 
### Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

AUTHOR'S NOTES

MAP

DEDICATION

QUOTE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

EPILOGUE
The Distant Kingdoms

Volume One: The Beyonders

by

David A Petersen

This is an IndieMosh book  
brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd  
PO BOX 147  
Hazelbrook NSW 2779

http://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2014 © David A Petersen  
All rights reserved

**Licence Notes**

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and publisher.

**Disclaimer**

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.
AUTHOR'S NOTES

There are a couple of points I wish to mention to anyone who is about to read this novel. Firstly, I completed the initial draft of the Distant Kingdoms Series One (7 volumes in total) between 1994 and 1998. Most of what you will read has come from that original draft of the first volume, although numerous rewrites have been made after the initial draft. There are also further volumes on various e-book sites. Also, being Australian, I use the English/English spelling of most words instead of the American/English spelling. Also the metric system is used in the narration, rather than the imperial system of measurements.

I also wish to point out that a great many people gave me much needed assistance in many aspects of writing this volume. To those people, you have my eternal gratitude. Your help during this process over the years has been invaluable--my thanks to you all.

And lastly, my thanks to you for taking the time to read this novel.

Believe me, I do appreciate the effort.

David A. Petersen
MAP

This novel is dedicated to my parents  
Ruth and Ray
"The beginning of any great historic event is  
always a time of immense upheaval"
PROLOGUE

The only light to penetrate the cramped, stone room emerged through a tiny ventilation slit positioned high up in an inner wall of the ancient, foreboding building. This faint illumination pierced through the usual dark gloom of the cell's interior, its glowing shaft reaching all the way to the cell's floor. No other form of light touched the squalid room, leaving it in almost constant darkness.

To one side of this beam of light stood a girl, about seventeen years of age as measured on Earth. Her long, limp hair was dark, as were her intent eyes--a characteristic of her people. Dangling from her thin, malnourished form was a basic gown, reduced by time and neglect to little more than a collection of thin rags. The clothing disguised a number of complaints besetting the girl, although most of the prisoners in the surrounding dungeons cells suffered similar unfortunate ailments. These included constant cramps and headaches due to the foul water and a lack of proper provisions supplied to her. Her hair occasionally fell out in clumps from a severe lice infestation; the same pestilence littered the skin on her legs with festering sores, as well as the occasional rat bite.

Stepping silently into the shaft of light, the girl tilted her head upwards to take in the view through her only glimpse of the outside world. A world she had been denied access to for so many seasons, be they warm or cold. The only way the prisoner could tell the change in the seasons was if she was just cold or freezing near to death. The air temperature was becoming cool again, especially at night. Soon the cold season would bring mercilessly low temperatures and eventually masses of freshly fallen snow would partially block the overhead ventilation slit. The petite prisoner instinctively knew she was physically in no condition to survive yet another long, frigid cold season. Her uncaring jailers would, no doubt, discover her dead, frozen form in the cell one morning and eventually report this matter to the man responsible for her incarceration. The girl doubted he would bother to order his guards to give the deceased prisoner a proper burial. Most probably, her corpse would be jettisoned over the rear wall of the castle for the wild dogs and carrion birds to devour at their will. Over time, her gnawed skeleton would be little more than a macabre decoration amongst the rest of the garbage tossed carelessly from the structure.

Gazing upwards, her eyes looked to the heavens and beheld the only true companions she had known during the time of her brutal imprisonment. The three moons stood out like beacons in the dark, night sky, competing for attention with countless brazenly glittering stars that littered the otherwise black void. These celestial orbs were the only signs of hope in the prisoner's otherwise forlorn life and returned to her with undeniable regularity that not even the powerful man in charge of the castle could prevent. They were the only companionship she had known since childhood--other than the dungeon's guards who brought her a modicum of food and water on occasion. She had no real idea about the appearance of these men, as they never once ventured into her cell. They had no choice, as her cell door had been irreversibly locked, leaving the only access to the tiny room via an opening at the top of the door or the small food flap at the bottom of the sealed entrance.

Staring up at the trio of bright moons, the prisoner felt a heartened sense of longing as her delicate features were illuminated by the moonlight. At this grim time in her isolated life, she clung to one hope in her keen mind: one day soon, someone would come and remove her from this wretched place and set her free once more.
CHAPTER ONE

CANADA  
TORONTO, ONTARIO

PRESENT TIME

The mansion was an impressive structure, three floors in height and possessing numerous rooms, halls, doors and windows--enough to perplex the uninitiated as to its interior layout. White in tone and built with thick, sturdy bricks to keep out the harsh Canadian winter, the dwelling was even more remarkable due to its location. Although it was registered as being in Toronto, the house did not actually fall within the city's official boundaries but was located quite some distance north of the city. All sides of the building were surrounded by vegetation, including an imposing forest of evergreen trees, masses of bushes and smaller shrubs, giving it the impression of being an oasis deep within the dense forest: Civilisation versus nature. In this instance, nature appeared to be putting up a good fight.

Most of the structure's rooms contained the usual array of furniture, decorations and personal effects of the occupants. However, one room inside the mansion--the single largest chamber--did not hold the expected items one associates with the average Western household, no matter how affluent the owners might be. Firstly, to gain access to this top-secret area, a key card was required in order to open an extremely heavy airlock door capable of withstanding a considerable detonation at close quarters. Once past this formidable entrance, the people who worked here were afforded a spacious chamber that was spotlessly maintained and brightly illuminated, although a bit on the chilly side.

The experiment in progress occupied almost the entire length and width of the huge room on two different levels. Directly at the room's centre was a circular glass platform decorated by a collection of intriguing instrumentation. Surrounding this platform was a raised balcony covered in dark grey carpet with a highly polished railing, protecting anyone from toppling onto the delicate glass surface below. A waist-high fall onto the hard surface could easily prove dangerous to the staff, and more than a little injurious to the expensive mechanism. During initial renovations, the walls of the laboratory had been slightly rounded to enhance the platform's circular design. Despite its irregular shape, almost every area on these walls had been utilised to house some form of control panel, measuring or recording device.

The ceiling had been extended to allow the technicians to walk freely along the upper level without the discomfort of banging their heads into light fixtures. The entire enterprise was powered by a great many solar panels situated on the mansion's high, steep roof where they could greedily feed on the sun's limitless energy. Despite their delicate appearance, these panels provided an abundance of power, the excess being stored in subterranean batteries positioned directly beneath the building. One day, these solar panels and accompanying batteries would be produced commercially for industrial and household use. For now, they were solely for use in Colin Bourke's pet undertaking: The Minerva Project.

The Minerva Project was associated with Colin's company, ScienceStart. Amongst ScienceStart's more known scientific achievements were greatly miniaturised audio and visual players, personalised identification microchips that could be inserted into a person's wrist to activate numerous electronic functions, such as auto tellers--thus eliminating the need to carry cards, and light globes that required next to no power to function and could glow for years without burning out. Also on the company's impressive portfolio was carpet that failed to show one iota of wear after even extensive use, virtually unbreakable glass, and a spacecraft that made the now defunct Space Shuttle resemble a child's tricycle. Unfortunately, many of these items were still in the experimental or manufacturing stages.

The company's most ambitious project was now approaching its final stage. When fully operational, the Minerva Project would be able to manipulate the previously unalterable passage of history: 'Time manipulation'.

Most individuals, including every member of the technical team, cringed at such a limited definition, as they immediately evoked images of clockwork-like devices, rotating discs or quite possibly a big, blue police box. This was such a sore point with the scientists working on the project they never dared mention the term under any circumstances. And heaven help anyone who dared utter the term 'time travel'. In fact, the project was not an attempt to move _through_ time, rather to 'speed up' its inevitable and seemingly ponderous motion. All the team aimed to achieve was a contained time stall of a meagre two one-hundred thousandths of a second. Despite this seemingly tiny, inconsequential measure, such a feat could be a major step in attaining some control over past and present events.

Albert Einstein once theorised that time travelled at the speed of light. The Minerva Project aimed to test his theory by moving intense light matter faster than standard light, a childishly simple and straightforward theory that was to be put to the test over the next twenty-four hours. If this experiment succeeded, then everyone associated with it would have their names etched in the history books of scientific achievement in big, bold letters for perpetuity.

But the Minerva Project was destined to be a catastrophic failure.

***

The small, gangly fawn pushed its way through the thick undergrowth, arriving quite abruptly on the manicured grass close to the single largest object the animal had ever seen during its brief life. Stepping with almost overwhelming trepidation onto the miniature, manmade field, the delicate animal carefully studied the vicinity for any signs of possible danger. Sensing no life-threatening predators lurked nearby, the fawn ducked its head and commenced dining on the short, luscious grass. While the animal ate, it failed to see a slight movement very close to the immense white structure nearby.

A tall, slim woman in her late twenties with shoulder length dark-brown hair and green eyes, courtesy of a Venezuelan mother, emerged cautiously from the confines of the mansion. The woman positioned herself on the building's rear porch and once comfortable, remained silent and still. She hoped the fawn would not notice her presence and dash back to the relative safety of the undergrowth. The woman continued observing this peaceful scene as the deer tore hungrily at the grass near its hooved feet.

No more than two minutes later, the dark-haired woman was joined by a somewhat shorter, blonde colleague, who appeared to be of approximately the same age. Together they admired the grazing creature, grateful to be in a place where such a tranquil scene could unfold before their eyes. Overall, both science researchers were very pleased their current undertakings were in such a peaceful location.

An unannounced blast of classical music erupted from the mansion behind them, shattering the silence. So intense was this audible intrusion that the handmade panes of the building's windows appeared to shudder. The unexpected outburst of music by a great composer from a long-past era issued forth with enough power and force to scare the daylights out of Satan. It just about killed the poor deer. The terrified fawn bolted back into the surrounding forest as if the Hordes of Hell were about to pounce. The mansion's grounds were once again devoid of any life. The highly unimpressed women on the rear porch turned to face the upper level of the house.

"Goddammit, Bourke!" exclaimed the brunette scientist, her green eyes flashing dangerously. "Why does he have to play Beethoven like it's heavy metal?"

The blonde woman laughed lightly, amused by her companion's anger. It was no secret that Connie York and Colin Bourke grated each other's nerves. Colin may have owned ScienceStart and sat on the Board of Control, but Connie had been appointed Project Manager by the entire board due to her PhD in physics and the fact she possessed an IQ that almost resembled a telephone number. The truth was, she had her way of doing things and Colin had his own individual style. Beethoven continued blasting his way across the Canadian countryside at an impressive level of decibels.

"I suppose we better get back inside," Connie sighed, casting a despondent glance in the direction of the vanished fawn. "There's really no point in us being out here."

"Perhaps we should steal Colin's music collection," Lorraine Montague wryly suggested, a hint of French-Canadian accent in her voice.

Connie glared across at the other scientist. "I'd be more inclined to burn down his room," she retorted.

"Can I watch?" Lorraine laughed.

"Sure thing, honey," Connie responded as they wandered slowly towards the nearest doorway. "I'll invite everyone upstairs and we can make toast around his burning bed!"

The load music abruptly halted.

"Thank God for that!" Connie huffed in a dramatic burst of relief. "I thought we were going to have to listen to that racket all morning!"

"Beethoven is not a racket," Lorraine protested teasingly, flashing a broad smile.

"It is when it's played at supersonic levels."

They entered the mansion, figuring they would never set eyes on the young deer again. Their deduction was correct, but their reasoning behind it was way off the mark. Fate had other intricate developments in store for both women.

***

Connie waited until they were both inside the building, then closed and securely locked the rear entrance. Moving along one of the mansion's many corridors, both women literally bumped into one of their team's other members.

"Sorry, ladies!" Dale Johnstone apologised as he barged past them. "I'd like to stay and chat, but I'm a man on a mission." After this off-handed comment, he bounded away, leaving his Minerva Project teammates bewildered by the speed of his departure.

"What's wrong with Dale?" Lorraine asked, not really expecting an answer. His behaviour was particularly unusual and out of character for the tall scientist, who was also a qualified biologist. Even under the most trying of circumstances, he was the type who never appeared fazed by any hazards life threw at him, whether in regards to his work or private life.

Connie merely shrugged. "You've got me."

Another horrendously loud blast of sound ripped through the mansion. This time, however, the disturbance was not the dulcet tones of Herr Beethoven. The noise reaching everybody's ears was a fire alarm screeching at the top of its mechanical lungs.

"Forget my last question!" Lorraine announced as both women broke into an uncoordinated sprint.

Despite being the shorter of the two women, Lorraine was naturally more athletic and reached the metallic doorway a good three paces ahead of Connie. She motioned as if to open the door with her access card.

"Wait! Wait!" Connie yelled, finally arriving at the closed doorway. "Don't open the door before you check it!"

The shorter woman turned to stare at her project manager.

"How do I check if there's a fire in the lab if I don't open the door?"

The Project Manager considered their dilemma for a moment. The other scientist was quite correct. A raging inferno could be waiting just on the other side of the blast door and they would be none the wiser until opening it, allowing a torrent of wild flames to come tumbling out onto them in the passageway.

"I guess we've got no choice," she reluctantly conceded. "Let's open her up and pray for the best."

They opened the large door and rushed inside the smoke-filled laboratory. There they saw Dale working alongside a much smaller built, Asian man in a soot-smeared lab coat. The two men were engaged in fighting a small, but angry spout of flames billowing from a partially melted control panel on the far wall.

Fortunately, once the nasty little fire had been extinguished, they managed to shut down the fire alarm. The emergency air-conditioning kicked into gear, quickly draining away the acidic smoke that filled the chamber. Within sixty seconds, the entire room was completely clear of the offending fumes.

"Thank God for that!" Connie blurted, gasping in the acrid air. "For a minute there I thought we were all going to be barbecued. What the hell happened?"

Victor Chan and Dale shrugged simultaneously.

"You've got me," Victor reluctantly admitted.

The project manager turned to the other scientist. "Dale?"

"Hey!" he responded, trying not to appear too defensive. "Don't look at me; I just got here myself."

"Some silly bastard's going to have to tell Bourke about this," Connie grumbled to no one in particular.

Dale stared mournfully back at her. "Good luck."

***

In fact, Colin Bourke had already been informed of the mishap within the shockingly expensive lab. The tall, slightly muscular man had been reclining in a luxuriously padded chair, listening intently as the pounding waves of Beethoven's Symphony Number Five rattled the windows and shook the door of his office. A large, hairy hand reached out from behind him, gingerly tapping the auburn-haired man on one shoulder a couple of times in rapid succession.

This action caused Colin to launch himself clear of his specially commissioned, ergonomic, leather recliner. Scrambling to his feet, he soon regained his customary composure and switched off the miniaturised entertainment player and projector, which took up the space of about three credit cards laid one on top of the other; the auxiliary speakers being much larger. He glared across at the older, portly man who had dared disturb him in his only haven from the pressures of the outside world.

"Simon!" Colin gasped, miraculously controlling his rising anger. "I hope there's a good... no, a 'great' reason why you almost gave me a coronary!"

Simon Leveque nodded to indicate there was indeed a great reason.

"What is it?"

"According to the fire control indicator in the secondary lab, a fire's broken out in the Minerva Project room."

Colin paused. He continued to stare at the other scientist. "Did you say a _fire_?" Colin finally managed, as the information sank into his normally agile mind.

Simon nodded before responding, "If you didn't play that wretched music at a million decibels, you might have heard your own alarm going off."

Bringing his thoughts back to the present time, Colin could now hear a number of alarms screeching for all they were worth in the distance, somewhere deep within the large building. Almost as if sensing his great displeasure at the unwelcome noise, the alarms abruptly ceased. Blissful peace and quiet returned to the mansion's interior.

"The fire must be out," Colin suggested hopefully.

"Maybe all the alarms just melted in the heat," the rotund physicist added, somewhat unhelpfully. "It might be an idea, Colin," he suggested, "if we go and check on the damage."

"Let's go and check then," Colin instructed, making for the doorway.

Both men headed with due haste out of the room and down the stairs. They prayed without any real religious conviction that the emergency was over without any damage to the Minerva Project or the research personnel.

***

Connie cast a look across the Minerva Project laboratory as the entrance was opened, allowing Colin and Simon to enter. She realised there was going to be a great deal of explaining to do about this recent mini-disaster.

Horrified by what he saw, Colin managed to retain a calm, benign expression as he slowly and deliberately paced about the room, inspecting the extent of the fire, and the smoke and fire-retardant foam damage. Besides the badly burnt area where the initial fire had started, the walls and ceiling were liberally smeared in a thin, grim layer of black soot. Extinguisher foam was sprayed from one end of the laboratory to the other.

"Would anyone care to offer an explanation for this?" he calmly requested, pointing briefly towards an ugly burn mark in the wall where the instrument panel had literally gone up in smoke.

Connie held her hands up and said sarcastically, "Okay, you got us, Colin. We were trying to start a campfire to roast some chestnuts, but hell, it just got away from us."

Lorraine and Victor slowly moved away from their project manager. Dale was grateful he was standing on the opposite side of the room. Colin remained stone still, staring directly at the black, melted form that had previously been an important piece of instrumentation. He turned around to glare at his project manager who sported a long, black smear of soot across the left side of her face.

"You think this is funny, Connie?" he demanded, miraculously maintaining an even tone of voice. "Have you any idea how much it is going to cost to repair the damage? Not to mention the time we'll lose getting the Minerva Project back to a fully operational status."

Victor, who was also a qualified physician, disregarded all notions of self-preservation. He boldly stepped forward to intercede in the brewing brawl. "Actually, Colin," he insisted, "it should only take us two days at most to repair."

Colin was astounded at this hastily conceived estimate. "Fixing this mess is only going to take two days?"

"...If we work around the clock." Victor nodded.

"I think we better find out what caused the fire in the first place," Colin added, an angry menace just beneath the calm surface of his voice.

"I think it was just a power surge in the batteries," Dale added, one hand absently clutching a fire extinguisher. "I was checking the power meter under the stairs when the damn thing went right off the scale."

Colin immediately decided to take care of this problematic situation with a touch of pre-emptive diagnostics. "Dale, you and Simon check the batteries and the solar cells. And for God's sakes try to track down the cause of the surge," he instructed. "Lorraine and Victor, do me a favour and clean up this mess." Colin turned to cast an inscrutable gaze towards his project manager. "Connie, could I speak to you outside, please."

Not uttering a word, Connie marched out of the chaotic laboratory. If her employer wanted a word or twenty with her, she would be more than happy to talk right back to him. A good, old-fashioned exchange of ideas quite often cleared the air and made life a great deal easier for all concerned. However, on other occasions, it did nothing of the sort.

With her arms crossed, a certain sign she was agitated, Connie stepped onto the rear porch of the mansion and waited impatiently for her employer. When the project manager sensed him behind her, she spun around, her mouth partially ajar ready to have her say first about this unfortunate matter.

Colin leapt into the fray before the tall woman could get a single word out into the chilly Canadian air. Things were just not working out and needed to be fixed before the entire mess blew up right in his face.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Connie?" he demanded, pointing an overly dramatic finger towards her. "This is serious, and you're acting as if it's just one big joke!"

"And you're acting as if we're conducting the invasion of Normandy!" she fired back without a moment's pause. "Look, with an experiment as complex as this one, things are bound to go wrong from time to time. And when they do go wrong, you find a way of fixing the problem and clean up the mess. Every time there's been a problem, you've been more interested in finding somebody to blame."

"Bullshit!" Colin angrily retorted, somewhat surprised his project manager would think so little of him. "I'm just trying to make sure nothing goes wrong with the Minerva Project. For the past three years we've been working on this, and I've spent another four years researching every possible aspect of what we're about to accomplish here."

"Accomplish?" Connie repeated, her voice a bare murmur. She looked nervously around as if she was concerned someone might overhear. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps we're doing the wrong thing out here in the woods?"

Colin turned to study his adversary. "What do you mean by that, Connie?"

She paused before responding. Until this moment, she had hidden her true feelings about the Minerva Project and its ramifications. This was an exciting time in her life and career, and she certainly did not wish to jeopardise her involvement in the experiment by openly voicing any disapproval harboured in the deep recesses of her mind. Now, unfortunately, the truth had forced its way into the open, right in front of her employer. "Did you ever consider that just maybe we're messing with something we're not supposed to, Colin?"

"Excuse me?"

"We're fooling around with something no one else has ever been able to tamper with."

"Did you ever consider that if everyone thought that way, we'd still be living in caves, chewing on raw meat?" Colin fired back, trying in vain to keep his temper in check.

"It's in our nature to try and better our situation on this world," he explained, his mind racing with the implications of his project manager's apparent doubts over the entire experiment. "We explore other places on the Earth, under the sea, in space."

"And look what happened. Such exploration brought down entire civilisations. The Mayans, Native American and Australian Aboriginal cultures--all undone to a great degree by people like us. Every great advance in our civilisation comes at a shocking price. Look at the advent of the nuclear bomb; two entire cities destroyed in minutes."

"They also stopped a terrible war and saved countless other lives," Colin politely countered. "And may I point out; we're not building a bomb. This is an important and serious attempt to help control our time for the benefit of humanity."

"Even so, I have to admit after all these years I'm starting to have doubts about the viability of the Minerva Project," Connie replied.

Colin stared silently at the other scientist, contemplating his next words. "Look, I know you're contracted here for another two years at least, but obviously this isn't going to work. I can't have my Project Manager harbouring doubts--not at this stage. Perhaps it's best we part company. I'll give you an excellent reference; you've always worked so hard, you deserve that at least."

Connie nodded in reluctant agreement. On numerous occasions, she had come close to requesting her release from the whole experiment. She simply no longer held any faith in it. "I'd like to stay on until the activation stage is completed," she requested, her tone weighed down with regret.

"I'd be very grateful if you could, Connie."

The dark-haired scientist nodded briefly before turning and walking back into the silent, oppressive mansion.

Stepping across to the veranda railing, Colin took a rare moment to study the surrounding terrain with its magnificent flora and somewhat elusive animal life. A person could easily retire to such a peaceful setting and spend their twilight years observing first hand that the planet was not entirely doomed as a crime-plagued, pollution-ridden product of human greed and failure.

"Shit!"

He was not a happy man.
CHAPTER TWO

Victor Chan was half a day out in his estimate of the repair time to fix the Minerva Project lab, as it took taking the team two and a half days to complete the necessary repairs. Even to achieve this narrow timeframe, they had needed to work on a twenty-four hour roster; each taking turns to clean the affected area inside the laboratory and replace any burnt out or otherwise damaged components.

The team members were quite perplexed to learn about Connie York's imminent departure from the Minerva Project. The day after the final repairs were completed, Colin Bourke decided they would proceed with the experiment's first test run. Nothing too strenuous, they would simply light the device up for a couple of seconds and see what happened. This test would take place on the assigned day at exactly 1600 hours. On completion of this test--assuming nothing too disastrous befell the Minerva Project, Connie would pack her bags and go her own way.

On the day of the test run, Colin generously decided to let the technical team have a half-day off to do as they pleased. After all, they had toiled diligently under particularly arduous conditions. The team members deserved some 'down time' from their hectic schedule; he felt it was the least he could do.

***

With his large frame partially obscured in the dim light of the snooker room, Dale Johnstone watched intently as Simon Leveque lined up a shot on the expansive green surface of the competition-sized snooker table. They had decided to play a particularly haphazard version of pool rather than snooker, as neither were up to speed on the rules of that particular game. There were far too many similar coloured balls and way too many intricate regulations to be followed. They had enough 'intricacy' in their lives working on the Minerva Project.

The Canadian's shot missed its intended target by a mile. The white ball cannoned about the huge table before eventually coming to a rest to one side of the dark green felt. Simon remained motionless, staring intently at the cue ball as though attempting to move it through telekinesis, an ability he did not possess (to the best of his knowledge).

"Nice shooting, Tex," Dale smiled sardonically and chalked his cue.

"Let's see you do better, Dale," Simon grumbled, less than impressed with both the comment and his playing prowess.

In fact, Dale's next shot bounced off no less than two of the side cushions before the ball in play deposited itself in a corner pocket. He gazed up at his combatant and grinned wickedly.

"Behaviour like that is very unbecoming, Dale," Simon stated, unimpressed at Dale's smugness. "Especially from someone gifted with a slightly better than average IQ."

"Sorry, Simon," Dale apologised insincerely. "You know me--I do so enjoy my little victories."

"You call this a victory?" Simon inquired, placing his cue back into a nearby rack. "Let's go into town and chase some local girls. Then I'll show you what victory is all about."

"Sounds good to me," Dale agreed, likewise replacing his cue. "By the way; that'll be a dollar for the pool lesson. Oh, and I mean a proper US dollar, not some lousy Canadian peso."

"If you don't like the place, please feel free to leave," the other man retorted with a lopsided grin.

"Remember what happened last time we went into Toronto?"

Simon sighed heavily. "I was hoping you wouldn't bring up that unfortunate business. It's not my fault the lady in question wasn't anything of the sort. She--I mean he--looked like the genuine article, at least with his clothes on." The rotund man paused to recall his disgraced memory of the event. "And then he began screaming about me trying to rape him. As if!" Simon paused again and looked crestfallen "...I'd never been inside a jail cell before then."

"Colin wasn't impressed," Dale added, rather unnecessarily. "Nor Connie, nor Lorraine."

"Only Victor seemed to find the whole tragic mistake amusing. I've never seen him laugh so hard. In all honesty, I'd never seen him laugh at all before that time."

The most important detail about this incident that had angered Colin the most was that Simon--under the influence of whatever alcohol he had been consuming in great quantities--had begun to discuss the Minerva Project with a collection of bemused law enforcement officers at the police station. Thankfully, they dismissed his talk of 'time containment' as the mad babbling of a drunkard. Afterwards, Colin issued everyone with a stern warning about discussing their work when not actually involved in the execution of their respective jobs. Even the usually placid Connie had spoken to Simon at great length about his "damn big, drunken mouth." When provoked, she could be even more ruthless and belligerent than Colin. It all boiled down to one decree: No care, no job.

***

Colin scratched his recently shaven chin as he surveyed the previously damaged panel, which now appeared to be as good as new. He glanced across at Victor, who seemed to be pleased with himself, even though his initial repair time estimate had been a touch understated. Two and a half days to completely repair the problem was still a considerable effort considering the amount of damage inflicted on the instrumentation.

"Do you think it will happen again, Vic?" Colin inquired, running his fingers delicately over the panel in question. The plastic and highly polished metal components felt safely-cool to the touch.

The team physician shrugged. "We can only try it and see what happens. If another fire starts up, we'll have no choice than to shut down the Minerva Project and go back to the drawing board."

The thought of shutting down the entire experiment and starting from scratch caused Colin to cringe visibly. He had no intention of letting so many years of toil and effort go down the proverbial drain because of a single lousy fire. "We'll go ahead with the initial run today and pray there are no further problems," he instructed. "If you could just run one more scan of this panel--just to be certain, Vic."

"I've run two tests on it already, and nothing's shown up Colin," Victor intoned rather haughtily.

"Just one more for good luck, okay?" Colin responded, smiling thinly. He was still concerned over the unexplained power surge.

"Luck, Colin?" Victor replied. "Since when did you believe in something as simple-minded as 'luck'?"

"We're in a foxhole," he retorted, flashing a grin. "And there are no 'luck atheists' in foxholes. Especially in scientific foxholes."

The doctor had no idea what the Minerva Project owner was babbling on about, but decided not to take issue with the matter and smiled back. In his view, if you put in the hard work, were careful with all of the finer details and kept your eyes open for any possible difficulties then luck, good or bad, should play no part in the process. This attitude would be partially responsible for the horrendous disaster about to befall the entire team and their cherished mechanism. Luck, good or bad, had an integral part to play in any undertaking.

"Check the system once more, Vic, then take the rest of the day off."

"Thanks, I'll do that," Victor responded.

Colin completed one final inspection of the entire chamber before stepping towards the sealed exit. To his surprise, Victor spoke to him an instant before he removed himself from the room.

"What happens if it works?"

This unexpected question caused Colin to halt mid-stride. He about-faced to gaze at his colleague. "Pardon?"

"What are you going to do if the Minerva Project is a success and we can exercise some control over the movement of time?"

"This is just the first of many steps," Colin finally answered after a moment's deliberation. "At this stage, it's just two-hundred thousandths of a second; it won't really change anything. You can put the DeLorean back in the garage; we're not going anywhere just yet."

"But later on, it could give us complete control over our own history," Victor enthused as much as his reserved personality would allow. "Think about it... We could change everything. Any of history's particularly distressing events we could alter forever or monitor our future progress."

"I still think you're getting a little ahead of yourself. Even if today's run is a roaring success, it's still going to take a lot of years to accomplish even a bare fraction of what you're talking about. And we don't really know if we can alter history. Moving time and moving _through_ time are two completely different aspects. One might lead to the other, but not necessarily. And then there's the age-old question: Would you change the past if you had the chance?"

A moment passed in relative silence as Victor considered his opinions on this question. "Who knows? The sky's the limit," he responded. "There are a couple of World Wars we would be well rid of. About half a dozen assassinations could also go the way of the Dodo." He grinned at his last statement. "We could even bring back the Dodo from extinction!"

"But what are we supposed to do about the people responsible for these atrocities?" Colin inquired, now warming to the topic. "And I don't just mean the extinction of the Dodo."

"We could..."

"Kill them?" Colin presumed to finish the other man's sentence.

"I wasn't going to say that!" the physician denied vehemently.

"Once we figure out what we're doing here, we could send hired killers after anyone not to our liking: Hitler, Idi Amin, Pol Pot. There was a guy back in college who beat me in the hundred-metre dash... I could send someone after him."

"Now you're putting words in my mouth, Colin. I'm the last person who's going to declare open season on anyone. But there would be nothing stopping us from simply 'removing' certain people from the great scheme of history."

"Let's learn to crawl first," Colin remarked, "before we start running a marathon. This endeavour isn't about fixing history's wrongs; it never was. No more than the Apollo missions were about conquering outer space. Society needs to move forward; otherwise, humankind will become stagnant and die out in a very short time." He glanced at his watch. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make. Even I have people to answer too."

"You're putting me on," Victor countered seriously.

"Smartass!" Colin chuckled as he left the chamber.

No sooner had the scientist retired from the room than Victor went about rechecking the various repaired instrumentation panels. The last thing they needed was some unexpected malfunction to occur during the initial testing stage. He could not have been more right.

***

Inside his study, Colin prepared a generous bourbon-on-the-rocks in a heavy crystal tumbler. He disposed of the contents in two quick gulps in preparation for the next task on his agenda. Briefly searching about his desk, he located the object he needed. Picking up what appeared to be a small remote control, he strode across to a blank screen located on the far wall. He detested meeting with the ScienceStart Board of Control, even when such a meeting was via satellite link. Turning to face the screen, he pressed one seemingly innocuous button and watched with feigned disinterest as the surface of the screen flickered into life.

