"Matthew!" Cyrene cried. "That's not the Smythe! It's Zackaron!"
Logan's initial reaction was to run… to simply turn about and rush out of the narrow corridor of stone. But the wildness in Zackaron's dark eyes also flared with a power beyond comprehension-a power that had driven even its user insane. How could Logan hope to flee a man who could destroy then recreate him on the spot? Zackaron reigned over nature itself with his madness, and Logan began to understand the abnormal wind of unbalance flowing from the spellcaster's home. The magician had the energies of his world at his fingertips, yet his mind was incapable of using them correctly.
Trying to shrug off the terror Cyrene radiated beside him, Logan faced the gaunt sorcerer. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I've made a terrible mistake. I didn't mean to give you this egg. I was going to bring you clay."
Zackaron's eyes expanded in excitement. "Clay? Clay?" he parroted. "Excellent! Have you ever built with clay?"
Logan casually replaced the Jewel in his horse's saddlebag and took hold of the reins. "Actually, I have," he answered the wizard. "It's quite good. Especially for making things."
The lean magic-user nodded his head enthusiastically. "Yes! Yes! Make things, I do! Make things! But pity! Pity me! So many are wrong! So many mistakes!"
Logan was almost intrigued to stay and listen to the rantings of the wizard. What kind of things did Zackaron attempt to make from clay? the young man wondered. His powers made anything possible, but his mind would cause major drawbacks in any creation. No wonder Zackaron was so opposed to deformity!
The mindless spellcaster stepped toward Logan, and Cyrene stiffened as the dark eyes locked upon her. "Did you make her?" the sorcerer queried, his eyes aglow with appreciation.
"No, I didn't," responded Logan, "but I can get you some clay so you can make something like her."
Zackaron's face lit up. "Can you?" he cried, almost childlike. "Do so! So do!"
Nodding in reply, Logan backed out of the cavern, taking Cyrene and his horse with him. He could still hear Zackaron chortling from inside as he mounted up and pulled Cyrene behind him. Fear had stolen Cyrene's voice from her as Logan started his horse forward, thanking whatever had caused Zackaron to return the Jewel to him.
Darker clouds began to populate the sky as the yellow-and-green horse trekked through the Hills. Logan was slightly unsettled by Cyrene's silence-wishing their reunion could have been a little bit more romantic-but remained quiet himself as his horse rode on. The blonde's arms locked tightly about his waist served to quell some of the desires boiling within, but Logan felt cheated that the girl had not even praised him for his marvelous escapes. She did like him, didn't she? Why wasn't she as giddy over his good fortune as he was? Oh, well, the shock of bumping into a man with enough power to reconstruct the universe and with hardly enough common sense to feed himself might send anybody into a state of silence,
A confident smirk drawn on his face, Logan glanced down at the saddlebag hiding the Jewel. His heart almost leapt into his throat as he saw the golden rays leaking from the leather sack. The persistent mismatchment had gotten so strong it no longer warned him when the Jewel was acting up. It probably would not have triggered any warning in Logan until after the Jewel's glare signaled the danger itself.
"Cyrene," Logan whispered, "I think we're in trouble."
The blonde behind him moved to peer over his shoulder but still said nothing.
"The Jewel's glowing," he explained, and her arms tightened about his waist. "It might be about to discharge again."
Logan gazed up at the darkening clouds apprehensively and a knot formed in his stomach. The increased buzz of disharmony had really torn away his usual defenses, he realized. He had no idea if those black clouds looming above him were natural or unnatural-but the yellowish light seeping from his saddlebags indicated it was the latter.
A stifled shriek ripped through Cyrene's lips, and Logan pulled his eyes away from the clouds. A blur of pink caught his attention, but whatever had made it had swerved out of sight. Logan questioningly glanced over his shoulder at Cyrene, but the blonde still refused to speak. Her eyes were wide, fixed in the direction of the pinkish flash, yet no explanation came from her lips.
