Blood! Logan's mind demanded fiercely. Retribution! Deal pain to those who usually deal it!
Spurred on by his anger, Logan foolishly converged on the fallen Reakthi, once again picking up Launce's staff. As if he was grotesquely staking a claim, Logan drove the staff into the man's throat, and warm fluid drenched his Nikes.
An abrupt tug on his sweat pants fragmented Logan's intense fury.
The grey-haired Munuc was solemnly pointing at the portal-where Launce was slowly crawling in. Shaking his head in an effort to beat back his rage, Logan followed the creature and ducked into the opening. At the end of a short tunnel was a large chamber, and the bloodthirsty anger within Logan returned. Druid Launce lay near the center of the room, blood pooling beneath him. Munuc stood beside him, his tiny eyes glittering.
Logan made his way to Launce's side, tightly gripping the staff with whitened knuckles. "I kept it for you," he said, handing the staff to the druid. "I thought you might want it back."
Launce brought up his head, smiling faintly. "Thank you, my friend, but it is ruined-stained with the blood of an enemy. It should never have been used for such a purpose."
"But you had to do it," argued Logan. "He'd seen where Munuc and his kind lived. You had to."
Launce nodded gravely and pushed the staff back into Logan's hands. "Do me a favor," he asked.
Logan nodded, kneeling beside the wounded druid.
Launce closed Logan's fingers about the staff. "Take it."
Logan shook his head. "I can't take it. It belongs to you. I have no right."
"I saw you use it," the druid stated with his faint smile. "Keep it, and it will be there to help support you. I no longer need it."
Druid Launce closed his eyes with a sigh and his hands fell away from the oak staff. Abruptly, Munuc let out a wail, and Logan bowed his head, his stormy anger overcome by sorrow.
Somewhere, a pack of wolves howled.
Druid Launce was dead.
•7• Flood
Logan strangled the reins in his hands as he followed Moknay and Thromar through the forest toward the town of Plestenah. Almost two days had passed since their run-in with Vaugen, and the fury remained within Logan. His anger was similar to that unnerving feeling that continually plagued the young man. It would suddenly descend upon him-without reason and without warning-and Logan would grit his teeth fiercely as he thought of the young druid who had died helping his friends.
The guilt, however, stayed within the young man at all times, slowly tearing away at him from inside. Druid Launce had died helping Logan, while Logan had refused to trust the man-had refused to believe in his friendship. Now there was no way Logan could accept him as a friend-and the guilt drove deeper. It had been, after all, Logan's fault that the druid was dead. If Logan had not stolen the Jewel, and if Munuc had not sent his people against Vaugen, Druid Launce might still be alive.
Vaugen. Logan seethed. How he hated that name. Some mysterious force drove the Reakthi Imperator to trail Logan from Denzil to Sparrill, and, because of him and his chestplated minions, Druid Launce had been slain. His guilt blamed Logan for causing many of the calamities that arose, but his unrelenting anger blamed Vaugen for Launce's murder.
Cursing under his breath, Logan swore vengeance.
The greenery of the forest receded, and the town of Plestenah was revealed. Just south of them, Logan could see denser forest, and his mind turned to the ease in which Druid Launce would have been able to have passed through the vegetation-if Logan had only trusted him.
Plestenah was quite a small town, the young man noticed, made up mostly of shops and markets. A few homes lined the interior, and their pleasant, outward appearance sparked a little hope in Logan's depression; perhaps they would find the extra help they sought.
Moknay suddenly reined his horse in, his grey eyes locked on something down the street. "Logan," he said, still looking away, "see to the horses, will you? Then get us some lodgings in a hostel."
The Murderer tossed Logan a small pouch of gold and dismounted. Logan turned away from his guilt and wrath and caught the bag, peering at it curiously.
"Get lodgings?" he repeated. "How the devil do I do that?"
Thromar interrupted him with a thunderous burst of laughter. "Hah! Moknay's seen a wench that fits his tastes!"
Pulling his eyes away from the pouch of gold, Logan glanced up to see Moknay talking to a young girl who stood along the cobblestone street, her eyes roving up and down the Murderer appreciatively. In reply, Moknay patted the money pouch which he had told Thromar he had left in Eadarus, and the couple started off.