"Well," he grumbled under his bourbon laced breath, "here goes practically nothing."

The screen's unfocussed surface quickly cleared to reveal an assortment of well-attired men and women seated around an immense marble-topped table.

"Assholes of the world unite," Colin murmured under his breath, grinning falsely at the screen.

One of the more elderly men at the polished, oval-shaped table frowned. "I'm sorry, Colin," Bernard Gosford announced in a clear, but slightly shaky voice, "I didn't quite catch that?"

He had clearly heard every word.

"Nothing, Bernard," Colin lied enthusiastically. "So how are things on Mars?"

"We are not on Mars, Colin," the other man corrected him humourlessly, "just here in Geneva, as usual."

"You might as well be on Mars for all the damn use you are."

"Now, Colin," the stand-in chairman scolded, "there is no need for that belligerent attitude. We have given you every assistance possible, all things considered."

"You 'people'--and I use the term in its loosest possible connotation--haven't given me anything."

By this stage, the Board of Control of ScienceStart was in quite an anxious state. They began muttering and gesturing to one another as if their chairman had lowered his pants and bared his backside at them. No one on the multi-billion dollar company's board was amused by Colin's behaviour. No one else ever treated them in such a disrespectful fashion.

Colin continued with undiluted vigour, "I requested a lousy four million dollars on top of the initial project estimate to have additional safety checks done, but you refused to hand over one extra cent! Now the thing could burn to the ground and take half of Canada with it, for Christ sakes!"

"Colin," Gosford pleaded with mock rationalisation, "there's no need for this type of behaviour. We looked seriously into your request for additional funds, but there have been other urgent matters to deal with. If you can just be a little more patient, I'm certain we can agree to your request."

"Without trying to sound impatient, there is no more time, Bernard," Colin explained, his temper finally coming under control. "In a couple of hours, we begin Stage Two. The board has had three whole months to deal with the extra allocations of funds. Three months!" His usually calm demeanour slipped again.

"We did not realise you were so close to completion of the Minerva Project, Colin. Perhaps if there is a chance of some mishap, you should consider temporarily postponing the activation sequence."

"I'm sure you'd like that."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean by that remark, Colin?"

"What I mean is the Board has never been fully behind this experiment from day one," Colin snapped. "I've had nothing but one problem after another. If it's not funding running dry, it's equipment arriving behind schedule or requested personnel not being assigned. When the Minerva Project initially started, I requested Ronnie Hill to be project manager..."

"Connie York is one of the finest minds in the business," Bernard insisted.

"I know she is, but we've had clashes since the day she arrived. It would have been a far better idea to dispatch her to another station, where she could have had the full and undivided run of the place. We're constantly under each other's feet, and we've had nothing but problems working together. As it is, Connie's leaving after these next tests."

"Look, Colin," the stand-in chairman continued, "there has never been any attempt by the Board to undermine your authority. We simply felt York was the best person to deal with the task at hand."

Silent in his uncertainty about the truth of this statement, Colin carefully studied the wide, high-definition screen. The handful of men and women were looking in every direction except his. It was obvious Gosford was lying through his expensively capped teeth.

"Do you think it's safe to continue with the experiment, Colin?" Gosford finally inquired, smiling his false, bright smile. "Perhaps you should think about the wisdom in continuing."

"Perhaps, Bernard, you should consider that not once have I ever led this company astray. Not once. The Board objected to the Space Explorer project, and yet no less than three major governments are considering employing our system into their own space exploration programs. The solar panels and storage batteries I developed are ready to be sold on the open market. Every electrical device in this very house runs from them. Once every company and foreign government realises how effective they are, we'll have trouble hiding all the money from the IRS!"

"Nobody doubts your ability to bring in a successful project, Colin," Gosford replied with as much sincerity as he could muster. "It's just that sometimes we worry. That's what we get paid for, Colin."

"Yeah, right," Colin sighed, "just get me the additional funds. Otherwise, it's like trying to run a bar without any alcohol. Everyone sits around and grumbles because they don't have anything to do."

Gosford continued displaying his insincere smile. "Don't concern yourself, Colin. We will allocate all available funds. Trust me."

"Okay, Bernard. And thanks."

"I will check with you later in the day. I'm sure it will be a successful run of the Minerva Project."

"Please do. See you later."

The screen's crowded image abruptly faded as both audio and visual feeds were simultaneously broken from the Geneva office.

Colin continued to stand and stare at the expansive screen. Finally, he muttered, "I'm going to have to get rid of them."

***

Back in Geneva's luxuriously furnished boardroom, Bernard Gosford turned from the screen to face his fellow board members. Most were major shareholders in the ScienceStart company and none of them were happy. "We are going to have to get Colin Bourke away from the company if we are to save it from financial ruin," Gosford stated seriously, his tone full of authority and conviction.

The others observed him, so far without comment. They had an important decision to make. Who was going to be the victor in the upcoming power struggle between the Board of Control and the man who had almost single-handed brought the company up from a minor interest to an impressive world power in the science fields? To be caught on the losing side would mean disgrace and financial obliteration.

"I'm not prepared to stand idly by and watch Bourke destroy what we have taken years to build up. He cannot be allowed to continue pouring millions upon millions of dollars into the Minerva Project because he has the desire to set himself up as some type of overly ambitious H.G. Wells' character."

The other Board members nodded in unison.

"He has to go," Gosford emphasised.

The other members of the ScienceStart Board of Control nodded again in full agreement. Naturally, however, if Bourke were victorious in the upcoming takeover bid, they would all support him unconditionally. After all, they had a lot at stake, and it was always a good idea to have a contingency plan. They really need not have troubled themselves over this matter... Colin Bourke was not going to be around for very much longer.

***

The red ball cannoned about one corner, hurtled across the lush green felt of the huge snooker table and plunged directly into the opposite pocket. Leaning lightly on his cue, Dale raised one eyebrow but remained silent. His opponent in this bout of skill ambled once about the sprawling table, lined up a shot on the eight ball, and sank the dark coloured orb with a straight drive clear across the table.

"That's five dollars you owe me!" Lorraine announced, her tone loaded with vindictive pleasure. "I win again!"

Dale was amazed by her display. Even after a number of years playing against the short, blonde woman, he still could not come to grips with her God-given prowess on the snooker table. She had a natural ability with the cue far surpassing even his highly developed talents in the game.

"Where did you learn to play like that?"

After being asked this question so many times, Lorraine finally decided to provide an answer. After all, today was not just any other day; this was an extremely important time in their lives.

"My father used to own a pool hall in Quebec. I played games with the customers since I was able to see over the top of the pool tables. Want another go?"

Gently dropping his cue onto the table, Dale put up both hands in surrender. "No way, Lorraine," he announced. "I only wish you'd told me about your misspent childhood before now."

"What, and ruin all the fun, Dale?"

He shook his head. "I should have realised after all this time that you simply weren't that lucky. I mean, I'm pretty good, but you could give this science gig away and become a professional pool hustler."

"And give away the glories of working my butt off for the great Colin Bourke and the ScienceStart company? Besides, I enjoy milking you and the others for a little extra spending cash."

The much taller scientist gazed across at Connie, who was seated beside a generously stocked bar. Presently, she was delicately sipping a homemade martini. One martini a day was her only guilty pleasure while working on the Minerva Project. She made a great cocktail, even if she said so herself.

"Connie," Dale pleaded with great indignation, "do I have to put up with this sort of behaviour?"

The soon to be ex-Project Manager nodded without a moment's hesitation. She felt not one iota of sympathy for her co-worker. The exceedingly tall African American scientist was also known to knock other members of the team about the table and bleed them dry of loose change. Lorraine was the only person capable of giving him a dose of his own medicine.

"Yes, Dale," she responded flatly. "You brought it on yourself, buddy."

"How can you say that? Look, I know I made a bit of fuss about beating you and the others at pool, but a person's entitled to have a bit of fun out here in the middle of nowhere."

"You were being a pain in the ass, Dale," Connie countered, flashing a quick grin in his direction. She placed her drink onto the smooth glass counter. "I've never heard anyone like you make such a huge deal over a couple of lousy games of pool."

"You've obviously never spent time with my family," Lorraine interrupted while racking her cue. "You've never seen such out and out childish behaviour in all your life. And all for what? A couple of games played on a glorified dining table. One Christmas, my entire family deserted me just because I was better than them at pool... snooker... 8 ball... billiards..."

"Please, Lorraine," Connie pleaded, deftly picking up her glass and taking another sip of her drink, "I'm trying to help you."

"Sorry. I'm just telling the truth."

"No one has any problems with you telling the truth," Connie conceded, adding with a light smile, "unless it comes at an inopportune moment."

"It's simply human nature to make something special out of victory, Connie," Dale explained, his deep voice rumbling throughout the snooker room.

Connie returned to her drink and cast an eye towards a nearby antique grandfather clock. Time was getting away from them. If Colin had been a bit upset over the fire and resulting delay in the repair, then he would be livid if they were all late for the initial Minerva Project test because they were enjoying a game of pool and a martini.

"We'll have to get going soon," she dutifully announced to those present in the games room. Connie cast another appreciative glance at the large, expensive timepiece. It was definitely time to get busy.

"Let's rock and roll, people."

Everyone in the games room hurriedly tidied up their distractions and filed towards the nearest exit. This was not done out of any particular need to rush back to work. They all felt ill-at-ease with their manager's imminent departure and wished to send her away with a simple show of respect.

It was the simple things in life that made the most difference. And yet the simple things in life can go horribly wrong.

***

Their respective positions within the Minerva Project's main chamber were of the utmost importance in the experiment. The allocated places within the spacious room would determine their roles in the events following the Minerva Project's first (and only) activation. In truth, the outcome of the experiment would affect people all over the world.

Victor Chan and Lorraine Montague stood within a touching distance of each other, their eyes affixed to constantly changing displays on the instrumentation along one wall. Most of the readings displayed on these units were of no great consequence to the Project or to the scientists tending to its lofty intent. The readings were of interior and exterior air temperature, the constant, continuous pull of gravity, wind direction and speed and other nondescript environmental factors. Nevertheless, these factors still needed to be monitored in case something did go wrong so that they could pinpoint the possible cause of any difficulties while initiating the test.

On the opposite side of the chamber, Connie York was speaking to Colin Bourke about some private matter, most probably her imminent departure from the team. Simon Leveque was seated behind a computer console, attempting to bring the device up to full activation. Dale Johnstone was near the closed entrance, carefully inspecting the panel responsible for their recent dramas. However, the scientists' various positions within the room would change moments before the Minerva Project was finally brought to bear on all of their lives.

Concluding his seemingly serious discussion with Connie, Colin walked around the slightly raised platform, until he stood in front of a time piece securely located almost dead-centre in the glass plate just below his position. The green digits on this timer read '00:00000' and flashed ominously, as though attempting to hypnotise everyone within the room.

"Are you thinking about making a speech, Colin?" Lorraine chuckled, glancing furtively in his direction.

Connie noticed this exchange of glances between the two co-workers.

He nodded. "I was thinking about it, Lorraine."

"Wake me up when it's over," Dale murmured in his deep voice.

"Please, give me a break!" Colin pleaded. "It's an important event. We could be making history here!"

"Or we could be making complete fools out of ourselves," Simon quipped.

"Now, where was I before being so rudely interrupted?" Colin grumbled.

"A speech," Victor patiently advised.

"Ah! That's right. To be honest, I never prepared one; as they say at every awards night."

"There is a God!" Lorraine cheerfully exclaimed with a mild laugh.

"But before you all get excited, I do have something to say. A number of years ago, I embarked on an ambitious experiment to benefit all of humanity. To give us far more control over our destiny and possibly make changes where needed. The Hadron Collider in Europe was only a glimpse of what we are capable of as humans. I say we are about to open a new window into our universe." Colin looked around at his cohorts and gave a mild shrug. "So, people, let's make some changes!"

While Colin spoke, Connie had moved silently to one side, placing herself near Dale. The taller scientist glanced at her and smiled briefly, before focusing his attention back to Colin. Connie was not too dejected about leaving the Minerva Project taskforce, as she had a long list of other undertakings awaiting her attention. Most of them involved working for companies in competition with ScienceStart, but what Colin did not know was of no real concern to her. Naturally, she would miss the company of the others involved in this experiment. They had all become friends to varying degrees. Victor she barely knew at all; he had kept to himself these past couple of years while working under her administration. Lorraine and Dale, on the other hand, had become very close companions and most probably knew her as well as any of her immediate family back in Boston. She reflected with calm melancholy that this would most probably be her last day in Toronto.

She was right. What Connie did not know was it would also be her last day on Earth.

"So let's start her up and see what happens!" Colin finished talking with a final bout of enthusiasm.

Leaning closer to the panel, Simon danced his large, cumbersome digits across the mass of keys. In keeping with his usual high standards, he performed this task with proficient expertise. A dull hum started up with audible intensity within the chamber.

Victor glanced across to one of the instrument panels on the wall. "Initial activation of Stage Two of the Minerva Project began at 16:01 hours on October 10."

Simon glared at Colin and admonished him in an accusing tone. "See! Because of your speech, we are a good minute behind schedule."

"I'm certain history will forgive us, Simon," Colin calmly responded. "Unless this damn thing doesn't work."

The rotund man touched three more controls on the panel in front of him. His activity caused a narrow, immensely bright beam of red light to plummet from the ceiling onto the glass plate below. The light was so intense that to the untrained eye the beam looked almost like a thin pillar of some solid substance.

"So far so good," Colin muttered, gazing directly at the beam.

The beam intensified.

"I think we have a problem, Colin," Dale understated as he studied the troublesome panel, his features drawn into a deep frown.

Colin's attention was instantly drawn away from the continuously pulsating beam of red light. The beam now resembled a rapidly flowing stream of molten liquid. A light red glow spread out across the room, causing Colin to silently pray he had not just activated the world's most expensive lava lamp. The last thing they needed at this moment was a mishap right in the middle of the initial activation.

"Please," he murmured beneath his breath, "just another minute."

The digital timer on the glass floor still had not moved from its initial sequence.

Experiencing some degree of concern over Dale's observations, Connie stepped past Victor and Lorraine to join him. She closely watched as he gingerly tapped the panel's delicate glass pane. Part of her desperately wanted the experiment to be a gigantic blot on the résumé of the mighty Colin Bourke. But the better part of her character also wanted their efforts to be a roaring success, something the world would view in awe and wonder.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, leaning across to achieve a better view of the object of concern.

Dale shook his head. "It looks like we're having another power surge from the batteries. Right now, she's heating up well past the safety levels."

"Simon," Colin spoke up, his voice tinged with fear, "you know what to look for with the batteries. Go and see if you can figure out what the hell's going on down there. Connie, you take over his duty station."

What they did not know was the fault lay in two bare wires touching one another sporadically somewhere in the guts of the machine. The Minerva Project was simply shorting itself out. And hell would follow in all due time.

"Alright, Colin!" Simon announced, leaping up from the controls. "But remember," he blurted while opening the door, "if it's a success, I still get part of the credit!"

As the airlock door closed behind him as an audible hiss sounded across the Minerva Project chamber. Before the rotund scientist disappeared from sight, Connie had placed herself at his deserted console. She began reading the variety of instruments, her keen eyes revealing the building dread they all felt. Something within the Minerva Project's mainframe had gone terribly wrong.

Suddenly, a blinding, shapeless body of intense white light appeared in the centre of the room, directly above the target area. Much to everyone's concern, this inexplicable mass started increasing significantly in dimension. It spread out like a mist, engulfing everything in its unrelenting path.

"What the hell is this?" Colin demanded, more than a touch irritated by this latest development in what was amounting to a complete debacle. He was beginning to wonder if he should check a dictionary for the correct spelling of the word 'resignation'. There had simply been no allocation in his meticulously constructed plans for a mysterious white light in the middle of the lab.

Without warning, the panel that had just been fixed burst into flames, causing Dale to put caution to its best use and step well away from the second inexplicable fire in less than a week. He strode across the lab to check on Connie's progress with the controls. Hopefully, between her and Simon they could rescue this multi-million dollar experiment.

Connie turned around to stare in awe at the expanding white light building up in the chamber.

"What's going on, Colin?" Lorraine demanded, standing not far from Victor.

"I think we really need to leave right about now," he declared but remained affixed to the spot. He was entranced by this light, which had now reached an impressive diameter. Thankfully, fear of the unknown overcame his urge to stay in the lab.

"Turn it off!" Colin instructed in his most 'no nonsense' voice.

The mass of light continued to increase exponentially in size.

Pointing towards the digital counter in the floor, Victor appeared to be strangely delighted. He normally held his emotions carefully in check, so when he did become agitated, everyone knew it was time to take note of what was going on.

"Look, Colin! We did it!" Victor announced.

Casting an almost apprehensive gaze down into the pit, Colin was strangely unmoved by the digital figures currently reading 00:00002.

They had indeed completed their mission.

They had controlled time by one-hundred thousandth of a second.

But at what price?

"Turn the thing off!" Colin yelled from halfway across the room, valiantly attempting to reach the controls in front of a stunned Connie York.

When the transference happened, it did so with horrifying speed.

Half a sentence burst from his screaming mouth. "Switch the damn thing..." The light touched Colin, and everything around him concluded in that instant.
CHAPTER THREE

SOUTH AFRICA, NATAL PROVINCE  
THE MOUNTAIN ISANDLWANA

22 JANUARY 1879

Terrible oppressive heat, swarms of constantly biting insects, swirling clouds of choking smoke from intentionally and accidentally ignited fires, as well as the stench of burnt flesh and spilt blood. Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw failed to notice any of these numerous discomforts on the gentle slopes of the scenic mountain. He was far too busy fighting for his life, as well as for those of the precious few survivors of No. 2 Company. Just about every member of the regiment had been wiped out to the last man. Even with a respectable vantage point and artillery, the soldiers of the 1st and 2nd Battalions had found themselves overwhelmed almost ten-fold by highly-trained Zulu warriors.

They never stood a chance. The Zulus had overrun their position in a horrifyingly short time, despite being outgunned by the redcoats. In reality, the locals had very few up-to-date armaments to speak of, though they quickly scavenged discarded weapons from the ever-increasing number of British dead. Realising the handful of remaining soldiers would be hunted down and mercilessly slaughtered, Bradshaw decided to move his company to higher ground. His company, he thought wryly. There were presently all of ten men left alive, himself included. Even their lieutenant was dead, his corpse lay riddled with numerous wounds not far from their present position.

All the while, the screams of dying men mingled with and were eventually drowned out by the chants of the approaching warriors. Bradshaw turned and fired a single round towards one cheeky individual responsible for throwing a spear in his direction. The revolver he clutched had only recently belonged to his commanding officer. Bradshaw did not feel the slightest pang of regret in commandeering the lieutenant's favourite sidearm. After all, the man would hardly need it any longer during this shocking conflict.

***

Somewhere further down the gently sloping countryside, a small fire had caught hold in the dry, knee-high grass and had turned into yet another problem for the precious few survivors of this dreadful confrontation. Flames fed by the dry foliage and a brisk breeze spread rapidly across a wide front. The fire successfully cut off the point of escape for both the soldiers and the Zulus. The latter of these two warring factions did not appear to be overly concerned about the problem to their flank. Some of the dead warriors and redcoats were swept up in the fire, creating a dreadful stench of burning flesh.

A bellowing hoard of Zulus scrambled up the mountainside after the fleeing survivors of a once powerful regiment of the British Army. Their efforts in wiping out the last vestige of the invading force were not in the least diverted by the carnage spread across the mountainside or the resulting grass fire. So far, the Zulus' victory over the British had come at relatively little cost to their own numbers. Perhaps only five hundred warriors had perished in the fighting thus far.

One particularly bold Zulu charged past the surge of pursuing warriors, directing a personal attack on the fleeing soldiers. Eyes wide in the heat of battle, he rushed without fear or regret at the handful of retreating British troops, his spear held high overhead. At this point, the man cared not for his own life, but for the continued existence of his people.

Squatting to one knee, Bradshaw took careful aim at the fast approaching Zulu and squeezed off a single, well-aimed shot. The sergeant major's efforts were rewarded as the charging warrior screamed once then fell sideways to the ground.

"Squad! Squad!" Bradshaw bellowed, bringing to a halt the survivors' measured retreat from the battlefield. "Attain formation and reload!"

His command immediately created a flurry of activity amongst the smattering of surviving enlisted men. While the Zulus stepped over the body of their recently deceased companion, the redcoats hastily reloaded their Martini Henri single-shot rifles. They formed two particularly short firing lines high above the advancing Zulus and nervously waited for the next command.

The approaching warriors came much closer before the NCO decided to give the command to open fire. He fully realised there were only ten guns at their disposal, but this was certainly better than nothing at all. The sergeant major was uncertain how much better off they were at this time. He harboured a dreaded feeling they were simply putting off the inevitable for a couple of minutes at most.

"Take aim!"

While the handful of soldiers made their final stand against the awesome enemy force, Bradshaw knew he was quite proud of the men under his command. They had stuck to their training and the discipline that training had installed. Most of all, they had not panicked or behaved in a fashion beneath their station in this battle.

"Squad one!" he bellowed, aiming his pistol. "Fire!"

The first paltry salvo of bullets barely registered with the advancing Zulus as they readily continued their attack. A handful of their fellow warriors collapsed on the spot. Their fallen bodies created no more than just another obstacle to be stepped over in their compatriots' last rush to a glorious victory.

"Squad Two! Fire!"

The second burst of shots thankfully created some concern and confusion amongst their number as a few more tribesmen fell.

"Squad One!" Bradshaw commanded, leaving very little time for the first line of troops to reload their weapons from their initial effort. "Fire!"

More Zulus succumbed to the fire from the hastily constructed rifle detachment.

Almost as if intent on proving the sergeant major wrong about his soldiers' resolve in this final phase of the battle, one member of the modest squad broke formation. With his empty rifle still clutched in one hand, the man ran screaming in the first direction that presented itself.

"Get back here, you fool!" Bradshaw roared, dismayed by such an act of contempt for the rest of the squads' safety.

No matter what direction the terrified man ran, he was confronted by a multitude of frenzied Zulus in his path. In fact, he lasted a mere ten seconds before being swarmed over; his body instantly hacked to bloody pieces. Once the soldier had been savagely dealt with by the Zulus, they continued up the mountainside after the last remaining foreign invaders.

The Zulus closest to the remnants of the British regiment noticed it first; their frenzied, battle-hardened expressions quickly changed to masks of fear. Most of these men fell back from their position. Some of the more courageous warriors remained stationary on the mountainside, staring in shock at the forming apparition.

About-facing, Bradshaw was not certain at first of the image he stared at as he stood defiantly on the gently sloping ground. The object at the centre of his attention was not much further up the incline, its fog-like mass glowing in mild fluorescence. The Zulus clearly feared this vision, so the sergeant major felt the recently formed mist could not be a bad thing.

"Squad!" he ordered, firing a shot towards the crowding natives, "See that fog bank?"

Most of the soldiers under his command turned their attention towards the mist.

"Time for a disciplined retreat! Run for it, and I mean right bloody now!"

The Zulu horde began to reassemble their formation and launch yet another furious attack. There would be no further hesitation on their part. They would wipe out the British redcoats to their last man.

"Are you sure, Sergeant Major?" one of the soldiers asked, standing his ground.

"This order is not open for debate, Private Jones!" Bradshaw informed the enlisted man, his tone allowing for no discussion. "Everybody get into that fog! Now!"

The soldiers still kneeing, scrambled to their feet to join their comrades who were already moving towards the glowing mist. They all fervently hoped the odd formation on the mountain would somehow confuse or intimidate the Zulu army, at least long enough to give them a chance to escape from the accursed place.

The sergeant major was the very last man to retreat from their position. He swiftly and expertly unloaded his handgun into the charging hordes, creating even more turmoil in their massive ranks. His action created enough confusion to allow the handful of surviving soldiers to charge into the glowing fog bank. Where they would go from there, Bradshaw had no idea. Before finally joining his men in their temporary camouflage, he turned once more to survey the battlefield.

"God help us," the NCO muttered before plunging headlong into the strange cloud.

When the fog eventually lifted, Walter Bradshaw was certain they would all be butchered. He had never been more certain of anything in his entire life, but he had actually never been more incorrect about anything in his entire life.

The Zulus closed ranks around the cloud of mist, though none of their numbers dared enter its glowing mass. Spears raised, they waited with great eagerness to recommence their victorious battle against the invaders. When the mist finally dissipated, the warriors turned and fled in all directions, their usually disciplined minds overwhelmed with terrible fear. The area where the low lying cloud had been was now devoid of any sign of life. The British soldiers had vanished.
CHAPTER FOUR

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
FLORIDA EVERGLADES

30 DECEMBER 1956

The alligator was enormous, its huge bulk blocking almost the entire narrow dirt track which purported to be a road. Apparently, the reptile had decided to sunbake on this stretch of rudimentary road and to hell with anyone or anything else. The creature appeared completely oblivious to the nearby brown Ford station wagon, despite the driver's best efforts to startle the animal into some sort of movement.

"You're the one who wanted to go somewhere warm for the holidays," Edith Bonaparte reminded her frustrated husband, who had spent the last five minutes with his chin resting on the steering wheel before him.

"I've tried everything," Ernest Bonaparte remarked without bothering to alter his uncomfortable position. "I've hit the horn at the thing, flashed the headlights and yelled out the window. To be honest, I'm at a loss, Edith."

"I think you'll find we're all at a loss," she responded evenly.

The object of his discontent appeared to be asleep. The alligator's mouth was wide open, as if in a mock stance of menace, but its eyes were shut fast. The accursed thing even appeared to be snoring. Deep, loud groans could be heard emitting from its gaping maw.

"At least before, when we were travelling around this swamp," Edith continued, looking across to the designated driver, "we had some chance of getting out of here. Now we've spent the past forty minutes watching 'Rover' here sun himself."

At the mention of the alligator's newly acquired nickname, the two children on the rear bench seat of the vehicle began giggling hysterically. The eldest child, Joseph, sat behind his mother, while his younger brother by two years, Ernest junior was seated behind his father. Both boys found the large reptile greatly to their liking. The alligator at the centre of their predicament had added some much-needed excitement to an otherwise dreary road trip.

Turning around, their father gazed down at the highly amused eight and ten-year-old boys. "If you boys want to be helpful," he intoned sarcastically, "why don't you both get out and move that stupid thing off the road for me."

Joseph reached towards the nearest door handle.

"Don't you dare!" his irate mother instructed in her most domineering tone. She turned to glare at her amused husband. "And that will be quite enough from you too!"

"Yes, dear."

The boys laughed once more.

"The last thing we want to do is teach our children how to be irresponsible!"

"Yes, dear."

"And that will be quite enough of that sort of behaviour!"

"Yes..."

Edith lightly slapped her spouse across the arm.

"It's moving!" the youngest child cried with a burst of enthusiasm. With a little embellishment, this would make a great story to tell his friends back at school. The alligator's unexpected appearance had been the single most exciting event in his relatively short life. So far.

"Thank goodness for small mercies," Ernest senior grumbled.

Slowly, with not one show of rashness in its movements, the huge reptile lumbered off the dirt road. Apparently, the animal had taunted the family for long enough, or more likely, had sunned its hide sufficiently to heat up its massive bulk, in order to go hunting in the local waterways.

"I didn't want it to go!" Ernest junior exclaimed petulantly.

The Bonaparte family watched through their respective windows the deadly reptile slithered casually from sight. They saw the undergrowth move violently in no discernible rhythm, marking the passage of the mighty beast.

***

Once he was certain the cause of their seemingly endless delay had left the area, Ernest reignited the car's engine. He glanced down at the fuel gauge to discover the car still contained a nearly full tank. Thankfully, he had the foresight to fill up his pride and joy at the last gas station they had come across less than half-an-hour earlier. The vehicle lurched forward and continued along the same rough, overgrown track the family had been following for no short time.

"Well, boys," Ernest commented, "at least you can now say you've seen a real live 'gator. In fact, we almost ran over it, didn't we?" his features contorted with mild embarrassment. "Now, neither of you boys are going to repeat in class some of the things I called it, are you?"

Joseph and Ernest junior shook their neatly-cropped heads.

"I should hope not!" Edith huffed indignantly from the shotgun seat, firing a furious stare at her husband.

"I said I was sorry, Edith," he replied, red-faced. "I can't do much more than that."

"You can watch your language. Despite what our charming children say, I'm fairly confident every word you yelled at that unfortunate creature will be doing the rounds at school five minutes after they arrive back there." She abruptly paused as another thought entered her mind. "Should we try the map again?"

"I told you before," her spouse sighed, running a hand through his thinning red hair, "the map doesn't work."

The boys laughed again.

"No," Edith replied, rolling her eyes, "you just don't understand it. There is a difference."

"Not to me there isn't," he responded disdainfully, both eyes affixed to the continuously winding, narrow trail.

"If we spend the night out here, Dad," their youngest son cheerfully blurted, "can we let off some fireworks?"

"Don't be stupid, shrimp!" the eldest child laughed mockingly. "We're in the middle of a swamp! Where could we set off fireworks, you dork?"

The vehicle came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the otherwise deserted road. Instantly, Ernest senior's right index finger was pointing at his eldest son.

"If you want to get out and walk from here, Joe, I suggest you keep on calling your brother names! Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

Joseph's youthful face blushed as he answered, "Yes, sir."

Another chorus of high pitched giggling erupted from the rear seat. The youngest child found this remonstration very much to his liking. Any time his brother was in trouble with either parent, the world seemed a much brighter place.

"Got you!" he chuckled, his eyes gleaming in childish mischief.

Ernest senior turned around. "What was that?"

"Nothing, sir!" Ernest junior chorused automatically, his features covered in a huge grin.

"Better not be, you little sonofa... err... just keep quiet. Okay?"

The station wagon picked up speed on the bare road as the vegetation blurred past the slightly dirty windows. Ernest glanced back at his sons, who were now quiet.

Joseph's urgent voice hauled his attention back to the narrow trail. "Look out, Dad!"

Ernest was astonished to discover the track ahead had apparently vanished, completely obliterated by a strange iridescent bank of fog. The colour and formation of this unexpected phenomenon greatly concerned him. The odd mist appeared to be shining in the afternoon sunlight and covered the entire road. Much to Ernest's bewilderment, a warm breeze suddenly sprang up at this time, though it seemed to have no effect on the fog bank's formation or position dead ahead of their station wagon.

The car came to a rushed halt not far from the fog.

"Ernest, wait!" Edith called, alarmed by the apparition.