There was a hellish screech from the mountains, and a throng of creatures swarmed down the hillsides. Their distorted limbs flailed in the air, and bleary eyes reflected the Jewel's golden glare. Logan was so horrified he accidentally drew in the reins, and the stallion stood where it was while the cluster of monsters rushed closer.
Humanlike in shape, the creatures loped down the sloping hillsides. Gnarled limbs-some too short, others too long-sent dirt spraying into the air, and thick streams of saliva oozed from the contorted mouths and misshapen teeth. One of the beasts scuttling down the mountainside was nothing more than a deformed head perched atop an outstretched hand, while another was the upper torso of a man that gradually turned serpentine. Another monstrosity flailed four arms at the cloudy sky, its many disproportioned fingers clenching into warped fists.
Somewhere, from maybe a million miles away, there was a voice calling to Logan.
"Matthew! Matthew! Get us out of here!"
Fingers shook Logan awake as the perversions of nature neared. Drawing himself away from the terror charging him, Logan blinked his eyes and felt Cyrene's breath upon his neck.
"Matthew!" she screamed. "Let's go! Please!"
With a silent glimpse back at the nearing deformities, Logan rammed his Nikes into his horse's flanks and bolted forward. Enraged screams pursued the pair, their horse galloping headlong across the mountains. A growl of thunder exploded from the black clouds above as the aureate flame of the Jewel brightened. The Jewel! Logan's mind shouted. Those things sensed the Jewel-like that Demon did! They wanted it!
Cyrene screamed and Logan almost pitched off his horse as the green-and-yellow stallion skidded to a halt, stopping precariously close to a cliff. A sheer drop angled before them, and boulders cracked and fragmented like egg shells lined the bottom. The earthquake must have utterly destroyed this hillside, Logan mused. What must have been a level path around the mountain was now interrupted by a fearful drop of some hundred feet. Frantically, Logan looked right, then left. The right offered a level route yet betrayed an aura of possible rockslides or unexpected drops. The left, however, slanted upward, and Logan knew his horse would be unable to make the climb carrying two riders.
Swiftly, he dismounted and motioned for Cyrene to do the same.
"Take the horse up," he commanded, withdrawing his sword. "I'll cover our backs."
The blonde paused a moment before snatching up the reins and beginning the difficult ascent. Logan trailed, dangerously scaling the mountain backwards as he went. It did not take long before the screeching distortions of men burst into sight, their malformed limbs slashing the mountain air. Cyrene's breathing quickened as fear coursed through her sjim frame, and her climbing became erratic, making her stumble more as she fought the slanting hillside. Like fluid, Cyrene's fear flowed down to Logan, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow as he gazed down at the mockeries below him.
Scuttling like twisted crabs of flesh, the swarm of deformities followed after the couple. Lust burned in their blurry eyes. Perhaps they thought the Jewel would return them to normal, like Logan had tried to persuade Farkarrez into believing, but what in the world could have mutated people into the crawling monsters that shrieked beneath him?
Logan paled and almost swooned as the realization struck him. Zackaron had not been mindlessly rambling when he had mentioned his creations. The things scrabbling and clawing their way toward Logan were Zackaron's. These were the wizard's deformities, his freaks and outcasts. And now they had come out of hiding in the hopes of attaining the Jewel.
Blue-white lightning ripped through the clouds, bathing the Hills with its electrical glare. The man-things cowered in the bluish flash but then their greed returned, and their twisted limbs helped them scrabble higher.
Breathing heavily, Logan reached a small, level cliff and directed Cyrene to run eastward along the narrow ledge. There was a sudden snarl from above him, and Logan toppled. Pain raked the young man's back as he somersaulted down the sloping hill, a hideously large, doglike beast snapping at his neck. Disgust swirled in Logan's belly as he completed his roll halfway down the hill and gripped the muzzle of the monster facing him. It was a hairless dog, he saw, and his stomach heaved in revulsion at the misshapen canine eagerly slobbering for his blood. Fear accompanied that sickness as Logan noted the sudden shock of the attack had knocked his sword out of his hand.
"Cyrene!" he choked, struggling to keep the disfigured snout and teeth away from his neck.
