The Jewel of Equilibrant w-1

by Steven Frankos

"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 i
mpact.

  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.