"What for, Edith?" he responded. "It's just some fog. We'll be through it in a second, you'll see."

"I don't like the look of it."

"Trust me on this," he reassured her, "it's quite harmless. Just some swamp gas. Look, I'll get through it as quickly as possible."

"Ram it, Dad!" Joseph called, even more excited about this incident than the appearance of the alligator.

The vehicle's engine revved up a couple of levels as Ernest trod down on the accelerator.

"Ernest!" his wife exclaimed. "Be careful! We don't know what's on the other side!"

"I do," he laughed, both hands gripping the wheel. "Swamp! It's all one big, lousy swamp around here!"

"Then perhaps you should be a little bit careful. Because we know what lives in the swamp: Alligators--great big ones!" Edith commented.

"I'm certain no alligator would dare eat you, Edith," he joked without daring to look his wife directly in the eye.

She turned to glare at him. "And exactly what did you mean by that, Ernest?"

"Nothing, dear." Ernest always called her 'dear' whenever he thought he was being funny. He grinned at her. "I say it's high time we got out of here and back to civilisation."

Under the careful control of Ernest, the car's velocity increased as it approached the glowing mist. The brown station wagon, its four occupants, their camping equipment, clothing and other personal belongings hurtled into the mysterious fog at a reasonably unsafe speed on the narrow dirt road. The vehicle vanished as though the apparition felt the need to vanquish an exceedingly ravenous hunger and swallowed the entire car and family.

Neither the vehicle nor the Bonaparte family ever emerged from the other side.
CHAPTER FIVE

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
20 KILOMETRES NORTH WEST OF CHARLESTON  
SOUTH CAROLINA

13 AUGUST 1864

Shifting slightly in his well-worn saddle in a vain attempt to attain a more comfortable position, Corporal Rodney 'Roddy' Meredin waited a second or two before deciding on a new course of action to overcome his troubles on this uncomfortably warm day. Scratching awkwardly at his crotch, the soldier came to the realisation he was only aggravating an already problematic situation, so he decided to leave well-enough alone. The heat of a southern summer and the rough texture of his Confederate uniform did not make good partners. And the lice did nothing to help.

"Goddamn lice!" he grumbled irritably, scratching his private parts once more. "Why can't they just sit still? They're moving around so much anyone would think they were planning to run away and join the goddamn circus!"

A mixture of crude chuckles rang out at Meredin's uncouth comment. Truthfully, they were all in the same predicament with these unwelcome guests within their faded grey uniforms. The heat, flies, lice, their coarse uniforms and the constant thrill of being shot at made their lives a less than a pleasant experience.

One young man leaned forward in his saddle. "You shouldn't be talking like that, Roddy. My mom would wash my mouth out with soap if she caught me cursing and blasphemin' like that."

"Hell, Bernard," Meredin retorted, grinning broadly. "I've met your mother. She's so mean she'd probably wash out all of our mouths!"

Private Bernard Talbot considered the corporal's comment. "He's right you know," he informed his companions, "She'd up and wash out all of our mouths!"

The laughter reached fever pitch at Talbot's honesty about his greatly feared mother. Any cause for merriment was greatly appreciated by the rebels. Meredin glanced about at his surroundings. He was always alert for any telltale signs of Union activity in the area; it was one reason they had survived so long during the shocking conflict. Many other friends and family members had perished or been grievously injured in the war. The unit's Non-Commissioned officer seemed to be blessed with good fortune when it came to any sort of combat activity.

"All right, that's enough!" he barked. "I don't want y'all sittin', here giggling like girls so we can be target practice for the next bluecoat patrol that comes our way!"

The oldest member of the group, a man in his late fifties who sported rotten teeth, a portly stomach and precious little hair, spat onto the ground at his perspiring horse's hooves.

"Ain't none of them blue, motherless sonsawhores around these parts, Roddy!" he loudly proclaimed with a hasty grin. "They're all hidin' up in Washington with them politicians. All in the same bed too, I might add."

The other horsemen just had to admire Harry Barren's God-given ability to curse the legions of the Union Army--and the politicians.

"It's okay for you, Harry," Meredin swiftly responded, likewise spitting on the hot, dusty trail. "You smell so bad; no bluecoat would get within rifle shot of you, even if the wind was blowing in the opposite direction."

"You're dead right, Roddy," Barren replied proudly, flashing a charming, gap-toothed grin.

Further along the road the patrol was following, the horsemen noticed an artillery unit high on top of a distant hill. Much to their relief, these other soldiers were uniformed in the same familiar grey garb. They boldly exchanged waves with their fellow Confederate troopers.

Suddenly, the five members of the patrol pulled up their horses. They gazed further along the wide path, confounded by the sight further ahead of their present position. Odd events had unfolded in this war, that much was certain. However, this was a particularly bizarre sight.

"Dear God Almighty!" Private Richard Maret muttered, dumbfounded by the vision in their path.

The lighthearted conversation about errant family members and body lice was forgotten. It was time to get to work.

***

Captain Carl Buchanan of the 1st US Volunteer Sharpshooters regiment of Michigan remained seated on his palomino stallion, his deep green uniform still a bit damp after having been washed in a stream earlier that morning. He was less than impressed with himself for being so careless as to wander into the direct path of a Confederate patrol. During his brief assignment with his regiment, there had been only two items on his mental list of 'things not to do in the war'. The first was not to be shot, while the second was not to be captured. Now he appeared to have failed on both counts. "Shit!" he muttered angrily to himself.

Considering there was no great distance between his position and the rebel group, there was simply no way he could outrun them, even though his horse was well-rested, fed and obviously in far better condition than any of the enemy soldiers' mounts. Buchanan had become hopelessly lost from his regiment after a mere two days on their first manoeuvre after he had wandered away from the main unit to search for fresh water for the horses. Grasping at his mount's reigns with both gloved hands, he prepared himself for his only real form of defence. Quite simply, he would ride like hell and hope good fortune put the wind at his back.

***

The strangely uniformed man ahead of them had not budged from his position for a good couple of minutes, confusing the Confederate patrol. As it was basic protocol to shoot at someone not wearing the same style military uniform during time of war, he should at least have the good sense to turn tail and run.

By this stage, even the distant artillery unit had spied the non-Confederate soldier. They were now in the process of hurriedly altering their cannons' positions to aim them in the newcomer's direction.

The patrol's members silently hoped their counterparts with the field artillery had some idea what they were doing, as well as possessing a reasonably accurate aim. The rebel soldiers felt it beneath their dignity to be blasted out of the war by their own forces. Finally, someone in the stalled patrol spoke up.

"My, don't he look pretty," Corporal Meredin calmly stated, before turning to face Private Maret. "Richard, can you make that shot?"

"That depends."

The corporal was shocked. "Depends on what?" he demanded, "You're always braggin' you could shoot the eye out of a crow at a hundred yards."

"Depends on whether I get to keep his horse or not."

"It's the same deal as always, private. We sell the horse and the rest of his stuff and split up the proceeds."

Leaning back on his horse, Maret raised the barrel of his highly valued breach loading Sharps Carbine rifle, the business end of the weapon pointed skyward in a particularly useless manner. This was not out of fear of accidentally discharging his weapon; he was certain he would never shoot anyone by accident. It was a matter for pride for Private Maret.

"I keep the horse, or I ain't doing it."

"Private!" Meredin bellowed irately, his face reddening. "You will obey my direct orders!"

"Go to hell, Roddy."

"You're on report, you piece of..."

Coat-tails flying, Carl Buchanan and his horse blasted through the middle of the unprepared patrol. Startled by this abrupt movement in their midst, Bernard Talbot's horse reared wildly, hurling the confused young soldier onto the hard road. While the rest of his unit turned to give chase to the fleeing enemy rider, he scrambled back to his feet and remounted his terrified horse. Cursing loudly, he quickly followed the tear-away procession. Much to his surprise, the green-clad man's mount appeared to be gaining distance on the pursuing patrol, which was now led by the fifth member of their company, Private William Hill. This soldier was easily the best horseman and was out-riding the remainder of the Confederate troop.

In a one-handed attempt, Richard Maret tried less than successfully to fire a shot at the racing figure further along the road. He only managed the inglorious feat of shooting Hill's hat clean off his head, much to the latter's surprise.

On top of the hill, the artillery squad finally managed to swing some of their cannons around to aim at the strangely attired figure. At least, they were hoping the cannons were aimed at the enemy trooper and not at their own men who were in close pursuit. The commanding officer bellowed out the order they had been waiting for.

"Fire!"

A shot smashed into a stream running parallel to the dirt trail, sending up a tall plume of muddy water. This scared the daylights out of every horseman on the road, both Union and Confederate. The next two shots from the artillery unit crashed into the surrounding woods, obliterating a number of trees, which groaned in protest as they crashed down in response to this hostile treatment.

Rounding a bend in the road, every member of the patrol was relieved to be out of range of the morons from the artillery division. Meredin silently promised that once they had caught and dealt with the enemy officer, he would return to the hilltop and kick the hell out of the idiot in charge of the artillery unit. Managing to retrieve an aged .38 revolver from its weathered holster, he sent a couple of wayward shots after their quarry. All of their horses were beginning to tire by this stage.

Buchanan's mount was still managing to keep a good distance between the two groups. The captain realised that even at this distance, it was only a matter of time before one of the rebel soldiers would get in a lucky shot and bring his escape to a swift conclusion.

The procession charged around yet another bend in the road, and Buchanan found himself rushing headlong into yet another group of enemy horsemen. It was definitely time to find a better place to ride his horse; this road was hopelessly infested with Confederate troops.

Veering his galloping, tiring horse from the road, Buchanan charged through a column of trees. This line of retreat led him straight onto a grassy hillside where, much to his chagrin, there was precious little cover. Ahead of him was nothing more than an exposed landscape of grassy, rolling hills. The first Confederate squad followed in swift succession.

"He's ours!" Meredin called to his troops. "Don't let the others get him!"

The men of the second patrol were equally bewildered by the unexpected arrival of the enemy officer. The surprised troopers wasted almost a full minute before joining in the chase. In doing so, they saved themselves from the fate that would befall their compatriots ahead of them.

With his horse panting in exhaustion as it gamely climbed the hillside, Buchanan decided to start some sort of offensive against the pursuing men. Producing his pistol, he frantically squeezed off a short volley of shots at the following horsemen, without really aiming at any intended target. As a result, most of his shots went wide, except one that clipped Hill's uniform, blasting away a small chunk of cloth from his shoulder.

Buchanan frowned as he and his horse reached the halfway point of the downward side of the hill, hurtling towards what appeared to be an iridescent cloud formation lying motionless above the open ground. He was positive the small cloud had not been there a second ago. Since he had no time to stop and inspect the phenomena, Carl Buchanan galloped straight into it.

The five members of the first patrol gamely charged directly after him, certain that a man and his horse could not possibly hide for long in such a small fog bank. One after the other, they raced into the glowing mist in their pursuit of the enemy soldier who had, in such an exceedingly brief time, caused them so much consternation. There would be hell to pay once they finally captured him.

The second mounted unit breached the hilltop and came to a dead halt. From their vantage point, the troopers could clearly view the countryside for quite a distance in any direction. Below them, a seemingly insignificant bank of fog was gradually dissolving, the remnants of its vapour hastily dispersed by a brisk breeze. The enemy officer and the five Confederate soldiers pursuing him had all vanished without a trace.
CHAPTER SIX

NORTHERN IRELAND  
THE CITY OF DERRY

7 MARCH 1974

A persistent, fine drizzle was falling across the region as the Jaguar Sovereign, its headlights cutting through the night, pulled into the narrow driveway. This parking area belonged to a respectable house, two storeys in height, with many lead-lined windows and one wall completely covered in dark green ivy. A full minute passed while the fashionable car's driver remained seated in the plush, warm interior. He allowed the motor to continue running steadily, the headlights still shining brightly across part of his residence. Now was certainly no time to be taking unnecessary chances.

Dear God. What a debacle!

Finally convinced he was not being observed by any uninvited, and certainly unwelcome visitors, Kevin Camden built up the nerve to switch off the motor and lights of his stylish vehicle. Another minute later, he alighted from his greatly loved Jaguar, diligently scanned the surrounding area once more, then at an agitated pace, sprinted to the front door of his house. Once inside the stone structure, he knew he was completely safe. The tranquil-looking building contained the best security devices money could purchase. It was impervious to all but the most determined assailant and Camden was convinced only a heavily armed paramilitary unit could breach his house's defences. Mind you such a raiding party was not completely out of the question. After all, in the space of a mere day he had managed to greatly offend and irritate not only the Irish Republican Army but also the Ulster Defence Association, the British Army, the Irish Regular Police Force and worst of all, Sean Corrigin.

God save him from Sean Corrigin.

Opening the front door, Camden, a high-ranked serving member of Sinn Fein, darted inside the darkened structure then shut and locked the entrance. He needed a good, hot cup of tea to settle his badly shattered nerves. His expensive leather shoes clicked audibly on the linoleum floor as he flicked on an overhead light, stepped across the kitchen to an aged, copper kettle, filled the item with water then placed it on the stove.

Over the years, this loyal servant to the cause had managed to secretly withdraw a considerable amount of money from his employers, placing these misappropriated funds under various aliases in case of emergency. Such an emergency had occurred this very day. Some three-quarters of a million pounds of party money would keep him out of trouble and living in the style he had become accustomed to, no matter where he chose to spend the rest of his days. Australia sounded nice.

Once Camden's much-needed tea had been prepared, he wandered into the unlit living room sipping the hot, steaming beverage. In the darkened room, he was careful not to spill any of his fresh brew. It would not do to stain the extremely expensive rugs, even if he would not be dwelling in this house for much longer. Reaching across with his free hand, he switched on an overhead light.

"Hi there, Kevin."

The delicate china cup and its near boiling contents slipped from Camden's grasp. The fragile crockery and its contents crashed unceremoniously onto the polished timber floorboards, splashing across the rare, handmade rugs.

Seated in an armchair positioned across the room, Sean Corrigin glanced down at the involuntarily discarded crockery and slowly shook his closely shaven head. He had always believed in the old adage 'all things come to he who waits', and now his determined patience had paid dividends. He had a number of important things he wished to discuss with the owner of the large, impressive house.

"Will you look at that, Kevin," he muttered in mock destitution, "You've gone and spilt your tea all over the floor. Now, what will your cleaning lady have to say about such a thing?"

Remaining still, Camden's mind faltered at the sight of the hired killer--more correctly, _his_ hired killer, sitting ever so calmly in one of his chairs. The short, thin man looked to all intents and purposes as if he were about to read his former employer a bedtime story.

"I... I don't have a cleaning lady, Sean," Camden finally managed to say.

A cheeky, evil smile formed across Corrigin's features.

"What?" he scoffed, in false surprise. "An important fellow such as your good-self doesn't have his very own cleaning lady to come over and give the place a quick once-over with a feather duster?"

Camden shook his head. "No. I've always managed by myself."

"Ah!" the intruder sighed in response to this announcement. "Which sort of brings us to the point of the matter; doesn't it, Kevin?"

Camden, his hands quaking uncontrollably in fear, knew they had entered a serious, deadly game. If he lived or died in the next couple of minutes depended entirely on how well he competed against the psychotic little man.

"So, shall we get down to business?"

"May I sit down, Sean?"

"No."

The denial was final, and any attempt to do otherwise would lead to immediate and horrendous violence.

"I'll stand then," Camden concluded.

"Please do," the seated participant of their terrible conversation advised. He paused before speaking once more. "I was wondering, Kevin, just how well educated are you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a perfectly straightforward question, Kevin. Did you finish school, go to university--that sort of thing?"

"Yes," Camden gulped nervously. He did not care for the direction the conversation was heading, "I finished both."

"Then I personally thought such an advanced education would allow you to determine the difference between a police station and a kindergarten."

"Naturally, I can tell the difference between a police station and a kindergarten, Sean," he stated with false confidence.

Corrigin nodded as though extremely pleased by this answer. His hands remained concealed within the folds of his heavy woollen coat. Throughout the entire conversation he barely moved, maintaining the exact same posture.

"Good," the shorter of the two men remarked. "Because I was just racking my poorly educated brain trying to figure out how a bomb I built to blow up a police station came to be parked beside a building full of little children when it went off?"

"I can explain," Camden admitted, his voice quaking.

"I'm so glad to hear it," Corrigin replied, finally revealing an automatic pistol and matching silencer from beneath the folds of his overcoat. "Because it really put me off my dinner when I heard about all those poor mites getting their little arms and legs blown off."

"It was out of my hands, Sean!" his quarry pleaded in a display of almost sincere remorse. "The control board decided it was too much of a security risk to attack a police station in broad daylight."

"You mean with all of those heavily-armed policemen around?" Corrigin inquired, deftly attaching the silencer and handgun into one cohesive unit without so much as a downwards glance.

"We needed a softer target. The son of a high-ranking army officer was in the kindergarten. We... I mean, the panel, decided to use him as an example against anyone who stands against the cause. What else could we do?"

"Was he one of the children killed today?"

Camden reluctantly shook his head. "Apparently, he wasn't there today. Sick with the 'flu, I believe."

Both men paused, reflecting on their grim conversation.

"Couldn't you have put a stop to it, Kevin?" Corrigin pleaded. "I mean, they were just little children. They didn't deserve to get turned into red paste like that."

"No, I couldn't have stopped it, Sean."

"Even if you wanted too?" the other man muttered.

"Not even if I wanted too."

"Now, why would you and your friends do something like that, Kevin?"

"There is only the cause, Sean. It's the only thing we've got left after all these years of fighting."

Brought back to reality by this comment, Corrigin rocketed to his feet. Despite being a short built man, he was an impressive spectacle when angered.

"Cause!" he roared, waving the gun around like a hard, deadly battle colour. "There is no 'cause' worth the lives of all those children! Have you any idea how many people close to me have died because of some apparently 'noble' quest? My father! Two of my brothers! A sister! All dead because they followed self-righteous bastards like you! I'm only alive because I never took a side in this mess!" He faltered, having said too much already. "What did those children know about your cause? Nothing! They only knew about the food in their mouths and cartoons on the television! That's all they understood, you piece of shit!"

"It's unfortunate, but..."

The first shot smashed into Camden's right thigh, knocking him clean off his feet.

"Shit!" the other man bellowed in outrage. "Now look what you've gone and done! I'm so angry, my aim's gone all to hell. I was aiming at your knee!"

"You can't do this, Corrigin!" Camden blurted, spittle running freely from his open mouth. Both of his bloodied hands clutched at his wounded leg.

"Why not?" Corrigin calmly inquired, having regained his composure. "To be honest, I think it's sort of odd when someone tells me that right after I've done it."

"I can pay you!" the injured man screamed.

"Pay me what?"

"Practically anything you want, Sean," Camden gasped, figuring he had a slim chance of getting out of this situation alive. "Look, I've got money stashed away all over the country. Most of it's yours if you just let me go!"

"And just where would you be getting all of this money from, Kevin? I know you're paid well, but you also live well. So I have to figure there wouldn't be all that much of it left."

"It's fund money. They won't mind a bit if you have it!"

"Won't mind a bit," Corrigin murmured, slightly taken aback by this most recent revelation. "No, they won't mind a bit. They'll be bloody furious!"

"They'll kill you if you shoot me, Sean!" Camden announced, playing his trump card in this high stakes game. "The entire organisation will hunt you down. There won't be a rock anywhere in the world large enough for you to hide under!" He valiantly attempted to haul himself upright despite the agonising pain ramming its way along his profusely bleeding leg.

On spying his impressive attempt to escape, Corrigin rewarded the man with another shot. On this occasion, his aim was true and the single, silent round shattered Camden's left knee.

"Do you know who I am?" the wounded man screamed in shrill agony, rolling around in his own spilt blood. "I'm the Assistant Commander of the entire district!"

"Oh," Corrigin announced, thoughtfully, "I've already had a talk to your boss about today's little misadventure."

Camden gazed up at him in agony. "You spoke to Eric Crean?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Yes," Sean answered, flashing a cheeky grin. He stepped closer to Kevin. "And by the way; congratulations on your promotion!"

"They'll get you, Corrigin! You work for the same people I do!"

"I don't work for them!" the other man spat angrily. "I work only for myself!" He leaned over the wounded man. "Actually," he whispered, his voice soft and deadly like a snake's hiss before striking, "you should be thanking me. No matter what I do to you this fine night, it won't be half as bad as what the people you stole from have got lined up. Also, I'll be a damn sight quicker about it."

Gazing up, Camden found himself staring directly into the pistol's smoke scented barrel. "Are you going to kill me? Then do it! I don't give a shit anymore!"

"If you say so," Corrigin replied, having regained most, but not all of his composure. "Before I pack you off to your penthouse in hell, I'd just like to say; I'm glad you were able to feel some of the pain and suffering of those little kiddies earlier today. Give my kindest regards to Satan. Tell him I'll be along shortly."

"You bast...!"

The third and final shot punched its way through Kevin Camden's right eye. His body toppled ungracefully onto the ruined living room floorboards. Even more of the deceased man's blood spilled from his smashed body, forming a large red pool that soaked into the expensive rug.

Under normal circumstances, Corrigin would have just shot his intended target in the back of the head while the man was in the kitchen making his tea. However, this instance was an exception to the rule. Natural justice called for more entertaining retribution. He was not being paid to assassinate Camden; he just felt an uncontrollable urge to put the man into the ground.

He gazed down at the floor around Camden's motionless corpse.

"A true shame - such a lovely rug."

Not uttering another syllable, Corrigin cleaned up any evidence of his presence in the house and left. He had other urgent matters to attend to, and sitting around here waiting for a dead man to start getting fragrant would not expedite matters.

***

After letting himself out of the expensive dwelling, Sean Corrigin halted briefly by the front gate. He glanced across the drizzle-shrouded neighbourhood for any sign of an unwelcome presence. After today's activities there would be any number of angry people demanding answers. To one end of the street, a middle-aged man was staring crankily into the open hood of his stalled car. Nearby, a couple in their early twenties strolled arm-in-arm along the footpath. Towards the opposite end of the short thoroughfare, a young man was walking his small, wire-haired terrier, its tail wagging merrily. Lastly, an elderly postman was apparently finishing off his last mail delivery for the day.

"Ah, shit!" Corigin grumbled, both hands diving into the folds of his heavy coat. "They found me already."

What occurred next would be referred to as 'The Battle of Derry's Only Upmarket Neighbourhood'. The man, fiddling pointlessly inside the engine of the stationary sedan, was the first person involved in the bloody confrontation. Giving no warning of his intentions, the makeshift mechanic swung around, a revolver in one hand. His first and only shot went well wide and he only succeeded in shooting a nearby shrub. Corrigin simply despised amateurs and shot the bungling fool in the face from a good distance away.

The loving couple promptly hauled out two automatic weapons from a collection of brown paper shopping bags and went about blazing away at anything moving along the street. The only thing really moving was Corrigin, who threw himself behind the bloodied sedan.

"Ah! Ain't love grand!"

The postman and the dog walker had disposed of their camouflage to join in the gunfight, which so far comprised of firing red hot rounds into the motor vehicle being used by Sean as makeshift body armour.

"Time to move, Sean," he muttered to himself, his voice inaudible over the constant weapons' fire echoing about the usually peaceful neighbourhood. He glanced up and down the street as gunfire occasionally lit up the area. "I wonder if that dog's armed as well. At this stage, nothing would surprise me."

Nonchalance on his part turned to concern when a battered pick-up truck loaded with half-a-dozen armed men appeared at the nearest end of the now deadly street. The people after him had succeeded in cutting off his only way of escape. The yards of almost all of the nearby houses were fenced with high, wrought iron grids. Climbing over any of these fortified fences would be an incredibly difficult task, especially when a small army was intent on shooting at you from all angles. With a gun in each hand, he bolted from behind his unreliable cover on the first available break in automatic fire.

Caught unawares by this unexpected offensive gesture, the six heavily armed men stood stone-still as the short man sprinted directly up to their motionless vehicle. Three members of this group did not survive the encounter; ending up on the cold, wet bitumen beside their vehicle.

If Corrigin was bemused by the pick-up and its motley collection of hired thugs, he was well and truly out of sorts seeing the arrival of two huge armoured trucks and a full company of British Army paramilitary soldiers. These highly trained, heavily armed men began tumbling from the rear section of the vehicles, spilling out across the street in typical defensive formation. He watched this display from behind the relative safety of a telegraph post. "Oh, for God's sakes!" he hissed under his breath.

Someone further along the besieged street fired a single shot at him. He chose to ignore this blatant challenge. The constantly moving troops were looking for someone to fight with and he was unwilling to put his hand up for the task. Taking on five local amateurs and an old dog was one thing, but he had no intention of committing himself to a gun battle with half the British Army.

"Why don't we invite the Red Brigade and the PLO, then we can really have a good go at disturbing the neighbourhood!" he grumbled under his breath.

The thugs Corrigin had not killed now chose to band together and have a set-to with the British soldiers. The resulting exchange sent a multitude of bullets spraying around the no longer peaceful setting. Seizing an opportune moment, he hid all of his weaponry, then put on quite a performance as a panicked passer-by. Frantically waving his empty hands, he rushed towards the busy troopers. Thankfully, they ignored his apparently innocent presence and continued firing towards the remaining group of thugs.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he wailed, his hands held high. "I'm not armed for Lord's sakes!"

One of the uniformed men temporarily ceased blazing away with his automatic weapon. "We won't shoot you!" the soldier informed him. "Just stay down and..." He leaned closer and peered at the short man, a frown forming on his features. "Oh! Hi, Sean!"

"Shit!" Dispensing with his failed 'innocent citizen' routine, he about-faced and bolted in the opposite direction, his feet pounding the aged bitumen. His continuing good health depended on retreating from this part of town--fast.

The trooper looked across to some of his unit members who had momentarily ceased fire in the ongoing battle. Others continued shooting at the group of apparent terrorists firing back in their direction. "That's Sean Corrigin!" the soldier announced in triumph.

"Are you sure, Dean?" another soldier demanded, shocked by such an interesting but unlikely piece of information.

"Damn sure! I'd recognise that stunted little Irish prick anywhere! Let's get the bastard!"

Half of the squad broke away from the ensuing scuffle and pursued the fleeing man, who was still in plain sight even on such a miserable night.

Halting briefly, Corrigin glanced to the rear, only to be confronted by the sight of numerous armed troopers in full pursuit. "Dear God Almighty!" he gasped, eyes wide. "What a time to be popular!" If necessary, he knew he could kill every last soldier. Personally, he had nothing against them and rarely killed for any reason other than being paid to use his well-developed and highly practiced talents. This attitude infuriated Catholic and Protestant militants alike and they all viewed him with silent disdain, even though their disapproval never gave them cause to falter from paying for his deadly services.

A considerable number of automatic rounds rushed past his fleeing form. These bullets slammed into a house, causing unsightly damage. This close brush with a gory and probably agonising death caused the escaping man to swiftly and expertly haul his pistol from underneath his coat. A couple of half-aimed shots went sailing towards the charging soldiers. One man screamed and plunged to the road's hard surface. Now considering their own wellbeing, the remaining troops scattered amongst various makeshift barriers they found along either side of the street. This gave their adversary time to dart down a narrow, unlit lane where Sean felt the odds would be more in his favour. There would be no heroic rush by the military unit, as they could only charge down there two at a time. Corrigin firmly believed he could hold them at bay for hours, or until reinforcements arrived from the local barracks. Nevertheless, he knew that although they would find it dangerous to reach him, he would find it near impossible to escape his present sanctuary.

"Great going', Sean!" he muttered angrily to himself, crouching in the safety of the darkness. "Why don't you just shoot yourself and be done with it!" Positioning himself just inside a darkened doorway, he considered his options in his seemingly hopeless predicament. Running away may have been frowned on by some members of the community, but in his view, it beat being shot in the head. Checking the door closest to him, he was disappointed to find the entrance securely locked. This was also the case with the next door and two windows he tried to wrench open.

"Come out, Sean!" a deep, menacing voice growled from just beyond the boundary of the alley. "You know there's no way out and reinforcements are on the way!"

Turning in response to the sound of an altercation in his immediate vicinity, he was astonished to find himself staring at a brightly glowing cloud of mist. The unexpected image had appeared not far from his present location. It had certainly not been there just seconds ago.

"What in God's name is that?" he wondered aloud, standing stock-still in a mild state of shock. Removing one leather glove from his left hand, he gingerly placed his exposed fingers inside the dense apparition. To his child-like amusement, the skin on his bare hand began to tingle. He could think of no explanation for such a phenomena and gradually removed his mildly numbed fingers.

"There he is!"

This boisterous declaration caused him to come back to the reality of his dangerous situation. The glowing fog may have held his interest, but the thing also lit up the narrow lane like a floodlight.

"Now look at what you've gone and done!" he angrily scolded the mysterious mist. A thought came to mind. There was a chance he could use the weird fog to distract the British soldiers long enough to escape to a 'less interesting' part of Ireland. Holding his breath involuntarily, the small Irishman plunged headlong into its glowing midst.

The first two uniformed men to charge down the length of the alley halted just before the fog bank. Their prey appeared to have hidden himself deep inside the weird formation.

"Now what do we do?" enquired one man, his eyes fixated on the cloud.

"Here," his companion announced, "I'll show you!"

A long blast of gunfire ripped straight into the cloud. The other soldier followed suit. However, they missed hitting Sean Corrigin with even a single one of their frantic shots. He was no longer in their presence. The fog slowly dissipated, leaving behind little more than a group of confused soldiers.
CHAPTER SEVEN

10 KILOMETRES NORTH-EAST OF THE GERMAN/SWITZERLAND BORDER

1 MAY 1945

The lake was of such minor proportions that most people viewing its serene waters would have referred to it as a duck pond. In fact, two nervous ducks had been using this oasis as their temporary abode and had only recently abandoned the site after being disturbed. Otherwise, the small body of water harboured the usual assortment of fish, frogs, their larvae and a variety of other water birds.

An impatient and uncharacteristically flustered man of thin, almost skeletal appearance and short blond hair did not particularly care what the lake was called, so long as it served its purpose, which in this instance was to allow him to escape with his life. Nothing else mattered.

He paused to reflect on the events of the past couple of years. Some of these events had been glorious to behold. To his mind, other more recent happenings were truly tragic. One inescapable fact remained--the vision was dead. Worse than dead. The vision of a glorious future was presently overrun by American, British and Soviet troop: he did not have anything against the Americans or even the British, but the thought of the precious Fatherland being swarmed over by hundreds of thousands of filthy, communist Russian soldiers filled his cold heart with dread.