The herd of "mistakes" climbed nearer, their gibberish ringing in Logan's ears.
The winds picked up as the black clouds roiled and churned like angry waves. Cyrene stopped upon the ledge, glancing back down at the struggling forms. Her skirt billowed about her legs as the moaning gale whipped around her, and quick fingers pulled free the dagger at her thigh. The turbulent air shrieked as the blade rocketed forward and lodged in the dog-thing's neck. Black, putrid blood splattered Logan's face as the monster he battled jerked, a warbling howl tearing through its throat. With a violent heave, Logan sent the quivering monstrosity down the slope, knocking the twitching corpse into the cluster of mispro-portioned beings. Desperately, the young man pulled himself to his feet and resumed his hurried climb up the rocky face. The winds sent dirt spiraling into the darkened sky, and Logan's contacts ached as he struggled to reach the ledge once again. Another quarrel of blue-white lightning split the sky, and thunder shook the mountains. A tremendous voice unexpectedly tore through the clouds, and, so deafened by the noise, Logan was almost sent tumbling down the hillside once more.
"MY JEWEL!" the firmament boomed.
Oh, great, Logan sneered. Zackaron finally recognized the Jewel for what it was!
Helped onto the ledge by Cyrene, Logan noticed the thunderous voice had proven some good. So terrified by their creator's cry, the hideous man-things charged recklessly back down the mountainside and ducked into concealment, forgetting all about Logan and the hope his cargo had ignited.
Nervous that the insane spellcaster may appear, Logan leapt onto his horse and pulled up Cyrene. The ledge they were on was narrow, and possibly weak, yet the enraged cry of Zackaron had even sent waves of terror rushing through Logan's mount.
The yellow-and-green horse swiftly skirted the edge of the mountain path and galloped across the rim. To Logan's right was the dizzying drop that awaited them should the horse falter or stumble; to their left was the mountain wall with its jutting rocks that threatened to extend too far and knock both horse and riders from its face. Fortune, however, no matter how fickle she was, decided to accompany Logan, and the stallion soon reached a wider path that sloped between this mountain and a second one. It was not long before the threat of falling diminished, but the possibility of other earthquake-made drops lingered in Logan's mind.
"What in Agellic's name were those things?" breathed Cyrene, the fear still coating her voice.
"Zackaron's 'mistakes,' " the young man replied. "At least my mistakes aren't that bad!" he added, sarcastically. "I only steal Cosmic Jewels and mistake insane wizards for the Smythe! Some mistakes, huh?"
Cyrene saw nothing funny in Logan's humor and went silent once more. If they aren't Reakthi, Cyrene became somewhat timid in battle, Logan noted. Like Moknay, she showed a certain fear toward magic. She was no warrior-woman-thank God! Macho females were as bad as macho males! Although she did tend to take on such tendencies when their foes were Reakthi, a smile suddenly crossed Logan's lips; she did, he recalled, let me be on top!
No sun dangled in the black, foreboding sky, yet the clouds continued to darken. Logan cursed his glimmering watch when he wondered what time it was but guessed it was nearing late evening. Zackaron's "mistakes" were some two miles behind perhaps, if not directly, then in a roundabout way, and that made Farkarrez's men and Eldath's troop a good four miles back. Still, Zackaron, Logan worried, was a spellcaster, and he could be anywhere he wanted to be in mere seconds. Hopefully, his insanity would keep him from tracking down the couple and disposing of them.
Skidding down a somewhat treacherous slope, Logan and Cyrene led the yellow-and-green mount to a stone-encircled plateau. Sparse patches of grass sprang up from between broken stones, and two gnarled trees leaned in the strengthening gale. The purple-black clouds overhead roiled eastward, flickering tongues of blue-white electricity crackling within. Pursued by Reakthi, Guards, and Zackaron, Logan still found his eyes straying to Cyrene's flapping dress and billowing dark blonde hair as she stood upon the clearing.
"Where are we?" she questioned, looking out at the darkened Hills.
