Samantha scampers off, cursing Amye in her cat language.
“Amye, what the smerth?”
“We don’t need her. Cats are full of lies. If she was necessary to finding the Hex Darmight she would prove it by telling us where Reynard is instead of Drazz’n riddles.”
Fuzz circles the worshiping were-apes.
Samantha darts into a crumbled building.
Fuzz zips after her.
FALLING.
Reynard loses all sense of direction as he tumbles. He pats his torso. Both guns and his sword remain attached. In the bleak midnight, he twists, searching for any—
The impact flattens his chest, expelling all air from his lungs. Before he’s able to draw in a breath, the contents of his stomach empty through his mouth and nose.
Gastric juice burns his weakened esophagus. Ever last bit of food stuffed into him by Eymaxin steams forward until the reaching expels nothing but dry heaves.
Cramps cutting him in two. Through watering eyes, the dark form of a Sandman shadows his vision.
The ivory mask crawls with humanoid figures. They scratch and stretch the mask shell in attempts to reach Reynard. This close, outlines of faces screaming for mercy permeate the bone.
Slapped from his hand, the revolver bounces away, leaving Reynard defenseless. Tentacles grow from under the sable robes. Reynard’s left hand snags the fleshy material barbed with rose thorns. He ignores the sting of the pricks.
This Sandman pushes back its mask to reveal the voided nothingness inside the hood—infinite bleakness as dark as the cloth. Teeth burst forth, snapping at Reynard’s skull.
Sulfur dust rains over Reynard. The empty robe covers him. He flicks the material aside. In his right hand, a bullet from the Springfield rifle steams, the azure tip burnt away.
Brushing the yellow flakes from his jacket as he rises, the last of any food particles in his gut escapes.
Unable to escape from the cramps. He staggers, hunched over on the mossy grass until he retrieves the revolver. Burbles in his abdomen keep him from exploring the tubular reality.
“This definitely isn’t Kansas.” He flips open the revolver cylinder, counting the live rounds. Sliding the weapon back in his belt for an easy draw, he wobbles forward. Lurching until his abdomen muscles allow him to straighten up. Now able to step without a spasm, Reynard surveys his soundings. Tops of trees curve as the cylindrical existence arcs.
Each step leaves the end horizon at the same distance. Making the longest stride possible, the distance to the horizon remains constant. Reynard shifts into a defensive stance. The tufts of smooshed grass from his landing remains inches from his boot.
“I don’t even have a horse to talk to this time.”
With limited choices, he jogs forward two paces. Dozens of morels sprout before his next boot stomp.
“Nothing’s ever simple.”
The katana slides from its sheath. The metal gleams in the sunless sky.
“Bright as noon, but no sun.” Reynard scans the curvature above him, then draws his katana.
The blade severs all caps from the swipe. Mists of spores burst out. He sneezes repeatedly. When able to open his eyes a giant mushroom looms before him.
“Explain yourself!” A booming voice demands.
“Explain this.” Reynard’s magnum leaps into his hand. The recoil blows him backward as if this reality lacks gravity. The explosion loiters in his ears as if they just superseded the sound barrier while locked in an oil drum. He floats suspended above the ground. The force slams him back into the ground. If he had any food left in his system, it would have expelled. Flipping from his back to his feet drags on him as if chained to a weight bench.
The katana bounced across the grass as he aims his magnum at the mushroom, and his left hand draws the revolver.
“You missed,” a ghostly voice whispers. “You can’t harm me.”
“Show yourself.”
“In time.” The voice fades away.
“I never thought I’d be wishing for a Mokarran battle cruiser or a nice Tibbar death squad.” Reynard holsters his weapons. Reaching for his blade, he says, “Now I know how Alice felt.”
His finger brushes the hilt. The grass draws back as if it’s a retreating ocean tide floating away from his reach.
He reaches for the hilt again, not surprised when it wafts farther away just outside his reach. He refuses to play this game. He lingers his eyes on the sword earned from Joe’s clan. Few off-worlders are awarded training privileges, and none a family sword. Reynard throws his right shoulder forward, diving into a roll where he scoops up the sword on the tumble before jumping to his feet.
Sandmen float before him. Beyond them, a table set with elegant china teacups. Slumped in a chair, a humanoid resembling a dormouse snores.
Reynard’s hand grips the revolver. Before he draws the weapon, the Sandmen demand, “Wait.”
“The hell I will.”
“No harm will befall you by us, here.”
“Not ominous at all.” Reynard cocks the hammer even with the revolver still in his belt.
“We offer you explanations.” He waves his skeletal hand, inviting him to the table. Twisted, mangled humanoids overwhelm the surface of his mask. They overlap—fighting to reach the surface, they stretch out, unable to escape. Naked, ragged and bleeding, they scream without sound as they claw for Reynard.
His stomach flips over. He knows he has nothing left inside his gut to expel.
Scattered among the china cups are crumpets. Assuming they are crumpets. He’s never experienced the delicacy reminding him more of an English muffin. Despite Eymaxin’s lack of useful transdimensional travel information, she was adamant that eating the local cuisine stabilized him—temporarily.
He slips into the seat between the table and the chair, unwilling to release his grip on the revolver.
Hovering behind the snoring dormouse, a Sandman lifts his mask. An elongated snout with teeth covers the back of the dormouse’s head, crunching down on the skull and splintering bone. A second set of jaws rips open the chasm the first row of teeth created in order for a shoveled tongue to scoop out the brains.
As the snout disappears into the
