Logan glanced over his shoulder at the treetops backed by the cloud-filled sky. The black hawk ignored his gaze, continuing to flap from to tree. The sunlight seemed to sparkle upon a malevolent intent glittering within the bird's eyes as it glared down at the three.
"It's been watching us all day," Logan muttered, turning back around.
Moknay sneered in vexation, one hand going to the throwing knife at his belt. "Damn bird," he snarled. "It just sits there-like it's waiting for something-and it always evades anything we throw at it."
"Let it come closer and I'll mash its beak!" Thromar declared.
"It did; and you missed," Moknay reminded. "At least we've been able to guess that it has to return to wherever Groathit is to give him a report on our progress. I only wish I knew what the damn thing was waiting for." The Murderer glared up at the treetops with his own namesake glinting in his eyes.
The ebony bird spread its wings and fluttered to the next treetop.
Logan gave the saddlebag hiding the Jewel a swift glance and then turned back to the hawk. Groathit's tactics worked better for them than for him, Logan discovered. The spellcaster could have his stupid bird trail them all the way to the Hills of Sadroia before doing something himself, and, of course, by then, it would be too late. The Jewel would be in the Smythe's hands, and Logan would be safe at home in his Santa Monica apartment. A wild grin suddenly spread across Logan's face and he directed his horse closer to Moknay's.
"It might be waiting for us to mention where we're going," the young man whispered.
Moknay's eyebrows shot up, and Logan's grin was reflected on the Murderer's mien. "You may have something there, friend," he whispered back. "We're pretty close to Debarnian; perhaps we can lose our feathered foe for a few days."
"How?" Thromar questioned. "It will surely follow us into the town."
Moknay's eyes flickered. "Not if we give it some information to tell Groathit," he said with a smirk. Then, in a loud voice, he proclaimed, "Not much further. We should arrive in Semeth in a few weeks."
"We will?" Thromar asked, startled.
Moknay hushed the fighter with a fierce glare and turned to watch the bird. The hawk flapped its wings triumphantly, flying eastward. "Semeth!" it croaked. "Semeth!"
"Into the town!" Moknay ordered.
The three horses shot forth, leaving an enormous cloud of dust rising in their wake. The wind shrieked past Logan's ears as he urged his mount on at what seemed to be an impossible speed. Before he could adjust his senses to the incredible pace, the horses entered Debarnian and Logan had to fight the reins for control. People scattered, screaming, as the trio of horses charged recklessly through the town, hooves clattering upon the cobblestones.
Logan jerked back on the reins and finally pulled his yellow-and-green mount to a halt. Thromar reined up beside him; dismounting in front of them was Moknay. He walked over to the two, leading his horse and smirking in victory. Thromar also dismounted, gently patting Smeea upon the nose. Logan remained on his horse, watching the two from there as if the spectacular run had left him as winded as the horses.
With a cheerful "Ah-ha!" Thromar began to move forward, taking Smeea along behind him.
Moknay raised a curious eyebrow as the fighter walked past him. "Where in Imogen's name are you going?" he queried.
"In there," Thromar remarked, pointing to a nearby tavern. "If we're going to hide from that bird, we may as well do it in style."
"So," the Murderer grunted, "Thromar the Fat heads for the nearest tavern! I should have guessed as much. Well, Logan and I will be at Agellic's Church; I've a friend there who may be able to help."
Logan jumped from his horse and gave Thromar a last look before the fighter ducked into the bar. An unease began to take residence in Logan's stomach as he followed Moknay down the cobblestone street. The last time he had been separated from Thromar he had almost been killed-three times! And he had been forced to retreat without the fighter's aid. No, Logan did not like the idea of Thromar leaving them, but he could not demand the fighter accompany him. Thromar had his own life to lead… Logan was only getting in the way with his being there.
The sensation of incompatibility returned as if on cue.
Moknay halted before Logan and opened a massive ivory door. The feeling of wrongness practically vanished as Logan looked up at the Church. It was built out of massive stones, and battlements lined the roof like a castle tower. Triangular windows made of glass stretched up the walls, and four huge pillars supported the roof above the entrance. The architecture seemed to be a cross between the structures of ancient Greece and of the High Middle Ages.
In awe, Logan entered the Church and was stunned once again. Crystal and gold adorned the tables and walls, and the marble floor sparkled black and white as sunlight streamed in through the windows. Enormous pillars stood sentrylike within the foyer, and Logan realized the black-and-white floor made an odd design under their feet. A small wooden door, carved with intricate designs, stood off to their left, and double doors which led to the main body of the Church lay ahead of them.