Startled, Logan swung about to ask Thromar what Moknay thought he was doing, but the fighter was gone as well.
The intense ire lurking within Logan reared its head. "Leave it to the man from another world to get the rooms," he snarled, the anger practically becoming one with the young man. Abruptly, he glared at the pouch of gold, weighing it in his palm. "Huh!" he snorted. "They give me money, I'm going to use it for what they're using it for."
With a determined grin, Logan leapt from his mount and peered down the street. He saw a tavern-where he guessed Thromar had ducked into-but decided he did not want to go there. Brawls and hop-infested ale did not entice Logan-what he wouldn't do for a few video games to play to get out his aggression! Still, there were the whores lining the street, and Logan's anger was swift to rationalize his choice of recreation.
The young man dismounted and tied his horse and his companions' to a tethering post. He then turned his interests to the street. A number of girls stretched out before his eyes, but none of them interested Logan. His bitterness would not settle for just any whore-it demanded the best if Logan dared try to force it down.
Abruptly, Logan's blue eyes caught hold and stuck fast. Standing out in front of a store was beautiful young girl, dark blonde hair spilling about her slim shoulders. A white bodice and skirt covered her curvy frame, and her dark blue eyes roved up and down the cobblestones expectantly. Instantly, Logan's anger prodded him forward, demanding the young man do as his comrades and enjoy himself. Gradually, Logan approached, intent on appeasing his never-ending temper.
"How much?" he inquired, stepping up to the blonde.
The girl gave him a casual glance. "How much what?" she asked back.
"Money," Logan's anger explained.
The girl's eyes went wide. "What do you take me for? One of the sluts walking the street?"
At precisely the wrong moment, Logan's anger faded. Caught off guard, Logan backed off, awkward and defenseless. "Uh… well… yeah," he stuttered.
"What?" the girl shrieked, frail fists clenched. "How dare you! Do you know who I am, you chomprat?"
Abandoned by what had given him courage, the young man took another backward step. "No, I-I don't."
"I am Cyrene, daughter of Sire Marchaon!"
Logan flustered. "I'm sorry-I don't recognize the name."
"You don't recognize the name?" the girl fumed. She took a step as if to beat Logan over the head with her fist and then bowed her head. She was silent for a long time. "Not many do, anymore," she finally murmured sadly.
Logan shoved the pouch of gold into his sweat pants and started away. "I better be going,'' he excused himself.
Cyrene jerked her head up. "No… please, stay," she begged. "I need someone to talk to."
"But I just mistook you for a…"
Cyrene nodded with a laugh. "You're not the only one. I really shouldn't be standing around like I'm waiting for someone. Father will never come back, but I swear I'll see his murderer slain!"
Logan noted the girl's tightly clenched fists and hoped Moknay had not visited Plestenah often. Fearing that perhaps the Murderer was the cause, Logan queried, "Who killed him?"
Cyrene's deep blue eyes flared. "Vaugen," she spat.
Logan was engulfed by his rage once more and growled involuntarily.
Cyrene's eyes locked on his. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Have you also
lost someone to Vaugen?"
The anger churned and boiled within him, and Logan wanted to pound a fist against the nearest wall in frustration. "Yes." He gnashed his teeth. "He killed a friend of mine… someone who was trying to help me. We were lucky to escape and make it here without him catching up. I wouldn't be surprised if he found me here with my friends off dicking around!"
"Catch up?" wondered Cyrene. "Are you saying Vaugen's following you?" She took a curious step up to Logan. "Why?"
A battle instantly went off inside Logan. Anger, guilt, and paranoia all clashed head-on in a full-scale war within his mind. His anger wanted to tell the girl of his own personal battle with Vaugen, his guilt wanted to tell her everything about his mission so he would not make the same mistake he had with Druid Launce, and his paranoia brought back the image of Mara, nude and unconscious, Riva's blood-spattered corpse nearby.
"I don't really know why," Logan finally answered. "He wanted me for something-said I could be useful. I don't think he wants me alive anymore, though." Battered by the three conflicting forces within him, Logan uneasily backed away.
"Wait!" Cyrene cried, soft hands grasping hold of Logan's arm. "You said he killed your friend-does that mean you've personally confronted him? You've faced Vaugen himself?"
