page 21 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“The past stirs. The wheel turns again. An immortal walks.”
He sat back, the music swelling, eyes glinting like obsidian in the flickering candlelight. A slow, knowing smile curled his lips.
“Let’s see which ghost decided to awaken,” he murmured, pushing the journal to the side and turning to the computer.
Five
Dalla’s fingers tightened around her bow. The smooth wood, worn from centuries of use but still pliable from her tender care, gave her a small measure of comfort. The speed of the vehicle turned her stomach. To keep from throwing up, she kept her gaze on the swiftly passing landscape.
She had seen a vehicle like this once before. Well, not just like this one. The vehicles then had been bigger… boxier… and often broke down. Thankfully, she’d never had to ride in one. Walking or horses had still been the norm.
She stretched her fingers as a stream of cold air swept over her. It confused her. How could cold air flow inside, making the interior feel like the night air of the desert?
The brief view of the buildings she had seen when she ‘woke’ had been oddly familiar. She had paid little attention to the changes in the vehicles. Between the men shooting at them, the people who needed her protection, and the explosion, she hadn’t had the time. It was only when a compatriot of the people she was guarding said her name that she felt a shaft of misgiving.
May Dalla protect you.
Why would he say such a strange thing? No one would say something like that… even if I had returned to the time I last lived.
The thought of returning to 1916 left her with a sickening sense of dread. She remembered how it had felt like the entire world was dying. Death and destruction had riddled every spot she had traveled through in Europe.
The battered bodies and sightless eyes had reminded her too much of her siblings and parents. She had turned her pain into rage and left a path of destruction through the advancing forces of the Central Empire that had stunned even the most hardened soldiers.
Of course, knowing death isn’t forever may have dulled my fear,she mused.
“What’s your name?” the man sitting behind her suddenly asked.
His question startled her, and she tensed as her mind flew through a series of plausible explanations. She’d been so lost in thought and the machine’s whirring that she had almost forgotten about the others.
Or hoped they forgot about me!
“Dalla. Dalla Bogadottir.” Her mumbled response was instinctive and made her want to groan. She hated this part of coming back. She had learned after her first return that lies didn’t work.
Whatever curse she was under required that she help someone before she was given a blissful period of nothing. She had hopedthat saving the man standing in front of the woman and child was all that would be required of her this time, but that hope quickly faded when every blasted bullet fired at her had missed. She had even made sure that she stood tall, proud, and wide open, but the bullets appeared to curve around her as if she were holding a shield.
“What did you say it was?” the man asked.
Amusement rose inside her despite her frustration and growing nausea at the motion of the vehicle bouncing on the pitted road. She had been in wagons that were less jarring. The only thing helping was the cold air coming out of the vent washing over her heated skin.
“I am Dalla Bogadottir. I wish for you to tell me what year this is,” she said, hoping to move this part along as she twisted in her seat and ripped the protective cover from her mouth.
Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest. This was her first time studying the man she had protected first among the others here. His light green eyes brought back memories—memories of a man who once held a special place in her heart.
“Gerold…”
The name slipped from her before she realized it. It seemed like only yesterday that Gerold’s brilliant green eyes held her captive. A deep ache of loneliness swept through her. The emotion was so sharp, so piercing, that she turned back in her seat and fumbled for a way to open the door.
“What are you doing?” the man driving the machine demanded.
“I must… I must… I feel sick,” she choked out.
The edge of desperation lacing her voice warned her companions that she was serious. The man next to her cursed, glanced in the mirrors, slowed the vehicle, and pulled over. Dalla shoved her bow out of the way and pushed on the door. A low, distressed mew slipped from her when it didn’t move. The man next to her leaned over and pulled on a latch.
She half-fell from the vehicle. She stumbled several feet away and sank to her knees. Her breath came in pants as she fought to control her rebellious stomach.
A shudder ran through her when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She drew in the hot, dry desert air.
Now that the vehicle had stopped moving, the world and her stomach were slowly calming. She lifted her head and stared out across the desert to the mountains north of here.