His boots clicking upon the marble, Moknay went for the smaller door.
The two stepped into a cluttered room filled with tables and littered by strange objects and devices. Rows of candles lined all the tables but one. This table was covered by a collection of papers and scrolls, and a somewhat plump man dressed in a red tunic and blue pants bent over the parchments, his back to his guests.
Silently, Moknay crept up behind him, poking a dagger at the man's back. "Stand quite still and give me all your money," the Murderer growled menacingly.
The man at the table went rigid. "I give up!" he cried. "Take my money! Take my clothing! Take everything! Just don't hurt me!"
Moknay grinned back at Logan. "Turn around very slowly," he instructed his victim.
The chubby man did as he was commanded, shuffling about with as much grace as a worm caught in a spider's web. When he saw his attacker, he straightened considerably, tugging on his tunic and clearing his throat.
"Fooled you, didn't I?" he snorted. "Knew it was you all along! Just wanted to give your morale a boost!"
"Of course you did, Barthol," Moknay agreed, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Oh, I did!" protested Barthol. "If I had not have recognized you, a real thief would have tasted my fury! Stab! Into his bowels! Slash! Off goes an arm! Blood everywhere! Marvelous!"
"You remind me an awful lot of Thromar," Moknay sneered, "but that's not why I'm here."
Barthol turned his back on the Murderer, waving his hands in annoyance. "If it's money you want, you've wasted your time. The collection box has been empty for weeks, so I haven't gotten… uh… I mean, the Church hasn't gotten anything for a long time."
"I don't want your money," answered Moknay. "I want you to help my friend."
Barthol looked over his shoulder and spotted Logan for the first time. With a startled yelp, he sprang back, knocking into a table and spilling a number of leatherbound volumes. Moknay glared at the priest, tapping the fingers of his right hand upon his left arm.
"Calm yourself, Barthol," he commanded. "He's a friend."
Barthol sneered back. "Well, he can't have any money either." The plump man took a curious step forward and peered at Logan. "And besides, people from Droth aren't allowed in Agellic's Church."
"For Christ's sake!" exclaimed Logan. "I am not from Droth!"
Barthol blinked, turning to Moknay. "For whose sake?" he wondered.
Moknay's eyebrows lowered, transforming his face into a grimace of impatience. "Stop aggravating me, Barthol," he said, gritting his teeth. "You know you're very good at it."
"Yes," Barthol replied, "you say that every time you visit me and ask for money."
"I don't want your damn money!" the Murderer fumed.
"Then why did you come here?" Barthol threw back.
Moknay's gloved hands shot out and grasped the front of Barthol's tunic. The stumpy man cringed for a moment as Moknay drew him closer, then threw back his shoulders and met the Murderer's glare. "Don't hit me," he warned, "or I'll turn into a living blast of power and whiz about you until you won't know what hit you."
Moknay continued glaring, his teeth clenched. "You'll find that quite difficult without a head," he snarled slowly.
Barthol's brow furrowed in thought. "You know," he pleasantly responded, "I think you're right."
"Now listen to me and listen carefully," Moknay instructed. "My friend here is not from Droth, nor is he from Sparrill, Denzil, or Magdelon. He says he comes from Santa Monica, which could be another part of the world-Imogen knows I've never heard of it! We've run into a bit of a problem, and I want you to check your charts to see if Logan's… arrival has been noted."
Barthol beamed. "Ah! My charts!" he happily cried. "You have come to the right man! I shall answer any questions you may have… if you'll let me go."
Moknay released the priest and watched as he walked to an empty wall. Dimpled fingers picked up a pouch and reached into it. Between his thumb and forefinger, Barthol was pinching some glittering dust when he extracted his hand, and Logan thought it looked like glitter he used to buy as a kid at a magic shop. Knowing he had an audience, Barthol himself put on a magic act, adding meaningless gestures and ridiculous jumps as he sprinkled the dust before the blank wall. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen; then the wall shivered, almost rippling like water. Gradually, a dark square formed on the wall, dotted with points of light. Logan blinked a few times at what appeared to be a window, only it did not look outside at the town of Debarnian but stared out into the blackness of space. Strange illuminated symbols accompanied the stars as they went about their celestial dance.
Barthol leaned closer to inspect his chart.
"Hmmm," the little man muttered, "Bergyls has shifted, and Rewyt seems to have dropped Wheelward. Aetwindan is increasing, and Gereord is diminishing. IukIan and Paell have interchanged, and Tolmaessa is veering Gymmward."
Logan scratched his head. "What's all that mean?"
Barthol turned around, shrugging. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Moknay bellowed. "What do you mean you don't know?"