Puzzlement draped over Logan as he saw the excitement in Cyrene's face. "Why should you care?"
Cyrene shrugged curtly, her blonde hair bouncing upon her shoulders. "I don't know. I was hoping maybe I could join you in wherever you're going."
"Join me?" Logan exclaimed, and the three emotions faded as confusion overpowered them all. "And possibly run into Vaugen himself?"
Cyrene nodded.
Suspicion replaced the confusion. "Oh, no," Logan told her, "I don't want you coming along just to get yourself killed. If you're that desperate to die, save me the guilt and kill yourself when I'm not around." He turned away and started for the nearest hostel.
"You don't understand," Cyrene objected, hurrying after him. "I don't want to kill myself, I want to kill Vaugen."
Swift hoofbeats sounded far off in the distance as Logan went silent. He shook his head, entering the hostel. "I get it," he quipped. "You're not suicidal, you're insane."
"I am not insane!" Cyrene snapped, right behind him. "I want to see that murderous whoreson dead!"
"You and about ten thousand other people," the young man retorted, banging a fist upon the desk of the hostel owner.
Blue eyes flaming, Cyrene twirled Logan around, her frail hands gripping him by the front of his jacket. "Listen, you," she snarled. "I'll do anything to see Vaugen dead, and you're the first person I've ever met who's survived a run-in. And you say Vaugen may be following you." Her lips drew back in a horrible frown. "I want a shot at the man who killed my father. You have to take me with you!"
Logan glared back at the beautiful girl. "I don't have to take you anywhere," he said, sneering back at her. "My mission is dangerous, and you could get in the way."
The fierceness died down in Cyrene's eyes, and it was her turn to eye him suspiciously.
The hoofbeats grew louder, then stopped.
"What mission?" Cyrene queried, jabbing a long-nailed finger at Logan's chest. "Since when did you have a mission?"
"Since he stole a certain horse and found the magical item hidden within a saddlebag," informed a scratchy voice.
Logan and Cyrene whirled to see a white-chestplated Reakmor stride into the hostel. The owner of the building let out a frightened yelp and ran out a back door. Three more men sauntered in behind their leader; only the Reakmor wore a chestplate.
"I am Reakmor Farkarrez," the man in the white chestplate announced, "and unlike those before me, I do not play petty games. Give me the Jewel or my men shall tear you limb from limb."
Logan glared at the Reakmor. "Men? You call those things men?" he scoffed. "They don't even have chestplates!"
Farkarrez grinned, his front teeth chipped. "They wear no chestplates so these Sparrillian fools will not hinder us as we traverse their land."
Logan's hand shot for his Reakthi sword, but the three soldiers were faster, no longer weighed down by their armor. The young man's anger churned inside as he struggled in their grasp, futilely trying to break the grip of six hands. "Why the hell do I always get into trouble when Thromar and Moknay aren't around?" he muttered.
"You are not alone!" Cyrene proclaimed, withdrawing a dagger from a sheath strapped about her thigh.
Her white skirt flapping, the beautiful blonde dove for one of the Reakthi. The soldier attempted to dodge while still retaining his hold upon Logan, and a scrape suddenly appeared across his forearm.
"By all that is unholy!" he cursed. "The bitch cut me!"
The Reakthi released Logan and grabbed at Cyrene. He caught her around the waist, pinning her arms at her side. Furiously, she tried to ram her dagger into the warrior, but he simply held her off to his right.
"Let go of me, you viper!" the girl yelled.
Logan strained against the four hands keeping him prisoner. "Let her go," he fumed.
Reakmor Farkarrez grinned wickedly, glaring at Logan as he approached the girl. "The bitch means something to you, does she?" He roughly grabbed Cyrene beneath her chin. "I can see why."
Cyrene brought up a slim leg, catching the Reakmor in the groin. Farkarrez grunted, stumbling back in pain, tears streaming from his eyes.
"Touch me again and I shall make it permanent!" Cyrene threatened.
The Reakmor glanced up, agony scrawled across his face. "No one ever harms Farkarrez," he growled, "especially some female! I was going to let you live, but I shall enjoy you better dead!"
