"Have you no fear of dreams?"
The voice arose from the eddying tidepools of red and silver light, piercing the stillness with its harsh, rasping tone.
"Know you not that dreams have the powers to crush and to rend and to shred?"
Matthew Logan blinked his eyes repeatedly, staring at the spiraling vortex of blood and metal that encircled him. A disorienting sensation of wrongness swelled up around the young man, and, frantically, he wondered where he was.
"Most vivid during the REM stage of sleep, during what doctors call the paradoxical stage of sleep, do dreams descend upon the sleeper like lions upon their prey. There they lay bare your deepest fears, claw open your best-kept secrets, and feast upon your anguish with ghoulish delight. Can you not hear their laughter?"
The wheezing, disembodied voice slowly sank into the vacuum of lights and colors, and Logan knew it would not be back in that form. Instead, another rattle began to reverberate through Logan's ears, and a faint, shuddering chuckle rose up out of the red and silver glare around him. Again the overpowering sense of mismatchment fluttered about Logan, causing a small voice in the back of his mind to tell him he did not belong.
A hazy figure took form within the blaze of red and silver; quick, brisk strides bringing it closer to where Logan stood.
The laughter began to recede, but the oddness of the area about him refused to depart.
The whirling gyration of the fluid colors quickened as the lean form stepped up to face Logan. Reflecting the red and silver illumination of the whirlpool, the gaunt figure peered down at the young man, and its frown was highlighted by the glare.
Trying to slough off the feeling of disharmony, Logan stared up at the form. Yellow-white hair, tinted with reds and silvers, dangled from the sides of the domed head, descending to the shoulder and beyond. The top of the stranger's head was bald, glistening as the spiraling colors danced upon its naked surface. Throughout the insistent gleam, Logan could make out the neat three-piece suit which garbed the newcomer.
The stranger's eyes reflected his frown.
"Traverse not into folly," he told Logan in the same rasping wheeze as before. "I am sorry."
The red and silver glow brightened as the long-haired businessman lowered his head solemnly. Unexpectedly, he jerked back up and his eyes were ablaze with fire.
"Take heed," he snarled, eyes flickering, "you who fears not dreams. Learn to decipher dreams from reality, unreality from falsehood, falsehood from truth, or doom shall fall upon your worlds!"
Logan cringed as the wrongness that surrounded him seeped into his flesh and made him helpless.
The frown on the businessman's face had been replaced by a murderous smirk. "Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?"
Matthew Logan woke up. With a murmured curse, he looked about his cluttered bedroom as his eyes adjusted to the dim rays of early morning light that seeped between the shutters. His black hair was slick with sweat, and the covers of his bed lay twisted and coiled like serpents of fabric. Inhaling deeply, he gently settled back down, staring up at the dark ceiling. He feared if he closed his eyes the dream would return with all its vivid colors and sounds.
That was a damn interesting one, he told himself, wiping perspiration from his brow. A long-haired businessman? And what the hell was all that about dreams?
Muttering at the loss of sleep the nightmare cost him, Logan continued to stare at the ceiling until the sun crested the eastern mountains and sent brighter slivers of daylight into his apartment. Gradually he dressed, put in his contacts, shaved, ate something for breakfast, and started for the door. As he slipped into his dark blue sweat jacket and sweat pants and headed out of his apartment for his early morning jog, the scratchy, asthmatic voice went on taunting him: "Have you no fear of dreams?"
Something filled with color darted past upon the wings of the wind. A cool breeze filled the morning sky, swirling into the fine, thin mist that hung above the street. The snowy haze drifted lazily along with the wind, hovering over the sidewalk. Again a shred of brilliance danced upon the breeze, sparkling like a misplaced moonstone.
Matthew Logan briskly jogged into view, his sight half-obscured by the curtain of fog dangling above his head. The morning breeze strengthened once more, ruffling Logan's black hair as it whipped the mist away. The crisp, cool air invigorated the young man, and Logan slowed to a halt, gazing out over the deserted street to his right. All thoughts of his troubled sleep were behind him, and, as dreams tended to do, his nightmare had faded from his conscious mind. Inhaling, Logan brushed his dark hair out of his face and began to resume his pace.
Something screamed past Logan's ear, flickering with eerie color. Eyes wide, the young man tried to follow the invisible blasts of air; confusion washed over him like a great wave of water, and, wonderingly, he scratched his chin.
"By the bubbling brew of Fraviar!" an accented, but understandable, voice boomed.
Logan wheeled about. The exclamation resounded about him, and his blue eyes narrowed as he glared at the empty field to his left. Someone was probably hiding in the tall grass, he confirmed to himself. Don't know why someone would be fool enough to be out here at six-thirty in the morning, though.
