Glistening with metallic splendor, the dagger glinted as it spun toward Logan's throat. Immobile due to shock, Logan shut his eyes tight, flinching as a hollow "thwunk" reverberated in his ears. When he risked opening one eye, he could see the golden hilt of the dagger gleaming at him wickedly as it protruded from the Murderer's target: the wooden doorframe of the tavern.
Moknay the Murderer smirked, his trim, black mustache twitching along with his lip. "I didn't have to miss," he advised.
Logan opened his other eye and gulped. "I-I believe you," he stuttered, "but why did you?"
Moknay twisted free the blade and inspected it with eyes as cold as the dagger's own steel. "Because," he answered, "you are different; and I am curious. You're not from Sparrill, and yet, you're not a conquest-greedy Reakthi either. Where are you from?"
Logan nervously eyed the strap of daggers crossing the Murderer's chest. "Santa Monica."
"Santa Monica?" Moknay repeated, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "Never heard of it. Where is it-somewhere south of Magdelon?"
Logan heard a faint splatter of liquid as he shifted his weight and looked down at one of the corpses at his feet. The bread Thromar had given him for breakfast tried to come up as Logan pulled his Nike out of the puddle of blood. "It's south of Los Angeles," he said, choking.
The grey-clad Murderer looked at Logan carefully, peering at the sweat suit and heavy sword at his side. "How is it you wear a Reakthi sword?" he questioned, the smirk returning to his face.
Logan threw the weapon a quick glance. "It was given to me," he explained, hastily, "as a gift."
"By who?" the Murderer queried, fingering a dagger. "A Reakthi? Once they earn their blade, they rarely ever part with it."
"Look," protested Logan, taking a step back and hearing more blood splash, "you said yourself that I wasn't a Reakthi!"
"I'm having second thoughts," Moknay answered. "Now tell me, why do you wear a Reakthi sword?"
Logan swallowed hard as he tried to take another step back. Either a corpse or one of the unconscious drunks blocked his passage, and he was forced to confront the dark-haired Murderer. The sunlight flashed off the many blades hooked across Moknay's chest and his grey cape appeared to conceal many more weapons strapped to his belt.
Know you not that dreams have the power to kill? The hideous whisper snickered from Logan's subconscious.
"Look, this fighter named Thromar gave it to me when I first got here," Logan finally spat out. "We ran into some Reakthi and I didn't have a weapon. Thromar gave it to me and wouldn't take it back once I had used it."
The young jogger glared at the lithe form in front of him. All right, he wanted to shout, do you believe me now? Go ahead! Stick one of your goddamn daggers down my throat! I don't believe it-why should you?
There was a flicker of recognition in Moknay's grey eyes. "Thromar?" he murmured. "Here? Back in Eadarus?"
Logan blinked. He believes me?
The Murderer turned on Logan, a wide smile spread across his usually grim mien. "Where?" he wanted to know. "Where is Thromar?"
"Why should I tell you?" Logan retorted, suddenly and unexplainably defiant. "Why do you want him?"
"He and I were war-siblings," Moknay grinned. "Back when I was a young and foolish thief, I attempted to steal some supplies from Thromar while he camped east of the Jenovian. I soon found out the reason he was resting was because a troop of Reakthi had been hounding him for weeks. As I was about to make good my escape, the Reakthi ambushed him. As I said before, I was quite foolish, and, like some damned warfiend, I threw down my ill-gotten gains and helped him. Needless to say, we shed enough Reakthi blood to dye the Jenovian red! Ever since then, Thromar and I have been war-siblings."
Logan was silent a moment. "I don't believe you," he declared.
The Murderer barked a laugh and started for Logan. The young man tensed, however, Moknay continued past him, entering the tavern. "Come with me," he said. "I'll buy you something. Any friend of Thromar's is a friend of mine."
Cautiously, Logan followed the grey figure into the tavern. Moknay strode through the dimly lit bar undauntedly, winding his way through a maze of wooden tables and benches. Torches crackled against the walls, casting shadows upon the floor that leaped and danced like specters.
