'Which one?' the fighter asked.
'Which one what?' Logan asked back.
'Which god? Brolark? Harmeer? Imogen?'
Logan stared at the fighter before turning away. Questions cluttered his brain as he scanned the alien horizon, and an odd-yet familiar-twinge of unbelonging sparked within the young man.
'By the way,' the fighter started, 'you never did answer my question. Where did you come from?'
Logan kept his back to him. 'Santa Monica,' he sighed heavily. Then, abruptly, he faced the fighter. 'Now answer me a question: Where the hell am I, and who are you?'
The fighter grinned playfully beneath his thick red-brown beard. 'Ah-ha! That's two!'
Logan flung up his arms as frustration filled his innards and he slowly walked away. He had no idea where he was going; he blindly placed one foot in front of the other and made his way across the barren land toward a small hillock dotted with greenery. All the while his brain played out various rationalizations for his predicament until the number of hypotheses became overwhelming.
Thunderous footsteps shook the ground behind him as the large fighter trailed. 'Forgive me,' the huge man said. 'I am Thromar, the best fighter in all Sparrill and parts of Denzil.'
Logan halted and peered at the man in disbelief.
Thromar shrugged his massive shoulders under the gaze. 'Well, maybe not in Denzil,' he corrected himself.
Shaking his head, Logan resumed his shuffling gait and neared the hilltop. Once again that oddness swarmed in the air about him, the almost physical haze that buzzed silently that Logan did not belong, that he was intruding. The sensation intensified, growing to such proportions that Logan feared something immensely powerful was going to drop out of the sky and crush him beneath it.
Is this what it feels like to go insane?
'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.