Barthol waved his hands frantically. "I never did understand all that cosmic claptrap!" he admitted. Unexpectedly, something on the chart caught his eye and he began staring. "What's this, then?" he mumbled. "There's a rift in the Wheel, causing it to tilt slightly to one side."
"Any foreseeable danger?" interrogated Moknay.
"Oh, no," Barthol consoled him. "The Wheel continuously dips from one side to the other-part of the cosmic cycle of events."
"Anything about the Jewel of Equilibrant?" Logan abruptly questioned, shifting the leather pouch he carried in his arms.
Barthol turned away from his chart, his eyes trained on Logan. "Why do you ask that?"
"Can you find it on your chart?" Moknay pressed the question.
Barthol swung around to face his chart. "Of course I can find it on my chart," he retorted. "The Jewel acts as the force that balances out the system of forces within the Wheel and produces equilibrium for the…" The priest nosed up to his mystical chart, peering at it. "It's not there," he gasped.
"Do you know who owned it?" Logan inquired, recalling Moknay's comment about stealing it from the Smythe. Wouldn't that just be dandy? the young man thought. The man I was looking for was in one of the first places I was, and I may have not only left without seeing if he could help me, but stealing his horse as well!
In somewhat of a daze, Barthol turned to some scrolls to answer Logan's query. "The Jewel has been in the possession of one of the mightiest spellcasters in all Sparrill, a magician by the name of Zackaron. In his experiments with the Jewel, Zackaron accidently triggered a portion of the energies and bestowed upon himself almost godly powers. This transfer alone has kept him alive for almost two hundred years.
Unfortunately, powers that practically give Zackaron control over nature also drove him quite mad. So, in order to keep the Jewel's powers in check, he gave it to his servant-boy, Pembroke." Barthol swung his gaze from his scrolls back to his chart. "And it seems Pembroke has lost the Jewel!" He went silent for another moment. "Holy Agellic!" he cried in fear. "If the Reakthi should happen to get their slimy hands on the Jewel, I'd hate to think what would happen to Sparrill!"
"No need to worry," Moknay grimly advised. "Logan has the Jewel."
"Moknay, this is no time for your macabre humor," Barthol snapped, still glaring at his shimmering chart. The priest's eyes abruptly widened. "By Harmeer's War Axe, you're right! That's why the Wheel is beginning to tilt! The rift seems to be from your friend's 'arrival,' but the tilting is because the Jewel's powers are not being kept in check. We're doomed! Doomed, I say! Doomed! That Jewel has got to be given to a spellcaster who can hold the powers in. If the Jewel continues to leak its cosmic energies, there will be nothing to stabilize the forces of the Wheel and act as equilibrant! The Wheel will have no means to achieve equilibrium, and it will tilt until it entirely flips over and destroys us all!"
Logan took in a sharp gulp of air as a burning anger chewed its way through his brain. "So it's up to Matthew Logan to save the universe," he snarled venomously.
"Huh?" queried Barthol. "What was that?"
Logan turned on the priest, eyes blazing. "I didn't want to come here!" he thundered. "Blast it! All I want to do is get back to my quiet, apathetic, Earthly home! I don't want to have the outcome of an entire world on my shoulders! It's not fair! It's not my fault I got zapped here! Why is it my fault that this Wheel is tilting?"
"It's no fault of yours, dear boy," Barthol soothed. "Only a spellcaster should have that Jewel; the powers inside it are what keeps the Wheel balanced, and you can imagine the force those powers must have. A magician must constantly keep the Jewel's energies in check. Oh, some leaks out now and again, but the Jewel easily replenishes itself. However, if there's no one around who knows how to keep the Jewel's powers in, they'll start escaping-slowly, mind you-but still escaping."
Moknay was nodding all through the priest's explanation. "How long do we have until all the powers are free?"
Barthol studied his chart. "Not very long," he reported dismally. "You will see signs of the escaping powers: earthquakes, storms, and such, all unnatural, of course, since the natural balance is faltering. Then larger disasters will begin. When this occurs, there will not be much time before the Wheel tilts on its side."
"And, if I remember my schooling correctly," Moknay continued, "once the Wheel goes over on its side, there's no reversing it. it will continue to tilt the rest of the way until this entire place goes up in flames."
Barthol nodded in silence, scanning his chart over and over.
Fists clenched at his sides, Logan stood behind the two, the anger still within him. This was worse than a dream, he grumbled to himself. It was a nightmare slowly going from bad to worse. It was suddenly up to him whether this land lived or died, and that didn't seem fair to Logan at all. He was an accident… a quirk! He wasn't supposed to be here! Why did this task fall to him? He didn't mean to steal the Jewel from Pembroke-why should he have to face the consequences? He was having a hard enough time as it was!