Moknay leaned up against the bar, smirking as Logan trailed him. "I'll have an ale," he said to the barkeep, "and my friend here…?"
Logan turned away from inspecting the scenery and shrugged helplessly. "Same thing, I guess." Be too much if I asked for a hot cup of coffee, he mused.
Two mugs clunked down before them, overspilling with froth. Moknay's gloved hand snatched up the nearest mug and waved it in Logan's direction. "Drink up," he proclaimed. "A stranger in a new land is always happy to have a few friends!"
Logan raised the mug, wincing. There was that blasted word again! he muttered. Stranger. Never before had that word meant so much to the young man. It was that unnerving feeling of disharmony that did it, he surmised. It kept surfacing constantly, reminding him that he did not belong in this place. Which was stupid, because it was-after all-his dream.
Logan almost choked as he took his first swallow of the ale. The beverage tasted slightly like beer, only much stronger. There was something in it that Logan thought tasted like malt, and some tiny seeds of some sort swirled within the dark liquid. Hops! Logan recalled. The little seed-things are called hops. Yeech! Worse than drinking orange juice with too much pulp! Nonetheless, the young man had not had anything to drink in this dream, and his throat was rather dry, so he greedily emptied the large mug. Moknay pounded the bar when he noticed the mug was no longer full, and the barkeep refilled it.
Logan downed his second mug in seconds.
"If you want anything else to drink," Moknay quipped, "the Sea of Hedelva is about twenty-three leagues north of here."
Logan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Thromar had earlier that morning. "No, thanks. I didn't know I was that thirsty."
Moknay smirked, turning his back on the bar. Picking at a hop that had gotten stuck between his teeth, Logan pondered how he could have dreamed such a drink. He wasn't one for beer-never had been-but this ale certainly tasted similar. And why was he so thirsty? Dreams didn't usually have the dreamer stop to eat or drink. Sometimes a dream could supposedly last over a number of months and never once would the dreamer stop to have dinner or go to the bathroom.
Logan blanched. Bathroom! What do I do if I've gotta take a piss? Huh? Since when had he ever thought he'd need to go to the bathroom in a dream? Christ, Matthew! Wake up before you drive yourself insane!
The smug Murderer beside Logan twisted around, tapping the young jogger upon the shoulder. He waved a gloved hand in the direction of the door, and Logan blinked. There were two figures silhouetted in the doorway, and the dim light was glinting off what could have been a blood-splattered chestplate. An arm with an ugly sword wound running across its flesh lifted in Logan's direction, and a finger extended accusingly.
"Friend," whispered Moknay, "I think you have visitors."
"Aw, shit," Logan cursed.
Moknay grinned, his grey eyes twinkling. "Fear not," he soothed. Suddenly he bounded onto one of the tables, glaring down at one of the men seated there. "What?" he roared. "You think grey is drab? Cur!"
A grey boot lashed out, catching one of the men on the chin and knocking him out of his seat. The man's companion jumped to his feet in astonishment, eyes wide.
"Hey!" he shouted. "You can't do that!"
Another man one table over got to his feet. "Seems to me he just did," he answered, delivering a wild punch at the fellow.
A chair hurled across the tavern and fragmented against the far wall. Like an erupting volcano, shouts and yells echoed throughout the building as more and more drunken patrons joined in on the brawl. Mugs sailed overhead, and benches and tables overturned as bodies thumped to the floor.
Logan let out a frightened cry and leapt behind the bar for protection. A mug crashed above his head, showering ale down upon him, and he almost got clipped by a fist when he stood up to look for Moknay. In the dim lighting, the Murderer had simply disappeared, and Logan felt a twinge of guilt since he had doubted the fellow's sincerity. Still, he could not see the two Reakthi, and that much relieved him.