Gazing down with a stony fondness at the black uniform of his former unit, Major Enrich Voltaire pondered his losses. He carefully wrapped his Schultzstaffel uniform inside a small piece of canvas. Amongst the collection of clothing, he placed a large rock, which would surely act as a suitable anchor. It would simply not do to have such incriminating evidence float back to the surface to be picked up by some eagle-eyed GI. The SS uniform was his exact size: A worthy piece of evidence at any war crimes trial.

"Time for you to go," Voltaire huffed, lifting the hopefully submersible package with both well-manicured hands. He carried the item down to the grass-covered shoreline of the lake. Once assured of his privacy, he threw the package and its precious contents about three metres across the water's surface. The entire bundle struck the tranquil lake with enough force to send an impressive plume of water into the air.

Only three metres! The former SS Major was very disappointed with himself at his lackadaisical effort. When he was safely on the other side of the border, he would recommence his strenuous physical training regime with extra vigour. His concern over the loss of the war had given him an excuse to become complacent about his physical condition, which simply would not do. Strolling back to the recently stolen staff car carefully hidden amongst some suitable bushes, he adjusted his civilian garb freshly borrowed from a local man; now dead. Somehow, Voltaire felt no comfort from these rags, although they would, quite possibly, save his life. After spending so many years wearing the tight fitting, heavily starched SS clothing, the rigid mode of dress had become like a second skin. Even during his off-duty hours, the major could be found wandering around his plain personal quarters in Berlin wearing his uniform. Removing the vehicle's keys from a pocket, he climbed back into the basic interior of his transport, glanced down at the canvas sack presently holding twenty, one-kilogram bars of Third Reich gold, and ignited the engine.

***

On his way to the Swiss border and the protection it offered, Major Enrich Voltaire was forced to manoeuvre his car down a handy side track when he spied an approaching Allied convoy. Fortunately, he had noticed the procession of jeeps and canvas-shrouded trucks well before anyone in the convoy had seen him. Voltaire waited patiently in his vehicle, the Sten machine pistol clutched in his lap. The convoy of green coloured vehicles and accompanying troops rushed past his hiding place and were well out of sight in the space of two minutes.

The Volkswagen once more climbed onto the road's crudely tarred surface with surprising ease under the major's expert guidance. There would be no squealing tyres, burning rubber or rear-end fish tails from this vehicle. He was one of those types who were apparently born with a natural mechanical gift. Every task had to be completed with calm, icy detachment. The car continued on, pushing its way through one of the early morning fog banks that dotted the countryside.

Sometimes, even the most cautious person will allow a sense of undeniable relief to involuntarily distract a disciplined mind. Such an event now happened to Voltaire. Letting caution fall by the wayside, the major pressed just a touch on the commandeered car's accelerator. By the time the vehicle rounded a corner in the road, Voltaire had it pushing towards an unsafe speed.

The British troops in charge of a nearby roadblock were quite perplexed to find themselves staring at a fast-moving car and occupant hurtling straight in their direction. Mouths agape in shock, they remained immobile as the vehicle abruptly screamed to a halt not far away. Under normal circumstances, the Allied troops would have been suspicious of any vehicle roaming the countryside. Presently, they began reaching for their weapons in order to apprehend the obviously fleeing driver. If worse came to worse, they would simply shoot the sole occupant of the car and claim he acted aggressively.

More disgusted with his foolish actions than frightened or surprised, Voltaire was still in a clear enough frame of mind to shove the gears into reverse and speed away backwards. He was galled at himself for becoming complacent. If he had maintained a cool demeanour, Voltaire believed he could have talked his way through the British roadblock.

The Allied soldiers remained affixed to the spot as they attempted to process this odd scenario. One guard was quicker than his companions to figure out the problem and unleashed a barrage of automatic gunfire from his Thompson machine gun. Most of the rounds he fired hit the intended target. The fleeing automobile's windshield shattered, spraying glass fragments over the hunched driver. Voltaire now snatched up his Sten 308 and hastily returned fire. Hopefully, his reaction would cause the enemy troops to pause before they all opened up after him and his now bullet-riddled car. Much to his relief, most of the British soldiers appeared to be naturally poor shots under fire. Once out of immediate range, Voltaire dropped the machine pistol back onto the passenger seat then fled the area at top speed. To his utter amazement, there appeared to be no attempt on the roadblock sentry's part to pursue him, although Voltaire was fairly certain they would have radioed ahead to the convoy to lend some assistance.

Finding himself driving along a reasonably straight stretch of road, he halted the requisitioned staff car and grabbed a neatly folded map from the glove compartment. Circumstances dictated he find an out of the way back road leading to the border as these main thoroughfares would be choked with irate Allied troops at any tick of the clock.

Much to his relief, he discovered a nearby dirt track would eventually take him straight to the Swiss border. Despite his self-assuredness, Voltaire was greatly mistaken. He would never reach Switzerland.

***

Despite the tremendous weight of the gold bars and the variety of necessary equipment he carried, including the Sten machine pistol, Enrich Voltaire was in good spirits as he reached the crest of a hill that was of modest size for such an infamously mountainous region. Perspiring profusely, he gazed longingly across to the spectacular high peaks of the Swiss Alps and their white, snow-covered caps. He inhaled a huge lungful of inspiringly fresh mountain air then chuckled crudely at the absurdity of his situation.

"Perhaps I should yodel?" A smile on Voltaire's face was as rare as a kind thought by this man. Looking down into the valley that lay just beyond a thick grove of trees, he could easily see the distinguishable fence line that marked the border between his native country and his soon-to-be new nation. Adjusting the bags he carried, the major started walking down the hillside, a part of his journey easier than the self-enforced march to the top. The voyage on foot had been dictated by the staff car blowing a tyre some distance further along the road. This unfortunate occurrence had caused the vehicle to crash straight into a large ditch positioned right beside the road. The impact of the crash resulted in a ruptured radiator and a snapped axle. The burst tyre could easily be repaired, but the other damage was an entirely different matter.

Huffing slightly from exertion, the SS officer eagerly reached the tree line. He glanced around for any signs of enemy troops and proceeded across a wide, grassy meadow. Halfway across the gentle slope, Voltaire dropped the heavy bag of gold in a momentary lapse of concentration. Thankfully, the sack held tight and did not scatter its treasured cargo across the grassy ground.

"Whore!" he swore vehemently at the sack. Once he had calmed his tired mind enough to think rationally, the major picked up the bulging bag, positioning it in a much more comfortable grip. When he straightened up to continue his journey through this picturesque region, he was amazed to find himself staring at a small, fluorescent cloud. The vision before him radiated gently, as if harbouring a large group of fireflies. The cloud did not alter position or change colour at any stage as the stunned SS officer continued to study its formation.

"Dear God," he uttered in bewilderment, deftly removing one leather glove. Reaching out, he placed his fingers into the cloud. In reward for his experimentation, he felt a mild tingling sensation across his exposed skin. The sensation was unusual, but certainly not unpleasant, although he found himself a touch disturbed by such a peculiar event. Disturbed! Enrich Voltaire was mortified by his behaviour. He had been, and in his deluded mind still was, a full major in the elite SS regiment. Now he was behaving like an old, superstitious woman. Straightening up, he withdrew his hand, held his breath and defiantly marched right into the eerie fog bank.

Reaching the safety of Switzerland was now just another of his lost dreams.
CHAPTER EIGHT

SOUTH VIETNAM  
35 KILOMETRES WEST OF BAN ME THOUT

15 NOVEMBER 1969

Through the heavily tinted lenses of his scratched sunglasses, United States Marine Lieutenant Gary Wyndham watched apprehensively as firebase Harley (named after the motorbike) slowly vanished into the distance. It may have been a cramped, stinking little fleapit, but for the time being, it was home. The firebase was a damn sight safer than flying combat in an aircraft he believed was somewhat underpowered for the job. Wyndham always felt ill at ease when piloting the Bell UH 1 Iroquois helicopters. It was as if he expected disaster to occur at any moment and with good reason. He had recently watched in abject horror as his best friend's Iroquois drastically lost enough power to send the aircraft straight into a palm tree. The powers that be had determined the cause of the tragic crash to be 'pilot error'. This incident occurred just before Wyndham visited his superior officer to complain about the feasibility of the aircraft in question for fire support and combat duties. As a reward for his trouble, the enraged colonel had screamed at him to, "Go to hell with your whining!"

Wyndham looked across the cockpit to check if his co-pilot Corporal Scott Stuart was paying attention to what was going on this fine morning. The corporal had an uncanny knack of daydreaming at the most crucial times, including under enemy fire. They had almost joined the lieutenant's friend barbequed at the top of the palm tree because Stuart had been paying close attention to his feet at the time of the accident. For his inopportune reverie, the NCO had been forced to wash the entire aircraft with a soldier's best companion--his toothbrush. The process, watched by most of his regiment, had taken the better part of a day to complete. At least Stuart no longer seemed to drift off on missions quite so much since that unsavoury day.

"Corporal Stuart!" Wyndham yelled into the mouthpiece of his helmet's intercom to be heard above the loud blast of the helicopter's engine and constantly swirling rotor blades.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" the co-pilot replied.

"I was wondering..." The roar of one of the aircraft's M 60's instantly cut off his last sentence. The officer twisted around in his seat, attempting to gain a better view of what was going on in the rear cabin. He did not enjoy surprises, especially when it involved unexpected gunfire. "What the hell are you people doing back there?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir!" the gunner's nervous voice came back through the intercom system, "I thought I saw enemy movement below!"

Wyndham was astonished by this explanation.

"Private Henty! You thought you saw something that looked like VC on the ground?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Did it ever occur to you that as we're so damn close to our own base, you could be firing on our own people?"

"Err... I suppose not, Lieutenant."

This comment was followed by a chorus of raucous laughter from the other members of the crew. Normally, the Iroquois crew comprised of only four men: the pilot, co-pilot, flight chief and gunner. Recently, the colonel had decided to increase crew numbers for safety sakes. As a result, the crew now carried an additional two riflemen. Wyndham considered there was nothing intelligent about cramming more people onto an already underpowered aircraft.

"Private Henty," Wyndham addressed the gunner, "if we get back to base and discover one of our own platoons has been shot all to hell, you're in big trouble!"

"Better get your toothbrush ready, Joey!" another voice called out over the intercom.

"Private Field, was that your voice?" the officer immediately demanded.

"No, sir."

"Then who the hell was it?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant! I was too busy watching Henty shoot our men down there!"

"It sure sounded like you, Field!" the officer responded, his southern tone echoing down the communications system. "And as you know, I don't appreciate smartasses. Especially not while we're on a mission."

"I'll be sure to pass it on to the person with the smart mouth, sir," Private First Class Clarence 'Clary' Field replied cheerfully.

The next voice over the intercom belonged to crew chief Alan 'Al' Kempton: "Lieutenant, can I ask why the ground crews put rocket pods on our aircraft?"

"Because the colonel's an asshole who wants to see us crash into a palm tree, Chief. Any other stupid questions?"

There was no further comment from any of the enlisted men on board the helicopter. In the main cabin, Private Richard 'Ricky' Sorell, the only other African American soldier in the crew besides Field, looked across to the bemused crew chief and rolled his eyes. Under Wyndham's expert guidance, the helicopter continued to rise into the warm Vietnamese air. A short time later, once the surrounding air temperature had significantly cooled, the Iroquois levelled out and continued flying in a fairly straightforward pattern. This high up, there was little chance of coming under enemy fire so the aircraft crew relaxed and enjoyed the view. These precious few calm moments during their tour had to be enjoyed while they lasted.

***

Some ten minutes later, Lieutenant Gary Wyndham's helicopter was joined by three other similar aircraft. These new arrivals assisted the lead aircraft in creating a rough diamond formation high above the jungle-shrouded ground. This pattern gave the craft maximum fire cover in the unlikely event of enemy attack from any direction. The lieutenant activated his radio to communicate with the pilots of the other Iroquois.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he announced with false bravado; someone could easily die today.

"On today's breakfast menu we have a relatively nice, easy mission. A recon flight past the charming little Vietnamese village of..." his mind rebelled at the destination's impossible name--it never came easy. "...Que Tu Duk," he apprehensively mispronounced the village's name.

"Does that come with fried rice?" one pilot's scratchy voice inquired over the radio.

"No," Wyndham answered, watching Corporal Stuart study the map in the co-pilot's seat. "But I'll bet it comes with plenty of AK 47's and SAMs. All you can eat."

The quaint villages below often supported local communist platoons, or at least held a cache of weapons and supplies for the enemy.

After another five minutes of flying time, the pilot of the huey to the left side of the formation spoke. "Lieutenant Wyndham, this is Franks. I have an unusual fog formation approximately one click east of our position. Over."

Scanning the region in question, Wyndham was surprised to find his shielded eyes staring at a low-lying cloud, which appeared to have settled right in the middle of an abandoned rice paddy. The former farming area was little more than a neat square of swampland, surrounded on all sides by impenetrable jungle. The field's water supply appeared to be coming from an irrigation system, which amazingly, was still working after so many years of neglect.

The officer frowned. Never before in almost two full tours in this country had he seen anything like the vision he now beheld. The small cloud configuration so close to the ground was a remarkably odd sight out here in the middle of nowhere.

"Franks," he finally spoke up, "This is Blue Leader One. I'll go down and take a closer look. Please close formation and continue on to the objective. I'll rendezvous with you all later."

"Wyndham," Franks responded, "You be damn careful down there. There could easily be an entire VC platoon inside that thing just waiting for a curious huey to come in nice and close for a peek."

"Between you and me, Franks, I hope there is a platoon of VC inside that thing. We're armed to the teeth and just itching to show some non-friendlies what we can do in a close fight."

"Lots of luck then, sir," Franks responded. "See you later at the after-party."

The crew and pilots of the lead helicopter watched with trepidation as their back up on this mission headed away at a rate of knots. Anyone attempting to shoot down one of these air-bound, battle wagons knew they would have to deal with the combined firepower of the other Iroquois. Now the aircraft under Wyndham's command was a solitary target.

In reality, Gary Wyndham wished for nothing of the sort to occur on his self-appointed manoeuvre. The thought of a large group of enemy soldiers rushing out of the fog and blasting away at them with God-knows-what made his blood run cold. But you never admitted to being anxious about your personal safety, certainly not to the men under your command. "Let's get down there and take a closer look, Corporal!" he deftly instructed.

Stuart turned to face him, "What?"

"The fog bank," Wyndham reiterated, pointing towards the iridescent mist.

Stuart's mouth dropped wide, "Where the hell did that thing come from?"

The lieutenant was astounded by his second-in-charge's lack of concentration. "If you want to keep up on current events, Corporal, you're going to have to listen when I talk. Now, let's take a closer look at that thing."

"Are you kiddin' me, sir? There could be VC hiding in that thing!"

A barrage of raucous laughter from the troops in the main compartment of the fuselage burst over the aircraft's intercom.

"That's enough!" Wyndham barked back at his crew, "We're not here for amusement! Now I'm taking us down and I expect everyone to stay alert. If just one unfriendly pops his head out of that thing, I want enough firepower thrown in there to sink a battleship. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" most of the crew chorused in unison.

Private Field was in the process of lighting a cigarette and was not too bothered about answering. He figured there was simply no way the lieutenant could tell if one voice was missing from the racket blasting down the aircraft's intercom.

"Field!" Wyndham called out, "That order includes you!, unless you're no longer a member of this crew. In which case, we'll just set you down some place handy and you can walk back to base. We don't give joy rides around here."

"Yes, sir!" Field hastily responded, losing his recently lit smoke in the process.

With the Iroquois' rocket pods now activated, it circled the vicinity. All eyes on board were alert for signs that enemy soldiers were present. One accurate shot could bring them all crashing to the earth, and even though the region was supposedly under friendly control, no one wanted to walk around on the deck when your next step could land you on an anti-personnel mine.

After two full circuits of the area, Wyndham was certain they were alone. It was just them and that weird cloud near the ground, which did not appear to be moving despite the stiff downdraught from the helicopter's rapidly spinning rotors. The entire situation felt wrong to Wyndham, but by this stage, he was committed to investigating the matter. "Let's be safe," the officer muttered almost inaudibly. "Joey, spray a few rounds about the place."

Gunner Henty gladly opened fire with one of the Iroquois' M-60 machine guns; an outburst of red-hot lead blasted away at the overgrown paddock and surrounding jungle directly below the aircraft. Pieces of shredded vegetation flew high in the air before falling back to the ground.

"Now that's what I call firepower!" Ricky Sorell, Field's partner in crime stated admirably while observing this demonstration.

"That's enough, Henty!" Wyndham called, still scouring the immediate region for unwelcome guests. "We're here to have a quick look at that cloud bank, not defoliate the entire region!"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Henty responded.

"Okay," the officer continued, "let's take a closer look at that thing. Now remember: a head pokes out of that fog, shoot it off and ask stupid questions later."

Banking sharply, the helicopter turned before levelling out just above the densely vegetated ground. The craft hovered closer to the clearing and its accompanying fog bank. Frowning behind his sunglasses, Wyndham continued positioning the aircraft closer to the fog while keeping a close eye on the peculiar apparition. Something exceedingly odd was occurring in the rice paddy. It took a couple of minutes for the officer to finally figure out the problem.

"Has anyone noticed? It's not budging an inch!"

What had once been a feeling of mild interest amongst the crew abruptly developed into rational fear and dread.

"I say we get the hell out of here, sir!" Private Sorell suggested.

"I second the motion," Field muttered in agreement, not taking his eyes away from the object at the centre of their attention. "It gives me the willies."

"Nothing doing, gentlemen," Wyndham replied. "We came here to recon this beast, so I say we do exactly that."

Corporal Stuart, who was no longer daydreaming, turned to his commanding officer. "I'm with them, Lieutenant," he nervously announced. "Let's split and leave this thing for Charlie to take a close look at!"

"No." That was the end of the discussion. When the lieutenant replied in a one-syllable word, there was no point in arguing with him. The result of his determination would be disastrous for all of them. "Stuart, let's get as close as we can," he ordered the NCO. "We'll land inside it if possible."

The corporal's eyes widened drastically at this order. "You want to do what?"

"You heard me. See if we can downdraught this thing into the next county."

"I don't think they have counties here, sir."

"Just follow my orders."

The co-pilot shrugged. "If you insist, sir."

The Iroquois, with a little assistance from the pilots, positioned itself almost on top of the low-lying cloud. All crewmen on board the hovering vehicle were now on the lookout for any possible trouble. The problem was they were all in readiness for the wrong type of trouble. The trouble was the vapour formation itself.

"The goddamned thing's still not moving!" Stuart reported, his hands sweating profusely as he clutched the steering column.

"Let's get lower," Wyndham instructed, much to everyone's dismay. "I want that thing gone."

"I live to obey," Stuart murmured, steering the huey closer to the fog.

The distance between the hovering helicopter and the apparition was now so minimal most of the crew felt they could practically reach out and touch it.

"Unbelievable!" Stuart exclaimed, quite amazed. "That thing should be blown from here to Kansas by now!"

Wyndham gave the matter careful consideration before deciding on a solution. "Go into it," he ordered.

Field suddenly appeared in the cockpit, his dark features contorted by fear. "Are you really sure about that, sir?"

The officer was mortified by such an unexpected intrusion into the control area of the aircraft. The crew had been told on numerous occasions not to enter the cockpit under any circumstances, short of a life-threatening emergency.

"Get the hell out of here, Field!" the lieutenant bellowed. "Now, mister, or you're on report!"

Stuart continued lowering the helicopter directly into the seemingly unmovable fog while Field reluctantly vanished back into the main cabin.

As the aircraft entered, the fog glowed brighter and then started to dissipate. Its fluorescent vapours disappeared, almost as if the harsh rays of the morning sun were desolving them. In barely a minute, the strange formation, the Iroquois and all those on board had vanished.

No more than twenty minutes later, the three other aircraft on that doomed mission were attacked and mercilessly shot down by a passing North Vietnamese MIG fighter. The crews of all four craft were officially listed as 'Missing In Action Presumed Dead'.

***

And so it continued: a tidal wave of transferences from this world to another. No one was immune to the aftershocks of the dismally failed ScienceStart experiment, no matter the time or place of their existence. In some instances, those affected numbered no more than one or two, while on other occasions the victims were in their thousands. The larger, more publicised events were listed as 'mysterious disappearances' or 'unexplained catastrophes'. Often, the disappearances of one person or small number of people failed to raise any real concern, except from family and friends, all of whom would grieve in their own particular way and then get on with their own lives. Those who were transferred from this world would quickly realise that life no longer contained any guarantees about what they had once considered normal or acceptable. Many had already experienced an event on Earth that required them to fight for their very lives, but the new world they found themselves occupying would turn their existence to a continuous, sometimes daily battle to survive. For a large number of these unfortunates, the odds of survival would prove insurmountable. Others, due to their training, presence of mind or sometimes just good luck, would become part of their new world's history.

This planet was referred to by its original inhabitants as Perencore.

But the Earth and Perencore were not the only worlds affected by the Minerva Project.
CHAPTER NINE

CANADA  
TORONTO, ONTARIO

PRESENT TIME

Face down on the expensive carpet in the hallway, Simon Leveque stirred slightly, a mild groan escaping his lips. One hand moved fractionally, as if it was the only part of him capable of animation. To some degree, this account of his limited physical abilities was correct. Simon believed he had been stunned with a high voltage electrical shock. He felt absolutely terrible.

The rotund scientist moaned once as he painfully forced his eyelids open. His eyes hurt to move; everything hurt to move, period. The familiar grey carpet stuck to his face assured him he was still in the mansion, apparently alive.

Managing to keep his throbbing eyes open, Simon realised it was dark in the hallway. Something had obviously gone awry with the power supply. This raised a memory hidden deep within his clouded mind as it battled valiantly to regain full control over the situation. Why was the power supply of such great importance?

Rolling onto his back in a slow, painful motion, he stared up at the white ceiling for about a minute. The answer came flooding back like an incoming tide of regrettable facts. He had been rushing to check on the strangely fluctuating electrical flow into the Minerva Project chamber. And there it was; the answer to all of his questions.

Instinctively, the stunned man knew some cataclysm had occurred during the trial run of their highly anticipated experiment. There was also the possibility his co-workers and friends had perished. He appeared to have been lucky to escape with his life and all of his limbs intact. He was greatly determined to check on the condition of his fellow scientists. Simon also wondered about the Minerva Project and if the wretched thing had suffered any serious damage. It was difficult to tell lying half-conscious on the floor.

One unsteady step at a time, he ambled along the unlit corridor, each pace bringing him closer to whatever horrors lay just beyond the sealed doors to the laboratory. Half expecting his friends and colleagues to be burnt beyond recognition, he placed both large hands on the first door and attempted to open the shiny metal access point. Despite appearing to be in perfect operational mode, the airlock refused to budge. The scientist angrily swung his right foot at the steadfastly stuck airlock door. After almost breaking his foot in this futile attempt, he decided to approach the problem from another angle.

"To hell with this!" he grumbled. "I've more chance of breaking open a bank vault with a toothpick!"

About facing, he moved as briskly as his aching legs would allow until he came across the rear exit of the mansion. If he could not enter the laboratory the standard way, he would have to locate another way to gain access.

He was in for a surprise.

Simon Leveque's headache was worsening, ranging somewhere between extreme and explosive. The irritated scientist wondered if the Minerva Project's mishap had given him a concussion or even a bleed in his brain. After all, he had been knocked unconscious by the jolt from the explosion. Walking a bit further along the outside of the building he halted abruptly, his mouth dropping open. The sight he beheld stunned him to the point of incredulity. A minute or so passed as he remained stationary, staring in bewilderment at the sight before him.

"What the...?"

About a third of the entire mansion was completely missing. Not destroyed or derelict, but--gone.

Simon failed to come up with any explanation plausible or otherwise that could account for such an occurrence. The dwelling looked for all the world as though some gigantic creature had taken a monstrous bite out of the structure. Rational explanations failed to provide a sane reason behind this disappearance.

The Minerva Project. That was the explanation.

***

The front driveway of the mansion appeared to have become a parking lot for the district police station. A vast collection of law enforcement cars and vans complete with brightly coloured flashing lights were presently jammed in every available space before the partially ruined building. Also parked about the front of the structure's surviving frontage were an impressive number of ambulance and fire emergency vehicles. Their flashing alarm lights added to the general feeling of dismay and confusion by those in attendance at this disaster.

A uniformed man of middle-age, expanding girth and medium height walked up to the rear quarters of a parked ambulance. Removing his hat, he peered in at the rotund man lying on a gurney inside the ambulance. The police sergeant considered himself a relatively patient man, but his temper was starting to fray. He turned around to gaze once more at the ruined mansion with its torn walls and missing quarters.

Simon removed his oxygen mask. He waited silently for the sergeant to turn his attention away from the now disfigured structure. Simon realised the next few days were going to be very unpleasant. Considering he was apparently the only surviving member of the Minerva Project team, it would be up to him to provide answers to countless questions a great many people would be aiming in his direction.

"Mister Leveque," the policeman finally enquired, "Would..."

"It's Doctor Leveque," the scientist politely corrected his interrogator.

Irritated by his pettiness under these serious circumstances, the other man responded: "Look, I don't really care what you call yourself. What you people did here today was just plain irresponsible!" He paused briefly to wave an angry hand at the partially destroyed structure and the surrounding forest which had also been decimated.

"I mean, look at that mess! You're damn fortunate to be alive. My people can't even find any remains of the others who were inside when this happened... What exactly did happen in there?"

Simon shook his throbbing head. "I cannot talk about what we were doing; it's top secret. I need to contact the company's Board of Control in Geneva before I can divulge any information. I hope you understand my position?"

"And I hope you can understand my position, Doctor Leveque. Don't worry about some Swiss based bunch of businessmen. You're in a lot of trouble here. The shockwaves from this thing going off were felt all the way back in Toronto. We're getting reports of houses collapsing and cars running off roads. You're lucky so far no member of the public's been killed in this mess, otherwise you'd be wearing my handcuffs."

Simon nodded. "That's a sweet offer, Sergeant, but I think I'm about to throw up. You should do yourself a favour and stand well back."

The tactic worked, as the policeman in charge immediately removed himself from the vicinity of the ambulance and its ill passenger. The stout scientist watched as the uniformed man joined his companions gathered on the manicured front lawn, beyond which the mansion now resembled a mangled corpse floating atop a green sea.

For the remainder of his days, Simon would never fully understand or be able to explain what had gone so terribly wrong with the apparently straightforward test run of the Minerva Project. The catastrophe would forever haunt him like some recurring nightmare, unable to shake it loose from his afflicted memory. For him, life would never be the same.
CHAPTER TEN

THE PLANET OF PERENCORE

PRESENT STANDARD LOCAL TIME

What struck Colin Bourke as unusual was the sky. There should have been no sky visible from inside the Minerva Project's laboratory, unless the resulting accident from the experiment had literally blown the roof clean off the chamber. However, this would hardly account for the grass he felt beneath his back as he lay, face-up after regaining consciousness. There was always the possibility he had been thrown clear of the mansion by an explosion and was currently stretched out on the back lawn. Such an event would still not account for the complete lack of any trees in his presently lopsided line of sight. He should have been able to see some of the forest, no matter where he landed. After all, it surrounded the entire property.

Despite suffering a tremendous headache, Colin decided it was time to get up and figure out exactly what had happened after the blinding white light had engulfed him, the other scientists and the entire chamber. This part of the experiment confused him, as there had been no mysterious light factored into the Minerva Project's initial operation parameters. As he attempted to sit up, a bolt of pain ripped through his temple, convincing him to stay put.

"Just a couple of minutes more," he muttered weakly. A few more minutes of well-earned rest could not harm anyone.

What about the others? This question caused him to open his eyes again. It was definitely time to get up. Rolling delicately to one side, Colin steadied himself as a sharp wave of nausea quickly passed through his aching body. Thankfully, it quickly dispersed and he gazed up at his surroundings. He forced himself into a sitting position and was astounded to discover not only a total absence of trees, but also any sign of other life, animal or human. The surrounding terrain lacked any distinctive characteristics. No mansion, trees, bushes, animals, people, telegraph posts--nor even insect life to be seen. Nothing.

Gingerly rising to his feet, Colin found himself standing in what appeared to be an endless rolling savannah covered only in ankle-high grass. He carefully scanned the surrounding countryside in all directions for any sign of life. A feeling of trepidation overwhelmed his mind. He was alone and removed from civilisation.

"Where the hell am I?"

At this moment in time, he appeared to be standing on the crest of a small, grassy hill, surrounded on all sides by a virtually endless landscape of similar formations. Nothing else could be seen with the naked eye. The place was desolate.

"I might be in Kansas," he whispered. He chuckled a little at his quip, despite the circumstances.

Somehow, Colin instinctively knew he was in serious trouble. It was in no way typical of any experiment to find oneself inexplicably in what appeared to be the world's largest cow paddock. Considering his present situation, Colin decided the first order of business was to ascertain just how well off he was in regards to supplies and equipment. Checking the pockets of his jacket, shirt and jeans, he located a variety of items and found a small solar-powered pocket calculator, a pen, a full packet of chewing gum, some loose change and his miniaturised entertainment unit. The final item was his wallet that contained a variety of personal items, including a couple of credit cards. He knew none of these effects would be of the slightest good unless he happened across an ATM in the middle of nowhere. He had been planning to leave the mansion and visit the nearest town later that day after the experiment. Otherwise, most of these personal possessions would still be in the top drawer of his desk in his office back in the mansion--wherever that was.

Unwrapping a single bar of gum, he placed it in his mouth and began chewing, all the while gazing intently around his new surroundings. It dawned on him that he had forgotten another item tucked away. Reaching deep into a pocket of his leather jacket, he produced a small, gold plated and slightly tarnished cigarette lighter. Colin had been presented the lighter by one of his college friends as a gift on his twenty-first birthday. He always found the present to be highly ironic and unusual, as he had never smoked at any stage of his life. Nevertheless, he always kept it close to him out of sheer sentimentality. It now appeared such feelings could pay dividends. Colin had the suspicion that electric or gas heating would be hard to come by out here in 'Endless Cow Pasture' world.

A quick glance skywards told him the time was probably somewhere around mid-morning of whatever day this happened to be, wherever he was at the moment. The sun sets in the west, so naturally, Colin decided to follow the bright orb in that direction. He figured moving in relation to a celestial body, he would avoid wandering about in circles. It was time to get moving.

Colin had no way of knowing he was walking directly into a maelstrom of violence, deceit, vengeance and war.

***

Her head felt as though it were splitting straight down the centre from her recent ordeal. Lorraine Montague wandered along a narrow dirt path she had stumbled across approximately half-an-hour after waking up. Thankfully, the blonde scientist's condition appeared to be improving, although Lorraine still could not, for the life of her, figure out how she had ended up in the middle of the forest. If this were some sort of practical joke on the part of her co-workers on the Minerva Project, there would be hell to pay when she finally caught up with them.