The young man's anger started to diminish as a faint sound reached his ears. For a second, he thought that infernal buzz of mismatchment was upon him, but then the noise faded, leaving Logan floundering in a million possibilities.
"Should we give the Jewel back to Zackaron or continue toward the Smythe?" Moknay was asking Barthol.
"The Smythe, by all means!" Barthol replied. "Agellic knows what Zackaron could do with his mind gone and all. It's a wonder he never forgot to keep the Jewel in check himself."
"We could use your help in finding the Smythe," Moknay invited.
The priest shook his head. "I'm afraid I'll have to abstain, not that I envy your task. My duty lies with the Church."
Moknay was nodding when Logan jumped toward him. Wings! the young man's brain was screaming. That noise is the beat of wings!
The Murderer went to the floor wearing a startled expression as something tore the air and splintered against the far wall near Barthol. Cursing, Moknay rolled to his feet, his grey eyes flaring angrily. Standing outside Barthol's open door was Groathit, a ghastly smile drawn across his lean face. Flanking him were six chestplated Reakthi, one leveling a crossbow at the Murderer's chest.
From his vantage point on the floor, Logan saw the spellcaster's left eye was glazed, as if he were blind in that eye.
"Groathit!" Moknay barked. "You worm! How long have you been here?"
The magic-user continued to smile. "My men and I have only just arrived, but I knew of your secret… 'cargo' beforehand." His good eye flicked to the crossbowman at his side. "Now hand over your companion and his prize."
In reply, Moknay swerved, and two daggers flashed. The crossbow twanged, and the blatant noise made Logan flinch. Moknay, however, expertly dived to one side, releasing the throwing knife at his belt. With an agonized cry, the cross-bowman went down, one of the Murderer's daggers projecting from his cheek. Another Reakthi toppled, the Murderer's dagger and throwing knife embedded in his flesh.
"Get them and bring me the Jewel!" Groathit roared at the remaining warriors.
The quartet of Reakthi advanced, pushing into the cluttered room. Logan yanked free his own blade, swinging at the closest soldier. The warrior let out a shout as the blade tore across the top of his wrist, freeing blood. Moknay sprang atop one of the tables, three daggers screaming from his hand in rapid succession. One Reakthi fell backwards, a dagger lodged in the side of his neck. Another winced as a spinning blade skimmed his left shoulder and thunked into the wall. The third dagger spun for Groathit, who waved once and scattered the weapon's molecules throughout the chamber.
"Logan!" Moknay called. "The Jewel!"
Logan pulled the sack out from under his arm and made ready to toss the pouch to the Murderer. Unexpectedly, the hilt of a sword crashed into the back of his head with terrific force, and Logan pitched forward with a weak groan, the sack falling out of his hands.
Moknay's eyes narrowed as he watched the Reakthi behind Logan bend to grasp the Jewel. Groathit stood in the doorway, a triumphant grin across his skull-like features. A booted foot suddenly smashed into the Reakthi's jaw, knocking the warrior to the floor. Spitting blood, the chestplated soldier readied his sword, glancing up to see Barthol now in possession of the Jewel. Growling like some savage animal, the Reakthi shot forward, his sword thrusting for Barthol's stomach.
Barthol moved with astounding speed, snatching up Logan's fallen sword as he scurried to one side. His wild lunge, however, sent him reeling into a table, and the priest expected the Reakthi's sword to pierce his back at any moment. A scream sounded instead, and Barthol whipped about as his attacker toppled to the ground, one of Moknay's daggers just above his chestplate.
The Reakthi with the wounded wrist started for the priest, who sprinted back, pushing over the table he had bumped. The warrior stumbled, slipping in a puddle of blood made by his companions as he gripped tightly to his wrist. When he regained his balance and glanced up to find the fat priest, shining metal met his eyes and white-hot pain seared into his face. Blood splattered as Logan's blade bit into the Reakthi's eyes and across the bridge of his nose before shattering his skull.
Barthol watched as a hand twitched and went still.
"By all the gods!" a voice boomed throughout the Church.
Groathit wheeled about to see Thromar stride into the chamber, his massive sword ripping free of its sheath and streaking for the Reakthi spellcaster. Frantically gesticulating, Groathit burst into a titanic tongue of fire and vanished. The last Reakthi collapsed to the bloodstained floor as Moknay slit his throat.
Thromar let out a snort, replacing his sword. "Huh! Next time I shall know better! I went looking for some fun in a tavern and it's in a Church instead!"
