The Jewel of Equilibrant w-1

by Steven Frankos

  "Moknay, this is no time for your macabre humor," Barthol snapped, still glaring at his shimmering chart. The priest's eyes abruptly widened. "By Harmeer's War Axe, you're right! That's why the Wheel is beginning to tilt! The rift seems to be from your friend's 'arrival,' but the tilting is because the Jewel's powers are not being kept in check. We're doomed! Doomed, I say! Doomed! That Jewel has got to be given to a spellcaster who can hold the powers in. If the Jewel continues to leak its cosmic energies, there will be nothing to stabilize the forces of the Wheel and act as equilibrant! The Wheel will have no means to achieve equilibrium, and it will tilt until it entirely flips over and destroys us all!"

  Logan took in a sharp gulp of air as a burning anger chewed its way through his brain. "So it's up to Matthew Logan to save the universe," he snarled venomously.

  "Huh?" queried Barthol. "What was that?"

  Logan turned on the priest, eyes blazing. "I didn't want to come here!" he thundered. "Blast it! All I want to do is get back to my quiet, apathetic, Earthly home! I don't want to have the outcome of an entire world on my shoulders! It's not fair! It's not my fault I got zapped here! Why is it my fault that this Wheel is tilting?"

  "It's no fault of yours, dear boy," Barthol soothed. "Only a spellcaster should have that Jewel; the powers inside it are what keeps the Wheel balanced, and you can imagine the force those powers must have. A magician must constantly keep the Jewel's energies in check. Oh, some leaks out now and again, but the Jewel easily replenishes itself. However, if there's no one around who knows how to keep the Jewel's powers in, they'll start escaping-slowly, mind you-but still escaping."

  Moknay was nodding all through the priest's explanation. "How long do we have until all the powers are free?"

  Barthol studied his chart. "Not very long," he reported dismally. "You will see signs of the escaping powers: earthquakes, storms, and such, all unnatural, of course, since the natural balance is faltering. Then larger disasters will begin. When this occurs, there will not be much time before the Wheel tilts on its side."

  "And, if I remember my schooling correctly," Moknay continued, "once the Wheel goes over on its side, there's no reversing it. it will continue to tilt the rest of the way until this entire place goes up in flames."

  Barthol nodded in silence, scanning his chart over and over.

  Fists clenched at his sides, Logan stood behind the two, the anger still within him. This was worse than a dream, he grumbled to himself. It was a nightmare slowly going from bad to worse. It was suddenly up to him whether this land lived or died, and that didn't seem fair to Logan at all. He was an accident… a quirk! He wasn't supposed to be here! Why did this task fall to him? He didn't mean to steal the Jewel from Pembroke-why should he have to face the consequences? He was having a hard enough time as it was!

  The young man's anger started to diminish as a faint sound reached his ears. For a second, he thought that infernal buzz of mismatchment was upon him, but then the noise faded, leaving Logan floundering in a million possibilities.

  "Should we give the Jewel back to Zackaron or continue toward the Smythe?" Moknay was asking Barthol.

  "The Smythe, by all means!" Barthol replied. "Agellic knows what Zackaron could do with his mind gone and all. It's a wonder he never forgot to keep the Jewel in check himself."

  "We could use your help in finding the Smythe," Moknay invited.

  The priest shook his head. "I'm afraid I'll have to abstain, not that I envy your task. My duty lies with the Church."

  Moknay was nodding when Logan jumped toward him. Wings! the young man's brain was screaming. That noise is the beat of wings!

  The Murderer went to the floor wearing a startled expression as something tore the air and splintered against the far wall near Barthol. Cursing, Moknay rolled to his feet, his grey eyes flaring angrily. Standing outside Barthol's open door was Groathit, a ghastly smile drawn across his lean face. Flanking him were six chestplated Reakthi, one leveling a crossbow at the Murderer's chest.

  From his vantage point on the floor, Logan saw the spellcaster's left eye was glazed, as if he were blind in that eye.

  "Groathit!" Moknay barked. "You worm! How long have you been here?"

  The magic-user continued to smile. "My men and I have only just arrived, but I knew of your secret… 'cargo' beforehand." His good eye flicked to the crossbowman at his side. "Now hand over your companion and his prize."