"Beats me," Logan replied, wishing he hadn't phrased it in quite such a manner. "I haven't known where I was since I first entered these stupid Hills! I figure we can rest here, though."
"Not all night!" the blonde cried.
Logan frowned at her fear. "Of course all night!" he answered. "It's too damn dangerous to travel these mountains at night. We're riding a horse, not a…" He fumbled for what Eldath had said. "… bearded peakgoat."
Disheveled by the wind, Cyrene nodded and sat down. Logan sat across from her as the darkness crept in, almost hiding the young blonde in its black tendrils.
Hooves rent the stillness, and Logan grasped Moknay's dagger protectively. Cyrene's own hand went to her sheath, but her dagger was gone, lodged in the throat of Zackaron's dog. She watched Logan as the resounding hoofbeats grew louder, and dark horses crested the rim of their plateau. A whispered curse escaped Logan's lips as he made out the Guardsmen's uniforms of the pair seated upon their mounts.
Logan readied his dagger. Christ knows how many men are on the other side of the hill! he muttered to himself.
When a dark arm pointed in his direction and at the Jewel's escaping glare, the silver dagger hissed from Logan's hand and sailed through the cloudy night. The young man's heart stopped beating, and Cyrene gasped, as the glinting metal streaked for its target… and was snatched out of mid-air.
"Does this mean you don't want to keep it?" the cloud-ridden night asked.
Logan let out a cheerful whoop. "Moknay?"
The Murderer leaped off his grey horse and slid down the incline to join the young man. "Certainly," he said with a smirk, handing back the dagger. "I do wish you'd stop trying to return my gift-or at least find another way of doing it."
The other Guardsmen lost his balance on the slope and slid the rest of the way down on his backside. "Brolark, that smarts!" Thromar grumbled indignantly.
"How…? What…? When…?" Logan stuttered, futile-ly grasping for words.
Moknay clamped a friendly hand upon Logan's shoulder. "That's what I always liked about you, friend," he quipped. "You come right out and say what you mean."
The gibe made ease and gratitude stream throughout the young man. "How in the world did you find us?" he finally sputtered. "And what are you doing in Guardsmen uniforms?"
"Obviously," Thromar declared, tugging at the ill-fitting costume, "you don't know who it was who gave Moknay the name of Murderer, friend-Logan!"
Logan shook his head.
"Mediyan, who else?" Moknay grinned, his teeth glinting in the dim light of the Jewel. "I've taken out more of his commanders and leaders than Vaugen, old age, and Brolark himself! And what better-way to find you, friend, than by disguising ourselves as Guards and joining in the search? If you haven't learned by now, there's quite a number of troops looking for you."
"I've learned," the young man retorted, "but how did you get those uniforms?"
"A squad of goons tried to arrest us!" Thromar laughed. "We showed them a thing or three!"
"They didn't name me Murderer for nothing," Moknay added.
"I know," put in Thromar. "You have to pay them."
Logan threw his arms about his companions, thanking whatever gods existed in his world and theirs. They were together again, and things never went badly when Thromar and Moknay were on hand. The two were unbeatable, and Thromar held the knowledge Logan so desperately needed.
As darkness settled beneath the blanket of storm clouds, the group retold their tales. Moknay and Thromar, each continuously interrupting the other to tell his point of view, explained how they had escaped from the first squadron of Guards and had disguised themselves so as to join another troop. When messages arrived that Logan had been spotted in the Hills, Murderer and Rebel broke ranks and charged northward. It had been a combination of pure luck and Thromar's excellent tracking ability that had allowed them to find Logan so swiftly.
Logan then recounted his adventures, leaving out only his night with Cyrene. Moknay and Thromor applauded the young man's skill and intelligence in destroying Farkarrez and his almost successful attempt to trick the Guards. They cheered as Logan told of his escape from the soldiers and congratulated him on his exit from Zackaron's chamber. Moknay shivered, though, when Logan pointed out the gleaming Jewel and the gathering black clouds.
"I fear if we were to talk to Barthol, he'd tell us we had about four more days," the Murderer mused. His grey eyes scanned the foreboding sky. "Whatever the Jewel's about to unleash, it certainly is building up quite a store of it."