"Somebody there?" he called.
His answer was the moan of the wind.
As Logan took a cautious step into the field, the knee-high stalks of weeds bowed respectfully in his direction as another wave of wind swept over them. The abrasive clang of metal striking metal rang out across the empty field, and Logan ducked instinctively. An agonized scream pierced the breeze as the wind shifted.
"Jesus Christ!" Logan exclaimed, glancing about him. "What's going on here?"
Blinking his eyes, the young jogger peered at the weed-engulfed lot before him. He no longer suspected someone hiding amongst the brush-the noises he heard were too exact and came from everywhere at once. No, Logan stopped wondering if someone was playing a joke and feared for his sanity. Hearing things in the wind was impossible!
The desolation of the field and street surrounding him suddenly focused in on the young man, and Logan wished he was not alone. He was a determined loner-independent and self-assured-but, in certain circumstances, a companion could be handy.
The mist parted like a foggy curtain as the wind tore through it. The snort of a horse erupted from the breeze, and Logan jumped in fright, spun backwards, and leapt to one side.
"All right!" he yelled, confusion and fear combining to form an odd mixture within him. "That's it! Who the hell is there?"
"Who the what is where?" the same booming voice inquired from nowhere. "Don't bother me with blasted questions when I'm fighting for my life!"
Logan turned on his heel, eyeing the empty field. "Who said that?"
"I did!" the voice retorted.
This is too much! the young man concluded. I'm going to go home, take some extra-strength Tylenol, and go back to bed! Then I'm going to call the nearest mental institution with a vacant room!
A shrill shriek shattered the misty morning, spearing Logan's forehead and setting his mind afire. In agony, Logan clamped his hands to the sides of his head, trying to shut out the horrid screech that filled the street and his body. Unexpected pain wracked his nerves, and Logan crashed to his knees, gritting his teeth.
As the flaring pain diminished, Logan unsteadily raised his head. A gigantic serpentine coil of wind was rushing directly at him! The oddest manifestation he had ever seen! A miniature tornado spiraled straight for him, blood-red light flecked with silver sprouting forth from the funnel.
Crimson stabbed Logan's sight as the tunnel of wind screamed down upon him. Vertigo seized the young jogger, and bile rose in his throat as all sense of stability ceased. He was weightless, sightless, disembodied; suspended inside a whirlpool of red and silver. Agony wrenched his lean frame, and molten steel flowed through his veins rather than blood. The hideous screeching intensified as the strange and wondrous coil of wind swallowed Matthew Logan whole, and his world exploded about him.
The world pulled itself back into being with an electrifying jolt of blue and brown. Dazed and bewildered, Logan staggered forward blindly, once again feeling hard-packed earth beneath him. Hard-packed? His mind rebelled in its befuddled state. The ground of the field had been soft-almost muddy. How had it become hard-packed?
Fuzzy shapes and outlines began to form ahead of Logan as he tried to regain his balance and sanity. A dark blue sky loomed overhead, its clouds tinted pink by the rising sun. The barren earth below him was devoid of greenery and littered with broken stones and dust. Far off in the distance, backed by the brilliant sun, was a glossy black castle.
Logan jerked his head around. Castle? Naw… but, there it was! Situated atop a ridge was a midnight-black fortress, complete with battlements!
A snort caught Logan's attention and he swung about. A line of mounted men all clad in chestplates confronted the jogger, their weapons drawn and catching the rays of the rising sun. One lone figure a few feet from Logan faced the horsed warriors, his own drawn sword bloodied and swaddled in gore. The shaggy mane of hair turned toward Logan, and the enormous fighter smiled with yellowing teeth.
Logan stared back, gaping. Warriors? Castles? Swords? Screaming winds? Wake up, Matthew! You're only twenty-seven! You can't go insane!
The huge man near Logan leapt to one side as a mounted warrior charged. With agility surprising for someone that size, the large fighter dodged to his right, bringing up his sword and skewering the horse. Blood splashed across the man's vest of chainmail and spattered his reddish brown beard and mustache. The hair on his head was almost touching the fighter's massive shoulders, and portions hung down over the beady eyes that peered out at Logan.
"So!" the huge man exclaimed, and Logan recognized the booming voice. "You're the question-asker!" His sword ripped across the thigh of another chestplated man. "Where do you come from?"
Logan rubbed his eyes, lost in his confusion. Stunned, he faced the fighter. "What?" he said, quite stupidly.
"I asked you where you came from," repeated the fighter.
Logan shook his head in disbelief. This wasn't happening! It wasn't real-couldn't be real! I must have slipped and knocked myself cold. I'm dreaming… Yeah! That's it! I'm not really here at all.