When Logan attempted to find Moknay again, there was a sudden blur of white before him. Breaking through the cluster of bodies and dim light, the Reakmor leapt forward, drawing his jagged sword. Logan's death gleamed in his eyes as he sprang for the young man, releasing a triumphant war cry as he hurdled the bar.
Logan stumbled back in surprise, his hand jumping to his own sword. Intense fear swelled up inside him as his hand slipped and missed the golden handle which was slippery from spilt ale. Logan could only gape as the Reakmor he had wounded dove over the bar and lunged for him.
Warm fluid sprinkled Logan's cheek as the Reakmor jerked to one side, his war cry becoming garbled as blood filled his throat. A fine stream of crimson trickled from his lips, and the color drained out of his face. His barbed sword clattered to the floor as he crumpled upon the bar, twitching fingers futilely grasping for the dagger that was lodged in his neck.
Feeling his stomach twist in protest, Logan bolted to his right, eager to get out from behind the bar. He had been safe from the brawl Moknay had started as a diversion, but a sitting duck should the other Reakthi corner him back there!
As Logan ran, a gnarled figure in a silver chestplate barred his way. A black robe covered the lean body, and short, blue-grey hair spiked outward from atop his skull. Flaming, sunken eyes glared at Logan from a shriveled and taut face while bony hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"Get out of my way!" Logan demanded, this time firmly gripping his sword's hilt.
The silver-chestplated man smiled cruelly. "What will you do if I do not, man from another world?" he queried sarcastically.
That's twice somebody has called me that! Logan noted.
"Man from another world nothing!" he spat back. "This place isn't real! You're all my creations!"
A spiked eyebrow raised in question. "Are we?" the newcomer remarked. He slowly shook his head, the shadows of the tavern playing across the many wrinkles of his face. "I should think not… although… we may become so later. As for this place being real… I can assure you, we are quite real."
Logan's mind was screaming. Truth! Holy Mother of God, why do I sense truth in what he's saying? He's telling the truth!
"I am Groathit, greatest of the Reakthi spellcasters," the silver-chestplated warrior announced. "You are to come with me."
Logan, shaken, partially withdrew his weapon as his rationale raged in silent turmoil. "I'll go with whoever I damn well feel like going with!" he roared.
Truth! God damn it to hell, how can he be telling the truth? I'm dreaming! Listen to me, goddamn it! You're dreaming! You're not really here! You can't be here!
Another voice entered the fray within Logan's mind: Learn to decipher dreams from reality, unreality from falsehood, falsehood from truth, or doom shall fall upon your worlds!
A warning! Logan's mind howled. Falsehood from truth! Maybe he is lying! Maybe the truth I sensed isn't really there at all!
The young man froze both physically and mentally as he realized something: Worlds. Not "world" but "worlds"! It was a warning! He really was there!
Now more than ever he wanted to get back home!
"The Reakthi can use you in the conquest of this land," Groathit was saying. "With your help we shall crush these barbarians."
Barbarians? the young man repeated in his mind, suddenly filled with a hellish anger. These "barbarians" had helped him! Thromar and Moknay had aided him! He would have been dead-really dead-if it hadn't have been for them. All the Reakthi had done had been to rain war and danger upon Logan and his newly acquired friends.
Without Thromar and Moknay, he could have gone mad!
With a roar of defiance, Logan lunged, blade first.
The lean Groathit waved a gnarled hand, and Logan's thrust sent him directly through the wizard. Eyes wide, Logan spun about as the sensation of mismatchment deadened his nerves and caused his head to swim. Through blurry contacts, the young man saw Groathit's form waver and become solid once more.
"It is futile to fight," the spellcaster growled.
Gritting his teeth, Logan ignored the buzz of disharmony and charged. He slashed at Groathit's midriff with all his might behind his weapon, anger feeding an inhuman strength to his muscles. The wizard barked a harsh laugh as the sword passed through his body, throwing Logan off balance. Glancing up from the floor, Logan saw Groathit step toward him, a hideous frown upon his face.