  In reply, Moknay swerved, and two daggers flashed. The crossbow twanged, and the blatant noise made Logan flinch. Moknay, however, expertly dived to one side, releasing the throwing knife at his belt. With an agonized cry, the cross-bowman went down, one of the Murderer's daggers projecting from his cheek. Another Reakthi toppled, the Murderer's dagger and throwing knife embedded in his flesh.

  "Get them and bring me the Jewel!" Groathit roared at the remaining warriors.

  The quartet of Reakthi advanced, pushing into the cluttered room. Logan yanked free his own blade, swinging at the closest soldier. The warrior let out a shout as the blade tore across the top of his wrist, freeing blood. Moknay sprang atop one of the tables, three daggers screaming from his hand in rapid succession. One Reakthi fell backwards, a dagger lodged in the side of his neck. Another winced as a spinning blade skimmed his left shoulder and thunked into the wall. The third dagger spun for Groathit, who waved once and scattered the weapon's molecules throughout the chamber.

  "Logan!" Moknay called. "The Jewel!"

  Logan pulled the sack out from under his arm and made ready to toss the pouch to the Murderer. Unexpectedly, the hilt of a sword crashed into the back of his head with terrific force, and Logan pitched forward with a weak groan, the sack falling out of his hands.

  Moknay's eyes narrowed as he watched the Reakthi behind Logan bend to grasp the Jewel. Groathit stood in the doorway, a triumphant grin across his skull-like features. A booted foot suddenly smashed into the Reakthi's jaw, knocking the warrior to the floor. Spitting blood, the chestplated soldier readied his sword, glancing up to see Barthol now in possession of the Jewel. Growling like some savage animal, the Reakthi shot forward, his sword thrusting for Barthol's stomach.

  Barthol moved with astounding speed, snatching up Logan's fallen sword as he scurried to one side. His wild lunge, however, sent him reeling into a table, and the priest expected the Reakthi's sword to pierce his back at any moment. A scream sounded instead, and Barthol whipped about as his attacker toppled to the ground, one of Moknay's daggers just above his chestplate.

  The Reakthi with the wounded wrist started for the priest, who sprinted back, pushing over the table he had bumped. The warrior stumbled, slipping in a puddle of blood made by his companions as he gripped tightly to his wrist. When he regained his balance and glanced up to find the fat priest, shining metal met his eyes and white-hot pain seared into his face. Blood splattered as Logan's blade bit into the Reakthi's eyes and across the bridge of his nose before shattering his skull.

  Barthol watched as a hand twitched and went still.

  "By all the gods!" a voice boomed throughout the Church.

  Groathit wheeled about to see Thromar stride into the chamber, his massive sword ripping free of its sheath and streaking for the Reakthi spellcaster. Frantically gesticulating, Groathit burst into a titanic tongue of fire and vanished. The last Reakthi collapsed to the bloodstained floor as Moknay slit his throat.

  Thromar let out a snort, replacing his sword. "Huh! Next time I shall know better! I went looking for some fun in a tavern and it's in a Church instead!"

  There was a dim glow generating from somewhere within the room and a persistent throb in his skull as Logan feebly opened one eye. All the muscles in his body ached, and he winced at each heartbeat as if the flowing of his blood strengthened the pounding in his head. With his one eye open, Logan could make out a strange, iron-wrought symbol hanging on the wall above his supine form, and a soft substance lay beneath him, so he guessed he was on a bed of some sort. When he attempted to turn his
head, the sharp jab of pain shot through his nerves, and Logan slumped, groaning. Through the ache, the young man heard satin rustle and peeked his eye open again to observe a slim figure leaning over him, a candle sputtering in one hand.

  The candle's faint yellow glow illuminated a lovely face ringed by dark brown hair, and eyes filled with concern looked down at Logan. A red satin robe clung to her shapely form, closed by a black satin belt about her slim waist. She smiled when,she saw Logan's eye pop open.

  "Don't move," she whispered. "I'll fetch Barthol."

  Barthol, Logan mused. That's right-he and Moknay had gone to see Barthol and had been attacked. The Jewel! he suddenly recalled, attempting to sit up. What had happened to the Jewel?