Strangely enough, Lorraine had the overwhelming suspicion her situation was not the result of some elaborate joke. The last thing she could remember before her enforced nap was a blinding white light reaching across the laboratory and touching her. This incident had occurred a bare instant after fellow scientist, Victor Chan, had called out some sort of warning. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember his exact words.

Some unseen presence disturbed the undergrowth about a nearby tree, causing the lost scientist to spin sharply around to face this possible menace. Bears were still seen in this part of Canada, although most were accustomed to human presence and more likely to be foraging for food scraps. However, every so often one of the local bears forgot to read the menu properly and dined out on an unsuspecting hiker.

The bird that broke cover from the undergrowth was almost the height of a full-grown human, with dark blue, almost black bristly feathers and a very colourful headdress of red and yellow. On top of this was a hard crown of bone-like substance. The bipedal avian remained motionless, staring intently at the only other living creature in the area.

Lorraine took a tentative step forward to take a closer look at the bird. "My," she purred, smiling up at the bird, "aren't you pretty."

Apparently, the cassowary took her comment as a gross insult. It tore from the bushes and slammed directly into the bewildered scientist. The force of the impact sent her crashing heavily to the ground. Fortunately, the bird's aggressive velocity also caused it to overshoot the narrow path and it swiftly vanished back into the heavy foliage.

Lorraine scrambled back to her feet as fast as she could and scanned the immediate locale for any item she could use as a form of self-defence against the psychotic bird. A stick, a rock, a bazooka, anything would do in this instance. A person could not afford to be fussy in a crisis.

The cassowary reappeared further along the track from the terrified woman. Lorraine screamed and promptly bolted in the opposite direction, soon realising she had no chance in a foot race against the vicious bird and quickly threw herself to one side.

Unsuspecting of its intended victim's next manoeuvre, the cassowary overshot the mark and continued to charge headlong down the game trail. The bird halted abruptly in a cloud of dust, turned with remarkable agility and charged back towards the short, annoying human.

By now, Lorraine was much more prepared for the bird's onslaught, snatching a rock that lay near her feet. Quickly taking aim at the approaching menace, she sent the projectile hurtling in its direction. Unable to halt or divert its momentum, the bird took the full brunt of the flying rock directly in its sturdy chest region. Its thick plumes absorbed a good portion of the missile's force, but the tall bird was still stunned by the impact.

While her attacker recuperated, Lorraine armed herself with a short, thick branch and in a fit of aggression rushed at the disorientated cassowary. Her first blow crashed into the cassowary's exposed throat, further hurting and confusing the odd bird. Lorraine's next swipe hit her stunned foe on its well-protected body. Regaining its balance, the bird carefully backed away from the woman at first, but then started stalking her in ever-decreasing circles. Its next attack would most certainly prove fatal. Once the large cassowary had Lorraine on the ground, it would use its massive, muscular legs and sharp claws to tear her to a bloody pulp.

Lashing out with her only means of defence, Lorraine warded off the angry bird with another thrust of her makeshift cudgel. Once the bird had been slightly subdued, she threw the stick directly at its head and sprinted away along the trail. Lorraine realised tossing away her only form of defence might have been a mistake, however she felt the improvised club had vastly outlived its usefulness in the altercation. Baulking only momentarily, the cassowary gave chase, determined it would not be denied the kill.

Bounding along with a far greater pace than she ever felt capable of, Lorraine located a handy, and more importantly, tall tree to climb. She doubted very much if the presumably flightless bird's build would allow it to follow her up the tree with its vast array of branches. Once she had located a safe looking sanctuary about a third of the way up, Lorraine propped herself in position and gazed down. She could see the irate avian stomping around the tree, hoping she would be foolish enough to leave her perch sooner or later.

Occasionally, the cassowary glanced up into the branches of the tree to check on its intended prey's current position. Once satisfied she had not moved, it continued parading about the tree's base with no intention of leaving anytime soon. In the large bird's primitive, but functional brain, killing the two-legged creature was now its only plan. Nothing else mattered.

***

Where the hell was he? This was certainly not the region surrounding the mansion. For that matter, he could not figure out what had happened to either the Minerva Project or the large building housing the misbegotten experiment. One dreaded thought loomed large in his mind; buildings such as the ScienceStart mansion did not just vanish of their own accord. Even if it had blown up, there would be a great deal of debris scattered about the explosion site. No matter what catastrophe had befallen the mansion, there should have been some clue to the building's fate.

Dale Johnstone continued wandering through the darkened forest, surveying his surroundings as he went. The trees were enormous, stretching upwards for what appeared to be a vast height as they reached towards the partially obscured blue sky. So far, Dale had not encountered any other life forms during his travels over the past hour. The only exception was a small, blue finch that had earlier fluttered past his aching head. The bird had alighted on a low branch near the scientist. Its arrival sent shockwaves reverberating through his already confused mind.

He did not recognise the bird. Most people would not have been overly bothered by such a lack of knowledge, but his specialty was biology. In fact, he had a PhD in biology, so by all rights the unusual finch-like species, with its light blue plumage and dark blue beak, should have been easy to identify. The climate was far too chilled to be anywhere in the tropics. Rightfully, he should still be somewhere in Canada, but the flora of his present surroundings failed to support this theory. Although horticulture was not one of his strong suits, Dale could not put a name to any of the trees or plant life of the area. Most of the trees had the appearance of pine, yet they were not specifically that species. Also, they held a different aroma, the leaves were a slightly different tone of green, and the bark was not the correct texture.

The brilliant light emitted in the Minerva Project lab had also confused him. There was no explanation for such a phenomenon to occur. It should not have occurred under any duress the experiment had undergone. Somehow, he suspected the blinding illumination and the power surge had played an important part in displacing him to his current whereabouts.

Continuing his journey through the massive forest, Dale was grateful his horrendous headache had at last subsided. At least now his eyesight had cleared, so he could see where he was placing his feet. He was also grateful he had been dressed in a reasonably warm manner while tending to the Project's initial test run. He shuddered to think what would have happened had he not been wearing his present attire of sturdy leather shoes, warm shirt, trousers and a heavy jacket. Dale pondered his situation as he kept on moving in the hope that his directionless wanderings might lead him to some sign of civilisation. Times were strange.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, he breached the tree line to find himself standing on a ragged cliff top. An enormous valley was set out below his current vantage point. "Damn!" he exclaimed solemnly, his eyes taking in this magnificent spectacle. "That's one hell of a drop," he murmured.

Dale gazed skyward to the bright sun and figured the time was somewhere around mid-morning. "That was clever!" he grumbled, checking his wristwatch for the exact time. However, his watch appeared to be permanently stuck at the exact time the Minerva Project had suffered its catastrophic malfunction. Considering he had no exact time to reset to, he did not bother to adjust the timepiece. This was a shame as far as he was concerned. His parents had given him the solid gold wristwatch on graduating from university some years ago. Not long after, Colin Bourke had called him and offered him a job on the Minerva Project. Now look where that had got him.

To begin with, Dale believed the object he spied, flying at a distance from his present position, was some type of aircraft, such as a large passenger airliner. He soon realised this 'aircraft' had a strange manner of flight that instantly excluded any such explanation. Its movements were simply too ungainly to be any sort of fixed-wing aircraft. Standing motionless on the cliff's edge, fully exposed to the elements, he carefully watched as the mysterious object rapidly approached, getting closer to his naturally formed observation platform with every passing second. Dale's stomach lurched in dread when he realised exactly what the object was as it came into sight.

"Dear, God!"

Turning abruptly, he fled back towards the relative safety of the forest and its fortress of tall trees. The fleeing scientist tripped on a partially buried rock during his rapid retreat, although this barely slowed his passage out of harm's way. Darkness overwhelmed the surrounding forest around the fleeing biologist as he literally ran for his life. The lack of illumination did not last for long. A blazing, blinding light engulfed the entire region, followed closely by a terrible, radiant heat. The forest around Dale abruptly erupted into a ball of fire that devastated everything in its path.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

They looked remarkably like North American Redwoods, but they were definitely not that particular species of tree. The leaves were slightly different and on closer inspection, the bark contained a very faint minty odour. This difference in the trees greatly troubled Victor Chan. He was beginning to harbour a troubling suspicion he was no longer on Earth.

Adding to his suspicions was the fact he had, while wandering through the mighty forest, witnessed some unusual bird and animal life forms. To begin with, the scientist had been deliriously happy about being alive after the Minerva Project mishap. This joy swiftly fled his mind once he saw these unusual creatures during his wanderings. There were no three-headed monsters or birds with evil, glowing eyes, but nevertheless, highly unusual species. Firstly, there had been a small, short-eared rodent that roughly resembled a rabbit. The animal had quickly bolted from the scene as soon as Victor made even the slightest sound. Only five minutes after this astonishing sight, he had clearly seen a flock of parrot-like birds perched high in a tree. Much to his amazement, these 'parrots' had swarmed over a smaller bird, tearing it into screaming shreds. Blood dripping freely down their hooked beaks, they casually ignored the stunned scientist who watched their gory feast with feelings of dread and revulsion. It was soon after this event that he began questioning his current whereabouts. Victor did not believe he had somehow inadvertently stumbled across a region on Earth where two unidentified species lived. Such an event would be simply impossible. No matter what occurred inside the laboratory, he could not have been propelled into another region of Earth. This left him with one important question: Where was he?

To Victor's relief, he happened across a reasonably wide track in the forest that, although slightly overgrown, looked as if it received some reasonable use by local inhabitants. Hopefully, the local population would be human, and of some assistance--assuming they did not stick him in a big pot and serve him up for Sunday lunch.

At last, he heard the faint but distinctive sound of someone approaching his position on a horse--of all things. Deciding abject cowardice was the better part of valour, he promptly bolted from the track and hid behind the first available tree, which he judged to be more than adequate cover from a possibly hostile individual. Adjusting his spectacles, Victor peered out from behind the tree and was suitably impressed by the sight he beheld.

The man on a brown, lean-built horse appeared to be of average height, though it was hard to estimate accurately due to his attire. Anyone would have found it difficult to judge much about the man's physical appearance because of the deep blue cape he wore and the light blue uniform barely visible beneath the cloth sheath. Almost as if sensing another presence in this sector of the forest, the horseman lifted the visor of his unusual helmet.

"Who is there?" he demanded.

The horsed man threw open his cape to reveal a long sword partially concealed in a plain leather scabbard. Placing one gloved hand on the sword's hilt, he continued earnestly scanning the surrounding area.

"I know someone is there! I can feel your presence!" he announced in a level, but menacing voice. "Show yourself and no harm will come to you. I give my oath as one of The Order."

The lost scientist remained firmly affixed in his hiding place.

The horseman glanced around once more then lowered his visor. "You had your chance, friend," he stated, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet. "I will be back this way in three days' time. I suggest you keep to your coward's ways and continue to hide."

Victor continued to hide.

"I leave now!" the horseman announced and nudged his stead, which burst into a full gallop and sped away.

"Asshole!" Victor muttered under his breath, staring at the retreating man and horse. Stepping back onto the track, he seriously considered his predicament. Yes, he was hopelessly lost in this massive forest. At least the horseman had provided him with a number of clues about his present location. It seemed he was still on Earth, despite the odd flora and fauna. The local population were indeed human and spoke English, albeit, a stilted, archaic version of the language. All he had to do was locate some form of human settlement where the inhabitants did not sound or look like rejects from a mediaeval costume fair.

***

The enormous ball of angry fire rose skyward in the form of a red and orange swirling mass of flames. Somewhat startled by this unexpected sight, Connie York remained motionless where she stood, gazing in mute awe at the rising plume of smoke from the fire. She judged the fireball had originated not too far from her current location--wherever that was. Like Dale, she had unintentionally made her way to the seemingly endless cliff face before witnessing the fiery vision in the distance. Deciding to investigate the spectacle, Connie started briskly walking in the direction of the fire's origin.

Thirty minutes passed as Connie wandered through the forest, hopefully in the right direction towards her goal. She was keenly aware that her surroundings were not typical of any region in Canada, or even the United States. Like most of her fellow Minerva Project team, biology and botany had never really been her proficiency; her fields were physics and quantum mechanics. Nevertheless, she still had enough knowledge of the natural world to understand the vast array of trees and bushes in the odd forest were not like anything she had ever seen or heard about before.

But how did she get here? Connie could not bring herself to believe someone had entered the mansion, removed her from the laboratory and then shipped her to this strange region. It was simply far too bizarre a notion to contemplate. She also hoped her companions working on the Minerva Project had not suffered any undue injury or death in the apparent explosion. Unbeknown to Connie, the truth was far beyond anything she could dream up with her straightforward, analytical mind.

Panting slightly from the exertion of her seemingly endless trek, Connie finally reached the area where she judged the huge fireball had originated. Contemplating the fact she was hopelessly lost, she climbed on top of a high rock outcrop that she hoped would give her a fairly good view of the...

"Oh, my God!" she gasped. The entire region had been devastated. A vast tract of land had been completely burnt out. Some of the trees were still on fire, almost all of the undergrowth had been annihilated and the occasional dead bird or animal lay amongst the ruins. Connie wandered in silence through the devastated area, unable to figure out what could have possibly caused this swift destruction on such a massive scale.

"Hi, there!"

Startled by this unfamiliar voice, Connie spun around to find herself staring at a short man with close-cropped hair, in a heavy overcoat, sitting on the same rocky outcrop she had occupied only moments earlier. This unexpected sight greatly troubled the lost scientist for some inexplicable reason.

"Hi, yourself," she replied, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

"So, miss," he spoke in a falsely cheerful tone, "suppose you tell me how I got here?"

Connie shook her head, causing her dark hair to flutter in the breeze. "I've no idea. I don't even know where 'here' is, to be honest."

The short man's head dropped slightly, as if terribly disappointed with her answer. He calmly reached into the folds of his heavy coat and produced an extremely large handgun. "That's not quite the reply I was after, miss," he told the tall woman, aiming the weapon in her general direction. "Try again. And this time, try to give me a much better answer."

Bracing herself to run, Connie glanced around for any handy cover amongst the burnt-out woods. She had been particularly adept at track and field in college and hoped her would-be assailant was not such a great shot with this massive gun.

"Believe me, I can shoot faster than you can run, miss, so don't even think about making a dash for it. You wouldn't stand a chance. Not with me on the other end of this thing."

So much for that idea. "You're Irish, aren't you?" she enquired, looking straight at her captor.

He grinned at her and nodded. "And you're changing the subject."

"Look," she stated in exasperation, "I honestly don't know where we are, or what's going on. I just woke up with a blinding headache and here I am."

The man with the gun ceased grinning. He lowered the pistol. Apparently, the desperation in her voice had moved him to believe her account of their mutual predicament.

"I can usually tell when I'm being lied too, and you're telling the truth. But you're the only other person here, so I figured you must have some idea what's going on." He replaced his .357 Magnum back into his coat. "Sorry if I scared you, miss."

"Connie," she corrected her new acquaintance. "The name's 'Connie York', not 'Miss'."

Leaping down from his perch with surprising grace, the short man outstretched his right hand in a friendly gesture. "Sean Corrigin," he announced, still smiling cheerfully as if unaware of the insanity around him. "At your service, Connie York."

"Pleased to meet you," Connie replied, shaking his hand. She was not entirely certain her last statement was the plain truth.

"I wouldn't have shot you, Connie," he informed her, slightly abashed at his recent behaviour. "It's just that I'm a touch unnerved by all of this."

"I know you wouldn't have shot her," a voice announced from behind them.

Connie turned around and was delighted to see Dale standing not far away, a homemade cudgel of an old tree branch clutched in one hand. She rushed across the burnt ground and hugged the tall scientist, whose clothes appeared to be greatly disarrayed and a touch singed.

"If you'd kept waving that Magnum around at her, I'd have seen to it you spent the next two hours picking your teeth out of the trees. The ones that are left anyway," Dale snarled at the Irishman.

"I thought I was the only one here!" Connie gasped excitedly, releasing Dale from her grasp. "Have you seen any of the others?"

Dale shook his head. "No. Until now, I haven't seen a soul."

"We're starting to build up quite a nice crowd, aren't we?" Sean quipped, staring across at the tall, African American man with the smoke-tinged clothing.

"I don't want to hear from you!" Dale replied, casting a menacing glance at the much shorter man, "Pointing a gun at a woman. What were you thinking?"

"There is another question in my mind besides how we got here," Sean announced, choosing to ignore Dale's question. "What caused all of--this?" he indicated the surrounding devastation.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Dale replied.

"Try me."

"It looks like someone napalmed the place," Connie observed nervously.

"I still don't believe what happened myself," Dale commented, "so let's just get the hell out of here before it comes back."

"All right," Sean agreed, deciding not to push the issue. "But where to? I don't have a map of this place on me."

They all remained silent, none of them able to answer his question with any conviction.

The short Irishman scanned their immediate area, finally focusing his attention to the valley below. "If you don't mind this idea, I say we move along this cliff top until we find a way to get down there." He indicated the distant lush valley below. "If anyone lives around these parts, I'd say they'd be in the valley, where they can set up farms and the like."

"Are you sure?" inquired Dale.

"People, if any are around, need to grow food and raise cattle. You couldn't do that all the way up here. There's no water and the cows would keep wandering off the cliff."

The tall scientist nodded in approval. "Sounds good to me. What do you say, Connie? Should we have a look downstairs and see if the neighbours are home?"

"I don't see why not, Dale. At least it's a plan, so I say we go with it."

After properly introducing themselves to each other, without the threat of any further gunplay, the trio started walking along the escarpment edge. Once again, Sean profusely apologised to Connie for his lack of manners on their first, somewhat antagonistic meeting.

"I really wouldn't have shot you, Connie," he reiterated. "It was just that I needed to find out exactly what was going on. I ran into some strange, glowing mist in Derry and next thing I know, I find myself out here. It's not the sort of thing that happens to me an awful lot, no matter how much I've had to drink."

"It's sort of new to us too, Sean," Dale stated, not wishing to elaborate on the likely cause of their dilemma.

The Irishman decided to maintain some level of deception with his new travelling companions. They appeared to be nice enough people, but some of the details of his prior life did not make for pleasant conversation.

"Was there anything out of the ordinary about the fog you saw, Sean?" Connie asked.

"You mean other than the fact it was glowing and sent me to this desolate place, Connie?"

They continued walking as they discussed various details about their mutual predicament after encountering the strange fog.

"I hope you two don't mind me tagging along," Sean spoke up.

"Would it do any good to say 'no'?" Dale asked evenly.

Sean grinned. "Not in the slightest! Once I decide I like someone, I stick with them through thick and thin."

Connie turned to her fellow scientist while the third member of the expedition wandered ahead of them. "Lucky us, eh?" she whispered.

"Right," Dale muttered.

"Now then," Sean spoke up, walking further ahead of his new travelling companions, "There's no need for sarcasm. I can be a handy sort of fellow to have around. You still haven't told us what caused that terrible fire back there, Dale," he continued, as he stepped over a large rock.

"And as I've said before, Sean, I don't want to say because you would both think I've gone insane."

"We'd believe you, wouldn't we, Connie?"

Connie nodded. "Sure thing. Come on, Dale, tell us!"

Dale considered their pleas for further details. "No," he replied adamantly.

"Be like that!" Sean huffed in mock indignation as he continued walking across the uneven terrain. There was just no reasoning with some people.

***

Found it! Leaping high into the cool midday air, Victor Chan let out a most uncharacteristic howl of sheer delight. Climbing across a fallen log, he scrambled up a slight embankment then abruptly halted, his excited breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. This was more than he had hoped for, and caused him to shiver with unbridled enthusiasm. Returning to his usual stoic self, he stumbled out of the forest and walked towards what remained of the mansion in a clearing. What struck him was how the ground around the broken mansion had not so much as buckled slightly under the displaced building's vast weight, but that it appeared almost as if the section of mansion had been very gently placed on this particular spot in the woods.

Victor gazed in awe at the ruined structure and was relieved to find the inner section of the airlock door still intact. The one problem with the building's new location was that the door was currently shoulder height from the ground. Above the still secured laboratory airlock door was an impressive display of dissected bedrooms, study areas and closets. It was as though he was staring up at a gigantic doll's house that had been crudely sawn in half.

"Now all I have to do is get up there," he murmured to himself.

He continued staring up at the ruined side of the building with keen interest. He hoped the airlock door leading into the Minerva Project chamber would still be operating, but somehow he doubted opening it would be that easy. Nothing about the Minerva Project had turned out to be easy.

Using an abstract sculpture of jutting brickwork, amputated pipes and severed floorboards, he managed to scale his way up to the second level of the building. Once there, the exhausted scientist sat down near the building's jagged edge, breathing deeply as he contemplated his next move in this lonely quest.

Gathering his thoughts, Victor glanced about the partial room he currently occupied. He quickly recognised the ruptured chamber had belonged to Simon Leveque. He wondered if the chubby scientist was still alive. To the best of his knowledge, all of the Minerva Project's team were likely dead. The concept flooded his mind with sour anguish and he instantly dismissed the dismal notion from his thoughts. There was just no place in his brain right now to be dwelling on such contemptible, self-pitying presumptions. There could be only one focus in his mind right now: to survive.

Rising to his feet, Victor studied the dissected room for any items that might assist him in adapting to his new environment. Some of the items surprised him. Importantly, he discovered various items of clothing in a dresser drawer to the left of Simon's oversized bed. Obviously, most of these items were way too large for the slim scientist, but anything was better than freezing should the weather turn cold. The next drawer provided a real bonus: a Smith and Wesson snub nosed .38 calibre pistol hidden under some rather garish shirts. Actually, this concealed item greatly surprised him. Colin had officially warned the Minerva Project team members against bringing weapons of any description into the mansion. Breach of this rule would mean immediate expulsion. Holding the pistol in both hands, Victor wondered in silence if he could bring himself to use such a device to kill or maim another human being. Yet he did not wish to become a victim to the inhabitants of this seemingly wild region. So far, the only person he had encountered had displayed nothing but open hostility. He placed the handgun on the nearby bed and continued rummaging through his absent friend's personal belongings.

Much to his delight, he unearthed a secret cache of food and drink in Simon's last drawer. The hidden supply comprised of five cans of high-grade caviar, Alaskan salmon, smoked oysters in a jar and a tin of pâté. Also in this bounty were three bottles of 1982 Cabernet Sauvignon and a single bottle of ten year old Bollinger. Victor did not know how long these supplies would last, but at least he could dine in style for a short while during his stay in the broken mansion.

"Thank you, Simon," he muttered as he admired the collection now set across the bed, along with the .38 pistol. Turning around, he scanned what remained of the bedroom. Somehow, the area was being illuminated by sparse shafts of sunlight fighting their way past the thick tangle of branches and foliage of the surrounding forest. At least he would have somewhere comfortable to sleep tonight, providing the room did not become overrun with stinging, biting insects.

Leaving the room via the doorway; which looked quite odd so close to a decent drop to the ground, Victor found himself in a hallway. A door directly across from his position led into Lorraine Montague's bedroom. Entering this bedroom, he instantly drew the conclusion that Lorraine was the messiest woman in the world. All manner of interesting items of clothing lay haphazardly strewn about the carpeted floor, along with what appeared to be two hundred pairs of shoes. These personal items were accompanied by a liberal sprinkling of books on different topics, from the arts to animals, some art supplies and some especially interesting food scraps.

"And I thought my sisters were slobs," Victor murmured in disbelief.

The flashback to his sisters--all seven of them, caused him a moment's anguish. He realised he may never see them again. The only hope he had of getting back to his place of origin lay on the lower level of the building. Today, he would concentrate on providing for himself. Tomorrow, he would attempt to break into the lab and reverse the devastating effects of their ill-fated experiment.

But that was tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Leaning partially from the fast flying Iroquois helicopter, Privates Clarence Field and 'Ricky' Sorell watched intently as the countryside flashed past in an apparently never ending kaleidoscope of trees, undergrowth and tall grasses. A good twenty minutes had passed since the aircraft had descended into the weird, fluorescent mist. In this time, the helicopter had been flying at near full velocity in an attempt to locate anyone or anything that could give them some clue as to their whereabouts. So far, all of their manoeuvres had failed abysmally. This place was certainly not Vietnam.

"This is some weird shit, man!" Sorell bellowed across to his companion.

Field turned and nodded as he replied, "You've got that right."

Even Joey Henty nodded in agreement. They had absolutely no idea as to their present location; even the compass was acting strangely. Occasionally, the device pointed north then swung a wild 180 degrees to indicate north was now located in the opposite direction. Adding to the crew's woes was the fact every last watch and time piece on the aircraft had permanently frozen at exactly the same instant, which was precisely the moment the Iroquois and its occupants had entered the odd mist.

In the cockpit, Gary Wyndham turned to his co-pilot, Corporal Scott Stuart. "We'd better find a safe place to set her down," he instructed.

"Why?"

"Because there's no point in just flying around up here in big circles until we damn well run out of gas. At least this way, if there are any problems we can just start her up and get out of the area."

The co-pilot nodded, "Good idea, sir."

***

After another five minutes of aimless flying time had passed, Scott Stuart spotted a likely place for them to land while they figured out what to do about their unusual situation. He aimed one finger towards a good-sized natural pasture that would offer them a defensive position away from the trees, so an ambush from any possible enemies would be difficult at best. Gary Wyndham carefully studied this location then nodded his approval.

Gradually losing speed and height, the Iroquois came in to hover just above a carpet of constantly dancing grass. Privates Joey Henty and Clary Field manned the twin M-60's located on opposite sides of the slowly descending helicopter. If someone so much as aimed an obscene hand gesture in their direction, they would lose the offending limb--and everything else in the process. The aircraft lowered to a neat vertical landing, its duel struts nestling in the soft bed of long, now slightly flattened grass. The instant this occurred, most of the crew were out on the ground, keenly alert for any sign of possible hostile activity.

Waiting for about two minutes until the rotors had ceased all motion, Wyndham climbed from his seat, his boots coming into contact with the damaged grass. Silently, he waited, pistol drawn, scanning the surrounding terrain until he was fairly sure they had the area all to themselves. "Feel the air," he mentioned to no one in particular.

Stuart looked at the officer, a scowl etched on his sunburnt features. "Sir?"

"When was the last time there was a cold spell in 'Nam?"

He was right. The air temperature was a great deal cooler than anything they had previously experienced in that war-torn Asian country.

Still clutching his M-16 assault rifle, the corporal stepped across to Wyndham. "Gary, where the hell are we?"

Such out of character familiarity with their commanding officer concerned the enlisted personnel, almost as much as the inexplicable location, odd vegetation and drop in air temperature. The crew's NCO never referred to Wyndham by his first name, especially not in front of the rank and file troops.

"To be honest... Scott," Wyndham responded, with a light smile, "I don't have the slightest notion."

"Should we try the radio again, sir?" Field enquired, without looking at the lieutenant.

Wyndham shook his head. "No. We tried that before and so far all we got for our troubles was an ear full of static."

Using a set of binoculars from the flight cabin, he scanned the area once again, but failed to locate any signs of possible hostile activity. "Chief Kempton and Private Sorell!" he called out, his voice echoing across the field.

This announcement caused both soldiers no end of anxiety. Now what?

The lieutenant continued: "I want you, Sorell, to keep watch on our rear flank. And Chief, you go over to that rock outcrop near the trees and watch for any activity; and I do mean 'any' activity. The last thing we need is for someone to wander over and drop a mortar on the huey."

Mumbling unflattering comments under his breath about Wyndham's parentage, Ricky Sorell stalked off towards his assigned post. "It's always the grunts who take the risk!" the irate private grumbled on reaching his destination. "Let's see that pussy officer take a watch! He'd probably have to get a permission note from his first! Goddamn, motherless, self-righteous piece of white shit!" In truth, Sorell did not really think badly of his CO. For an officer, the lieutenant at least treated the men under his command as if they were halfway human. Most of the officers he had met in his time during this tour behaved as if God Almighty himself had personally kissed their snow-white asses. Private Sorell had little regard for officers in general.

Quickly checking the ammunition clip in his automatic weapon, Chief Kempton marched towards the rock formation that had attracted his lieutenant's attention. He could sense something was greatly amiss with their current situation. That said, he really did not mind the cooler air temperature. Anything was better than sweating your butt off standing guard in the middle of some miserable Vietnamese jungle, swatting biting insects and hoping some VC was not about to spray a burst of AK-47 rounds in your general direction. Fate was about to prove Chief Kempton entirely wrong. Something much worse was about to happen.

***

The creature nervously crept through the undergrowth, its senses fully alert. Something was obviously wrong. One minute, the predator had been in its natural mountainous habitat, chasing one of the wild goats that frequented the area, the next it had flown into a fog bank during its pursuit, only to end up in this odd forest with a multitude of tall trees. The animal did not particularly enjoy being surrounded by trees, especially not the tall, heavily foliaged species typical of this new habitat. It made flight extremely hazardous. The animal required at fair deal of open space in order to lift its impressive bulk up off the ground.

Tensing slightly, the creature sensed another presence nearby. Growling under its breath, the animal stepped cautiously past a fallen, half-rotten tree trunk and halted. The other presence was standing just beyond the tree line, making highly irregular noises. Occasionally, the odd, two-legged beast stopped pacing and turned to stare into the woods. When this occurred, the winged creature froze, the hue of its fur helping it to blend into the surrounding forest's natural tones. Continuing to stalk the nearby animal, the predator uncharacteristically stepped on a dry stick, snapping it in half. The audible report of the breakage instantly drew the bipedal animal's attention.

"Who's there?" the two-legged animal barked.

The creature instinctively knew one fact: the animal with the strange stick clutched in both hands definitely posed a threat. Bunching up in a tight coil, the creature poised to strike and patiently waited for the other animal to make an error.

It did. Lowering the stick it carried, the animal stepped closer to the tree line and began calling out in an odd, high-pitched yowl.

In a mixture of anger, fear and brutality, the creature launched itself across the modest distance between it and the biped. The prey instantly let forth a single, shrill scream of fright and managed to produce a startlingly raucous sound from the stick it still clutched in one hand. Unfortunately for the biped, his response came too late. The first strike killed Chief Kempton instantly.

***

The brown station wagon rolled gently across the ground until finally coming to a halt, its tyres leaving faint indentations in the soft, grassy terrain. The vehicle was now positioned at the top of a hill, giving its occupants an expansive view of the surrounding topography. All four individuals inside the car were astonished by the scene that beheld them.

Holding a set of binoculars in one hand, Ernest Bonaparte climbed from the driver's side of the car then shut the door. Once more, he peered through the field glasses towards the object that held his family's undivided attention.

"You should see that thing, Edith!" he exclaimed, flushed with excitement.