"I am to bring you to Vaugen," he informed Logan, a bench thrown in the brawl passing harmlessly through him. "He has need of you."
The spellcaster smiled, and Logan froze. The wizard's teeth were gradually lengthening, elongating into large, needle-sharp fangs. His sunken eyes flared red, and the tips of his bony fingers erupted, releasing iron claws. There was a sudden blossom of flame, and the concussion threw Logan backwards as he was once again beset upon by the feeling of dissent.
Shaking the numbness from his mind, Logan looked up to find himself outside the tavern. His sword lay on the cobblestones beside him as fearful screams exploded from within the tavern. A tidal wave of people rushed free of the building, blindly fleeing some unseen terror inside. Unexpectedly, two men were batted skyward as the demonic Groathit crashed out of the tavern, flames belching from his fang-rimmed mouth. Malevolent red eyes trained in on Logan, and the transformed mouth drew back in a crocodilian smile. With a strangled shout, Logan scurried to his feet, gripping tightly to his sword. The metamorphosed Groathit disregarded the weapon, lumbering menacingly toward the young man. A grey form suddenly leapt atop the wizard, a dagger plunging deep into his neck. Roaring in anger rather than pain, the demon-wizard pulled free the blade, releasing a geyser of blood. An arm swung about, catching Moknay on the side of his head and flinging him head over heels. Logan watched in horror as the Murderer sailed across the street and landed with a crash in a silversmith's shop. The terror increased as Logan saw Moknay slump against a circle of bricks and lay still.
Waving an iron-clawed hand, Groathit healed the wound on his neck. The rush of blood slowed to a trickle until that too faded to pink scar tissue. The gleam in the spellcaster's eyes intensified as he slowly turned to face Logan.
Staring at the still form of the Murderer across the street, Logan could feel the fear mutate into a raging fire of anger. Moknay! He had befriended him! He had attempted to rescue him from these infernal Reakthi! And now he was injured-dead, maybe! And it was because of Logan's meddling!
Teeth clenched, Logan swung about to face Groathit. Although his vision was blurred by his intense hatred, he could make out the demonic form of the wizard, fanged mouth drawn back in an evil sneer. Overtaken by his rage, Logan's arm thrust outward, jabbing the point of his sword into a flashing red eye. Streams of blood babbled down Groathit's face as he staggered to one side, screaming in agony, his black-clawed hands protectively covering his injured eye.
"I shall return for you, man from another world," the magic-user warned, spitting blood. "Consider yourself fortunate that you are of no use to Vaugen as a corpse!"
Smoke swelled up from the cobblestones, surrounding the wizard with a dense, black curtain of haze. When it dispersed, Groathit was gone.
Drained of his anger and strength, Logan made his way to the silversmith's shop, dragging his sword through the cobblestones behind him. Odd, he told himself, the silversmith's was empty. But where had Moknay gone?
A sudden glint of silver caught Logan's eye, and he hurried over to one corner of the shop. There, embedded in a barrel, was a slim dagger. Beneath it, scrawled in what could have been charcoal, was the message: "Must go. Keep this or I will cut your head off."
Smiling with relief, Logan freed the weapon. It was perfectly balanced, he noticed, so it could be used as a missile, but why had the Murderer left so hastily? You would think Logan would at least be able to see him up one of the streets.
The young man froze as he gazed up one road. A small squad of men hurried toward the tavern in military order, all dressed in uniforms. Guessing them to be the Guardsmen Thromar had mentioned, Logan crouched down behind the barrel and waited. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow as he observed the Guards march into the tavern, inspect the damage, and start off again, splitting into smaller troops. A sigh escaped Logan's lips as he scurried out from behind the barrel and started back toward the building where he had left Thromar and Bella. His unexpected entrance may cause some embarrassment, but he could not stay in Eadarus any longer. If he got caught by these Guardsmen, he'd never get to that spellcaster and go home.