"What's the matter?" the larger fighter shouted. "Are you deaf? Very well, then, WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?"
Logan stepped back, his ears ringing. "I'm not deaf!" he hollered.
"Well, neither am I, so stop yelling!" the fighter replied.
Logan blinked and blinked again. No, he told himself, I haven't gone insane. I'm sane. I'm mentally sound. I've never touched a drug in my life.
A frenzied cry pulled Loean away from his thoughts as the massive fighter knocked a rider from his horse and thrust his weapon into the warrior's armpit. Logan could hear metal grate against the rib cage, and he winced as if the steel had driven into his own breast.
"You must excuse me." The bearded fighter grinned at Logan. "I'm being very rude. Here!"
A bow and quiver dropped at Logan's feet, and his eyebrows shot up. It was a self bow, the young man noticed. A bow made of one single piece of wood, unlike the built or backed bow. The wood was no doubt yew, and the bowstring was cord. All in all, the bow was something found in early England; however, it, and the arrows, were enormous. The bow was some four to five feet in length, and the arrows, following close to what was an English rule, were half the length of the bow. Logan had used modern bows, and knew something of the history of such weaponry, but was amazed by the craftsmanship at his feet.
"He thinks he has gained a companion," a sudden voice cackled. "Quickly, you two! Dispose of him! Teach him his error in daring to defy the Reakthi!"
Two horses turned toward Logan, and a pair of chestplated men headed for him. Smirking down at Logan, one of the men slowed his mount, lowering his blade. Logan watched the pair, half-crouched, his fingers touching the bow and quiver.
"An easy task," one of the soldiers said with a grin. "You may have the pleasure."
His companion nodded. "Many thanks." His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Logan's sweat suit. "What strange garments he wears. Perhaps he comes from Droth?"
The other shrugged under his chestplate. "Ask him yourself, if the buffoon knows how to talk."
Logan snatched up the bow and nocked an arrow into place. "I know how to talk, you wimp," he gritted. "And I also know how to use one of these!"
As the bow was raised, the two Reakthi spurred their horses. Panic swept over Logan as he realized the primary release would not work on a bow of that size. He had instinctively held the arrow between his thumb and first finger and surrounded the string in that manner. In the lighter bows he was accustomed to, this maneuver would have pulled back the string by the pressure of the arrow. As the two Reakthi charged, Logan discovered this bow was too strong; another hold was necessary to pull back the string on this sucker!
The oncoming horses filled Logan with dread, and the hard-packed earth shuddered in sympathetic horror to Logan's situation. Fortunately, the terror subsided within Logan, and he switched to the Mediterranean release, a release he had been taught basically as a historical reference to the usage of bows in early England.
Logan's muscles tensed, and the bowstring "twanged." With a sharp retort, the two-foot-long missile rocketed from the bow, burying into the nearest Reakthi's neck. With a blood-garbled scream, the warrior pitched off the back of his horse, crashing to the ground and snapping the wooden shaft that protruded from his throat.
Something whistled beside Logan's ear, and the young man leapt to one side, narrowly avoiding the second Reakthi's sword. Knowing there was no time to reload, Logan arced the enormous bow about like a baseball bat, catching the Reakthi on the back of the head with the horn-crafted tip. With a grunt, the chestplated soldier careened out of his saddle, spilling into the dirt.
Sore rather than stunned, the Reakthi immediately got to his feet, sword still in hand. Snarling, the warrior lunged, sword first, and Logan ducked to the right, bringing up a foot and catching the Reakthi in the stomach. Both men yelled: the Reakthi winded, and Logan clutching his Nike-encased foot. Damn! the young man swore. Those chestplates are solid!
Silver flashed in the light of the rising sun, and Logan had to ignore the pain in his toes. Clumsily, he lurched to safety, escaping the downward sweep of the Reakthi blade. Logan lashed out a hand and caught the Reakthi's wrist. With his left hand, Logan threw himself into a final punch. Blood splattered as the Reakthi's nose splintered under Logan's fingers, and the chestplated warrior toppled to the arid soil.
"It seems I have good taste in my allies," the large fighter declared, carelessly observing Logan's battle while he waged his own.
Logan turned on the fighter, glaring. He was still confused as to what was going on and had only acted to survive. This couldn't be real, he told himself, but… why does my fist hurt?
"Withdraw!" one of the chestplated men ordered. "Back to Vaugen's fortress!"
The reduced band of Reakthi drew back their horses and galloped for the glossy castle ringed by the rising sun. Logan watched them diminish, staring into the fiery orb and squinting as the red-orange light emblazoned itself upon his pupils.
