Reynard vomits.
He tightens up on the reins.
Thunder!
His magnum smokes.
The horse leaps forward, frightened from the noise behind it. Reynard chokes up farther on the leather reins, bringing the animal to a trot to escape the odor.
As the clearing closes around the trail, a glint of metal catches his eye. Reynard’s smooth dismount brings forth his cocky smile. He misses home—Earth. No way to return. Even if he could find his planet there’s no way he could rewind a thousand years of being frozen.
He kicks at the tall grass. The chest plate of molded Kevlar battle armor flips up. A rusting Roman gladius driven through its center. Reynard yanks the weapon free. Boney fingers unwrap from the handle, splintering on impact with the ground. He contemplates how both objects are present together. This style sword went out of common usage three thousand years ago on his home world.
A dry twig snaps. The creatures continue to stalk him. He Frisbees the useless metal in the direction of the noise. Whatever hid scampers away when the object crashes near it.
Left with little choice, Reynard remounts the horse and spurs it on.
The trail darkens as more finger-like branches contort and dip in on the trail. He has to duck under them. The air drops a few degrees, sending a full-body shiver through the horse. Reynard’s leather jacket keeps him warm, but the shaking upsets the comfort of his body in the saddle.
He leans forward on his stirrups and strokes the neck of his mount. Soothing both their nerves. Speaking in what would become his father-to-baby voice, he asks, “Did you know we discovered this smashed orb fragment? I’d consider it the starting point for this—well, Ki-Ton was the starting point. Nothing I’ve trained for since my thaw prepared me for it.”
The occasional soft crunch remains as a reminder of whatever’s following him in the undergrowth. He leans forward, pressing himself against the horse’s neck to avoid the branches.
Reynard snaps the twig snagging his jacket, half expecting the tree to speak and toss apples at him. No such life from the reaching plant. Besides, the disrespect of his weapon hacking and slashing with his katana-style sword will become a full-time chore as more tree branches crowd the path.
The blackened, dying wood breaks into lush greenery and the babbling of water splashing over rocks. The smell of fresh water cleanses his nostrils, distilling the effects of his earlier nausea. Something still claws at his stomach, and it wasn’t witnessing the disturbing dead bodies or his instant placement on this planet.
He contemplates on drinking the water to wash out the taste of bile. I should already be dead. That Sandman dragged me here for some twisted purpose. I doubt to drink poisoned water.
Dismounting, Reynard hobbles the horse. He unties his blade from under the left saddle strip. His magnum functions, but the resulting boom will startle the horse, so in a pinch he’ll use silent steel.
He schleps through the green lush grass, careful not to step on a twig or dry leaf until reaching the rippling water. A waterfall gently crashes against some rocks just up the path. Another unnatural sound distracts him. Easing through the underbrush in a snakish form, he halts and slips in an ear piece from his jacket pocket. After securing the device he flips the lens section before his left eye. A blink activates the imager. Forcing an eyestrain shoots the ocular lens into telescopic mode. Zooming in on an image upstream, he spots the sound he knew he heard. A stunning white mare with a golden bridle sips water.
Her owner discards a belt, releasing long-flowing lavender robes wrapped around her slender frame. She drops the thin, silken layer garments on the bank.
Conflicted, Reynard knows he should cease his peeping. He has no valid reason to spy on an undressing woman.
She slips the silk cloth covering her breasts up over her head. Reynard’s heart pounds faster. His throat dries. He never washed the vomit from his mouth. No girl was ever impressed by puke breath. He refocuses, flipping up the eyepiece.
She unlaces a leather armband. Indigo tattoos cover her forearm. They remind Reynard of Egyptian hieroglyphs—in style only—since he doesn’t recognize any of the symbols. Until an azure-masked Sandman catches his attention.
As she wades out into the water, gooseflesh covers her body. She splashes cold water on her upper body before submerging to her neck.
Answers. This woman knows of the creature that brought me here. As he marches into the river sword in hand, Reynard notices her face for the first time. “Amye…” Her name falls from his lips.
The woman twirls around, still underwater.
Reynard is blown back by a blue laser beam stemming from her right hand, leaving him to writhe in agony on the bank.
Acid burns his chest.
That’s what you get for being a Peeping Tom, his First Officer’s motherly voice calmly tells him in the back of his mind.
The woman marches toward Reynard, keeping her arm extended as if it were a loaded gun.
Even through his tear-filled eyes, Reynard spots her approaching. Having failed to maintain a grip on his sword, he reaches for his magnum.
“Don’t,” she orders.
Once he ceases thrashing, the pain terminates.
The identical Amye lowers her arm. “You’re no Sandman, or the blast would have dissolved you.”
Reynard discontinues his advance toward his gun. This woman knows?
“You’re no conjurer. No one travels the Roads of Death except conjurers.”
Unable to force himself up beyond his elbows, Reynard asks, “What about those the Sandmen bring here?”
“The Sandmen don’t spare anyone.”
With clearer vision Reynard recognizes the same facial tick Amye gives when she’s not revealing all she knows.
“They spared me.”
“I am Eymaxin, Conjurer of the Blue Flame.” Sapphire flames spark around her tattoos.
“Do those tats give you the power to harm Sandmen?”
She waves her hand at the pointless question, signaling to