There was a dim glow generating from somewhere within the room and a persistent throb in his skull as Logan feebly opened one eye. All the muscles in his body ached, and he winced at each heartbeat as if the flowing of his blood strengthened the pounding in his head. With his one eye open, Logan could make out a strange, iron-wrought symbol hanging on the wall above his supine form, and a soft substance lay beneath him, so he guessed he was on a bed of some sort. When he attempted to turn his head, the sharp jab of pain shot through his nerves, and Logan slumped, groaning. Through the ache, the young man heard satin rustle and peeked his eye open again to observe a slim figure leaning over him, a candle sputtering in one hand.
The candle's faint yellow glow illuminated a lovely face ringed by dark brown hair, and eyes filled with concern looked down at Logan. A red satin robe clung to her shapely form, closed by a black satin belt about her slim waist. She smiled when,she saw Logan's eye pop open.
"Don't move," she whispered. "I'll fetch Barthol."
Barthol, Logan mused. That's right-he and Moknay had gone to see Barthol and had been attacked. The Jewel! he suddenly recalled, attempting to sit up. What had happened to the Jewel?
Dizziness and nausea consumed Logan, and he was forced back onto the bed. Helplessly, he stared up at the iron symbol, wishing the pain in his head would go away as he recognized the ornament as the same design that had been in the foyer. Quiet footsteps sounded as the girl returned, trailed by Barthol and Moknay; to Logan each step was a booming cannon.
"How are you feeling?" Barthol inquired softly. "That was a nasty rap you took."
Logan reached a hand behind his head and flinched as he lightly touched the enormous bulge on the back of his skull. "I feel like a bunch of elephants are doing a fandango in my head," he moaned.
Barthol glanced back at Moknay. "Fandango?"
Moknay glanced back. "Elephants?" he queried. Silently, he approached a window and peered out behind the curtains. "If you're wondering," he said over his shoulder, "we still have the Jewel."
Logan attempted to nod, and his head was flooded with pain. Instead, he croaked, "How the hell did Groathit find us? I thought we had tricked his bird."
Moknay shrugged. "He must have been waiting for us to ditch his spy and had a troop of Reakthi trailing us. He probably just teleported in from wherever he was hiding." The Murderer flashed Logan a grin which-to Logan-seemed to glare like a million suns. "Still, he doesn't know if we were lying when we said we were going to Semeth. Any fool could have guessed we had run into Debarnian."
Barthol placed a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder. "You'll be staying here tonight," he told him, "in Mara's room. She's an apprentice priestess of Lelah, so feel free to ask her for anything… if you know what I mean. She's never had a visitor before, but she does very well in her studies."
Logan blinked a few times, thinking he had misheard. "Huh?" he sputtered. "You mean when you're a priest you can…?"
Barthol chuckled good-naturedly. "Of course! Lelah's the goddess of love, so all her priestesses are taught the goddess's art. It's different where you come from, eh? That's too bad you can't…"
"Who the hell says I can't?" barked Logan. "It's some of the priests where I come from who can't!"
The young man fell back onto the bed, clamping his hands to the sides of his head. His own shouting had hurt, and it felt like someone had activated a triphammer in his forehead.
"Get some rest," Moknay instructed him. "We'll be leaving early tomorrow morning. I can't say I like staying here when Groathit knows where we are."
Logan did not even attempt to nod as Moknay and Barthol left the room. He muttered unhappily to himself and at the rhythmic beat within his brain. Mara sat on the edge of his bed and gently placed a cloth behind Logan's head. For a moment, there was a flash of pain, but then it was gone and Logan realized how near the girl was to him. As she backed away, Logan cracked an awkward grin, recalling what Barthol had said.
"I-I wish I…" he stuttered, cursing himself for not being able to talk straight.
What rotten luck! he grumbled. Mara was one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen-in Sparrill or in Santa Monica. The way she arranged her hair was absolutely beautiful, and she had the most alluring green eyes that sparkled as if they were emeralds. Her smile was one of understanding and compassion, and her figure…! Thank God someone put a blanket over me! Logan thought. Without it, his reaction to Mara's beauty-and Barthol's comment-would have been six and a half inches more than obvious!
"What Barthol said…" Logan tried again. "… I can believe that… uh… what I mean is…"
Mara bent forward, placing a slim finger on Logan's lips. "Shhh," she hushed him. "Rest now. You received quite a bump."
Logan almost flustered as he misunderstood the priestess and feared the blanket did not cover him as much as he thought. The panic slowly drained away, and Logan realized she meant the bump on his skull. Frowning to himself, he noted what headaches could really do to one's sex drive.