  Dizziness and nausea consumed Logan, and he was forced back onto the bed. Helplessly, he stared up at the iron symbol, wishing the pain in his head would go away as he recognized the ornament as the same design that had been in the foyer. Quiet footsteps sounded as the girl returned, trailed by Barthol and Moknay; to Logan each step was a booming cannon.

  "How are you feeling?" Barthol inquired softly. "That was a nasty rap you took."

  Logan reached a hand behind his head and flinched as he lightly touched the enormous bulge on the back of his skull. "I feel like a bunch of elephants are doing a fandango in my head," he moaned.

  Barthol glanced back at Moknay. "Fandango?"

  Moknay glanced back. "Elephants?" he queried. Silently, he approached a window and peered out behind the curtains. "If you're wondering," he said over his shoulder, "we still have the Jewel."

  Logan attempted to nod, and his head was flooded with pain. Instead, he croaked, "How the hell did Groathit find us? I thought we had tricked his bird."

  Moknay shrugged. "He must have been waiting for us to ditch his spy and had a troop of Reakthi trailing us. He probably just teleported in from wherever he was hiding." The Murderer flashed Logan a grin which-to Logan-seemed to glare like a million suns. "Still, he doesn't know if we were lying when we said we were going to Semeth. Any fool could have guessed we had run into Debarnian."

  Barthol placed a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder. "You'll be staying here tonight," he told him, "in Mara's room. She's an apprentice priestess of Lelah, so feel free to ask her for anything… if you know what I mean. She's never had a visitor before, but she does very well in her studies."

  Logan blinked a few times, thinking he had misheard. "Huh?" he sputtered. "You mean when you're a priest you can…?"

  Barthol chuckled good-naturedly. "Of course! Lelah's the goddess of love, so all her priestesses are taught the goddess's art. It's different where you come from, eh? That's too bad you can't…"

  "Who the hell says I can't?" barked Logan. "It's some of the priests where I come from who can't!"

  The young man fell back onto the bed, clamping his hands to the sides of his head. His own shouting had hurt, and it felt like someone had activated a triphammer in his forehead.

  "Get some rest," Moknay instructed him. "We'll be leaving early tomorrow morning. I can't say I like staying here when Groathit knows where we are."

  Logan did not even attempt to nod as Moknay and Barthol left the room. He muttered unhappily to himself and at the rhythmic beat within his brain. Mara sat on the edge of his bed and gently placed a cloth behind Logan's head. For a moment, there was a flash of pain, but then it was gone and Logan realized how near the girl was to him. As she backed away, Logan cracked an awkward grin, recalling what Barthol had said.

  "I-I wish I…" he stuttered, cursing himself for not being able to talk straight.

  What rotten luck! he grumbled. Mara was one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen-in Sparrill or in Santa Monica. The way she arranged her hair was absolutely beautiful, and she had the most alluring green eyes that sparkled as if they were emeralds. Her smile was one of understanding and compassion, and her figure…! Thank God someone put a blanket over me! Logan thought. Without it, his reaction to Mara's beauty-and Barthol's comment-would have been six and a half inches more than obvious!

  "What Barthol said…" Logan tried again. "… I can believe that… uh… what I mean is…"

  Mara bent forward, placing a slim finger on Logan's lips. "Shhh," she hushed him. "Rest now. You received quite a bump."

  Logan almost flustered as he misunderstood the priestess and feared the blanket did not cover him as much as he thought. The panic slowly drained away, and Logan realized she meant the bump on his skull. Frowning to himself, he noted what headaches could really do to one's sex drive.

  "Perhaps you could come back under less strenuous circumstances," Mara suggested. "I'd like to know more about you and your world."

  Logan tried to smile and succeeded, although his facial muscles screamed in protest. "I don't think I can come back," he answered. "Once I leave Debarnian, I don't think you'll ever see me again."

  Mara brushed one of the spiraling wisps of her long dark hair out of her face. "Why not?"

  "Homesick," Logan shrugged, and the pounding intensified. "I'm giving my 'cargo' to some Smythe guy and going home… I hope."

  Mara nodded, more of her dark brown hair spilling about her. "Then sleep," she told him. "Your journey will be arduous, and you will need your strength."

  The young girl rose from the side of the bed and started across the room, her satin robe parting as she walked to give tantalizing glimpses of her bare legs.