Farkarrez withdrew a dagger from his boot and pointed it at Cyrene. The blade rested directly between the girl's full breasts, but Cyrene did not flinch. Defiantly, she glared at the Reakmor, all but ignoring the dagger at her bosom.
"Have you ever had someone dig a blade into your chest?" Farkarrez questioned, his face contorted with fury. "Feel the cold steel as it tears through your flesh? Watch as red blood streams down your pretty, white skin?"
Cyrene did not answer, and Farkarrez struck her across the face. Her head jerked to one side, blonde hair tumbling into her face, but she remained silent. Logan watched the red handprint that developed on Cyrene's cheek, and that familiar fury began to boil and steam, demanding release.
"I should ravage you right here!" the Reakmor growled.
"I'd rather die first!" Cyrene spat back.
Farkarrez slapped her again.
The anger exploded; Logan sprang.
The Reakthi holding the young man stumbled back into one another, unbalanced by the explosive jump. Farkarrez let out a startled shout as Logan sailed into him, hurling the Reakmor into the wooden staircase. Cyrene dug an elbow into the soldier behind her and broke free. Her dagger lashed out and the warrior crashed to the floor, his dying thought concerning the safety that chestplates offered.
Logan's fist smashed into Farkarrez's mouth, guided by his intense wrath. The Reakmor staggered under the onslaught, scrambling for the door. Logan roughly jerked the man back, picking him off the ground and heaving him bodily across the hostel. Adrenaline and rage intermingled, and Logan's sword thrust out, skewering the Reakthi that charged him.
Cyrene, having disposed of the other soldier, rushed the stunned Reakmor.
"Cyrene!" warned Logan. "Stay back! He still has his dagger!"
The girl ignored the warning, her eyebrows knitted above her dark blue eyes. With a sneer of pleasure, Farkarrez hurled his blade. Expertly, Cyrene ducked to one side, batting away the dagger with her own. Farkarrez's weapon whizzed past Logan's ear and lodged into the wall.
The Reakmor's jaw dropped open in shock. "What?" he shrieked. "No one can do that! Not at such close…"
Silver and crimson sparkled as Cyrene swept her dagger across Farkarrez's throat. Red liquid bubbled from the Reakmor's lips as he slumped forward, his hands clutching his neck. Gagging, Farkarre
z could only watch as his own blood spilled across the floor. Then his vision blurred, and he died.
Logan brushed at his black hair, his fury watching Cyrene with admiration. The girl turned from cleaning her dagger and focused on the young man. "He mentioned a jewel," she noted. "What jewel?" Logan attempted to smile and failed. "You know," he replied uneasily, "a funny thing happened to me on the way to steal a horse."
His frivolity dissipated and he realized how very much
Cyrene's hair color resembled Riva's…
"Thromar should be back soon," Moknay guessed, stroking his chin as he peered out a window of their hostel room. "We'll be leaving early in the morning and heading southwest. We should reach Prifrane in a week's time; then into the mountains. Hopefully, someone in Prifrane will agree to act as scout through the Hills."
Logan rubbed his hands together nervously. "What is taking Thromar so long?" he said. "I hope he didn't run into any more Reakthi."
The Murderer shrugged diffidently. "He said something about going to see his friend Fraviar, the one who makes the ale." He sneered at no one in particular. "Still don't see what help he'd be."
Cyrene gazed up at the two men, replacing the Jewel in its leather pouch. Her deep blue eyes were filled with awe and trepidation, and Logan prayed that was all. "Shouldn't you keep the Jewel in a safer place?" she wondered. "I mean, a bag doesn't serve as much protection, does it?"
"Hasn't been taken yet," Moknay smirked, and Logan hated the word "yet."
The door flew open and Thromar entered, a silly grin drawn across his face.
"What are you grinning about, O mighty fat one?" quipped the Murderer.
Thromar belched loudly in Moknay's general direction. "Been to my friend Fraviar," he stated.
"Did he give us anything that could help, or just the secret ways of making ale?" the Murderer wondered sarcastically.
Thromar held up three-flasks of fluid. "He did give us some of his darkest ale, and a little talisman of magical powers. Says it detects magic." The fighter thrust a huge arm at Logan. "I think you should be the one to wear it, friend-Logan."
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