"I can see it fine from here, thank you," Edith informed her spouse.

Her husband was caught up in the excitement of the moment. All she could feel was a cold, deep-seated fear of the unknown. She did not like this feeling at all. Before this day, everything in her life had been carefully mapped out and would be considered by most people to be a normal, happy lifestyle. She had gone to a good school, was highly educated, had married a good husband and provider, and given birth to and raised two fine sons. Now her entire existence was in complete turmoil.

"I just don't believe it!" her husband gasped, returning his attention to the incredible sight, "Who could have built such a thing?"

"I really don't know," she responded. "Can we go now, Ernest?"

"Go where?"

"Some place safe, I hope."

"Hey, boys!" he called. "Can either of you see what's making your mother so nervous?"

Both children sprang out of the car's open doors, eagerly gazing about the local countryside. They had been dying for a chance to escape the close confines of the family car and get involved in the debate between their parents. Their mother had the rather unfortunate habit of bringing to an abrupt end any mischief their father might engage them in. They were both as excited as he was about the strange place they had stumbled into after driving through the mysterious fog.

"I say we take a closer look at that thing!" Ernest suggested, instantly canvassing the votes of his two excited sons.

"No!" Edith used her power of veto before the notion could build momentum.

"Why not?" Ernest junior wailed, extremely disappointed. "Can't we just take a closer peek, Mom?"

"There could be anything in there, Ernest. Possibly someone who isn't friendly."

"We'll be okay," Joseph added, much to his younger brother's approval. Joseph possessed the knack of talking his way around his mother, although sometimes even the elder child's wiles failed miserably to sway her.

"You're right. Because we aren't going anywhere near that monstrosity."

"But we can't just ignore it!" Ernest senior pleaded. "I've never seen anything like it before in my life! Just one little look, Edith?"

It was at this point of the debate that the boys took their cue with all the precision of well-trained salesmen. "Come on, Mom!" they chorused, in complete unison. "Just one look won't hurt!"

Ernest was very proud of his boys' powers of persuasion.

Edith sighed. What was the point in arguing any longer? She had been expertly manoeuvred into being the villain of the piece and the only way of maintaining a civil tone in the car was to admit defeat. "All right," she reluctantly agreed. "One quick look, but then we get right away from that monstrosity." She gazed out of the front windshield towards the object of their lively debate. "I just don't like the look of that thing, it's... I don't know... unnatural."

"Thanks, darling!" her husband chortled. "To be honest, the whole situation's unnatural. So a little..."

"Ernest," she snapped, unceremoniously cutting him off mid-sentence. "You won, so just give it a rest. I'm starting to develop a headache."

Leaping excitedly back into the car, Ernest reignited the vehicle's motor and steered it towards their new goal. Had he known what was waiting for him at the phenomenal structure, he would have driven his family at full speed in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The palomino cantered at a brisk pace across the rough, grass-covered terrain. The horse was followed at a reasonable distance by a small group of unkempt men on their own mounts of different breeds. Halting abruptly, the lead animal and its green-uniformed horseman surveyed the region, including a dense forest in the distance, as well as the continuation of the rolling hills in the opposite direction. After taking stock of his surroundings, the first horseman glanced back towards his reluctant pursuers and nudged his horse, causing the animal to continue its pace across the undulating plain.

"Stay right there!" a disgruntled voice called from the group following in his wake. Captain Carl Buchanan reared his horse and gazed back once more to see the other soldiers charging over to join him.

"I don't know what's going on around here," Corporal Roddy Meredin announced, one hand hovering menacingly over his slightly rusted sidearm as his horse came alongside the captain's, "but if you even think of escaping, I'll shoot you straight off that pretty horse of yours!"

"I'm not trying to escape," Buchanan indignantly informed the Confederate horseman. This was of course a complete fabrication; he fully intended to evade his captors at the first available opportunity. "Jupiter is just a touch excited."

Meredin glared at his adversary, although curiosity got the better of him. "Who the hell's 'Jupiter'?" he angrily demanded.

"My horse. I named him after the Roman God."

"Well bully for you!" Private Harry Barren blurted before spitting once onto the ground. "Now I say we just shoot this dandy right here and now. Then we can sell 'Jupiter' and keep the cash."

"Not yet," the corporal repeated his earlier order. "He might come in handy if there's trouble later on; so let's just hold our tongues about shooting anyone. Then when I say we shoot him, we can draw straws to see who gets the pleasure of decorating him with a big bunch of holes."

The other grey uniformed men nodded in agreement with his plan. Not that Meredin really cared if his troops liked or approved of his orders or not. Actually, they all thought the idea of drawing straws to see who was entitled to blast the oddly uniformed officer into his grave quite amusing.

"No matter what we do with him or his horse," Private William Hill added, "I get to keep his hat. I feel almost naked without mine on my head."

"You can have all of his goddamn clothes if that's what you want," Meredin informed him.

"No thanks. I'd rather go naked than ride around wearing that green getup."

"Shit, yeah!" Barren chuckled with a coarse laugh. "It's the funniest thing I've ever set eyes on. Hey, Dandy! How much extra are they paying you to dress up like that?"

"You really shouldn't be making fun of him," Meredin announced, flashing a brown-toothed grin. "I'd lay a wager that green uniform's the most effective weapon the Union Army's got! One look at it and I bet all of us rebel boys just fall down laughing! So tell me, Dandy, how many rebels have you captured just by wearing that uniform of yours?"

Turning in his saddle to cast a disapproving stare at the collection of motley grey uniformed men, Buchanan flashed a broad grin. "So far... just you boys," he answered.

Ignoring his own sidearm, Meredin snatched the officer's recently confiscated pistol from his belt. He aimed this impressively clean gun directly at its former owner's face.

"You should be more careful how you speak to me, Dandy!" the corporal snarled, his finger resting precariously on the trigger. "It'd be a real shame if you got shot with your own nice, shiny gun, wouldn't it, boy?"

"You just don't get it, do you--'boy'," Buchanan countered, a low menace in his tone. "What's happened to us isn't natural. You don't just ride into a fog and ride out the other side to find yourself in a completely different place altogether. You were right the first time: You can't kill me because you might need me if there's any trouble later on."

"Would you care to place a small wager on that?"

"We don't know where we are, and at any time we might end up fighting for our lives. You'll need every available hand to help if that happens."

"This talk's scaring the tripe out of me!" whined the young private, Bernard Talbot. "Make him stop!"

"Fight who?" Meredin irately demanded, although by this stage of the angry exchange he had lowered the pistol. "We haven't seen anyone for hours. For all we know we could be the only ones around here; wherever the hell 'here' is!"

"You're not helping any!" Talbot blurted miserably.

The whole squad was on edge about their remarkable situation and listening to Rodney Meredin and the fancily dressed officer arguing about it left them feeling somewhat queasy. They just wished their NCO and the fancy Union officer would shut the hell up. They continued moving onwards at a leisurely pace in the hope of finally reaching some pocket of civilisation.

***

The debate on the unit's dire predicament continued for some time as both Captain Buchanan and Corporal Meredin discussed the possible (albeit unlikely) causes for their current strife. These ranged from the prospect the fog bank could have been far larger than they thought, to them having been somehow drugged and removed to a distant location while they slept. These views were, to put it mildly, far removed from the actual cause of their transference.

"I hate to break up you two love birds," Harry Barren interjected, gazing into the distance, "but what's that over there?"

Towards the distant horizon, they could clearly see a thin smoke trail lazily climbing its way high into the otherwise clear, blue sky. To all the soldiers who had on occasion witnessed such smoke formations, the narrow column meant just one thing: Danger.

"Should we go take a look?" William Hill asked, standing slightly higher in his stirrups.

Meredin shook his head. "No way. We've got enough troubles of our own without sticking our noses into other people's difficulties."

"We should see if anyone needs our assistance," Buchanan added.

"Did I ask you for your opinion, Dandy?"

"No, but we might be able to help someone."

"So what?"

"Help someone who could then tell us where we are and what's going on."

Scratching under one arm, the corporal considered this possibility. He reluctantly decided it was a viable option. "Let's do it," he finally instructed his troops and the prisoner.

"Shit! Here's some trouble!" Harry Barren grumbled. "I suppose we don't have one ounce of say in the matter?"

Meredin grinned. "That's right, Harry. Same deal as always. I tell you what to do and you just up and do it with a big smile on your happy, handsome face."

"As long as there might be some possibility of danger," Buchanan mentioned in passing, "is there any chance of getting my guns and sword back?"

The Confederate soldiers all looked at each other and burst into a raucous chorus of laughter.

"Listen to him!" Meredin chuckled, displaying a rare flash of humour towards the captured officer. "We might not be up to your high standards in the brain department, Dandy, but give us credit for having some common sense."

"Carl Buchanan," the officer informed his assembled captors.

"What?"

"My name and rank is Captain Carl Buchanan of the United States, 1st Volunteer Sharpshooters."

"I think the horse has a better name!" Barren scoffed, sending the group into another fit of laughter.

"Can I at least have my sword back, Corporal? You can keep the rifle and pistol for now."

"Fair enough," Meredin nodded. "You can have the fancy pig-sticker, but please try not to cut yourself. I hate the sight of blood; especially when I'm not the one responsible for spilling it."

To the consternation of the soldiers under his command, Meredin handed back the captured officer's highly polished sword. The captain buckled it around his waist.

"Thank you. And you have my word of honour; I won't turn this sword against yourself or any of your men."

"And you have my word of honour if you try to escape I'll personally shoot you in the back. Also, if you even give the impression you're going to use that glorified letter opener against me or my men, I'll shoot you in both legs then drag you behind my horse until you scream to die. Have you got that, Captain Carl?"

Buchanan nodded.

"Then let's get this done!" Roddy Meredin called, lightly kicking his horse.

The remaining horsemen, including Carl Buchanan, followed in the light wake of dust behind the fast-trotting horse. They hoped they would discover some answers at the end of their short journey to the source of the rising smoke vapour. However, the answers they would find would be more shocking than any of them imagined.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE AZZIL TERRITORIES

PRESENT STANDARD LOCAL TIME

Despite his better than average physical condition, Major Enrich Voltaire found himself completely exhausted after lugging the sack of Third Reich gold and equipment across the countryside for any number of hours. Placing the bags and their precious cargo at his feet, he swiftly drew in a couple of deep breaths of the remarkably clean air into his aching lungs, and then scanned the immediate area for any indication of human life.

The surrounding terrain reminded him a touch of Spain in the more arid areas, but with a few noticeable differences. Spain contained much more recognisable varieties of flora and fauna. The trees and undergrowth about him were all generally of a malnourished, stunted appearance. Voltaire's knowledge of plant and animal life was limited to the facts learnt at school many years ago. However, the officer did feel he should have been able to recognise some form of life during his travels. None of the precious few birds or plants he had seen so far reminded him of any species from Earth.

There it was again. Each time the plainly clothed major attempted to justify the bizarre turn of events, he came to the same conclusion that he was no longer even on his home world. The only thing in his favour was a ready supply of army rations contained in his other bag. These would obviously not last forever, so locating food was now high on Voltaire's agenda. Also high on his 'to do' list was locating somebody who could inform him of his current whereabouts. He truly hoped his ludicrous theory about being on another planet was completely incorrect. If this was indeed the case, then the sack of gold he was hauling all across creation might easily be worth the value of the sack.

The thought greatly angered him. Snatching up his hopefully still valuable burden, Voltaire continued in the same direction he had been walking since his initial transference--west. At least, he hoped he was travelling west. The sun was moving away from him, but who really knew what was going on?

***

Another twenty or so minutes passed that found him climbing across a rock ledge where he stopped still in his tracks. Moments passed in silence, as he remained motionless, staring at the incredible sight before him. The scene was quite unexpected, but was also something of a relief to him. At least he knew for certain he was still some place on Earth.

"Quite remarkable," he finally commented, lowering his bags to give himself free access to his Sten. Much to his relief, it looked as though his run of great misfortune had finally come to an end.

The group standing not far away from him at a slightly lower altitude were a surprising combination of men and women, all dressed in an odd display of clothing possessing absolutely no colour co-ordination. Their vile, grubby garments looked as if they had been retrieved from the local garbage tip with precious little thought given to any hygienic value. Voltaire wondered if these wretches before him were some sort of gypsies. Correctly, he deduced they were nothing of the sort, as these people did not look like any gypsies he had encountered or killed in his past life.

The group of approximately twelve individuals appeared to be as equally astounded by Voltaire's appearance as he was by theirs. They remained stationary, all eyes focused intently on the newcomer a short distance above them. Some of these onlookers slowly reached for a variety of knives and swords. The largest person within the miserable collection, a broad-shouldered man of middle age abruptly spoke up in a deep, menacing voice: "Who are you? And where did you come from?"

This first demand caused Voltaire to lower his weapon from his shoulder. He certainly did not wish to get involved in any violence with these people and not be fully prepared for the event. He did have to admit that the apparent leader of this group's German dialect was nearly flawless. There was now hope in the major's mind that he was still on German soil.

"I asked you a question!" the leader blurted, stepping closer as he spoke.

It was an old trick Voltaire recognised immediately; to distract your intended target with dialogue, all the while moving ever closer to them.

"If you dare take one more step," the officer called a warning, aiming the machine gun at the slightly taller, balding man, "I will cut you in half! Now, are you in charge of this band of half-wit vagrants?"

Turning to face his followers, the leader spoke two words that sent five people to their deaths: "Take him!"

Nearly half the group's number snatched up a variety of swords, clubs and long-bladed knives and rushed in a frenzied mass at the stranger. There was no outward indication of fear in this process. They had been given an instruction by their group leader and they instantly carried out his wishes.

In response to this act of suicidal stupidity, Voltaire pointed the business end of his Sten towards the onrushing throng and calmly squeezed the trigger. The machine pistol at such close range was nothing short of devastating.

The closest person to the major at the instant he unleashed the automatic gun was a short woman of indeterminate age, clutching an odd sword. She promptly lost the lower half of her face then fell screaming and gargling in her own blood. The two men directly behind this victim ignored her demise in their haste to attack the stranger. They leapt clear of her still twitching, bloodstained body and died a mere instant later, their torsos ripped apart by a long blast of gunfire. The remaining members of the attacking group at least possessed enough common sense and lust for life to falter in their charge up the hill. Before they could retreat or recommence the assault, another spray of bullets killed two of the men outright and injured the arm of a third.

"Have you ignorant peasants quite finished?" Voltaire loudly inquired, still aiming his smoking machine pistol at them. "Or do you intend to make another foolish run at me? I really have no qualms about shooting you all."

None of the embattled group had the faintest idea what a 'qualm' was, but they also had no intention of venturing near him and his deadly piece of metal and wood.

"I am the leader of this band," the tall man boldly announced, standing straight as if immensely proud of himself.

"You think that impresses me, you ignorant low life!" Voltaire chuckled. "What is your name?"

"You will not speak..."

The so-called leader's words were completely drowned out as the stranger fired a short volley into the air. The other members of the party ducked their heads and closed their eyes like terrified children.

"Your name!" the major bellowed furiously, fed up with wasting time on this issue.

"I am Sinnit Sear of the Anhil," the leader informed him, this time displaying a touch of humility. He was no longer the biggest, toughest kid on the block.

"There, that was not so difficult," Voltaire stated, lowering his weapon.

"I thought the family Thellon might have sent you," Sinnit Sear explained, his eyes occasionally falling on the Sten. If only he possessed a weapon like that.

"Who are the family Thellon?" Voltaire asked, frowning in mild confusion. "And for that matter, where am I?"

Sinnit Sear glanced back at the more fortunate members of his group. The surviving members of the band exchanged confused glances. It was as though the tall man had just asked a remarkably stupid question.

"They are the ruling family of the Hamaforth Kingdoms," the Anhil leader announced.

"Hamaforth Kingdoms?"

"The sworn enemy of all who dwell in the Azzil Territories."

"The more you speak, the less sense you make," Voltaire protested. "What are the Azzil Territories?"

"You are standing in them this very moment," Sinnit Sear remarked, a touch sarcastically.

"Be careful, Sear," the irritated SS officer warned him, raising his gun. "I have little patience with fools and you are coming dangerously close to that classification."

"Sinnit Sear," the tall man instantly corrected, one hand resting menacingly on the hilt of his sword.

"If you want to commit suicide, 'Sinnit Sear', be my guest."

The Anhil bandit leader let his arm drop from the weapon.

"Much better," Voltaire told him with a slight nod of his head. "Now, for my next question. How come you all speak fluent German?"

He had noticed during this encounter with the filthy bandits that their mouths moved slightly out of rhythm with the words they were speaking. The process was both confusing to the officer and gave him a mild headache. There was certainly no rational explanation for this odd phenomenon as the two men exchanged pleasantries.

Sinnit Sear's next comment caused Voltaire no end of concern. "What is 'German'?"

"The language you are presently speaking comes from the country Germany. How could you never have heard of it?" Voltaire voiced his earlier doubts.

"With respect..." Sinnit Sear stared at the confused, but obviously still dangerous individual.

"Major Enrich Voltaire."

"With respect, Enrich Voltaire," the bandit leader continued, "the language we are speaking is of Azzil, not this 'German' place. Now, I have a question for you; why does your mouth move strangely when you speak to me?"

Voltaire was fascinated by the way the oddly attired peasant spoke. It was like watching a well-dubbed American movie at the cinema. He stepped down from his slightly elevated position to join the enraptured bandits.

"Now," the major continued, still tightly clutching his Sten. He despised these ignorant peasants and would have killed them all on the spot except for the obvious fact they could provide all sorts of useful information to him. "If this Thellon family are in charge of these Hamaforth Kingdoms, who commands the Azzil Territories?"

"Ruler Jom Azzer, naturally."

"Naturally," Voltaire repeated, deep in thought about his predicament. "And how do I get to meet this person?"

This last question sent shockwaves reverberating through the surviving Anhil marauders. Many people who encountered Ruler Jom Azzer and his wife, the Empress Dearer Azzer failed to survive the experience. Somehow, Sinnit Sear seriously doubted if his newly acquired accomplice would have such difficulties. The tall, blond man with the loud voice and deadly weapon would fit right in with the family Azzer.

***

Ruler Jom Azzer, the Dread scratched his bearded chin, a deep frown etching lines on his determined-looking features. He paced away from a uniformed man of some minor ranking in his mighty army, but continued to listen with great interest to the officer's remarkable tale. To one side of the Imperial podium sat a tall, statuesque woman of a slightly younger age, who likewise took some interest in the conversation. About them crowded a throng of people from both military and civilian backgrounds.

The officer at the centre of the small convention made certain he did not make eye contact with either ruling monarch. It was rumoured that Jom Azzer's spouse, Empress Dearer Azzer could turn a person into ice simply by staring at them. Anyone who tragically earned her displeasure failed to doubt the truth of this tale. It appeared the only person on the planet she could display even the remotest form of affection towards was her spouse. She continuously fussed over his clothing, tasted his food, and in a form of affection unheard of even amongst the more powerful families within the Azzil Territories, personally trimmed his beard and hair. One thing forbidden to the Empress was to make any form of command decision. This was a sore point with Dearer Azzer. However, in the Territories, women did not perform such important duties. Ruler Jom Azzer did not approve of the rule that applied to his wife. However, while all other rules were beneath her, this time-honoured tradition was beyond either member of the terrifying union to alter.

Facing the young officer, Jom Azzer asked the man to reaffirm his apparently wild story. He knew the man's description must be true. Only a fool with a death wish would dare irk him with such an outrageous lie. No one dwelling within the Azzil Territories was so completely out of their senses that they would knowingly lie to their Ruler.

"You have the object here in the Imperial palace, Lieutenant?" Jom Azzer inquired.

The officer nodded, small beads of nervous perspiration clearly visible on his face. "Yes, my Ruler," he confirmed. "We have the object outside. My men are guarding it with their very lives at this moment."

The Empress smiled. "Yes, they are."

"If you wish, I will get it for you right away, my Ruler," he politely suggested, his eyes downcast as he remained affixed to the spot before the Imperial podium.

"Please do so," Jom Azzer instructed. "You may leave now."

A slight, strained smile appeared on the officer's face as he turned to flee the huge, overly decorated Great Imperial Chamber where the imperial couple conducted their numerous civic duties. The massive chamber had been designed to perform one important function--to intimidate anyone appearing before the Imperial monarchy.

The Empress Dearer Azzer coughed very lightly, bringing the young man's departure to a screeching halt. He turned, his eyes bulging in horror at his senseless indiscretion. Much to his distress, the junior officer realised he had just committed a huge blunder right in front of not only both Imperial monarchs, but an entire throng of important military personnel and members of the Territories' bureaucracy. "Permission to leave, my Empress?" he blurted, finally remembering his decorum.

After an excruciatingly lengthy pause, Dearer Azzer looked at the terrified military man. She threw him a radiant smile, which temporarily made all assembled in the hall fully understand their Ruler's fathomless love for the woman. She could be nothing short of remarkable when the mood suited her.

"Why, certainly. Permission granted, Lieutenant," she purred.

"My thanks, your Imperial Highness," the young officer croaked, his face flushed. "I appreciate your generosity."

She continued her venomous smile, like a cobra waiting to strike. "I know you do."

Stifling a sigh of sheer relief, the man rapidly marched from the chamber.

Jom Azzer gazed lovingly at his wife. "My darling, you are in such a generous mood today. Why did you let him get away with such a serious breach of imperial protocol?"

It was mandatory to request the permission of both the Imperial couple before departing their presence. To falter even slightly in this task was just one of any number of seemingly innocuous crimes punishable by an endless array of violent measures.

"Not generous," Dearer Azzer responded, her delicate hands folded neatly in her lap. "I just like to keep them guessing. If you become predictable in your behaviour, it takes the edge off their fear. Also, I would like to see this mysterious object that somehow ended up in the street."

"As you wish, my Empress," Jom Azzer responded in a low whisper just as the officer returned. The Ruler secretly delighted in his wife's mind games with the Imperial Court. She always strived to keep the throng of contemptible bureaucrats and various military officials not only at odds with one another, but also discordant with their place in the palace hierarchy. The Empress was a big believer in not becoming familiar with any of their personnel.

The youthful officer returned and walked towards the Imperial podium, a cloth-shrouded bundle clasped firmly in both slightly trembling hands. His miraculous escape from serious punishment for breach of imperial protocol was already starting to travel the gossip circle within the palace. Such notoriety would give the junior officer the privilege of opportunity within the military detachment in the Imperial palace.

"Here it is, my Ruler!" he announced, his voice travelling throughout the chamber so the throng of people present could easily hear his words.

Jom Azzer moved cautiously across to the nervously waiting military man. He reached over and removed the cover from the object in question. The Ruler was quite amused by what he beheld. Surprises were a rare treat for Jom Azzer, so he relished every moment. He positioned himself a couple of short steps away to make an initial inspection.

"Quite remarkable," the Empress commented. She turned her attention back to her husband. "What is it, my Ruler?"

Jom Azzer shook his head. "I have really no idea, my Empress. However, it does look magnificent. Hold it a little higher, could you?"

"Yes, my Ruler," the officer automatically responded, hoisting the item at the centre of everyone's fascination a bit higher.

The white enamel microwave oven was balanced precariously in the uniformed man's hands while both monarchs carefully inspected it from a respectable and hopefully safe distance. A moment or two passed as they admired and studied the mysterious object. Neither of the two monarchs had ever seen anything like it before. The object certainly looked impressive in a shiny, white sort of way.

"I wonder if it has any useful function," Jom Azzer remarked, rapping his knuckles gently against the hard metallic surface. He touched the cooker's door with the fingers of his right hand. "This side is made almost entirely of glass, but it is of a better quality than anything I have ever seen before; even better than any glass inside the Imperial palace."

Dearer Azzer focused her attention back to the perspiring officer. "You reported that someone found this object just lying in the street?"

"Yes, my Empress," he answered, his voice strained. "It was in the street in the lesser quarters of the city. The person who found it called in a patrol to check if the item was safe. The patrol leader saw fit to take this to his captain who then informed me. I decided it was best to allow you both to see it for yourselves." He paused before speaking once more. "With your generous permission, could I please put it on the floor?"

"You did very well," the Ruler told him. "Yes, you may place the item on the floor. But be careful. I would hate to see either it or my floor get broken."

The officer very carefully lowered this recently acquired prize onto the floor. Once the object at the centre of everybody's attention was on the highly polished marble tiles, the ruling couple continued marvelling at its unusual form.

"This is very good," Jom Azzer announced. He turned to face the officer. "For your services you may claim an additional bonus payment to your regular wages. The patrol leader and the captain may have an additional bonus in their pay."

The uniformed man's eyes widened just a touch. The amount awarded to him by the enraptured Ruler was a considerable amount. This bonus would come in extremely handy for both himself and his pregnant wife. The Ruler of the Azzil Territories was generally considered a deranged tyrant, but when it suited him, he could be extraordinarily generous.

"Thank you, my Ruler!" he blurted in delight. "Thank you both!"

The Empress appreciated his enthusiasm and honest display of gratitude. She smiled at him and nodded. He would do well in their service, so long as he kept pace with the Imperial palace's treacherous protocol measures instigated by a long line of Azzilian rulers. Descending from the red carpet covered podium, the Empress circled the strange item in their midst, her intelligent eyes scanning its smooth exterior. She eventually spied the power cable jutting out from the microwave's rear side. Stooping over, she cautiously picked up this strange attachment. Inspecting the cable with great intent, the Empress frowned.

"I wonder what this is for."

"I imagine it is used to attach it to a secure place to prevent the thing from being stolen," her spouse offered, likewise taking careful note of the cord. "Although that still leaves the question of where it came from in the first place."

"Perhaps it has something to do with Lord Laninval's message?" Dearer Azzer surmised, finally discarding the power cord.

Jom Azzer shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. His message was vague, as usual. He ranted a great deal about fulfilling his mission, but did not give any further details. Sometimes I worry about that man."

At the mere thought of his Lordship, the Empress wrinkled her aquiline nose in disgust. "You are not really going to give that nasty, little traitor control over the entire Hamaforth Kingdoms once we rid it of the Thellons, are you?"

In truth, she already knew the answer to her question.

"Laninval has his value," he answered, gazing across at her. "And he will aid us in being free of the Hamaforth monarchy once and for all. Were it not for his plans, we could easily waste half the Imperial treasury on a long, bloody war. He will be well rewarded and, as I have promised, placed in personal control of the Kingdoms."

The Empress was overwhelmed with disappointment.

"Right before I have him shot full of crossbow bolts," the Ruler added, flashing his spouse a quick grin.

The Empress' disappointment vanished instantly. "May I watch him die?" she enthused.

"Why, naturally," her husband replied with urbane graciousness. "I would never dream of depriving you of such an entertaining spectacle. The thought of putting that grotesque fool and his whore of a wife to death fills me with overwhelming joy."

"It may not be as easy as you suggest. There could be all sorts of issues in regards to our invasion of the Hamaforth Kingdoms."

"True," the Ruler agreed, "the beginning of any great historic event is always a time of immense upheaval. However, Laninval's treachery against the Thellons will mean they will be too busy mourning their loss to expect us to invade their palace and come pouring across the borders of Porra."

The Empress paused to consider these possibilities.

"Despite his hatred of the Thellons, I am surprised by Laninval agreeing to open his country's borders to let our army ride through to Hamaforth proper," she stated. "Are you certain he is not plotting with King Entell Thellon to betray you instead?"

"You misjudge Laninval. He does not hate the Thellons. I believe he gets on quite well with them--most of them anyway. But his yearning for power..." The Ruler did not need to finish his sentence. The Imperial couple were well aware of Lord Laninval's lust for power, authority and wealth. Yet they could not have foreseen that Laninval's despotic ambitions would be the ruin of a great many people on both sides of the border and lead two mighty authorities into all-out war.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE HAMAFORTH KINGDOMS

Upon hearing the scream, Lieutenant Gary Wyndham's immediate reaction was to draw his Colt .45 service-issued pistol and scan the area for the source of the terrible cry. The sight he beheld stunned his usually agile, intelligent mind. In the distance, some huge beast had attacked Al Kempton, who had until this moment, been standing on guard duty. The creature was now in the process of mauling the unfortunate soldier, who had ceased to move. The other members of the Iroquois crew were equally stunned to witness this horrific and quite bizarre incident. They stood motionless, their mouths agape in horror.

Wyndham fired off a shot, which instantly created a rash of shooting amongst the members of his unit. Round after automatic round blasted away at the landscape about the immobile man and the beast attacking him. The main difficulty they faced was to shoot the large animal without injuring the Chief. To further stagger their numbed minds, the lion-like animal then performed the most miraculous feat Wyndham had ever seen in his twenty-six years of life. With two strokes of its huge wings, the creature took to the almost cloudless sky with Chief Kempton's lifeless body clenched firmly in its powerful beak. This sight only intensified their resolve to kill the beast.

Bolting around the stationary helicopter to get a better angle on the creature as it flew away, Wyndham squeezed off a couple more rounds from his handgun. Some heavy object slammed into the enraged officer as a long, loud blast of noise scrambled the very air around him. Private Joey Henty screamed insanely as he fired at the swiftly fleeing winged beast with one of the stationary Iroquois's M-60's. Accompanied by both Clary Field's and Ricky Sorell's fire, they filled the sky with tracer rounds, but failed to hit the predator, which had now attained a respectable distance from the angry bipeds on the ground. After a short bout of rapid firing, both Sorell and Field ceased their action against the fleeing predator and lowered their weapons.

Wyndham and Stuart lay on the grass, watching in shock as the griffin departed with their dead comrade. Heavy calibre gunfire continued to reverberate through the air despite the absence of any intended target.

"Cease fire!" the officer commanded, picking himself up off the ground.

Henty was in full swing and blazed away into the distance where the beast was last seen. He continued firing well after the other enlisted men had halted all action. His nerves had finally tumbled, leading him to blatantly disregard a direct order.

"I said that's enough, Henty!" Wyndham bellowed.

The corporal lunged into the helicopter, grabbed hold of Henty by the collar of his uniform and roughly heaved him headfirst out of the stationary aircraft.

"Goddamn you!" Stuart screamed in rage.

The other members of the unit, including their commanding officer, watched in amazement as the usually placid NCO completely lost his temper. Stuart leapt from the helicopter, landing beside the fallen gunner. He then swung his left boot directly into the bewildered soldier's rear end.

"You dumbass!" Stuart irately bellowed. "You almost blew the Lieutenant's head off! And mine right alongside it! When you're given an order, you goddamn well obey it! 'Cease fire' means stop shooting, you moron!"

Henty scrambled to his feet, his uniform covered in dirt and grass.

"Y... Y... Yes," he stammered.