As Logan jogged around a corner, another squad of uniformed men came into view. One of the Guards shouted, pointing in Logan's direction, and the others echoed his shout, jerking their swords free of their sheaths. Numerous feet pounded the cobblestones, and Logan glanced around frantically. He couldn't go back-the other troop had been scouting that area.
Logan sprang to his right, clambering upon the closest horse and jerking back the reins. The yellow stallion reared, twisting around and charging down the street. Hooves clattered noisily upon the cobblestones as the stolen horse and thief thundered westward. He had no idea where he was going, Logan realized, but he didn't need to go too far from Eadarus if the Guardsmen didn't pursue.
They pursued.
Its green mane and tail billowing out behind it, Logan's horse galloped onward. More Guards materialized from around corners, expressing their surprise and trailing after the young man. Gripping the reins protectively, Logan chanced a look behind him and almost fell out of the saddle. Three Guardsmen kept up the pursuit, mounted on darkly colored horses. Muttering an unhappy curse, Logan turned back around and swerved his horse to the right. The town suddenly dropped away behind him, and Logan was back out in the wilderness, following a northwesterly path. The trio of Guardsmen were gradually falling behind, their own mounts tiring much faster than Logan's stolen horse. Still, urged on by the fear of being caught, Logan drove his horse further, directing it off the path and into the forest. Foam began to spot the horse's mouth as Logan spied a large outcropping of rock to his left.
"Not much further," he told the horse. "I don't think they'll look for us by the rocks. The area might be too treacherous for them to consider… I hope!"
The yellow-and-green mount raced onward, its head bobbing up and down as if in response to Logan's comment. Clods of dirt the size of silver dollars were kicked up into the air by the thundering hooves, and the many trees and bushes of the forest were green and brown blurs of color.
Logan began to feel the soreness creep into his rump as he continued bouncing up and down in the crude saddle. Abruptly, the stallion broke free of the forest's greenery and Logan drew in the reins. A small, sparkling pond lay before them, positioned just outside the outcropping of rocks. A few large boulders surrounded them, and a cavern gaped in one knoll of stone. A tiny froglike creature sprang into the pool of water and submerged; the water was so clear Logan could still see the amphibian as it descended to the bottom and hid beneath a rock.
Logan dismounted and knelt beside the pond, splashing the clear liquid onto his face. His horse placed its snout into the water, shaking its head back and forth to clear its mouth of its spittle. As some water dribbled down Logan's face, a few droplets splashed into his eyes. An odd tingle filled his sockets, and his contact lenses swirled and blinked themselves clean. Immediately, Logan's vision increased, and he wonderingly touched his face as the sensation in his eyes faded.
The young man was drawn away from the odd feeling when his horse jerked its head up and stiffened. Logan did likewise, turning in the direction of the dark cavern. His ears picked up an almost inaudible crunch, and he hastily led his horse behind a boulder for safety. There, crouched in the shadows, Logan listened, straining to pick out any more noises. Beside him, his newly acquired horse pawed the ground uneasily.
There was a pause of about two minutes until Logan felt that he was just being jumpy. He flashed his mount a grin and began moving around the boulder back toward the pond. The horse, however, balked like a stubborn mule. Logan was almost jerked back as the reins went taut, and he turned to pull the horse out from behind the boulder by force. His clear vision happened to skim the sparkling pond as he turned, and he caught the reflection of the monstrosity behind him. With a startled exclamation, Logan spun about and faced the creature.
The sunlight reflected off iron scales as the giant, newt-shaped beast lumbered free of its cavern. Two bullish horns grew from its grotesquely lizardlike face, and massive claws extended from its four limbs, each impaling the ground effortlessly with every shuffling step it took. Its large, oval-shaped eyes flickered as it spotted a prospective meal, and saliva oozed from its mouth.
Swallowing hard, Logan withdrew Moknay's dagger. He was no longer dreaming, he remembered, and the possible death facing him had become much more real.
The creature advanced, its forked tongue flicking between its inch-long fangs.