As the flaring pain diminished, Logan unsteadily raised his head. A gigantic serpentine coil of wind was rushing directly at him! The oddest manifestation he had ever seen! A miniature tornado spiraled straight for him, blood- red light flecked with silver sprouting forth from the funnel.
Crimson stabbed Logan's sight as the tunnel of wind screamed down upon him. Vertigo seized the young jogger, and bile rose in his throat as all sense of stability ceased. He was weightless, sightless, disembodied; suspended inside a whirlpool of red and silver. Agony wrenched his lean frame, and molten steel flowed through his veins rather than blood. The hideous screeching intensified as the strange and wondrous coil of wind swallowed Matthew Logan whole, and his world exploded about him.
The world pulled itself back into being with an electrifying jolt of blue and brown. Dazed and bewildered, Logan staggered forward blindly, once again feeling hard-packed earth beneath him. Hard-packed? His mind rebelled in its befuddled state. The ground of the field had been soft-almost muddy. How had it become hard- packed?
Fuzzy shapes and outlines began to form ahead of Logan as he tried to regain his balance and sanity. A dark blue sky loomed overhead, its clouds tinted pink by the rising sun. The barren earth below him was devoid of greenery and littered with broken stones and dust. Far off in the distance, backed by the brilliant sun, was a glossy black castle.
Logan jerked his head around. Castle? Naw… but, there it was! Situated atop a ridge was a midnight-black fortress, complete with battlements!
A snort caught Logan's attention and he swung about. A line of mounted men all clad in chestplates confronted the jogger, their weapons drawn and catching the rays of the rising sun. One lone figure a few feet from Logan faced the horsed warriors, his own drawn sword bloodied and swaddled in gore. The shaggy mane of hair turned toward Logan, and the enormous fighter smiled with yellowing teeth.
Logan stared back, gaping. Warriors? Castles? Swords? Screaming winds? Wake up, Matthew! You're only twenty-seven! You can't go insane!
The huge man near Logan leapt to one side as a mounted warrior charged. With agility surprising for someone that size, the large fighter dodged to his right, bringing up his sword and skewering the horse. Blood splashed across the man's vest of chainmail and spattered his reddish brown beard and mustache. The hair on his head was almost touching the fighter's massive shoulders, and portions hung down over the beady eyes that peered out at Logan.
'So!' the huge man exclaimed, and Logan recognized the booming voice. 'You're the question-asker!' His sword ripped across the thigh of another chestplated man. 'Where do you come from?'
Logan rubbed his eyes, lost in his confusion. Stunned, he faced the fighter. 'What?' he said, quite stupidly.
'I asked you where you came from,' repeated the fighter.
Logan shook his head in disbelief. This wasn't happening! It wasn't real-couldn't be real! I must have slipped and knocked myself cold. I'm dreaming… Yeah! That's it! I'm not really here at all.
'What's the matter?' the larger fighter shouted. 'Are you deaf? Very well, then, WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?'
Logan stepped back, his ears ringing. 'I'm not deaf!' he hollered.
'Well, neither am I, so stop yelling!' the fighter replied.
Logan blinked and blinked again. No, he told himself, I haven't gone insane. I'm sane. I'm mentally sound. I've never touched a drug in my life.
A frenzied cry pulled Loean away from his thoughts as the massive fighter knocked a rider from his horse and thrust his weapon into the warrior's armpit. Logan could hear metal grate against the rib cage, and he winced as if the steel had driven into his own breast.
'You must excuse me.' The bearded fighter grinned at Logan. 'I'm being very rude. Here!'
A bow and quiver dropped at Logan's feet, and his eyebrows shot up. It was a self bow, the young man noticed. A bow made of one single piece of wood, unlike the built or backed bow. The wood was no doubt yew, and the bowstring was cord. All in all, the bow was something found in early England; however, it, and the arrows, were enormous. The bow was some four to five feet in length, and the arrows, following close to what was an English rule, were half the length of the bow. Logan had used modern bows, and knew something of the history of such weaponry, but was amazed by the craftsmanship at his feet.
