Hooves sounded behind the pair, and Thromar stood in Smeea's saddle. From the eastern side of the hillock, backed by the rising sun, a small band of Reakthi rode toward the pair, blood-red light gleaming off their chestplates.
An expectant grin was on Thromar's face as he glanced down at Logan. 'You did pretty good with my arrows,' he stated. 'How are you with a flail?'
Logan frowned. 'A what?'
'That bad, eh? Well, take my extra sword. You do know what a sword is, don't you?'
Logan grasped the heavy blade. 'Is spinach green?' he asked back.
Thromar scratched his great tuft of hair. 'I don't know. I've never fought one.'
Once again Logan found an odd weapon in his hands. Like the bow, the sword was larger and heavier than the ones Logan was used to handling. Nervously, he gripped the hilt, studying the sword. Double-edged, he mused, and a straight blade. The hilt was molded so that the wielder could make a sweeping cut in more than one direction, so the weapon was intended for both cutting and thrusting. There were a few grooves in the steel to lighten the weapon, and the point was diamond-shaped with a concave face for the greatest amount of stiffness without additional weight.
The four Reakthi drew their horses to a halt near the crest of the hill. Three of the four were clad in the normal bronze and golden chestplates; the fourth Reakthi, the obvious leader, wore a white chestplate. He gripped an odd-looking, jagged-edged sword that Logan thought resembled the barbs of an Igorot spear. Or, he mused with morbid humor, a double-edged saw.
'Thromar!' the lead Reakthi barked. 'We have come on request of Spellcaster Groathit not to battle with you but to accompany your companion to Vaugen's castle. We have no wish to quarrel with you. Give us the stranger and you shall be spared.'
Thromar spat at the white-chestplated man. 'Let that be my answer, Reakmor!'
The quartet of warriors charged, and Smeea snorted in furious response. From the ground, Logan knew how vulnerable he was, but the Reakthi went to encircle Thromar. With a sweat-slickened grasp, Logan swung wildly at one of the soldiers, his weapon catching the Reakthi in the solar plexus. Sword and chestplate clanged as the Reakthi was knocked from his mount. Logan felt as if the muscles in his arms had snapped loose as he tried to shake off the wavering caused by the impact.
The downed Reakthi snatched at his dagger, snarling up at Logan like a ravenous wolf. Still trying to control the quivering of his arms, Logan swept his sword out before him in a massive arc. As easily as wheat mown under the scythe, the Reakthi spilled to the ground, a horrible gash torn across one side of his face.
Heavy hoofbeats jerked Logan's eyes open, and he spied the corpse at his feet. He gagged involuntarily, but suddenly caught sight of the Reakmor rushing toward him. Swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat, Logan tried to lift his sword, yet his entire body was quivering.
Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
'Friend-Logan!' Thromar yelled. 'Beware!'
The dark horse was nearly atop him as the white-chestplated Reakmor reached down to grip Logan's sweat jacket. Half-jumping back, Logan shot up his sword, grazing the arm that groped for him. Crimson fluid leaked from the wound, and the Reakmor jerked back his arm, clutching it tightly to his chest. Red stained the white armor, making a stomach-churning contrast of colors, as more hooves trampled the ground.
Logan turned to see Thromar and Smeea head toward him, the former's eyes ablaze. The remaining Reakthi were slowly staining the soil with their life fluid.
'There were only four of us,' the Reakmor shouted from a safe distance. 'We only wanted one man. If you had surrendered him peacefully, no harm would have befallen you. Instead, you have cursed yourselves! The Reakthi will hound you until we get what we want, and we want you, man from another world!'
The Reakmor spurred his horse and vanished into the blood-red sun.
Man from another world? Logan repeated to himself.
'You fight well,' Thromar complimented, shattering Logan's thoughts.
The young man shrugged diffidently, handing the bloodied sword back up to Thromar. The fighter's beady eyes went wide.
'What is this?' he exclaimed. 'Are you giving me back your weapon? By the gods, keep it! You have earned it!' Thromar grinned. 'Besides, I don't use that blade-come to think of it, the Reakthi I took it from is in no condition to use it either, if you know what I mean.'
Muttering an unfelt thanks, Logan took back the weapon and the leather sheath, strapping it about his waist as they continued onward. The weight of the massive blade became a constant reminder as Logan withdrew into his mind, searching, thinking, pondering, puzzling. More and more things were making it seem less and less a dream. Things were happening far too fast for Logan to make any sense out of them. That Reakmor had called him a man from another world; was that truly the answer? Was Logan really in this strange world of castles and warriors? Or was it just a plausible solution that Logan had incorporated into his dream as an explanation?
Traverse not into folly, the long-haired businessman had suggested. What the devil had he meant? Or did it mean a thing? It was, after all, nothing but another stupid, idiotic dream.
Have you no fear of dreams?
By the time Logan glanced up to actually see where he was going, the sun was being swallowed by a range of mountains in the west. A large valley lay before the young man, and, even in the faint light of dusk, Logan could make out the glittering rivers that wound their way on either side of the valley. Stars began to dot the darkening sky as Thromar brought Smeea to a halt and dismounted. Faint spots of light played between the two rivers, and Thromar jerked a large finger in the direction of the will-o'-the-wisps.
'We'll enter the valley at sunrise,' he declared. 'For tonight, we'll stay on the east side of the Lathyn.'
'What for?' Logan wondered.
'What for?' Thromar exclaimed. 'That's Eadarus! It's a great town by day, but, at night, it becomes a thieves' quarters! Everyone from Moknay to Roshfre could be there, all just as willing to slit your throat!'
Logan gently fingered his neck. 'I take it it's not too safe?'
Thromar responded: 'Not once the sun has gone down.' He gazed longingly at the flickering torches that marked the town. 'Too bad, too. Eadarus has the best women this side of the Roana!'
Stifling a yawn, Logan felt the vitality run from his frame and tiredness take control. His feet hurt as if he had been walking all day, and his stomach growled in hunger. Abruptly, the young man blinked, his hands going to his face.
'Hey!' he cried. 'I've got my contacts in!'
Thromar peered at him curiously.
Logan ignored the fighter, glancing about him frantically. Contact lenses! he screamed to himself. I've got my goddamn contact lenses in! Never had a dream been so precise! And how was he supposed to clean them? He had no saline solution, no heating unit, no carrying case.
'Friend-Logan?' questioned Thromar. 'Is something the matter?'
Logan did not hear the rumbling voice as he stared won-deringly out at the world through his contact lenses. Neither contact had been bothering him; never once had a speck of dirt gotten into his eye and irritated the lens, nor had they felt uncomfortable at any time during the day. And yet, they were there! Logan could not see without them!
With fearful expectation, Logan reached into his right eye and pulled out the soft lens.
'Your eye!' Thromar bellowed. 'You have plucked out your eye!'
Logan glanced at the fighter, holding up the small lens so he could study it in the dimming sunlight. 'I haven't plucked out my eye,' he replied. 'It's a contact lens; it helps me see.'
'Of course it helps you see!' Thromar boomed. 'The lens of your eye is what emits eye-beams! From these eye-beams we gain our sight, and you have simply pulled yours out!'
'It's not my cornea!' Logan returned. 'It's my contact lens!'
And it's so damn precise it all but proves I'm really here!
'Cornea?' Thromar repeated. 'What tongue is that?'
'It's not your tongue, it's part of your eye.'
'Which part?'
'The lens part!'