"Well done," the fighter was chuckling, sheathing his blade. "I could not have done better myself."
Logan glanced at him. "Sure, right. Look, I don't know what the hell is going on, but I want some answers!" Need some answers. "What is this? Some dream or something? I mean, how else could I get here, right? For that matter, where in God's name am I?"
"Which one?" the fighter asked.
"Which one what?" Logan asked back.
"Which god? Brolark? Harmeer? Imogen?"
Logan stared at the fighter before turning away. Questions cluttered his brain as he scanned the alien horizon, and an odd-yet familiar-twinge of unbelonging sparked within the young man.
"By the way," the fighter started, "you never did answer my question. Where did you come from?"
Logan kept his back to him. "Santa Monica," he sighed heavily. Then, abruptly, he faced the fighter. "Now answer me a question: Where the hell am I, and who are you?"
The fighter grinned playfully beneath his thick red-brown beard. "Ah-ha! That's two!"
Logan flung up his arms as frustration filled his innards and he slowly walked away. He had no idea where he was going; he blindly placed one foot in front of the other and made his way across the barren land toward a small hillock dotted with greenery. All the while his brain played out various rationalizations for his predicament until the number of hypotheses became overwhelming.
Thunderous footsteps shook the ground behind him as the large fighter trailed. "Forgive me," the huge man said. "I am Thromar, the best fighter in all Sparrill and parts of Denzil."
Logan halted and peered at the man in disbelief.
Thromar shrugged his massive shoulders under the gaze. "Well, maybe not in Denzil," he corrected himself.
Shaking his head, Logan resumed his shuffling gait and neared the hilltop. Once again that oddness swarmed in the air about him, the almost physical haze that buzzed silently that Logan did not belong, that he was intruding. The sensation intensified, growing to such proportions that Logan feared something immensely powerful was going to drop out of the sky and crush him beneath it.
Is this what it feels like to go insane?
"Is something wrong?" Thromar queried.
Logan kept walking, his eyes glazed.
Schizophrenic delusions?
"That was quite an impressive display of archery back there," Thromar stated. "You have used a bow before?"
Detached, Logan nodded. Archery, he mused, made sense. He did know about archery, why not have it in this god-awful dream? But his foot… and his fist… both pulsed with a dull throb. How was that possible?
Cresting the small rise, Logan's feet stopped their mechanical process. Lush greenery spread out before him, and winding, serpentine rivers slid throughout the fertile land. Never in his life had Logan seen so much greenery all in one place, and the air was crisp and clean, with no pollutants fouling the atmosphere… only that undeniable twinge of mismatchment.
A large black horse snorted over toward Logan's right, and the young man glanced at it wonderingly. Its eyes flared red, and its mane and tail were the same color. A crude saddle was draped across its muscular back, and weapons and provisions filled the saddlebags.
"That's Smeea," Thromar said proudly. "She's mine."
Logan managed a half-smile as he stared at the magnificent horse. "A black horse with a red mane? Who'd've believed it?"
Chuckling as if Logan had made a joke, Thromar lumbered over to the beast and leapt astride it. Logan watched, slipping further and further into the protectiveness of his rationale. As if the sight of the gigantic expanse of greenery had defeated him, Logan sank in on himself, dumbed and bewildered. He had intended to keep moving, force himself to continue until something happened, but his sudden realization of how large an area he had to traverse reached into the core of his being, and he was suddenly very weary. There is no sense to go on, his mind whispered. Stay where you are. Stay with me. Here you're safe. Nothing can harm you. If you stay here, sooner or later you'll wake up and this whole ordeal will be over. It's only a dream-stay right where you are and inevitably you'll wake up.
Eagerly, Logan gave in to the tempting whisper of his logic, and his strength flowed out of his limbs. Like a marble statue, he stood at the crest of the hill, gazing without seeing at the vast lushness before him.
A tiny portal opened within Logan's subconscious to release a wheezing, disembodied voice that taunted:
Have you no fear of dreams?
Logan blinked.
Know you not that dreams have the power to crush and to rend and to shred?
Frightened by the rasping whisper, strength brought on by fear began to refill Logan's body.
Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
Logan blinked the glaze away from his eyes and turned his back on the land stretched to the west. The bright rays of the sun splashed the young man's face, forcing him to squint as he realized the danger he was in. It was folly to stay where he was. Whether this was a dream or not, Logan was a survivor. He would not fold up and die as his logic had all but coaxed him into doing. Dreams were dreams-and it would not hurt to keep moving.