'He thinks he has gained a companion,' a sudden voice cackled. 'Quickly, you two! Dispose of him! Teach him his error in daring to defy the Reakthi!'
Two horses turned toward Logan, and a pair of chestplated men headed for him. Smirking down at Logan, one of the men slowed his mount, lowering his blade. Logan watched the pair, half-crouched, his fingers touching the bow and quiver.
'An easy task,' one of the soldiers said with a grin. 'You may have the pleasure.'
His companion nodded. 'Many thanks.' His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Logan's sweat suit. 'What strange garments he wears. Perhaps he comes from Droth?'
The other shrugged under his chestplate. 'Ask him yourself, if the buffoon knows how to talk.'
Logan snatched up the bow and nocked an arrow into place. 'I know how to talk, you wimp,' he gritted. 'And I also know how to use one of these!'
As the bow was raised, the two Reakthi spurred their horses. Panic swept over Logan as he realized the primary release would not work on a bow of that size. He had instinctively held the arrow between his thumb and first finger and surrounded the string in that manner. In the lighter bows he was accustomed to, this maneuver would have pulled back the string by the pressure of the arrow. As the two Reakthi charged, Logan discovered this bow was too strong; another hold was necessary to pull back the string on this sucker!
The oncoming horses filled Logan with dread, and the hard-packed earth shuddered in sympathetic horror to Logan's situation. Fortunately, the terror subsided within Logan, and he switched to the Mediterranean release, a release he had been taught basically as a historical reference to the usage of bows in early England.
Logan's muscles tensed, and the bowstring 'twanged.' With a sharp retort, the two-foot-long missile rocketed from the bow, burying into the nearest Reakthi's neck. With a blood-garbled scream, the warrior pitched off the back of his horse, crashing to the ground and snapping the wooden shaft that protruded from his throat.
Something whistled beside Logan's ear, and the young man leapt to one side, narrowly avoiding the second Reakthi's sword. Knowing there was no time to reload, Logan arced the enormous bow about like a baseball bat, catching the Reakthi on the back of the head with the horn-crafted tip. With a grunt, the chestplated soldier careened out of his saddle, spilling into the dirt.
Sore rather than stunned, the Reakthi immediately got to his feet, sword still in hand. Snarling, the warrior lunged, sword first, and Logan ducked to the right, bringing up a foot and catching the Reakthi in the stomach. Both men yelled: the Reakthi winded, and Logan clutching his Nike-encased foot. Damn! the young man swore. Those chestplates are solid!
Silver flashed in the light of the rising sun, and Logan had to ignore the pain in his toes. Clumsily, he lurched to safety, escaping the downward sweep of the Reakthi blade. Logan lashed out a hand and caught the Reakthi's wrist. With his left hand, Logan threw himself into a final punch. Blood splattered as the Reakthi's nose splintered under Logan's fingers, and the chestplated warrior toppled to the arid soil.
'It seems I have good taste in my allies,' the large fighter declared, carelessly observing Logan's battle while he waged his own.
Logan turned on the fighter, glaring. He was still confused as to what was going on and had only acted to survive. This couldn't be real, he told himself, but… why does my fist hurt?
'Withdraw!' one of the chestplated men ordered. 'Back to Vaugen's fortress!'
The reduced band of Reakthi drew back their horses and galloped for the glossy castle ringed by the rising sun. Logan watched them diminish, staring into the fiery orb and squinting as the red-orange light emblazoned itself upon his pupils.
'Well done,' the fighter was chuckling, sheathing his blade. 'I could not have done better myself.'
Logan glanced at him. 'Sure, right. Look, I don't know what the hell is going on, but I want some answers!' Need some answers. 'What is this? Some dream or something? I mean, how else could I get here, right? For that matter, where in God's name am I?'
