'A squad of goons tried to arrest us!' Thromar laughed. 'We showed them a thing or three!'
'They didn't name me Murderer for nothing,' Moknay added.
'I know,' put in Thromar. 'You have to pay them.'
Logan threw his arms about his companions, thanking whatever gods existed in his world and theirs. They were together again, and things never went badly when Thromar and Moknay were on hand. The two were unbeatable, and Thromar held the knowledge Logan so desperately needed.
As darkness settled beneath the blanket of storm clouds, the group retold their tales. Moknay and Thromar, each continuously interrupting the other to tell his point of view, explained how they had escaped from the first squadron of Guards and had disguised themselves so as to join another troop. When messages arrived that Logan had been spotted in the Hills, Murderer and Rebel broke ranks and charged northward. It had been a combination of pure luck and Thromar's excellent tracking ability that had allowed them to find Logan so swiftly.
Logan then recounted his adventures, leaving out only his night with Cyrene. Moknay and Thromor applauded the young man's skill and intelligence in destroying Farkarrez and his almost successful attempt to trick the Guards. They cheered as Logan told of his escape from the soldiers and congratulated him on his exit from Zackaron's chamber. Moknay shivered, though, when Logan pointed out the gleaming Jewel and the gathering black clouds.
'I fear if we were to talk to Barthol, he'd tell us we had about four more days,' the Murderer mused. His grey eyes scanned the foreboding sky. 'Whatever the Jewel's about to unleash, it certainly is building up quite a store of it.'
Logan fixed his own blue eyes on the nefarious heavens, brushing his black hair out of his face as the winds shrieked past him. 'How far are we from the Smythe?' he asked Thromar.
The fighter stroked his reddish brown beard. 'Moknay and I flew like the Deils to get here, but I do believe it's slightly west of here.'
'No, it's south.'
The quartet froze as the disembodied voice wafted across the plateau and vanished upon the gale. Lightning broke through the darkness, but the clearing remained empty of all else but themselves. The sudden flash of blue-white light suggested that no one had made that rasping whisper of direction.
'Pardon me,' called Moknay, 'but I think it's west.'
'No, no,' the whisper corrected, 'it's south.'
Amid the increasing wind, the gleaming Jewel, and the land itself, Logan felt the disharmony of the world slacken. For the first time since he had been in Sparrill, the sensation of mismatchment-the accusing buzz of wrongness-faded entirely. Blind in the darkness, Logan acquired new senses and warned Moknay with a faint tap on his shoulder. Questioningly, the Murderer stared at where Logan pointed, yet neither man saw a thing. It was only after another crackle of lightning that the four saw the robed figure standing by the edge of their clearing.
Thromar's huge sword slid free of its sheath.
'Replace your sword, Thromar,' a whispering, asthmatic voice advised. 'I come as a friend, not as an enemy, albeit you have enough of those.'
Free of the disturbing sense of disunity, another feeling plagued Logan's mind. That voice! he thought. That voice was infuriatingly familiar! The young man knew he had heard it once before… but he could not think of where. It eluded him like a dream eluded a waking man.
A dream! Logan's mind exclaimed. The voice of his first dreams! The whispering tone of the businessman/monk!
The third crack of blue-white light revealed the smile on the lean face as the mysterious newcomer approached. 'I see Matthew knows who I am,' he stated pleasantly, 'And I wish to congratulate you, young man. You certainly didn't make as many mistakes as you think you did.'
Moknay's hand was on Logan's shoulder in unspoken puzzlement, but the joy of meeting up with his companions and the release from both danger and misplacement stunned Logan to the point of speechlessness. Valiantly, the young man battled the happiness clogging his throat but could not speak.
There was a sudden eruption of color, and what Logan thought was another flash of lightning was actually a telepor-tation spell that unloaded its passengers and their horses in an elegant room of oaken furniture and smooth stone flooring.
'Brolark's backside!' Thromar roared. 'Where are we?'
'My home,' the robed stranger replied, and, in the light of the room, his features were immediately recognized by Logan.
The domed head was bald on top, yet long strands of pale blond hair streamed to the stranger's robed shoulders. His eyes held the friendly glow they had sparked with in Logan's second dream, and none of the threatening, ghastly tones lingered in the whispering, raspy voice. Standing before Logan-in the flesh and not in a dream-was the businessman/monk himself!
Moknay had a dagger out, his distaste for magic obvious in his grey eyes. 'And just where is your home?' he queried. 'I don't like being sucked out to nowhere.'
The businessman/monk smiled. 'You were already standing on my rooftop,' he said. 'I only thought I should pop you down. You would have never have found the front door from where you were standing! That's why I suggested going south. You know, down?'
'You still haven't told us who you are,' Cyrene snarled, her hand reaching for her dagger that was no longer there.
'Oh, but it's so much fun playing guessing games, Cyrene,' the businessman replied. 'For example, I know who you are, and, let me say this, I don't necessarily agree with your methods or your actions. You're not what you appear to be, my dear, and, frankly, I don't like what I see. And you, Moknay. I must thank you and Thromar for seeing my friend here safely.' He turned on Logan. 'And you, Matthew. You have questions to ask me and tasks that need completing, don't you? Well, let's see how good you are at my games. This is the sixty-four- thousand-dollar question, Matthew: Who am I?'
Timidly, Logan found his voice: 'The Smythe?'
Surprise exploded in the young man's mind.
The long-haired businessman/monk placed a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. 'Jonathan Smith to be exact,' he replied, 'and, yes, Matthew, I come from Earth.'
•14• Smythe
Logan blinked in astoundment. 'You?' was all he could make out.
The long-haired businessman nodded his head, a smile on his lips. 'Of course, Matthew. I was once Jonathan Smith, a mild-mannered businessman for a rather large corporation until this odd wind picked me up and spit me out here. Since then I've become the Smythe-spellcaster par excellence!'
Logan's companions were silent as the young man struggled to speak. The shock on his face was obvious, and wonder swirled in his blue eyes. He finally asked, 'Why?'
The Smythe looked at him. 'Why what?'
'Why me?'
'Why not?' The Smythe took a seat at a large oaken table and steepled his fingers. 'You were probably on hand. That's the way things worked out for me. I just happened to be there.'
'But you're the one who warned me!' protested Logan. 'In the dream. How did you know I would be the one out of millions of other people?'
The spellcaster grinned. 'Ah! That! Try and follow what I say.' He cleared his throat. 'Before you arrived, you had a dream in which a nasty, bald-headed fellow-me-warned you not to misinterpret, as it were, dreams from truth. Later, when you got 'zapped'-as you so quaintly put it-to Sparrill, that warning came in handy. While in Debamian, you had a second dream. Only this time that nasty bald-headed man wasn't quite so nasty… in fact, he was a little bit confused. He looked you over curiously, muttered something about it must have worked because you were still alive, and then vanished. Do you remember?'