Sunspots dancing behind his closed eyelids, Logan spun away from the rising sun and saw Thromar peering down at him from atop his black and red mount. "If I didn't know any better," the fighter commented, "I'd say you were lost."
Logan let out a harsh laugh. "That's an understatement!"
Thromar stroked his reddish brown beard in thought. "If you tell me your name, I might be able to help you," he suggested.
Logan eyed him skeptically. "What could you do?"
"Me?" Thromar responded. "I could do nothing, yet I know of someone who may be able to aid you."
"Who?"
The fighter chuckled. "You first."
Logan sighed. "I'm Matthew Logan from Santa Monica, okay? Now who can help me get out of here?"
"The Smythe," answered Thromar.
Logan waited for Thromar to continue, but when he did not, the young man retorted: "So who's the Smythe?"
Thromar was so taken aback he almost fell from Smeea. "You don't know who the Smythe is? Just where is this Santa Monica place?"
Logan sneered. "Not in this neck of the woods, that's for sure!"
Thromar roared. "Neck? Woods? Since when?"
Another half-smile tried to force its way onto Logan's lips, but he held it back. This Thromar character was an enormous figure of brawn and physical strength, and yet, held an almost childlike quality about him brought about by his innocence. How strange that such a large man could be so simple. Logan wondered how he could dream up such a unique character.
"Do you think this Smythe can get me back?" the young man queried.
"I don't see why he couldn't," replied the fighter.
Logan looked out into the rising sun once more. Survive, a faint voice in the back of his mind advised. Dream or not, live on. Answers are needed-answers to survive. Live on-seek out someone with the answers. Survive.
"Which way to this guy?"
Thromar waved a meaty hand westward. "He's off some way-in the Hills of Sadroia. Likes to be left alone. That's the way these spellcasters are. In fact, I think they do it on purpose to make it difficult for the person searching for their help. Nasty batch, then, don't you think?"
Spellcasters? Logan asked himself. Jesus Christ, I must have been reading too many fantasy books.
Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
"Do you think you could show me the way?"
Thromar grinned with his yellowed teeth. "Of course; I have nothing else to do. I'd offer you a ride, but Smeea doesn't take kindly to strangers."
Strangers. The word made Logan wince. That damnable feeling of misplacement kept hovering about him, as if the fertile land detested his presence.
"I'd rather walk," Logan remarked.
Hooves sounded behind the pair, and Thromar stood in Smeea's saddle. From the eastern side of the hillock, backed by the rising sun, a small band of Reakthi rode toward the pair, blood-red light gleaming off their chestplates.
An expectant grin was on Thromar's face as he glanced down at Logan. "You did pretty good with my arrows," he stated. "How are you with a flail?"
Logan frowned. "A what?"
"That bad, eh? Well, take my extra sword. You do know what a sword is, don't you?"
Logan grasped the heavy blade. "Is spinach green?" he asked back.
Thromar scratched his great tuft of hair. "I don't know. I've never fought one."
Once again Logan found an odd weapon in his hands. Like the bow, the sword was larger and heavier than the ones Logan was used to handling. Nervously, he gripped the hilt, studying the sword. Double-edged, he mused, and a straight blade. The hilt was molded so that the wielder could make a sweeping cut in more than one direction, so the weapon was intended for both cutting and thrusting. There were a few grooves in the steel to lighten the weapon, and the point was diamond-shaped with a concave face for the greatest amount of stiffness without additional weight.
The four Reakthi drew their horses to a halt near the crest of the hill. Three of the four were clad in the normal bronze and golden chestplates; the fourth Reakthi, the obvious leader, wore a white chestplate. He gripped an odd-looking, jagged-edged sword that Logan thought resembled the barbs of an Igorot spear. Or, he mused with morbid humor, a double-edged saw.
"Thromar!" the lead Reakthi barked. "We have come on request of Spellcaster Groathit not to battle with you but to accompany your companion to Vaugen's castle. We have no wish to quarrel with you. Give us the stranger and you shall be spared."
Thromar spat at the white-chestplated man. "Let that be my answer, Reakmor!"
The quartet of warriors charged, and Smeea snorted in furious response. From the ground, Logan knew how vulnerable he was, but the Reakthi went to encircle Thromar. With a sweat-slickened grasp, Logan swung wildly at one of the soldiers, his weapon catching the Reakthi in the solar plexus. Sword and chestplate clanged as the Reakthi was knocked from his mount. Logan felt as if the muscles in his arms had snapped loose as he tried to shake off the wavering caused by the impact.
The downed Reakthi snatched at his dagger, snarling up at Logan like a ravenous wolf. Still trying to control the quivering of his arms, Logan swept his sword out before him in a massive arc. As easily as wheat mown under the scythe, the Reakthi spilled to the ground, a horrible gash torn across one side of his face.