"What was that? I didn't quite hear you!"

"Yes, Corporal!"

Wyndham was in awe. He had never believed Stuart had the makings of a first-rate NCO. Certainly, the corporal was a highly experienced rotary blade aircraft pilot, but until this occasion, he had never displayed a serious enough disposition to further his military career. Unfortunately, the lieutenant had other issues to contend with this tragic day. Al Kempton's body had to be retrieved before the animal could devour it like a freshly killed gazelle. He turned to a visibly shaken Sorell, who was staring off into the distance.

"Private Sorell."

Sorell continued his hard gaze towards the horizon.

"Private!" Wyndham spoke a touch louder.

"Sir!" the enlisted man suddenly responded.

"Did you see where the griffin took Kempton?"

The African American soldier stared at him. "Griffin, sir?"

"As far as I remember from mythology, that's what that animal's called. Did you see how far it took the Chief?"

"About two clicks, Lieutenant."

Two kilometres was not that far; only about a mile in civilian lingo. They could easily walk that distance in roughly an hour. Such a fact did not assuage the officer of the dangers involved in moving about this new terrain. His unit had not been in the region for more than a couple of hours and already one of their numbers had perished in a particularly gruesome and bizarre fashion.

"Right--Sorell, you and Henty come with me," Wyndham instructed with mandatory efficiency. "Corporal Stuart; you and Private Field stay here and guard the huey. And if you see anything that isn't straight out of 'Wild Kingdom', please feel free to blow it right to hell. Hopefully, we should be back in a couple of hours. Wait until tomorrow morning. If we're not back by sun up, assume the worst and get the hell of here."

"Yes, sir," Stuart responded, a bit disappointed gunner Henty was not being left behind to assist in babysitting the chopper. He still had a few choice words to say to Henty about the appropriate way of discharging the aircraft's weaponry. Now the only person he had for company was Field--along with his big, smart mouth.

"Where are we going, Lieutenant?" Sorell inquired in a shaky voice.

"To get the Chief back, Private," the officer calmly responded, placing his Colt back into its holster.

"Why?" Field asked. "Al ain't going to be in any condition to take point."

"That will be enough of that sort of talk, Field!" Stuart angrily warned him.

"Can't we take the huey?" Henty asked.

"No," Wyndham answered. "We might scare the animal away."

Sorell was startled by this last comment. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"We have to do something about it. Unless you want that thing to keep flying around out there, picking us off one at a time, Private?"

"No, sir," Sorell responded, shaking his head. "No way! I don't know where we are, but I do know I don't want to die here."

"Then let's get moving. I'd like to be back here before sunset, whenever that might be."

Putting together a collection of spare ammunition for their various weapons, as well as extra water and food rations, the makeshift patrol headed away from the parked Iroquois in the direction they hoped to locate Alan Kempton's remains. All three participants in this sortie prayed they would return safely to their aircraft and the remainder of their now dwindling unit. Sorell had echoed all of their thoughts on this present situation: no one wanted to die out here.

***

The small column of red and black uniformed men halted as one of their number sprinted back towards their formation. Appearing to be exceedingly pleased, the soldier clutched a blood smattered item in one hand like a prize. In his other hand, he gripped his Martini Henry rifle. From the front of the assembled men, the eldest of the group emerged to meet the lookout. He appeared slightly displeased with the return of the private. By leaving his post, the lookout had erred in his assigned duty and would hear about his faults in no uncertain manner.

"Private Deering! What on earth do you think you are doing?" Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw bellowed. "When I dispatch a scout, I expect him to return only if an emergency has occurred or if he has been properly relieved! Is that clearly understood?"

Private Second Class Leonard Deering held up the dead prize, his face bright with anticipation. "Look what I shot, Sergeant Major!" Deering announced enthusiastically. "I'm sure you can eat these things. They're all over the place up ahead. But you've got to be careful or they up and run away."

"Your grasp of the Queen's English never ceases to amaze me, Private Deering," Bradshaw commented, carefully removing the dead rabbit-like animal from the man's grasp. "And I suppose you think we should eat these disgusting things raw, Private?"

Deering shook his head at the NCO's query. "No, Sergeant Major! I figure if we shoot enough of these critters, we can build a fire and cook them for mess tonight."

Still holding the dead, furry creature, Bradshaw put on the appearance of harbouring some doubt about the idea, and then finally nodded. "All right, Private Deering," his deep voice echoing about the otherwise silent region. "See if you can bag any more of these animals. If we could eat rabbits back on the Transvaal, we can certainly dine on these things. But for Lord's sakes don't waste any more rounds of ammunition on them. Place a number of snare traps, as you were shown in survival training. We will pick up any captured animals on our way through."

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" the private blurted, turning and sprinting away.

"Get back here, you miserable little man!" Bradshaw screamed, red-faced in sheer exasperation over yet another breach in military protocol. "When I want you to leave I will tell you to leave! Although, for the life of me I have no notion why I would want you lurking around, befouling the very air I breathe!"

Displaying remarkable agility, Deering sprinted back to his former position.

"That's better!" the elder soldier exclaimed. "Now, if you had displayed enough intelligence to stand still and listen to me for one minute, you would have heard me order you to take along Private John Jones. After all, he is far better at survival techniques than you are. But then again, so is everyone else."

"Yes, Sergeant Major Bradshaw!" the private responded.

This time he waited patiently to be given permission to leave. He was not so idiotic as to make the same mistake twice.

"What are you waiting for, Private Deering?" the sergeant major abruptly bellowed. "A gold-embossed invitation? Move your lazy backside before we cook you for dinner tonight!"

Saluting once, Deering, closely followed by Private John (JJ) Jones raced from the small group to pursue their intended evening meal.

Sergeant Major Bradshaw watched as they made double-time over the crest of the nearest hill and vanished from sight and nodded very slightly. Private Deering was a dedicated, reasonably intelligent lad who would do well in the forces of the British Empire once his natural enthusiasm and youthful stupidity had been tempered by numerous years in the service of Her Majesty. But in the meantime, he had other concerns. Like where on Earth were they?

***

The only sight stranger than the slowly, cautiously cruising station wagon in this isolated region was the gigantic building positioned not too far from where the vehicle finally halted. Switching off the motor, Ernest Bonaparte leaned forward in his seat and gazed up at the blue/green glass monolith, which appeared to stretch all the way up to the cloudy sky above. To his amazement, the upper levels of the building were not even visible to the naked eye, as the increasing cloud cover appeared to consume the top of the skyscraper.

"My Lord!" Ernest gasped, his eyes bulging in awe of the truly impressive construction. "That thing's tall! I've never ever seen anything like it. I bet you it's taller than the Empire State Building!"

"Aw, come on, Dad!" Joseph scoffed in disbelief, although he could clearly see the striking sight ahead of them. "Nothing's taller than the Empire State Building."

"Take a closer look, son."

His eldest son opened his nearest window and leant outside into the cool, fresh air. "Damn!" he blurted, now having an unobstructed view.

His mother turned abruptly in her seat. "What was that, young man?" she demanded, affixing the child with a steely gaze.

"I said 'gosh'," he lied, with practiced expertise. "It's big, isn't it?" he added for good measure to steer the conversation away from his verbal indiscretion. On a good day, soap still tasted horrible.

"Sure is," his father acknowledged, much to his son's relief. "I'm going to take a closer look."

Edith swung her head around to look at him. "Do you think you should, Ernie? After all, we really don't know where we are or what's inside that thing."

"Which is why we should try to find someone who knows what's going on. There could be someone inside that building who can help us."

"Well, okay," his spouse murmured. "Just be careful, Ernie," she quickly added.

After lunging excitedly from the vehicle like a child on his way to the circus, Ernest closed the driver's door. He looked across to his wife through the open window and grinned at the thrill of this latest adventure. "You know me, Edith," he exclaimed, pleased with himself at having talked her into allowing his expedition, "I'm always careful!"

"Since when?" Edith demanded without pause.

Ernest Bonaparte left the car and his family in the vehicle before his wife had a chance to change her mind. Had he known what he was about to witness, he would have stayed in his car. What he saw moments later inside the mighty structure would haunt Ernest for the rest of his life.

***

Carefully unwrapping the silver foil from one of his last sticks of chewing gum, Colin Bourke placed the wrapper into a pocket and shoved the sugar-coated strip into his dry mouth. Chewing this greatly anticipated morsel, he realised that by this time tomorrow he would be ravenously hungry. By the same time the day after, he would likely be crawling around on all fours, seriously considering devouring the ankle-high grass he strolled through on his seemingly endless journey. He really wished he had taken some time that morning to have a half-decent breakfast--and some lunch for that matter, but these lapses happen when you are in the process of a committing one of science's greatest blunders.

Reaching the crest of yet another small hill, which appeared to be exactly the same as all the other small hills he had been climbing all day, Colin found himself staring at yet more hills.

"This really sucks!" he grumbled out loud, finally swallowing the gum. Normally, he would have spat out his chewing gum, but in this case, he figured it was wiser to utilise every resource available. His body needed every piece of nutrition he could shove into his mouth. Judging by the lack of any real food sources in his journey so far, Colin realised he was in for a long, hungry haul across this isolated landscape. However, he did have a plan to remedy his problem. Sitting down on the hill he was currently atop of, he impatiently waited. They would be out and about again quite soon.

To begin with, he had spied their remarkably rapid forms out of the corner of his eye at irregular intervals during his travels. Colin soon discovered if he remained absolutely still and silent they eventually reappeared, foraging about the area for the grass that they consumed with unbridled vigour. Sure enough, no more than two minutes had elapsed when one of the small, rodent-like animals came into sight. The animal was approximately half the size of an average rabbit and possessed much smaller ears. He reasoned that if these creatures looked similar to rabbits, it was entirely possible they tasted like them. Colin really had no idea what these rodents would taste like raw, but he had every intention of trying anyway. To his surprise--and his empty stomach's sheer delight, four more of the animals appeared nearby and began foraging for food.

"Looks like dinner's here," he murmured under his breath.

While his words were almost inaudible to a human, the rabbit-like creatures scattered as if someone had fired off a shotgun. Colin furiously denounced their species, his voice carrying across the eternal rolling plains of these miserable surrounds. Every foul word in his quite advanced vocabulary came into use as he cursed not only the small, cute, furry and probably tasty animals, but also every other aspect of his current situation including the hills, his hunger, but especially the Minerva Project

The idea of digging up one of their burrows to get at them was out of the question. A couple of hours earlier, in a different location, he had hungrily inspected a burrow, deducing these underground tunnels ran for conceivably hundreds of metres in any direction. Realising he had lost this particular chance to capture and eat one of the rodents--or whatever they were, Colin decided to continue his trek. Sooner or later, he had to come across another living soul, surely. Someone who had food or water--even more chewing gum.

Glancing upwards, Colin saw with some measure of trepidation that not only had clouds gathered overhead, they were quickly starting to turn an evil looking grey. "That's all I need right now," he commiserated, shaking his head in dismay, "a storm."

Wondering how his situation could possibly get any worse, he continued walking on, hoping he would discover some precious source of nutrition and possibly some shelter from the impending rain. With every single step, Colin Bourke moved steadily towards an unbelievable source of danger.

***

Using the rear view mirror, Edith Bonaparte brushed her light reddish-brown hair in an effort to make her appearance a bit more presentable. For whom exactly, she was not entirely certain as only her two children were in the area. It was highly unlikely they would complain about the slightly tousled condition of her hair. Still, she enjoyed spending some fleeting time paying careful attention to her grooming. The family's care generally came first as the three other members of this co-op appeared completely incapable of taking care of their own needs.

Joseph and Ernest junior were in their customary positions in the back seat of the station wagon. While their mother fiddled with her hair, they were amusing themselves with a game of 'I spy'.

Her gaze drawn from the small mirror, she instantly realised something was amiss when her husband, white-faced and apparently fighting an almost uncontrollable urge to retch staggered into view. Edith watched with building trepidation; clearly something had gone terribly wrong with Ernest's impromptu inspection of the skyscraper. She could not remember seeing him looking so completely distressed, except possibly when he had ventured into the hospital cubicle to witness the birth of their first son.

Highly agitated, Ernest scrambled directly towards the vehicle. His hands were shaking so appallingly he had difficulty opening the car door. After three awkward attempts, he finally managed to manoeuvre the handle and climb inside the warm interior.

"Ernest!" his wife blurted, disturbed by her husband's obvious distress. "What on earth's wrong?"

Her husband's physical appearance startled her. Not only was his face set in a ghastly mask, but even his short-trimmed red hair appeared to be standing on end. Seated behind the steering wheel he stared into space, unblinking.

"Ernest!" Edith repeated. "What did you see?"

He turned to face her, his eyes bulging, unable or unwilling to talk to his confused spouse. On the back seat, Ernest junior had witnessed the horrified expression on his father's face and became scared. He burst into tears, sitting to one side of the bench seat, not wanting anyone else to see him cry. Joseph had also seen the terror in his father's eyes and developed a shock-white face himself. But he refused to cry; he was way too old for blubbering.

"They're all..." Ernest finally spoke, but could not force himself to finish this terrible sentence.

"Drive!" his wife abruptly commanded. "We have to get out of here!"

His eyes blinked a couple of times. "What?"

"Let's get moving! Whatever's in there, you can tell me about it later. But for now, we have to get the boys to safety."

This careful prompting animated him. Grabbing hold of the ignition key, Ernest Bonaparte hurriedly turned it twice before the engine burst into life. The station wagon lurched forward, turned abruptly and fired off in the opposite direction. The quicker they were away from the building and its horrific contents the better.

***

A slight breeze gently rocked the large, aged tree, causing the foliage to flutter delicately. An occasional gust would stir the surrounding trees into an ungainly jig, disturbing a few small birds into the air to resettle in nearby branches. Some landed in the same tree that was Lorraine Montague's sanctuary, although they fled on sighting the unusually large, odd creature perched high up amongst the dense foliage.

Lorraine had been stuck in this tree for an indeterminate number of hours. The cassowary occasionally reappeared in the clearing beneath the safety of her roost, but for the most part it remained hidden. Through the overhead canopy of green leaves, Lorraine could just make out the sun's shining form as it approached the western horizon. There was every possibility she would be spending the night stuck up the tree. She was concerned in case she fell asleep and toppled down from her crude perch in the middle of the night.

When the breeze abated momentarily, she thought she heard a sound a short distance away. Optimistically, she hoped it was the sound of her feathered tormentor finally leaving the area. Lorraine guessed it had been about two hours since she had last spied the aggressive avian, and prayed her feathered stalker had become bored and wandered away to harass some other unfortunate person. Removing her left shoe, she dropped the expensive footwear, watching it fall directly to the ground. The shoe came to rest quite close to what remained of her mangled right shoe she had earlier discarded to test the cassowary's presence.

"Hello, bird!" she called out. "Are you still there?"

The cassowary burst from its hideout and sadistically attacked the discarded item of footwear so violently it sent a chill down Lorraine's spine. In a matter of seconds, the enraged bird had destroyed the shoe, so it now resembled the other one. Once it had finished punishing the dark blue jogger, the bird stood motionless and glared directly up at Lorraine. It continued to strut about the base of the tree to ensure the blonde woman was under no illusion who was in charge, then quietly vanished back into the surrounding undergrowth.

The sound Lorraine thought she had heard moments ago now appeared much more audible. She suddenly recognised the noise. Horse hooves! At least a person on horseback could send for help to kill the bird and get her out of her predicament. There was simply no way she wished to spend the next couple of days stuck in this tree, no matter how fond she had become of her precarious sanctuary.

When horse and owner finally cantered into sight, Lorraine was quite taken by what she saw. The helmet wearing man in a deep blue cape sat astride a large, dark brown horse, his head turning from side to side as if he was aware of trouble in the vicinity. He calmly removed his highly polished head armour, scratched absently at his sweat matted, light brown hair and gazed around the forest with blue eyes that shone with eagerness and purpose.

Lorraine leaned over to get a better look and came close to toppling off her branch. "Oh my," she purred. Clearly, being rescued was much more important than remaining stuck up a tree, spying on a handsome stranger. More importantly, he needed to be urgently warned about the impending danger of the mad bird.

"Excuse me!" she called out at the top of her lungs.

The man's reaction to her unexpected address from the nearby foliage was instantaneous. He swiftly replaced his helmet and drew his sword from its sheath.

"Who said that?" he demanded in a deep, booming voice that echoed through the woods. "Speak now!"

"Hello, there!" Lorraine called back, "I'm up here!"

Nudging his mount forward, the man rode across to the tree and glanced about the immediate area. It was as though he was expecting to locate someone on the ground.

"You're cold as ice!" she laughed, looking straight down at the man. "I'm up here--in this tree!"

The horseman's head tilted upwards and his mouth dropped wide open in surprise at the sight of a shoeless blonde woman up a tree. The horse shuffled nervously, in a manner suggesting danger was present and close at hand. His owner drew the reins a touch tighter to keep his mount from rearing out of control. Finally, he spoke: "Please excuse my inquisitiveness, but why are you up in that tree?"

"There's a big, crazy bird trying to kill me! I think it's just over in those bushes behind you!"

Leaping from his mount, his sword still in one gloved hand, the horseman landed firmly on the ground. One firm slap from his free hand sent his unimpressed horse bolting away from the possible source of danger. No sooner had the animal raced off, the cassowary advanced from its cover and charged at the man.

Bracing his feet on the cold, uneven ground, the horseman waited with unbelievable patience until the rampaging bird had come within reach of his weapon. The first deadly swing of his incredibly sharp blade clipped the bird, sending coarse feathers flying through the cold air and drawing a small measure of blood.

Startled and slightly injured by the unexpected counter-attack, the cassowary stepped back from the tall biped creature to gather its senses. This animal did not behave like the other one it had pursued; it did not make unnerving, shrill sounds and run away.

Holding his sword aloft, the man remained motionless, waiting for the unfamiliar bird to recommence its assault. He watched with unemotional eyes as the huge bird stared at him with evil intent. Predictably, the bird charged directly at the man, who merely hauled his weapon back then swung it in a wide arch. The result of his defensive move was that the cassowary was neatly decapitated, its bloodied head sent flying to the far side of the small clearing. The attacking bird's body paused in an upright position for a brief moment before collapsing in a heap on the ground.

"A worthy adversary," the swordsman noted. He looked back up the tree. "You may come down now! I have dispatched the evil creature!"

Her limbs screaming in agony from the sudden exertion, Lorraine gingerly hauled herself from the safety of the overhanging branch and climbed down from the tree to the waiting stranger. She hoped he was friendly, although at least she no longer had to concern herself about the oversized canary.

Almost as if he could sense her trepidation, the horseman promptly removed his headwear and smiled at her. "Do not be concerned," he announced, "I will not harm you--even if you do keep an unusual pet."

Lorraine smiled back. "It wasn't what you'd call a pet." During their conversation, the blonde scientist did not approach her saviour. After all, he had only recently lopped off a large bird's head with chilling expertise.

A mildly concerned expression swept across the man's features. "You speak in a most peculiar way. And your mouth moves out of co-ordination with your words."

"Yeah, I noticed that about you too. And I can't quite place your accent either."

Deciding it was high time she displayed some appreciation to the man who had saved her life, the barefoot woman held out her right hand. "I'm Lorraine Montague. Thanks for helping me with my... little trouble." She held out her hand a touch further and smiled disarmingly.

To her surprise, the blue clad horseman abruptly rammed his lethal-looking sword into the ground and grabbed her outstretched hand with both of his.

"I must thank you!" he announced enthusiastically, causing Lorraine some concern. "You have given me an opportunity to prove myself in battle." He paused to grin. "It will drive the other Riders insane with envy!"

"Riders?"

He released her slightly crushed hand. "Please forgive me, Lorraine Montague."

"Just 'Lorraine' will do," she politely informed him, "But if you call me 'Lorrie', I'll strangle you."

"If you insist. I must introduce myself. I am Immir Hanis of The Order of the Royal Decree."

Lorraine almost laughed at his outrageous introduction. "My--that's certainly a mouthful. What's the 'Order of the Royal Decree'?"

"It is more commonly called 'The Order'. His Majesty Entell Thellon, the Second, our present King's father, organised our complement to help maintain lawful order within the boundaries of the Hamaforth Kingdoms. I must admit, I am surprised you have never heard of it or the Riders before this day."

Standing before her polite, unusually attired rescuer, Lorraine felt her stomach lurch in fear. She continued gazing up into his very nice eyes, smiling an inane smile. Not one word of anything he had said to her made any sense. What had gone wrong with the Minerva Project?

"Where are you from, Lorraine?"

"Canada," she finally responded.

He stared at her for a moment, pondering her answer. "I do beg your pardon?"

"Clearly, it's a long way from here," she explained wryly. This was certainly the truth to the best of her knowledge.

"It must be," Immir Hanis responded, frowning quizzically. "As in all of my days I have never heard of this 'Canada' place. How many days' ride would it take to reach your nation?"

She inhaled deeply. "Quite a few, I suspect." The truth was exceedingly handy when you could use it to avoid disclosing unwelcome facts.

"Then one day I will ride to this 'Canada' land to see it for myself," the Rider stated.

Lorraine now wondered if she would ever see her home nation again.

"Now, Lorraine Montague," he announced, "If you would extend to me the courtesy of standing by my horse, I must pay homage to Oberon."

"Who's 'Oberon'?" she inquired before thinking this question through to a logical conclusion.

Immir Hanis was stunned into silence by her question. Despite his polite nature, he stared at her incredulously, as if she had just asked a completely idiotic question. "If you have not heard of Oberon then this country of yours must indeed be a great distance from here. Oberon is the deity of the stars, the ruling god of The Order and all who dwell within Hamaforth proper."

"If you say so, Immir," Lorraine responded, her voice a dull whisper.

"Immir Hanis, please," he corrected her, his manners still impeccable.

Shaking her blonde head slightly, she gazed around at the mighty forest. "Where's your horse gone, Immir Hanis?"

"He will be back in due time," the Rider informed her. "Rell is not so stupid as to be present when I go into battle." He glanced about, "Especially not after what happened in San."

"San?"

"A nation within the realm of the Kingdoms. I accidentally clipped Rell with my sword during a fight with some Anhil bandits. He has never released himself from the memory of the incident."

"I suppose the horse told you this?"

"No, but at the first sign of possible bloodshed, he bolts in the opposite direction," Immir Hanis explained, blushing at this embarrassing recollection, "Even if still I happen to be astride him. It is exceedingly humiliating to challenge one of the Kingdoms' many enemies, only to have your mount run away in abject terror, making you look like the mightiest of cowards."

Lorraine burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"I assure you, this matter is not amusing," Immir Hanis protested, mortified by her inappropriate sense of humour. "Although many other Riders within The Order appear to believe so."

"I'm so sorry," she apologised, flashing a huge grin. "I know I shouldn't laugh."

The distant sound of muffled hooves caught their attention as Rell, the Rider's horse, reappeared along the trail. He looked somewhat sheepish about his behaviour and both dark, shiny eyes stared across at the two humans as they observed his slow return.

"I suppose I should be grateful," Immir Hanis murmured, glaring at his mount. "The last time there was any trouble, I had to wait a full two days for his return."

"I'll give you a few minutes," Lorraine suggested, collecting her appallingly mangled footwear and walking towards the recalcitrant horse.

Wondering what 'minutes' were, the Rider dropped to one knee beside his partially buried sword and prepared to offer a prayer: his 'Rights to Appease the Gods'.

"Please be careful, Lorraine," he offered a friendly warning. "All horses belonging to The Order are trained to allow only their rightful Rider to approach by any close distance."

"Aren't you lovely?" Lorraine spoke gently to the horse, ignoring the Rider's warning.

Back in the centre of the clearing, Immir Hanis had almost finished his religious ritual: "...and forever will I follow your ways; with gratitude for this worthy test of my skill and courage. To follow the way is to lead oneself into the land of the righteous."

Content he had uttered enough oaths and praises to satisfy Oberon, the Rider stood upright, brushed some leaf litter from his cloak and turned to see Lorraine astride his horse. He was horrified. "Rell!" he bellowed despondently, sheathing his sword.

"What's up?" Lorraine inquired calmly, one hand holding the reins, the other patting the horse.

Rell glared at his owner in defiant contempt.

"That is not supposed to happen!" Immir Hanis protested. "As I have already stated, our mounts are taught from the first day they are inducted into The Order that only their assigned Rider may sit on their backs. If I wanted a horse just anyone could ride, I would have selected one from the local carnival!" He shook his head sadly. "This is truly embarrassing. If the other members of The Order found out about this, I would never find peace again for the remainder of my life."

Not particularly sympathetic, Lorraine leant down from the horse and patted its dejected owner on one shoulder. "You poor thing," she remarked with mock sympathy. "I won't tell anyone."

"Do I have your word of honour?"

"Why, sure. After all, you did save me from that oversized chicken..."

"Chicken!"

"A chicken's a..."

"I know what a chicken is!" the Rider retorted curtly. "You must assure me you will never compare my latest foe to poultry. I intend to make the most of this event, but if you were to tell everyone it was merely a large chicken it may... spoil the situation."

"Don't you worry yourself," Lorraine smiled, amused by his unusual sense of honour. "I'll be sure to tell anyone I bump into how insane and bloodthirsty the battle was. By the way, it's called a cassowary; I believe they're native to the highlands of a place called New Guinea."

"A cassa whaty?"

"Cassowary," she gently corrected.

"I will simply refer to it as 'the beast'," the Rider announced, pleased by his decision. "I can embellish the tale to include fangs and vicious talons and make it twice its height!"

Lorraine sat on the motionless horse, staring down at her 'saviour': So much for honour. Nevertheless, she quite liked Immir Hanis. He was polite--except to his horse; charming, and not half-bad looking, which was an added bonus. The situation could have been far worse. "I have one more favour to ask you, Immir Hanis."

"At your service, Lorraine Montague."

"Not only do I have no idea where the hell I am, but there's no way for me to get anywhere and as you can see, I no longer have any decent shoes. Is it possible to hitch a ride with you?"

"I have no idea what the term 'hitch a ride' means, but I would be honoured to escort you anywhere you need to go."

"Great stuff!" she exclaimed. "Shall we get going?"

"As you wish," he replied in his customary solemn manner. "But there is something I need to do before we depart from this place."

Sword in hand, he marched back towards the remains of the headless cassowary.

"What are you doing?" she asked, closely observing her rescuer's actions.

"Something you said made me realise this bird may come in handy later in the day."

"What have I done now?" Lorraine Montague muttered under her breath. Somehow, she realised there would be no pleasant answer to her rhetorical question. She was quite correct.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

With his mount corralled between the cantering horses of the Confederate soldiers, Captain Carl Buchanan began to experience almost pain-inducing bouts of anxiety as the group gradually approached the region from where black/grey smoke had been steadily rising for about the past half hour. He despised this cautiousness imposed by the rebel corporal.

Giving his appaloosa a hefty kick in the ribs, Corporal Roddy Meredin charged to the front of the assembly, his unshaven features stern and set. He was not about to accept a show of dissent from either the captive or his own men. Even though the NCO maintained an unorthodox mode of approach when it came to leading his unit, he still believed in stern discipline.

"Now remember," he instructed in his best no nonsense voice, "I want to have a good look at what's goin' on over there before we do anything stupid and make matters worse. If it's too much trouble we're getting the hell outta here. Has everyone got that?"

"I... " Buchanan interjected.

"I wasn't including you, Dandy!" the corporal snapped at his prisoner. "Your opinion doesn't count for shit one way or the other. And if you try anything remotely stupid, I'll shoot you and still have enough appetite to eat a hearty dinner tonight."

The other soldiers generally grumbled about their NCO's orders, but agreed in principle about not inviting themselves into more trouble. Common sense had prevailed for them all to survive thus far during the war and vigilance was certainly required in their current mess. After the next hill, they would be almost on top of the smoke column. The soldier directly beside Buchanan, Bernard Talbot, almost lost control over his mare, a usually placid, well-behaved animal. The light fawn coloured horse let out a plaintive whinny and leapt high into the air. The horse's owner came close to crash-landing onto the ground, but years of constant riding had taught the young soldier to maintain his grip on the reins as well as hold his balance.

"Careful, Private!" Meredin hissed between gritted, brown teeth. The last thing they needed was to attract the wrong attention out here in the middle of who-knew-where.

Now the rebel horses were out of his way, Buchanan was pleased to find he had a clear path to the head of the pack. Gently nudging Jupiter, he edged the palomino stallion in front of the other animals. He wanted a clear view of whatever events were unfolding over the crest of the next hill.

"Get back here, Dandy!" Meredin called, riding his mount once more to the forward position of the group.

Once he had reached the hilltop, Buchanan leaned up in his stirrups to view the scene below. What he saw made him inhale sharply in disbelief. More than half-a-dozen corpses lay scattered across the bloodstained grass. These unfortunates sported terrible sword or lance wounds while others had crossbow bolts protruding from their motionless bodies. In some cases, the recently deceased victims of the ensuing attack had lost limbs during their fight for life.

The scene mortified Buchanan causing him to rein in his equally startled horse. He knew the protrusions in the motionless bodies were bolts, not arrows, as he had closely observed these types of weapons during his days in the WestPoint Military Academy. Those had been fond days for the young cadet; a motivated, studious member of his school unit, he had graduated almost at the very top of his class. However, once Buchanan experienced first-hand the horrific realities of warfare, he wished he had remained behind his desk as a lawyer in New York.

The survivors from the collection of hard covered wagons, who were fortunate enough to be alive and relatively uninjured, were scattering in all directions in a desperate attempt to escape the marauders. Many of these plainly attired individuals screamed in terror as they ran from the stalled procession of wagons. Until the attack, these horse-drawn modes of transport had been carrying them towards an exciting new life. The aggressors were apparent to Buchanan as he observed this shocking spectacle. The people below his vantage point could be divided into two distinctive groups. The first group wore dull, uninteresting garments. Almost all of the dead were dressed in such a fashion. The more aggressive group were attired in garish, brightly coloured clothes. These people were in the process of chasing after the first collection of unfortunates, with calamitous results if they were caught.

The other horsemen joined the captain on the hilltop. They were equally distraught at the sight of this terrible, bloodthirsty spectacle. All had borne witness to such events and none of their number wished to view any further bloodshed.

"Dear Lord," Meredin muttered, horrified as he watched the murders continue. "Let's get the hell outta this place. I don't need to see any more of this."

The line of timber wagons had been halted halfway across the valley floor. Two of the horse-drawn vehicles in the middle of the convoy were burning fiercely, sending flames spiralling high into the sky. The two horses that had been hauling these wagons lay dead on the ground, their bodies riddled with hard, timber bolts. Close by, a young woman who looked barely out of her teen years was trying to fight off the unwanted advances of a portly middle-aged man. The red-haired girl was desperately swinging her open hands at his bearded face, which only appeared to excite her assailant. Apparently amused by her ineffective combat skills, the chubby bandit slammed a clutched fist into the side of her head, causing the girl to collapse in a heap of tumbling clothes and hair. Satisfied she was subdued, the man reached down and greedily began tearing open his victim's blouse.

