Traverse not into folly.
Musing silently, Logan trailed Thromar into the cluttered town and down a cobblestone street. Carts and horses wound their way across the narrow roads, the noises they made drowning out the cries of the merchants along the roadway. Large clusters of people milled about small shops made out of some kind of canvas, and larger groups meandered through the wood and stone structures behind them.
The clothing, Logan noted, was anything but medievalish. The young man had been prepared to see men and women dressed in Elizabethan styles, but an assortment of costumes and materials paraded before Logan's curious eye. And those Reakthi had thought his sweat suit was weird!
As the two ventured farther into the town, the small canvas shops gave way to women. Multitudes of scantily clad females lined the cobblestone paths, eyeing prospective clients as they rode or walked by. The men who walked the streets wore darker clothing, and hoods covered much of their features. Obviously not the better portion of town, Logan thought.
A sudden voice rang out from the crowded walk: "Thromar!"
Logan swung his head around to see a girl race toward them.
"Bella!" Thromar roared.
Bella happily charged Smeea, gripping Thromar's leg with long-nailed fingers. Logan saw she was rather short and stocky, but her face could classify her as "fetching." Bobbed black hair reached almost to her shoulders, and the slits in her light blue gown seemed to go up to her arms.
"Thromar," she breathed, "come with me. It has been so long since your last visit."
The huge fighter was about to leap from Smeea when he spied Logan out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat loudly until he had Bella's attention and then nodded in the young jogger's direction. Bella gave the fighter's companion a brief smile, her lips painted red.
Logan took an exaggerated step backwards. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "Don't let me stop you! I don't want to be a bother!"
Thromar grinned with his yellowing teeth and sprang from Smeea. "Thank you for your understanding, friend-Logan," he said. "I shall not be long."
Bella jerked on his arm in silent protest.
"Well, not too long. Await my return; I would hate to lose an ally such as you."
Logan waved the two off. "Don't worry about me," he told them. "This is my dream; nothing'll happen. Maybe I'll shop around for a horse."
"Just don't purchase anything until I get back," advised Thromar as he was led by an impatient Bella into a nearby building.
Feeling confused and awkward, Logan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered off through the town. Is it my dream? he asked himself. Since when had he ever had complete control over what was going" on? Never. That didn't mean it wasn't his dream, but it certainly didn't confirm it.
Logan spied a building that looked as if it could be a bar, and, as he neared, he was sure of it. Two men staggered out, bumped into one another, and sprawled flat on the ground. Another man sauntered out, grabbed hold of a whore, and slung her over his shoulder. Logan started forward but immediately restrained himself. He had no need to get involved with this idiotic land. He only wanted to wake up.
As Logan approached the tavern with the hope of getting some answers, he was forced to sidestep one of the drunken men on the ground. In doing so, he bumped into a trio of men as they stepped through the doorway. The three glared down at Logan, their eyes red with intoxication.
"Get a load of him," one of them slurred. "The little man from Droth thinks he can bump into us."
Logan took an uneasy step backwards. All three, he noticed, wore swords that glittered as fiercely as their bloodshot eyes.
Cold fingers of fear pressed against Logan's neck as he remembered the rasping whisper: Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
Logan did not want to find out.
"Maybe he's a Guardsman?" another snarled. "Is that the new uniform?"
The third man pointed a large finger toward Logan's nose. "Naw, he's just a scrawny little harpy turd. Let's show him what we can do to him."
Logan's hand shot for his sword as the trio advanced. Hands seemed to reach out from all about him and tear at his limbs, forbidding him from freeing his weapon and protecting himself. Unexpectedly, one of the men spilled backwards, his chest smeared with crimson. Another crumpled to the ground immediately afterward, blood fountaining from his neck. The third took an uneasy step back, gaping at the small golden hilt protruding from his stomach. As blood welled up around the dagger and splattered the street, Logan's third assailant crashed to the cobblestones.
Logan wheeled about in astonishment and disgust. He expected to see Thromar behind him, grinning his crooked, yellow grin, but the large fighter's enormous frame did not back the young jogger. A lithe man clad all in grey was stanced in the street, daggers strapped across his chest in a menacing display of weaponry. Two more of the slim blades glistened in either hand.
"Morning to you, my friend," the stranger said with a smirk in greeting. "I hope you don't mind my rude interruption of your discussion, but it seemed your companions were getting a little out of hand. Tell me, whom have I the honor of saving?"
"Matthew Logan," Logan answered cautiously. "Why?"
The black-haired stranger shrugged. "Moknay the Murderer always lets the engraver know the proper name to place upon the gravestone."
Moknay stepped forward and a dagger sailed from his hand, glinting silver as it screamed toward Logan's neck.
•2• Murderer
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.
The Jewel of Equilibrant w-1 Page 3