"Perhaps you could come back under less strenuous circumstances," Mara suggested. "I'd like to know more about you and your world."
Logan tried to smile and succeeded, although his facial muscles screamed in protest. "I don't think I can come back," he answered. "Once I leave Debarnian, I don't think you'll ever see me again."
Mara brushed one of the spiraling wisps of her long dark hair out of her face. "Why not?"
"Homesick," Logan shrugged, and the pounding intensified. "I'm giving my 'cargo' to some Smythe guy and going home… I hope."
Mara nodded, more of her dark brown hair spilling about her. "Then sleep," she told him. "Your journey will be arduous, and you will need your strength."
The young girl rose from the side of the bed and started across the room, her satin robe parting as she walked to give tantalizing glimpses of her bare legs.
Groaning, Logan shut his eyes and tried not to think about the priestess. It was reassuring to know, he noticed, that this god-awful world hadn't confused all his feelings. Only why did he have to find out now?
When Logan reopened his eyes, another priestess had entered the room, clad in a satin robe of dark blue. She was as beautiful and as shapely as Mara, but her hair was the color of beaten gold.
"Riva," Mara said, "bring in some more pillows, please."
The golden-haired priestess nodded in silence and fetched the goose-feathered pillows. She placed them on Logan's bed, gently lifting his head as she slipped one behind him. Her light blue eyes glistened, and a seductive wink made Logan panic. His thoughts tripped and staggered over one another as he tried to think of a response. The priestess was gone even before he thought to grin.
Mara stepped quietly over to her bed and untied her satin belt. With the rustle of satin, the red robe spilled away from her luscious frame like crimson water, and Logan clamped his eyes shut. Of all the times to have a knock on the head! he cursed silently.
Logan could hear Mara's breath as she blew out the candle, and more fabric rustled as the priestess climbed into her bed. Even behind the safety of his closed eyes, Logan was not free. The image of Mara slipping out of her robe continued to tease him, and, with nefarious mirth, his imagination took over and she and Logan were together. The pounding in his head lessened as his blood began to flow to other portions of his anatomy, and Logan begged for release.
Taking its cue once again, that infernal sense of wrongness heard Logan's unspoken plea and descended, swirling about his already shaken skull. Images of Mara, flickers of pain, and that mercurial buzz sloshed about in utter chaos, and Logan cursed his luck and the foul world in which he was trapped.
Gradually, his release was granted, and Logan slept.
"What? Blast it! There's got to be a way!"
The voice arose from the eddying tidepools of red and silver light, shattering the stillness with its tone of wonderment and confusion.
"Oh, wait! Yes, wait a minute! I think I'm getting something! "
Matthew Logan blinked his eyes repeatedly, staring at the spiraling vortex of blood and metal that encircled him. A strange sensation of deja vu assailed the young man, and, puzzled, he tried to remember where he had seen this place before.
"Excuse me. I'll be there in a moment. I'm having a devil of a time trying to get a clear picture. Whatever you do, don't wake up. I may not be able to pick up your alpha waves again."
The asthmatic voice receded into the ocean of red and silver as a shadowy form took shape before Logan's bewildered eyes. Overwhelmed by the feeling of repetition, Logan watched as the figure advanced. It was a robed, monklike form that walked with a purposeful stride toward Logan, its features hidden by a large hood. Questioningly, the monk's hood tilted to one side as the figure halted.
"You're going to be the one?" the monk asked in that same, wheezing rasp. "Hmmmm. Seems it works out. At least you're not dead, yet. My idea must work since you're not denying you're here. Well, that's good to know."
Hands pulled the hood away from the face, and Logan blinked in recognition. Before him stood the long-haired businessman, only now his face wasn't so ferocious. But why was he now wearing a robe? In Logan's world he had worn a suit; in Sparrill he wore a robe. Was there any significance?
Snow began to fall about the two, and the long-haired businessman appeared to be just as surprised as Logan. They watched the miniature flakes of white for a moment before the businessman/monk turned his gaze back to Logan.
"Remember what Lord Byron once wrote," he said enigmatically. "'I had a dream which was not all a dream.'"
Logan lifted his eyebrows in question as the robed figure melded into the whirlpool of snowflakes and red and silver. Icicles began to sprout from the snow-covered ground like strangely jagged blades of grass, and one touched his throat from somewhere out of his line of vision. It was freezing and cold to the touch…
Logan's eyes fluttered open as the dream dissolved. Very dim light hinted to the young man that it was a little before dawn, but his subconscious did not wish to give him up. The icicle was still at his throat and a weight was upon his chest, restraining his arms.
