The Jewel of Equilibrant w-1

by Steven Frankos

  The Jewel of Equilibrant

  ( Wheel - 1 )

  Steven Frankos

  Steven Frankos

  The Jewel of Equilibrant

  •1• Dream

  "Have you no fear of dreams?"

  The voice arose from the eddying tidepools of red and silver light, piercing the stillness with its harsh, rasping tone.

  "Know you not that dreams have the powers to crush and to rend and to shred?"

  Matthew Logan blinked his eyes repeatedly, staring at the spiraling vortex of blood and metal that encircled him. A disorienting sensation of wrongness swelled up around the young man, and, frantically, he wondered where he was.

  "Most vivid during the REM stage of sleep, during what doctors call the paradoxical stage of sleep, do dreams descend upon the sleeper like lions upon their prey. There they lay bare your deepest fears, claw open your best-kept secrets, and feast upon your anguish with ghoulish delight. Can you not hear their laughter?"

  The wheezing, disembodied voice slowly sank into the vacuum of lights and colors, and Logan knew it would not be back in that form. Instead, another rattle began to reverberate through Logan's ears, and a faint, shuddering chuckle rose up out of the red and silver glare around him. Again the overpowering sense of mismatchment fluttered about Logan, causing a small voice in the back of his mind to tell him he did not belong.

  A hazy figure took form within the blaze of red and silver; quick, brisk strides bringing it closer to where Logan stood.

  The laughter began to recede, but the oddness of the area about him refused to depart.

  The whirling gyration of the fluid colors quickened as the lean form stepped up to face Logan. Reflecting the red and silver illumination of the whirlpool, the gaunt figure peered down at the young man, and its frown was highlighted by the glare.

  Trying to slough off the feeling of disharmony, Logan stared up at the form. Yellow-white hair, tinted with reds and silvers, dangled from the sides of the domed head, descending to the shoulder and beyond. The top of the stranger's head was bald, glistening as the spiraling colors danced upon its naked surface. Throughout the insistent gleam, Logan could make out the neat three-piece suit which garbed the newcomer.

  The stranger's eyes reflected his frown.

  "Traverse not into folly," he told Logan in the same rasping wheeze as before. "I am sorry."

  The red and silver glow brightened as the long-haired businessman lowered his head solemnly. Unexpectedly, he jerked back up and his eyes were ablaze with fire.

  "Take heed," he snarled, eyes flickering, "you who fears not dreams. Learn to decipher dreams from reality, unreality from falsehood, falsehood from truth, or doom shall fall upon your worlds!"

  Logan cringed as the wrongness that surrounded him seeped into his flesh and made him helpless.

  The frown on the businessman's face had been replaced by a murderous smirk. "Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?"

  Matthew Logan woke up. With a murmured curse, he looked about his cluttered bedroom as his eyes adjusted to the dim rays of early morning light that seeped between the shutters. His black hair was slick with sweat, and the covers of his bed lay twisted and coiled like serpents of fabric. Inhaling deeply, he gently settled back down, staring up at the dark ceiling. He feared if he closed his eyes the dream would return with all its vivid colors and sounds.

  That was a damn interesting one, he told himself, wiping perspiration from his brow. A long-haired businessman? And what the hell was all that about dreams?

  Muttering at the loss of sleep the nightmare cost him, Logan continued to stare at the ceiling until the sun crested the eastern mountains and sent brighter slivers of daylight into his apartment. Gradually he dressed, put in his contacts, shaved, ate something for breakfast, and started for the door. As he slipped into his dark blue sweat jacket and sweat pants and headed out of his apartment for his early morning jog, the scratchy, asthmatic voice went on taunting him: "Have you no fear of dreams?"

  Something filled with color darted past upon the wings of the wind. A cool breeze filled the morning sky, swirling into the fine, thin mist that hung above the street. The snowy haze drifted lazily along with the wind, hovering over the sidewalk. Again a shred of brilliance danced upon the breeze, sparkling like a misplaced moonstone.

  Matthew Logan briskly jogged into view, his sight half-obscured by the curtain of fog dangling above his head. The morning breeze strengthened once more, ruffling Logan's black hair as it whipped the mist away. The crisp, cool air invigorated the young man, and Logan slowed to a halt, gazing out over the deserted street to his right. All thoughts of his troubled sleep were behind him, and, as dreams tended to do, his nightmare had faded from his conscious mind. Inhaling, Logan brushed his dark hair out of his face and began to resume his pace.

  Something screamed past Logan's ear, flickering with eerie color. Eyes wide, the young man tried to follow the invisible blasts of air; confusion washed over him like a great wave of water, and, wonderingly, he scratched his chin.

  "By the bubbling brew of Fraviar!" an accented, but understandable, voice boomed.

  Logan wheeled about. The exclamation resounded about him, and his blue eyes narrowed as he glared at the empty field to his left. Someone was probably hiding in the tall grass, he confirmed to himself. Don't know why someone would be fool enough to be out here at six-thirty in the morning, though.

  "Somebody there?" he called.

  His answer was the moan of the wind.

  As Logan took a cautious step into the field, the knee-high stalks of weeds bowed respectfully in his direction as another wave of wind swept over them. The abrasive clang of metal striking metal rang out across the empty field, and Logan ducked instinctively. An agonized scream pierced the breeze as the wind shifted.

  "Jesus Christ!" Logan exclaimed, glancing about him. "What's going on here?"

  Blinking his eyes, the young jogger peered at the weed-engulfed lot before him. He no longer suspected someone hiding amongst the brush-the noises he heard were too exact and came from everywhere at once. No, Logan stopped wondering if someone was playing a joke and feared for his sanity. Hearing things in the wind was impossible!

  The desolation of the field and street surrounding him suddenly focused in on the young man, and Logan wished he was not alone. He was a determined loner-independent and self-assured-but, in certain circumstances, a companion could be handy.

  The mist parted like a foggy curtain as the wind tore through it. The snort of a horse erupted from the breeze, and Logan jumped in fright, spun backwards, and leapt to one side.

  "All right!" he yelled, confusion and fear combining to form an odd mixture within him. "That's it! Who the hell is there?"

  "Who the what is where?" the same booming voice inquired from nowhere. "Don't bother me with blasted questions when I'm fighting for my life!"

  Logan turned on his heel, eyeing the empty field. "Who said that?"

  "I did!" the voice retorted.

  This is too much! the young man concluded. I'm going to go home, take some extra-strength Tylenol, and go back to bed! Then I'm going to call the nearest mental institution with a vacant room!

  A shrill shriek shattered the misty morning, spearing Logan's forehead and setting his mind afire. In agony, Logan clamped his hands to the sides of his head, trying to shut out the horrid screech that filled the street and his body. Unexpected pain wracked his nerves, and Logan crashed to his knees, gritting his teeth.

  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, bloo
d-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?"

  "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?