Heavy hoofbeats jerked Logan's eyes open, and he spied the corpse at his feet. He gagged involuntarily, but suddenly caught sight of the Reakmor rushing toward him. Swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat, Logan tried to lift his sword, yet his entire body was quivering.
Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
"Friend-Logan!" Thromar yelled. "Beware!"
The dark horse was nearly atop him as the white-chestplated Reakmor reached down to grip Logan's sweat jacket. Half-jumping back, Logan shot up his sword, grazing the arm that groped for him. Crimson fluid leaked from the wound, and the Reakmor jerked back his arm, clutching it tightly to his chest. Red stained the white armor, making a stomach-churning contrast of colors, as more hooves trampled the ground.
Logan turned to see Thromar and Smeea head toward him, the former's eyes ablaze. The remaining Reakthi were slowly staining the soil with their life fluid.
"There were only four of us," the Reakmor shouted from a safe distance. "We only wanted one man. If you had surrendered him peacefully, no harm would have befallen you. Instead, you have cursed yourselves! The Reakthi will hound you until we get what we want, and we want you, man from another world!"
The Reakmor spurred his horse and vanished into the blood-red sun.
Man from another world? Logan repeated to himself.
"You fight well," Thromar complimented, shattering Logan's thoughts.
The young man shrugged diffidently, handing the bloodied sword back up to Thromar. The fighter's beady eyes went wide.
"What is this?" he exclaimed. "Are you giving me back your weapon? By the gods, keep it! You have earned it!" Thromar grinned. "Besides, I don't use that blade-come to think of it, the Reakthi I took it from is in no condition to use it either, if you know what I mean."
Muttering an unfelt thanks, Logan took back the weapon and the leather sheath, strapping it about his waist as they continued onward. The weight of the massive blade became a constant reminder as Logan withdrew into his mind, searching, thinking, pondering, puzzling. More and more things were making it seem less and less a dream. Things were happening far too fast for Logan to make any sense out of them. That Reakmor had called him a man from another world; was that truly the answer? Was Logan really in this strange world of castles and warriors? Or was it just a plausible solution that Logan had incorporated into his dream as an explanation?
Traverse not into folly, the long-haired businessman had suggested. What the devil had he meant? Or did it mean a thing? It was, after all, nothing but another stupid, idiotic dream.
Have you no fear of dreams?
By the time Logan glanced up to actually see where he was going, the sun was being swallowed by a range of mountains in the west. A large valley lay before the young man, and, even in the faint light of dusk, Logan could make out the glittering rivers that wound their way on either side of the valley. Stars began to dot the darkening sky as Thromar brought Smeea to a halt and dismounted. Faint spots of light played between the two rivers, and Thromar jerked a large finger in the direction of the will-o'-the-wisps.
"We'll enter the valley at sunrise," he declared. "For tonight, we'll stay on the east side of the Lathyn."
"What for?" Logan wondered.
"What for?" Thromar exclaimed. "That's Eadarus! It's a great town by day, but, at night, it becomes a thieves' quarters! Everyone from Moknay to Roshfre could be there, all just as willing to slit your throat!"
Logan gently fingered his neck. "I take it it's not too safe?"
Thromar responded: "Not once the sun has gone down." He gazed longingly at the flickering torches that marked the town. "Too bad, too. Eadarus has the best women this side of the Roana!"
Stifling a yawn, Logan felt the vitality run from his frame and tiredness take control. His feet hurt as if he had been walking all day, and his stomach growled in hunger. Abruptly, the young man blinked, his hands going to his face.
"Hey!" he cried. "I've got my contacts in!"
Thromar peered at him curiously.
Logan ignored the fighter, glancing about him frantically. Contact lenses! he screamed to himself. I've got my goddamn contact lenses in! Never had a dream been so precise! And how was he supposed to clean them? He had no saline solution, no heating unit, no carrying case.
"Friend-Logan?" questioned Thromar. "Is something the matter?"
Logan did not hear the rumbling voice as he stared won-deringly out at the world through his contact lenses. Neither contact had been bothering him; never once had a speck of dirt gotten into his eye and irritated the lens, nor had they felt uncomfortable at any time during the day. And yet, they were there! Logan could not see without them!
With fearful expectation, Logan reached into his right eye and pulled out the soft lens.
"Your eye!" Thromar bellowed. "You have plucked out your eye!"
Logan glanced at the fighter, holding up the small lens so he could study it in the dimming sunlight. "I haven't plucked out my eye," he replied. "It's a contact lens; it helps me see."