"Hand me the Jewel or die," a throaty voice commanded.
That was not my subconscious! Logan realized, instantly springing awake. Someone was straddling his chest, their legs pinning his arms to the bed. And, if that wasn't bad enough, that icicle was no mere piece of frozen water! It was the cold, cruel blade of a dagger touching the unprotected flesh of his neck.
"What Jewel?" Logan inquired loudly.
"Silence!" the voice rasped in command, and the dagger nipped at his throat as it edged closer.
In that second of movement, Logan thought he heard the faint rustle of fabric.
"I want the Jewel," his attacker growled.
His night-hidden foe did not weigh much, Logan noted. The voice was raspy, but high-obviously disguised. Logan surmised he could probably unseat his assailant by arching his back, but he couldn't stop the dagger before it slit his throat.
"You will give me the Jewel or you shall die," the voice threatened.
"Then you'll never get it," Logan smugly retorted, once again purposely loud.
There was silence for a moment. The cold dagger eased up as Logan's attacker shifted its weight. This time Logan was sure he heard fabric rustle as his foe settled back down. A slim and shapely backside rested upon Logan's abdomen, and he knew his opponent had to be female. He moaned inwardly, praying his assailant was not Mara. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, he grimly reminded himself.
"I shall use you," his foe advised in a harsh whisper. "You for the Jewel."
Logan let out a laugh, and his injured skull throbbed in reply. "My friends know the importance of the Jewel," he snapped, ignoring the pain in his head. "They're not going to make a stupid deal like that!"
"I will not tell you to be silent again," his attacker warned.
The weight upon his chest and the dagger at his throat was suddenly gone, and a loud thump echoed in Logan's ears and affected the pounding in his skull. His vision became blurred as he struggled to look to one side; all the while the throbbing in his head grew worse. Through the pink of the coming dawn, however, he could make out two forms struggling in the shadows.
"Hurry!" Mara cried out, grasping the wrist of Logan's assailant. "Run!"
Logan sat up, and the room twisted inside-out. His stomach leaped and churned, and vertigo seized control. The throbbing in his brain became frantic, beating and pounding at the walls of his skull. Trying to adjust his vision, Logan saw silver flash and watched in fear as Mara forced the dagger away from her bare breast. The robed assailant threw itself back, satin billowing noisily as it freed its arms from Mara's grasp. In response, the priestess lunged, nude and unarmed. She once again caught her opponent by the wrist, desperately trying to force the dagger out of its grasp.
Stumbling in the pink light, Logan fell out of his bed. His head felt twice its size and growing larger with each pulse of pain. Gasping for breath, the young man blindly lunged, and his fingers latched onto fabric. His sense of balance dispersed, but he did not care. Pulling the robed assassin down with him, Logan crashed to the ground, followed by his attacker and Mara. A slim leg cracked into Logan's chest, and the pain in his head reached down into his ribs. All the breath went out of the young man, and he collapsed to the floor, stars and supernovae playing behind his eyelids.
"I can't…!" Mara breathed. "Matthew Logan, you must run!"
The voice reached into Logan's mind, and his last remaining ounces of strength stirred themselves into action. Feebly, he crawled to his hands and knees and stood, leaning up against the wall for support. Something whistled beside his ear, and his brain casually registered that the dagger had narrowly missed slashing Logan's throat. Narrowly missed? Logan blanched, realizing the importance of the message and momentarily forcing the pain away.
Satin tore in Mara's hand and Logan's attacker viciously backhanded the priestess across the room. The dark-haired girl spun backwards, crashing into a small table and lying very still. From where he was leaning, Logan could tell her full breasts continued to rise and fall, so she was not dead. His attacker, however, snatched up the dagger and started for the priestess. Rage boiled inside Logan and his hands clenched into fists-and he felt cold steel on the wall.
Inhaling, Logan fought back the pulsing in his head and pulled the iron-wrought symbol down from the wall. Its massive weight was too much for him, and the young man succumbed to gravity, clumsily twisting around as the huge design dropped earthward. Logan's attacker crumpled under the iron ornament, its dagger clattering noisily beside it. Logan also fell to the floor, his hands still clutching the enormous symbol. He had no idea how long he lay there before he pushed himself away from his assailant and crawled serpentlike to Mara's side. His head continued to scream in agony, and the pain dimmed the other sensations in his body as Logan touched numb fingers to Mara's naked leg.