Logan fixed his own blue eyes on the nefarious heavens, brushing his black hair out of his face as the winds shrieked past him. "How far are we from the Smythe?" he asked Thromar.
The fighter stroked his reddish brown beard. "Moknay and I flew like the Deils to get here, but I do believe it's slightly west of here."
"No, it's south."
The quartet froze as the disembodied voice wafted across the plateau and vanished upon the gale. Lightning broke through the darkness, but the clearing remained empty of all else but themselves. The sudden flash of blue-white light suggested that no one had made that rasping whisper of direction.
"Pardon me," called Moknay, "but I think it's west."
"No, no," the whisper corrected, "it's south."
Amid the increasing wind, the gleaming Jewel, and the land itself, Logan felt the disharmony of the world slacken. For the first time since he had been in Sparrill, the sensation of mismatchment-the accusing buzz of wrongness-faded entirely. Blind in the darkness, Logan acquired new senses and warned Moknay with a faint tap on his shoulder. Questioningly, the Murderer stared at where Logan pointed, yet neither man saw a thing. It was only after another crackle of lightning that the four saw the robed figure standing by the edge of their clearing.
Thromar's huge sword slid free of its sheath.
"Replace your sword, Thromar," a whispering, asthmatic voice advised. "I come as a friend, not as an enemy, albeit you have enough of those."
Free of the disturbing sense of disunity, another feeling plagued Logan's mind. That voice! he thought. That voice was infuriatingly familiar! The young man knew he had heard it once before… but he could not think of where. It eluded him like a dream eluded a waking man.
A dream! Logan's mind exclaimed. The voice of his first dreams! The whispering tone of the businessman/monk!
The third crack of blue-white light revealed the smile on the lean face as the mysterious newcomer approached. "I see Matthew knows who I am," he stated pleasantly, "And I wish to congratulate you, young man. You certainly didn't make as many mistakes as you think you did."
Moknay's hand was on Logan's shoulder in unspoken puzzlement, but the joy of meeting up with his companions and the release from both danger and misplacement stunned Logan to the point of speechlessness. Valiantly, the young man battled the happiness clogging his throat but could not speak.
There was a sudden eruption of color, and what Logan thought was another flash of lightning was actually a telepor-tation spell that unloaded its passengers and their horses in an elegant room of oaken furniture and smooth stone flooring.
"Brolark's backside!" Thromar roared. "Where are we?"
"My home," the robed stranger replied, and, in the light of the room, his features were immediately recognized by Logan.
The domed head was bald on top, yet long strands of pale blond hair streamed to the stranger's robed shoulders. His eyes held the friendly glow they had sparked with in Logan's second dream, and none of the threatening, ghastly tones lingered in the whispering, raspy voice. Standing before Logan-in the flesh and not in a dream-was the businessman/monk himself!
Moknay had a dagger out, his distaste for magic obvious in his grey eyes. "And just where is your home?" he queried. "I don't like being sucked out to nowhere."
The businessman/monk smiled. "You were already standing on my rooftop," he said. "I only thought I should pop you down. You would have never have found the front door from where you were standing! That's why I suggested going south. You know, down?"
"You still haven't told us who you are," Cyrene snarled, her hand reaching for her dagger that was no longer there.
"Oh, but it's so much fun playing guessing games, Cyrene," the businessman replied. "For example, I know who you are, and, let me say this, I don't necessarily agree with your methods or your actions. You're not what you appear to be, my dear, and, frankly, I don't like what I see. And you, Moknay. I must thank you and Thromar for seeing my friend here safely." He turned on Logan. "And you, Matthew. You have questions to ask me and tasks that need completing, don't you? Well, let's see how good you are at my games. This is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Matthew: Who am I?"
Timidly, Logan found his voice: "The Smythe?"
Surprise exploded in the young man's mind.
The long-haired businessman/monk placed a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Jonathan Smith to be exact," he replied, "and, yes, Matthew, I come from Earth."