  Groaning, Logan shut his eyes and tried not to think about the priestess. It was reassuring to know, he noticed, that this god-awful world hadn't confused all his feelings. Only why did he have to find out now?

  When Logan reopened his eyes, another priestess had entered the room, clad in a satin robe of dark blue. She was as beautiful and as shapely as Mara, but her hair was the color of beaten gold.

  "Riva," Mara said, "bring in some more pillows, please."

  The golden-haired priestess nodded in silence and fetched the goose-feathered pillows. She placed them on Logan's bed, gently lifting his head as she slipped one behind him. Her light blue eyes glistened, and a seductive wink made Logan panic. His thoughts tripped and staggered over one another as he tried to think of a response. The priestess was gone even before he thought to grin.

  Mara stepped quietly over to her bed and untied her satin belt. With the rustle of satin, the red robe spilled away from her luscious frame like crimson water, and Logan clamped his eyes shut. Of all the times to have a knock on the head! he cursed silently.

  Logan could hear Mara's breath as she blew out the candle, and more fabric rustled as the priestess climbed into her bed. Even behind the safety of his closed eyes, Logan was not free. The image of Mara slipping out of her robe continued to tease him, and, with nefarious mirth, his imagination took over and she and Logan were together. The pounding in his head lessened as his blood began to flow to other portions of his anatomy, and Logan begged for release.

  Taking its cue once again, that infernal sense of wrongness heard Logan's unspoken plea and descended, swirling about his already shaken skull. Images of Mara, flickers of pain, and that mercurial buzz sloshed about in utter chaos, and Logan cursed his luck and the foul world in which he was trapped.

  Gradually, his release was granted, and Logan slept.

  "What? Blast it! There's got to be a way!"

  The voice arose from the eddying tidepools of red and silver light, shattering the stillness with its tone of wonderment and confusion.

  "Oh, wait! Yes, wait a minute! I think I'm getting something! "

  Matthew Logan blinked his eyes repeatedly, staring at the spiraling vortex of blood and metal that encircled him. A strange sensation of deja vu assailed the young man, and, puzzled, he tried to remember where he had seen this place before.

  "Excuse me. I'll be there in a moment. I'm having a devil of a time trying to get a clear picture. Whatever you do, don't wake up. I may not be able to pick up your alpha waves again."

  The asthmatic voice receded into the ocean of red
and silver as a shadowy form took shape before Logan's bewildered eyes. Overwhelmed by the feeling of repetition, Logan watched as the figure advanced. It was a robed, monklike form that walked with a purposeful stride toward Logan, its features hidden by a large hood. Questioningly, the monk's hood tilted to one side as the figure halted.

  "You're going to be the one?" the monk asked in that same, wheezing rasp. "Hmmmm. Seems it works out. At least you're not dead, yet. My idea must work since you're not denying you're here. Well, that's good to know."

  Hands pulled the hood away from the face, and Logan blinked in recognition. Before him stood the long-haired businessman, only now his face wasn't so ferocious. But why was he now wearing a robe? In Logan's world he had worn a suit; in Sparrill he wore a robe. Was there any significance?

  Snow began to fall about the two, and the long-haired businessman appeared to be just as surprised as Logan. They watched the miniature flakes of white for a moment before the businessman/monk turned his gaze back to Logan.

  "Remember what Lord Byron once wrote," he said enigmatically. "'I had a dream which was not all a dream.'"

  Logan lifted his eyebrows in question as the robed figure melded into the whirlpool of snowflakes and red and silver. Icicles began to sprout from the snow-covered ground like strangely jagged blades of grass, and one touched his throat from somewhere out of his line of vision. It was freezing and cold to the touch…

  Logan's eyes fluttered open as the dream dissolved. Very dim light hinted to the young man that it was a little before dawn, but his subconscious did not wish to give him up. The icicle was still at his throat and a weight was upon his chest, restraining his arms.

  "Hand me the Jewel or die," a throaty voice commanded.

  That was not my subconscious! Logan realized, instantly springing awake. Someone was straddling his chest, their legs pinning his arms to the bed. And, if that wasn't bad enough, that icicle was no mere piece of frozen water! It was the cold, cruel blade of a dagger touching the unprotected flesh of his neck.