His head swirling, Logan thought an explosion had gone off when light suddenly flooded the room. Mumbling what he hoped was a curse and not some word he had made up, the young man turned to see Barthol hurry into the chamber, a torch crackling above his head. The flames seemed to bore into Logan's skull, and the pain became too much for him. His head dropped, resting upon Mara's thigh as he battled the fury raging in his brain. He suddenly saw Riva nearby, her robe torn open and blood staining her golden hair red. The iron symbol lay atop her skull, and her exposed chest failed to rise.
"Holy Agellic!" shouted Barthol. "What have you done?"
Hurt, Logan's thought whimpered. Voice hurts. Shhh. Mara hurt. Help her.
Moknay glided in behind Barthol, his feet making no sound upon the floorboards. "Calm yourself, Barthol," he advised. "The details of the struggle are quite clear to me."
"Not to me!" the priest retorted.
Unsteadily, Logan pointed a shaking arm at Riva. "She attacked me… wanted… wanted the Jewel." He collapsed back upon Mara's soft leg. "Mara saved me."
Moknay nodded slowly, clamping a friendly hand upon Logan's shoulder. "Come on, friend," he said. "We've got to be leaving."
Logan shrugged off the Murderer's hand and protectively tightened his grip on Mara's thigh. Handing the torch to Moknay, Barthol leaned down and picked the unconscious Mara up in his arms. Logan's hands slipped away and a terrific wave of loss swept over the young man. Someone who had saved him had been injured, just like Moknay himself had been. Logan longed to help Mara, but he did not know how. Best to leave as Moknay had suggested and get out of the priestess's life before he brought more injury.
Painfully, Logan pulled himself off the ground and walked with Moknay's help out the door.
There was still a small ache in the back of his head, but the broth Barthol had made for him had lessened the pain. Quietly, Logan sat atop his mount, gazing apologetically down at Mara. The priestess stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. She did not blame Logan at all for her injuries but thanked him for saving her life, something Logan hardly thought himself worthy of after what he had caused. He had been the one to put her life in jeopardy in the first place!
"Don't worry about it, my boy!" Barthol spoke up, noticing the two staring. "Mara's all right. In a few days she'll hardly remember the incident!"
"I'll remember," Mara whispered in answer, never taking her eyes from Logan.
"You've got the Jewel?" inquired Thromar from atop Smeea.
Logan patted one of the saddlebags in response, casting his eyes down as he was unable to meet the priestess's gaze any longer.
"May Agellic aid you in your search for the Smythe," Barthol told the trio on horseback. "We dare not let such powers fall back into Zackaron's hands or Groathit's."
"We shall try not to," Moknay told his friend. "Very well then, Barthol, perhaps I shall see you once this journey is over… or perhaps I shan't."
Barthol grimaced at the Murderer's gloomy humor but waved cheerfully as the colorful horses turned and galloped down the cobblestone streets. Mara kept her emerald green eyes trained upon Logan until the horses turned, and he was out of sight.
"Which direction?" Moknay queried as they rode.
"Straight west," Thromar replied. "We'll be leaving the path, but moving directly for Plestenah. From there it's straight into the Hills."
The Murderer stroked his bare chin with a gloved hand. "But that leaves us Roana, Lephar, and Ohmmarrious to forge without a bridge."
Thromar made a sour face under his beard before answering. "The Roana's gentle enough to cross, and I believe there's a bridge outside of Plestenah that will take us over the Lephar. That leaves us with only the Ohmmarrious to cross on our own."
The three raced out of the town, Thromar and Moknay tossing possible routes back and forth between them. Logan's horse thundered behind them, its rider taunted by visions of a shapely young priestess with eyes as green as fir. There had been something about Mara that had piqued Logan's interest, and it was definitely more than just Barthol's suggestion. And Logan had caused her to be hurt.
"But if we go all the way to the bridge, that takes us too far south!" Thromar was arguing. "We want to go to the Hills, not Gelvanimore!"
"You want to try crossing the Ohmmarrious near the branch of the Lephar?" the Murderer retorted. "We're not riding waterfoals!"
"Quiet!" Logan ordered his companions in a hushed voice.
The pair glanced back at him; he no longer wore his dour expression and alarm sparkled in his eyes. Immediately, Thromar and Moknay obeyed and went silent.
"Keep riding," Logan whispered, "only glance to the left when you get the chance."
The fighter and Murderer did and saw what Logan had glimpsed. Snaking from tree trunk to tree trunk was a thin, lean figure with spiky black hair. A sharp, long nose jutted from the narrow face, and tiny black specks hidden in the crevices of his brow were his eyes. A tattered cloak fluttered behind the figure, and clothes as rumpled as his hair covered the scrawny skulker.
"It's Pembroke," Moknay murmured. "He's found us."