"Of course it helps you see!" Thromar boomed. "The lens of your eye is what emits eye-beams! From these eye-beams we gain our sight, and you have simply pulled yours out!"
"It's not my cornea!" Logan returned. "It's my contact lens!"
And it's so damn precise it all but proves I'm really here!
"Cornea?" Thromar repeated. "What tongue is that?"
"It's not your tongue, it's part of your eye."
"Which part?"
"The lens part!"
"The part that you have just torn off! Oh, friend-Logan, you have blinded yourself!"
Logan screwed up his face, replacing the lens and blinking it back into place. Immediately, it slipped over his cornea, and his vision cleared. Contacts, he breathed. Dreams are not this exact!
Casting a quick glance at Thromar, Logan saw the fighter was gaping at him. "See?" he retorted. "I'm not blind."
"No, indeed!" Thromar roared. "You must be a spellcaster!"
"I'm no spellcaster!" Logan shouted in frustration. "My God!"
"Your god?" wondered Thromar. "Which one?"
Logan's eyes blazed as he turned on the fighter. "You're the most infuriating dream I've ever had!" he accused.
Thromar released a thunderous laugh. "And you are by far the most interesting, friend-Logan!"
Logan shook his head in submission, sitting heavily upon the grass below him. A thousand words were tumbling over and over in his mind; half-formed explanations swirled within him and died before birth. Contacts! There was no way to comprehend how the lenses had gotten there-dreams were just not that accurate!
Learn to decipher dreams from reality, unreality from falsehood, falsehood from truth, or doom shall fall upon your worlds!
With a frown of puzzlement, Logan flopped back onto the grass and stared up at the star-filled night. The unsettling presence of wrongness rematerialized, almost as if it were taking a substantial form over the young man and circling like an invisible bird of prey overhead. Surrounded by the unnerving feeling, Logan slept.
A thin mist hung in the air as Logan awoke. For a moment, the young man thought he was back in Santa Monica, but the recurring disharmony rudely reminded him of where he was. Small beads of dew clung to his body like transparent leeches, losing their grip as he moved and splashing to the ground. His breath escaped in a white cloud of haze as he got to his feet and spied Smeea eyeing him with her brilliant, crimson eyes. Her rider was nowhere in sight, and an uncomprehensible fear swelled within Logan's breast as he feared being alone in his madness.
A massive hand clamped down upon Logan's shoulder and he wheeled about, twisting as he grabbed the hand. Thromar let out a holler as he flipped over Logan's back and landed upon his backside, his chainmail tinkling like bells.
"By the gods!" the fighter boomed. "Never have I been bested so easily!"
Logan suppressed a relieved smile as he helped the large man to his feet. Thromar's black eyes were wide as he peered down at the young man, inquisitively stroking his reddish brown beard. "You're quite sure you are not a spellcaster?" he asked.
Logan sneered. "Positive."
"Spellcaster or not, you are probably rather hungry," Thromar declared. He tossed Logan a small roll and popped two into his own mouth. "Eat, friend-Logan, and, when we get to Eadarus, we will set about getting you a horse."
Logan stopped chewing the slightly stale bread. "A horse?" he replied. "You don't have to buy me a horse-I don't want to be a bother."
Thromar flashed him a crooked smile. "Who said anything about buying you a horse? We're going to steal you one."
"Steal me one?" exclaimed Logan. "I don't need a horse that badly! The last thing I need to happen is to get caught! Then I'll never get back!"
"Caught?" Thromar boomed. "Caught by whom?"
"The police-or whatever you'd call them here!"
Thromar took a swig of wine from a leather flask. "The only ones who would try to stop you are the King's Guards," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "and they're too fearful to come within a league of Eadarus!"
"But what about whoever we steal it from?" Logan objected. "What happens to him?"
Thromar sighed heavily. "Friend-Logan, let me tell you something about Eadarus: Everything there does not belong to the person who has possession of it. One owner stole it from another, who, no doubt, took it from someone else, who must have snatched it from the first thief, who had to have stolen it from some store to gain possession of it in the first place. Do you understand?"
Logan chewed as his head bobbed up and down slowly. "Oddly enough," he responded, "I do."
The pair crossed a stone bridge stretched across the river and began their descent into the valley. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, Logan could see hunched figures clad in black hastily scrambling out of the town and into the foliage surrounding the outside gates. Watching the dark forms, Logan could sense his contacts rolling about on his eyes, as comfortable as if he had just placed them in. He had almost believed this ordeal to be real when he had first discovered his contacts in place, but now, only in a dream could he sleep with his lenses in and feel no discomfort.
Traverse not into folly.
Musing silently, Logan trailed Thromar into the cluttered town and down a cobblestone street. Carts and horses wound their way across the narrow roads, the noises they made drowning out the cries of the merchants along the roadway. Large clusters of people milled about small shops made out of some kind of canvas, and larger groups meandered through the wood and stone structures behind them.
The clothing, Logan noted, was anything but medievalish. The young man had been prepared to see men and women dressed in Elizabethan styles, but an assortment of costumes and materials paraded before Logan's curious eye. And those Reakthi had thought his sweat suit was weird!
As the two ventured farther into the town, the small canvas shops gave way to women. Multitudes of scantily clad females lined the cobblestone paths, eyeing prospective clients as they rode or walked by. The men who walked the streets wore darker clothing, and hoods covered much of their features. Obviously not the better portion of town, Logan thought.
A sudden voice rang out from the crowded walk: "Thromar!"
Logan swung his head around to see a girl race toward them.
"Bella!" Thromar roared.
Bella happily charged Smeea, gripping Thromar's leg with long-nailed fingers. Logan saw she was rather short and stocky, but her face could classify her as "fetching." Bobbed black hair reached almost to her shoulders, and the slits in her light blue gown seemed to go up to her arms.
"Thromar," she breathed, "come with me. It has been so long since your last visit."
The huge fighter was about to leap from Smeea when he spied Logan out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat loudly until he had Bella's attention and then nodded in the young jogger's direction. Bella gave the fighter's companion a brief smile, her lips painted red.
Logan took an exaggerated step backwards. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "Don't let me stop you! I don't want to be a bother!"
Thromar grinned with his yellowing teeth and sprang from Smeea. "Thank you for your understanding, friend-Logan," he said. "I shall not be long."
Bella jerked on his arm in silent protest.
"Well, not too long. Await my return; I would hate to lose an ally such as you."
Logan waved the two off. "Don't worry about me," he told them. "This is my dream; nothing'll happen. Maybe I'll shop around for a horse."
"Just don't purchase anything until I get back," advised Thromar as he was led by an impatient Bella into a nearby building.
Feeling confused and awkward, Logan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered off through the town. Is it my dream? he asked himself. Since when had he ever had complete control over what was going" on? Never. That didn't mean it wasn't his dream, but it certainly didn't confirm it.
Logan spied a building that looked as if it could be a bar, and, as he neared, he was sure of it. Two men staggered out, bumped into one another, and sprawled flat on the ground. Another man sauntered out, grabbed hold of a whore, and slung her over his shoulder. Logan started forward but immediately restrained himself. He had no need to get involved with this idiotic land. He only wanted to wake up.
As Logan approached the tavern with the hope of getting some answers, he was forced to sidestep one of the drunken men on the ground. In doing so, he bumped into a trio of men as they stepped through the doorway. The three glared down at Logan, their eyes red with intoxication.
"Get a load of him," one of them slurred. "The little man from Droth thinks he can bump into us."
Logan took an uneasy step backwards. All three, he noticed, wore swords that glittered as fiercely as their bloodshot eyes.
Cold fingers of fear pressed against Logan's neck as he remembered the rasping whisper: Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
Logan did not want to find out.
"Maybe he's a Guardsman?" another snarled. "Is that the new uniform?"
The third man pointed a large finger toward Logan's nose. "Naw, he's just a scrawny little harpy turd. Let's show him what we can do to him."
Logan's hand shot for his sword as the trio advanced. Hands seemed to reach out from all about him and tear at his limbs, forbidding him from freeing his weapon and protecting himself. Unexpectedly, one of the men spilled backwards, his chest smeared with crimson. Another crumpled to the ground immediately afterward, blood fountaining from his neck. The third took an uneasy step back, gaping at the small golden hilt protruding from his stomach. As blood welled up around the dagger and splattered the street, Logan's third assailant crashed to the cobblestones.
Logan wheeled about in astonishment and disgust. He expected to see Thromar behind him, grinning his crooked, yellow grin, but the large fighter's enormous frame did not back the young jogger. A lithe man clad all in grey was stanced in the street, daggers strapped across his chest in a menacing display of weaponry. Two more of the slim blades glistened in either hand.
"Morning to you, my friend," the stranger said with a smirk in greeting. "I hope you don't mind my rude interruption of your discussion, but it seemed your companions were getting a little out of hand. Tell me, whom have I the honor of saving?"
"Matthew Logan," Logan answered cautiously. "Why?"
The black-haired stranger shrugged. "Moknay the Murderer always lets the engraver know the proper name to place upon the gravestone."
Moknay stepped forward and a dagger sailed from his hand, glinting silver as it screamed toward Logan's neck.