Buchanan hauled his sword from its scabbard.

"No!" Meredin bellowed, realising exactly what his prisoner intended to do.

Without being prompted in the slightest, Jupiter bolted from a standstill start, his shod hooves tearing up grass and soil as both he and his owner tore towards the horrific scene.

The brightly dressed and highly excited bandit struck the hapless girl a second blow, then suddenly realised something was amiss. He could hear and feel the pounding hooves of an approaching horse vibrating through the ground beneath him. He hoped the fool on the animal had enough sense to avoid charging straight over him and his near unconscious victim. When the fast-running horse appeared to be almost directly on top of them he looked up, clearly unhappy about being disturbed during his moment of triumph.

The fat bandit's head spun through the air like a very unsightly shot put, but Buchanan and his horse did not slow their momentum. Instead, they continued on to the nearest wagon where the occupants were being terrorised by a number of the gaudy bandits. The first aggressor turned at the last instant and attempted to plunge a long-bladed knife into Buchanan, but he was swiftly run through the mid-section with the captain's bloodied sword. The bandit fell screaming to the ground, his blood forming an expansive, deep red pool around his body. Buchanan followed this up by charging directly at two of the bandits still on horseback. The men exchanged a variety of vicious sword strikes, while another garishly attired individual casually rode his horse up behind the Union officer.

Spinning about, Buchanan brushed aside one particularly tall bandit's weapon then sliced open the man's throat. While he continued to battle the other bandit, his unseen nemesis bided his time, waiting for an opportune moment to finish off this foolish interloper who had come to the travellers' rescue. When the opportunity presented itself, the bandit hauled back his weapon and lunged forward in an attempt to stab Buchanan in the back.

An abrupt explosion echoed across the small valley as an invisible force instantly tore the third bandit from his startled mount. The dead man crashed to the ground, his sharp, somewhat rusty lance toppling beside his corpse. A number of the people running about the battlefield turned towards the direction of the unholy sound to see a handful of grey uniformed men charging down from the hilltop straight into their midst. They fanned out across the hillside, as if in unspoken agreement, to assist as many of the assailed travellers as possible. On their way to the line of wagons, they hauled out a variety of weapons and proceeded to join in the fight.

Shots rang out across the valley as more of the brightly dressed bandits collapsed to the ground. Seeing help had arrived, surviving members of the caravan renewed their efforts to attack the bandits with any weapons they could lay their hands on, including shards of broken crockery or legs from partially destroyed furniture.

Her clothes torn and blood splattered, the girl Buchanan had saved, recovered from the blows to her head and managed to scramble upright. She snatched up a knife that lay beside her assailant's headless corpse and sprinted with gusto towards two battling men. Oblivious to her approach, the girl promptly stabbed the bandit through the right eye. The other man he had been attacking thanked her for such timely intervention then ran off to join the fight at another location.

Having finished off the last nearby bandit, Buchanan remained beside the horse-drawn vehicle, surveying the area for anyone else who might require his assistance. To his satisfaction, his captors had somehow been drawn into the battle. Armed with far more progressive forms of weaponry, they were easily picking off the survivors of the bandit gang.

Three of the marauders had scrambled to their horses and charged past Private Maret on the way out of the valley. Not one of them made it to safety; the Confederate private's aim with his Carbine was deadly as always, especially in the height of a battle.

Privates Talbot and Hill were no longer in sight, having given chase to other mounted robbers who had fled once the shooting started. Meanwhile, Harry Barren was busily consoling any woman he came across.

Buchanan failed to see a lone bandit positioned directly on top of a nearby wagon, a cocked and loaded crossbow clutched firmly in both hands. Realising he had a straightforward shot at the man who had scuttled their expertly planned attack, he raised the weapon, took careful aim and squeezed the device's sensitive trigger mechanism.

"Buchanan!" Meredin screamed, firing off a single shot. Although not considered a crack shot with a handgun, the corporal managed to hit the crossbow sniper from a short distance away. Meredin was quite pleased with his unexpected effort, although he kept it to himself; there was more important business he would have to attend to concerning the troublesome Union prisoner.

The crossbow bolt slammed into the soft ground at Jupiter's feet an instant before the dead bandit toppled off the caravan roof, landing with a loud thud on the turf. Buchanan gazed at the-would-be assassin's body then turned to face his saviour. "Why thank you, Corporal Meredin."

"You are a moron!" Meredin roared right back at him. "We could have all been killed because of your stupid meddling in other people's goddamn business! You wouldn't be any relation to Lincoln, would you?"

Maret trotted his horse up to the enraged NCO and made the mistake of agreeing with their reckless captive. "The captain couldn't just let that sonofabitch rape that poor girl. We couldn't stand by and do nothing--I think he did the right thing."

"And what fool asked you for your opinion, Private Maret?" Meredin demanded. "And you were the one who fired the first damn shot and got the others started with this god-awful mess, so I'd be careful what I say if I were you!"

Buchanan realised Maret had been the man who had directly saved his life from the bandit behind his back during his initial scuffle. "Thank you, Private Maret," he nodded to the private.

"You can take your thanks and shove 'em straight back up your ass!" Maret snapped without a moment's pause. "Don't for one minute think I'm on your side. I've lost more friends and relatives than I can count in that stinking war fighting against people like you! I spoke up because I believed that girl didn't deserve to be treated like that is all!"

"Still... thanks." Buchanan graciously reiterated.

Despite what Maret and even Meredin had said to him, it was obvious some sort of mutual cohesion was developing between the Confederate patrol and their Union captive. The act of survival had initiated a symbiotic relationship that came down to the basic fact that anyone attempting to cause harm was the enemy: if someone meant no harm or saved your life, they were an ally. The Union-Confederate division of this group of men was becoming blurred and increasingly insignificant. But there was still one problem that Buchanan intended to remedy immediately. Gently kicking his mount into motion, he rode across to where the rebel corporal was positioned and warmly smiled at the irate man, who failed to return the gesture to any degree.

Around the strange newcomers to the pitch battle, the surviving members of the caravan gathered in increasing numbers. They stared incredulously at their unusual rescuers who possessed hitherto unseen weapons and exceedingly loud magic that enabled them to take a life without making physical contact. The peasants also could not help but take a special interest in the unfamiliar species of horses these men rode.

"What are you all staring at?" Meredin demanded of the travellers in his presence.

"You," someone replied innocently.

"There is one thing I would ask, Corporal Meredin," Buchanan requested, as his mount reached the other man's horse.

"What would that be?"

So calmly did Buchanan place his bloodstained sword beneath the corporal's chin that neither he nor Maret had time to react to what was taking place.

Private Maret instantly raised his rifle, aiming the weapon directly at the officer. "Put it down, Captain!" he demanded, his horse stirring slightly under his weight as if realising something was amiss.

"I don't think so," Buchanan replied, still holding aloft the recently used weapon.

"Do as Maret says," Meredin instructed between gritted teeth, "and we can forget this ever happened."

"I can shoot you a lot faster than you can cut the corporal," Maret stated adamantly, displaying no lack of self-confidence.

"Let's see about that, shall we?"

A moment passed in silence as they all stared at each other and sized up the situation. The surrounding crowd were also silent, watching attentively as the strange, uniformed men played out this tense scene. At the edge of the crowd, Harry Barren wandered closer to the trio, eventually hoping to attain a clear shot at the captive. His dull grey uniform blended with most of the peasant's attire, so he was able to move under the guise of being another onlooker.

"Private Barren, stay right where you are!" Buchanan ordered.

"What do you want, Captain?" Meredin demanded, the sword's steel cold against his exposed throat.

"I'd like my rifle and pistol back, thank you."

Meredin hesitated.

"Do it, Corporal!"

"All right," the NCO grumbled, handing back the confiscated weapons. "There's no need to yell about it!" Reluctantly, Meredin passed the Carbine and revolver across to their rightful owner.

"Thank you, Corporal. I felt positively naked without them."

The rebel NCO looked across at Maret who continued to train his rifle on the officer. "Kill him!"

Maret focused his gaze over to his patrol commander, his face clearly registering shock on hearing this abrupt order. The Union officer was correct; there was safety in numbers. Murdering Buchanan would only make the unit weaker and more vulnerable to attack from outside forces.

"What?"

"You heard me, Private! Shoot the bastard!"

Lowering his weapon, Maret turned and started riding away from the standoff.

"You were given an order, mister!" the enraged corporal screamed.

Maret turned back to him. "If you want him dead so bad, do it your damn self, Roddy! I'm going to see if any of the others need some help."

"Richard!"

The people who had gathered to watch this peculiar interaction were stunned. They remained still and hushed, staring in awe. All except one man, who was cackling wildly.

"Shut up, Harry!" Meredin hissed, withdrawing his own handgun from his belt.

"Why bother?" Buchanan inquired nonchalantly.

"Because I don't feel all that safe with you around. Ever since we first met, you've brought us nothing but trouble. You led us into that strange fog. You got us mixed up in this weird shit. Any of us could have been killed." The corporal pointed his pistol directly at his hostage's face. "Now, don't move and this won't hurt a bit."

A middle-aged man boldly approached the conflicting soldiers. Unlike the rest of the throng of people around them, he displayed no sign of fear or trepidation over their strange attire or weaponry. He sported an interesting collection of cuts and bruises and had left a number of dead bandits sprawled about the battle site.

"Who is in charge here, please?" he asked politely.

"That would be you," Buchanan informed his executioner.

"I am," Meredin confirmed, still holding aloft his pistol. "What do you want?"

"I am Benerous Vall, the person in command of our people. I was wondering..."

"Wondering what?" the increasingly agitated corporal snapped. "I haven't got all day! I have to blast this fool in the head and then find the rest of my patrol; they've probably scattered to the next county by now."

"Blast?" the leader repeated. "I am unfamiliar with this term."

"If you just wait a second or two I'll give you a close up demonstration of what 'blast' means. Very nasty stuff--I suggest you stand back."

"I wish to talk to you about the possibility of hiring your services to protect us from the Anhil who frequent this region. You have chased away or killed many of them, but they may come back in even greater numbers. They will not be pleased about what has taken place here today, so we need to be moving on and quickly. But we also need protection in case they find us once more."

"Anhil?" Meredin repeated, unfamiliar with this local terminology. "And how would you pay us?"

"In silver."

The corporal lowered his gun. "Well, why didn't you say so? How much silver?"

Benerous Vall smiled. "I am certain we can come to some arrangement. What is your name?"

"Corporal Rodney Meredin. Everyone calls me 'Roddy'."

The caravan leader frowned. "An odd sounding name."

"Funny you should say that," Meredin responded, shoving his gun back under his worn leather belt.

Benerous Vall continued: "We really need to talk about this matter in less..." he paused to think of an appropriate term "...disruptive conditions. Shall we go to my caravan?"

"Sounds fine to me," Meredin replied, turning to Buchanan. "Say Captain, what did you used to do for a living before you put on that fancy-dress costume?"

Despite being highly offended by the remark, Buchanan decided to answer. "A lawyer."

"Then you've just been retained to help in the negotiations."

"If you insist."

"Oh, but I do. This could be our chance to make some handy money and even if it's not gold, silver's still pretty good!"

"Aren't there rules about privateering, Corporal?"

"I'm sure there are, Captain!" Meredin chuckled, nudging his mount to follow the caravan's commander. "But if you just keep blindly following silly rules, the next thing you know some politicians in Washington DC are telling you how to live your life."

Buchanan rode with the corporal towards the largest wagon of the group. He was not himself averse to a little enterprise bargaining, but for him was more than just attempting to extort a reward from these people for protection; he felt if could be a chance for him to finally seal a solid bond with his captors.

Despite his vexation at his missing troopers' disobedience, Meredin was quietly relieved when the men under his command finally returned safely, riding over the crest of the nearest hill. Although their horses were perspiring heavily from their unexpected exertion, the Confederate soldiers appeared to have enjoyed themselves immensely in their efforts to chase away the murderous bandits.

"I'm going to a meeting!" Meredin called to them, his tone displeased. "And when I get back, I hope y'all have figured out a really good reason why you charged off like that without my approval or permission!"

Privates Talbot and Hill glanced sheepishly at one another as their NCO rode directly up to Benerous Vall's wagon. While the two Confederate soldiers began to concoct the most plausible excuse for their rash actions, Maret followed quietly behind the group as they headed towards the wooden, horse-drawn vehicle.

"There's no one else about," he stated to his corporal. "Well, none of those weird-looking fellows anyways. I'll ride around some more and keep an eye open."

"You do that. And take Harry with you before he gives some of these poor women a nasty disease."

Not uttering another word, the corporal, the captain and Benerous Vall dismounted and entered the van, closely monitored by the surrounding peasants and Confederate troopers. They all hoped something positive would result from this imminent meeting--for all of their sakes.

***

Benerous Vall closed the door to the caravan behind them to block out prying eyes and ears. The interior of his personal caravan was slightly cluttered, but had chairs, along with a narrow bunk bed that allowed everyone to be seated.

"I think we'd better start by trying to figure out where we are and how we got here, and where 'here' is exactly," Carl Buchanan whispered to Meredin.

"They speak English, so we can't be too far from home," Rodney Meredin stated, dropping his tired form into the first available chair.

"But have you noticed how they speak, Corporal? Have you seen the way their mouths move out of formation with the words they're saying?"

"Actually, I had noticed that very odd thing myself," he admitted, taking down a figurine from a nearby shelf. "What's this thing?" he asked Benerous Vall.

"Just a trinket I purchased at Fellan Port," the caravan leader informed him. "It is an idol of the god Dess, the Dearnian sun god. It's made of a semi-precious stone."

"What's this stone called?" Meredin asked casually, replacing the idol back on its shelf.

"Jasper."

The corporal faced Buchanan. "See, Captain, we are still on Earth," he chuckled. "I really don't know what all of the fuss is about."

A frown creased Benerous Vall's craggy features. "Where is this 'Earth' place you speak of?"

In that instant, Meredin rose slowly from his seat. He could not figure out what was worse; the headache he had suddenly developed directly behind both eyes--or the sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"Earth is the planet we're on right now..." the captain remarked with trepidation. "Isn't your planet called Earth?"

Confused by this line of questioning, Benerous Vall shook his head. "No," he firmly stated.

The officer and NCO exchanged troubled expressions.

"This planet is Perencore. We are in the province of Vin Halle or the 'Green Sea' as some call it in the ancient tongue. Our caravan is currently on its way to the capital city of Valderhien for a trade meeting."

"I think I'm goin' to be sick!" Meredin gasped, sitting down again.

Leaning against the nearest wall, Buchanan's mind reeled at these revelations, but he swiftly realised for all of their sakes he had to put his mortified feelings aside and think things through clearly. Some cataclysmic event had torn them from their planet and brought them to this place. If they could discover the origin of their transferal, perhaps they could all return home. Firstly, however, they had to continue to survive their ordeal.

"How much will you pay us to escort you to this city of yours?" the captain inquired, his features still deathly pale.

Meredin looked up and glared at Buchanan. "How can you think of money right now?"

"You were thinking about money a minute ago."

"That was a minute ago, before I found out what's happened to us! Anyway, I was only joking, but none of this seems so damn funny now." He paused. "So how do we get back home, Captain?"

"I honestly don't know, Roddy," he admitted ruefully. It was the first time he had called him by his first name, but the corporal was so crestfallen, he did not appear to notice.

"Couldn't you at least lie and say you have a plan?"

Buchanan shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The best we can do for now is to get shelter, food and water. Then we need to find someone who knows what's going on."

In response to his comment, Meredin sat bolt upright. His face was now bright with a glimmer of hope for their salvation; a possible answer to their prayers just came to mind.

"Do you think others from our world could be here someplace?" he inquired. "Maybe they could tell us what's going on?"

"I'd guess so," Buchanan answered. "I can't see us being the only ones affected by whatever happened, but that's just an educated guess; I could just as easily be wrong."

"Don't say that, Buchanan, not even as a joke! The worse part about all of this is someone has to tell the others. They'll go berserk when they find out."

"Well don't look at me," the captain retorted, thankful this task would not fall to him. "They're your soldiers. I'm officially a prisoner-of-war and under your charge."

"You're no damned help at all," Meredin protested.

Standing to one side of his van, Benerous Vall failed to understand most of what his guests were talking about. "Gentlemen, I believe we were talking about a price for your services?" he politely interjected.

"What are you offering?" the captain immediately inquired, managing to shove aside his disorientation for the time being.

Benerous Vall began the negotiations. "Say, a silver piece for safe passage to the city of Valderhien to be paid on arrival."

"I think you can do better than that," Buchanan instantly countered without blinking an eye. He honestly had no notion of the value of these 'silver pieces', however, he instinctively deduced the other participant in these negotiations was out to get the best price possible for his people's safe passage.

The caravan guide was silent for a moment, contemplating his next move. The unusual man seated opposite him was obviously intelligent. Bargaining with him would be a difficult task as these foreigners were keenly aware of the caravan's vulnerability. "I have offered a good sum for the services to be rendered," Benerous Vall cautiously countered.

"Well, that's not really good enough," Buchanan shrugged, staring across the van at the other trader. "You saw what we are capable of in a fight. Your party won't have to worry about being attacked again until we get to this 'Valderhien' place. We want four silver pieces for our efforts. And for that you get to stay alive all the way to your destination."

All efforts to remain calm and collected in this deal fled Benerous Vall's mind. "Four coins!" he exclaimed. "I could practically hire an entire division of King Entell Thellon's army for that price!" He regained his customary composure. "What you ask for is quite out of the question."

"Have you got another offer in mind?" the officer asked as casually as possible.

The caravan leader paused before he spoke again. "I could possibly offer is two silver pieces, but I will throw in an additional three copper coins into the bargain. This is the best I can do, honestly!"

Now Buchanan fell silent as if contemplating the other man's counter offer.

"Done!" he announced, reaching out to shake the other man's hand.

Benerous Vall stood on the spot staring down at the officer's extended hand. "I believe the deal is that you and your people get paid after we arrive at Valderhien," he insisted.

Buchanan instantly withdrew his hand and made a mental note: These people do not understand the concept of shaking hands. He wondered how many more Earthly customs were absent in this new land. "Okay!" he announced, "It's a deal."

"A tough bargain," the bearded man stated, nodding in approval of their deal, "But after today's tragedy, a necessary one. Now, I must be excused. The dead and wounded need to be taken care of so we can leave this place. Once we get to our destination, I will arrange for your payment."

After Benerous Vall left the confines of the van, Buchanan turned to his captor. "What do you think about that, Corporal?"

"Think about what?"

"The deal we just made with these people."

"I'd rather find a way out of here. I thought I'd never say this, but I'm starting to miss the war."

"Hopefully, we can find someone in this city of theirs to help us, or at least explain what's going on around here." Buchanan paused. "Although, I did forget to ask exactly how long it would take to get to the city of Valderhien. When are you going to let your men know what's happening?"

"I don't know," Meredin sighed. "I'm trying to think of a way to break it to them that we happen to be on the wrong goddamn planet. Hell! They probably won't even believe me!" His head dropped dramatically into his hands. "This is a mess!"

"Things could be worse. At least we won't starve. I have no idea what these silver or copper coins are worth, but our benefactor seems reluctant to part company with them."

"That's horseshit, Captain," Meredin retorted spitefully, "He agreed way too quickly with our price."

"People with no alternatives tend to agree quickly. Those bandits could be back any moment and we're the only thing standing between them and his party. Trust me on this; Benerous Vall had no choice but to make a quick deal with us to make certain we'd stick around."

"If you say so," Meredin conceded. He rose to his feet, straightened his rough, grey uniform and marched to the van's doorway. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to tell my men what's going on and watch as they lose their minds."

The captain observed Corporal Meredin leave the wagon and march across the valley floor. The next few minutes were not going to be pleasant for any of them, but Buchanan hoped the Confederate soldiers would maintain their collective composure. Their lives depended on their ability to adapt quickly to this new and clearly dangerous environment. Placing his hat on his head, Carl Buchanan turned and stepped into the sunlight with a strange, benevolent smile on his face. At the very least, the next few days should prove to be extremely interesting.

***

They located Chief Alan Kempton's remains wedged high in a tree. What was left of the unfortunate soldier had been jammed crudely in a fork of the tree about halfway up its twisted length. Both of Kempton's legs had been eaten away and his head hung precariously by a mere shred of skin and bloodied flesh. All three members of the search party were sickened and angered by their vile discovery. They had figured Kempton had to be dead but no one expected him to have suffered such a miserable, degrading death.

"Dear Jesus!" Ricky Sorell gasped in dismay, the barrel of his M-16 lowered straight down to the ground at his feet.

"Keep your eyes open, private," Lieutenant Wyndham instructed. "That thing could still be around here. I don't want it getting hold of anyone else."

"Lieutenant," Joseph Henty spoke up, eyes wide in fear. He found himself incapable of tearing his gaze away from what used to be the Chief. "How are we going to get Al down from there?"

"Shouldn't we just leave him?" Sorell asked.

"We're not leaving our friend stuck up a stinking tree for that thing's breakfast tomorrow morning." Wyndham was adamant. "The least we can do for Chief Kempton is give him a decent burial. Private Henty, how are you at climbing trees?"

"Used to climb them all the time when..." He halted mid-sentence. "Oh, no way, sir! I'm not going up there after the Chief. No way!"

A strange, forced grin appeared on Wyndham's features. "And if it wasn't a direct order, private, I wouldn't expect you to do anything of the sort."

"Yes, sir."

While the officer and Sorell kept an eye open for the possible return of the flying beast, Henty reluctantly approached the blood-splattered tree and prepared himself for the horrible task. If only he had been allowed to stay with the helicopter, this disgraceful chore would be someone else's responsibility.

"Me and my big mouth," he grumbled, hoping his commanding officer could hear his quite justified complaints. A distant roar caused him no small measure of anxiety as his companions on this detail attempted to figure out the direction the cry had originated from. "What if that sonofabitch comes back while I'm up the tree with the Chief?" Henty grizzled after taking his first pace up the trunk.

"Then we'll shoot it," the lieutenant replied.

Another roar broke the silence yet again.

"I think it came from that direction, sir," Sorell stated, pointing to a distant cluster of trees.

"Then let's go get the bastard."

"Wait a minute!" Henty called earnestly, now further up the tree. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Sorell demanded. "Stop being such a pussy and get the poor Chief out of that tree. How many times do you have to be told?"

"Easy for you to say!"

Sorell grinned, "Damn straight!"

"We'll be back in about fifteen minutes," Wyndham announced, checking his handgun. "I expect you to be back on the ground by then. And keep your rifle handy. You never know what else might be lurking around here."

"Yes, sir."

"And when you get Kempton down from there, start digging a hole for him."

"Yes, sir," Henty muttered again. He watched from his vantage point as his brothers-in-arms hastily made their way towards the source of the disturbing growls.

Stepping cautiously through the waist-high undergrowth, the two soldiers remained highly alert for any telltale signs of the beast. Suddenly, Sorell halted as if robbed of the power of movement, with the exception of his right hand, which made a gesture to his lieutenant, causing him to stop in his tracks. Sorell pointed towards an outcrop of rocks further to their right. He glanced across to his hunting companion who nodded once to indicate he understood the silent message; their quarry was nearby.

The bizarre predator was sitting on a large rock, enjoying the bright sunshine and preening to remove blood, presumably Kempton's, from its well-groomed, shiny coat and feathers.

During their approach to the target, Sorell spied to one side of the outcrop a portion of Kempton's right leg. He had witnessed numerous horrific sights while performing his tour in Vietnam, but it was an entirely different matter when the body part belonged to a friend. The sight made him sick to his stomach.

The recently fed griffin ceased preening and gazed nonchalantly at the approaching men. It appeared to find these two-legged animals amusing as they clumsily rummaged through the grass in an effort to remain unseen. Watching them through its keen, golden eyes, the predator remained stationary, only occasionally stirring its massive wings to propel blood circulation and prevent cramping.

"That cocksucker's ignoring us!" Sorell hissed angrily, slowly rising to his full height. "And I'm going to make that bastard pay for what he done to the Chief."

The creature peered at them contemptuously and returned to cleaning itself while the enraged private raised his firearm. Before he could take proper aim at the dreadful beast, he felt a light tap on his right shoulder. He slowly turned his head to look at his lieutenant.

"I'll take over from here," Wyndham instructed, cocking his Colt 45. "Go back to the tree and help Henty bury the Chief."

The soldier stared across at the slightly shorter man. "Are you sure, sir?" he inquired respectfully.

The officer nodded. "Al was in my charge. I let some god-awful monster eat him and dangle the leftovers on display like something in a butcher's shop window. That's no proper way for a soldier to die--it's up to me to make this right."

In almost any other situation this would have sounded like just another load of macho bull, but under present circumstances, Sorell could understand the officer's feelings. Wyndham needed closure over the Chief's untimely and disgraceful death and this was the only way he was going to achieve it.

"You're the boss," he acknowledged, lowering his M-16. "Are you certain you don't want me to hang around just in case that glorified feather duster gets frisky?"

"No, I'll be fine."

Not uttering another word, Sorell turned and silently made his way back to the tree and Alan Kempton's final resting place in this strange land.

Wyndham stood upright out of the tall grass and yelled at the creature: "Hey, weirdo pussycat! I've got something for you!"

The griffin rose to all fours, its interest piqued by the much smaller animal standing not far away. The first shot struck the creature behind the left shoulder blade, causing it to let out an incredible roar of pain and rage. A split second later, another shot blasted a gaping, bleeding wound through the griffin's thick neck, killing the huge carnivore almost instantly. Shuddering violently, the creature collapsed in a sprawling heap on the sunlight-shrouded rocks as deep red blood spilled down towards the ground.

Still clutching his freshly discharged sidearm; Wyndham marched straight over to the now motionless form and fired another two rounds into it for good measure.

"See you around," he muttered bitterly to the now pathetic-looking predator. Holstering his smoking weapon, the officer turned and marched away, leaving the mythical creature lying dead on top of its rocky mausoleum. This was certainly a more fitting end than the death Al Kempton had been given. Now Wyndham had to make certain no more tragic events claimed the lives of any of the men under his command.

***

Positioned in the co-pilot's seat of the stationary Iroquois, Corporal Scott Stuart waited anxiously for the return of the other men. He glanced up nervously as the slowly setting sun confirmed what he already knew; the others had been away far too long for such a seemingly easy mission. Unfortunately, it was the perceived 'easy' missions that nearly always turned out to be the most hazardous and unpredictable ones. He hoped the lieutenant and his accompanying troopers would soon return. The thought of flying away from this isolated place without the full complement of crew filled the NCO with deep-seated dread.

Clutching his automatic M-16 assault rifle as if the weapon was his only link to his former life, Private Clary Field angrily stalked about the aircraft. He remained ever alert for any movement revealing the presence of unfriendly activity.

Diverting his troubled attention to Field, Corporal Stuart wondered silently if they were the only surviving members of the entire crew. The corporal was not overly thrilled to be stuck with Field. The only gratifying part of this situation was if they did have to flee the region, at least the helicopter would have an additional hour's flying time under the strain of only two men and not the original six. The NCO mentally scolded himself for such a mean-spirited thought. He also realised he would rather take his chances in this seemingly endless wilderness with five members of the unit than just two. A two-man squad was too easy a target.

Field raced excitedly up to the cockpit, banging loudly with his free hand on the thick Perspex windshield. Corporal Stuart hoped his display of agitation was good news and not the other type, which usually meant gunfire and incoming mortar rounds. The slightly startled corporal glared at the agitated soldier then in the direction to which Field was pointing.

Three figures, their shoulders slumped under the weight of their recent mission, wandered out of the surrounding trees and across the grassy clearing. At their lead, Lieutenant Gary Wyndham looked across to the motionless aircraft and gave a dismal 'thumbs down' signal with one hand.

The two soldiers stationed at the helicopter were gravely disappointed by the gesture. They had both realised there was little chance the Chief was still alive; the signal was simply confirmation of the worst. Kempton had been a valued member of their small unit and his demise was not only the end of a friend, but also weakened their overall position in this bizarre place where big cats had wings and held the power of flight.

Alighting from the helicopter, Stuart walked briskly across to join up with the approaching patrol. "Where's Al's body, Lieutenant?" he inquired with the utmost respect.

"We buried what was left of him where we found him," Wyndham stated, not particularly wishing to divulge gory details about the matter. "That's why we're so late. Are we ready to leave?"

"Have been for an hour, sir."

"Good. The sooner we get out of this godforsaken hole the better."

"Yes, sir!"

Bolting back to the aircraft, Stuart climbed inside, firing up the engine as the others approached. It was certainly a tragedy about the Chief, but at least the remainder of the unit was still intact.

Still maintaining his guard on the area, Field was the very last person to jump into the vehicle an instant before it removed itself from the ground and swiftly fled towards the darkening sky.

"Where to now, Lieutenant?" Scott Stuart asked.

"Just pick a direction," Gary Wyndham responded, his face betraying no emotion. "Just so long as it's away from here. But don't fly back the way we came. Let's not do anything really stupid, okay?"

The brilliant sun continued on its course towards the distant horizon, while the Iroquois with the five surviving crew members powered at high speed away from the clearing. They left behind their dead companion and his mythical executioner. It was never easy to leave behind a friend, especially those you had to bury.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Once the planet's sun had set, darkness took a firm, uncompromising hold on the entire countryside. A dull blue moon breached the distant eastern horizon like a battle banner declaring night's intention of taking control of the land below.

Having discovered a small cave just before nightfall, Colin Bourke used his cigarette lighter to start a modest fire to ward off the night's chill. This source of light and warmth had been carefully constructed from a less than impressive collection of twigs and discarded branch segments found about the vicinity of the small cave. He sat at the mouth of his shelter, watching with mild interest as dark intermittent clouds wafted across the field of bright, but unfamiliar stars with mixed feelings of gratitude and relief. Granted, there was still no food to be found anywhere in the area, but he now had some form of refuge from the weather and a fire to keep away any wandering nocturnal predators. At least he could sleep tonight, and he knew that sleep would not be an issue for him. Continuing his trek across the endless barren landscape tomorrow would be an entirely different matter. Every aching muscle and stretched nerve in his body screamed to be left in peace. Colin knew that despite his reasonably good physical health, he was not up to the challenge of day after day of strenuous walking--especially not on his current diet of chewing gum, air and precious little else. Sooner or later, his exhausted body and fatigued mind would simply give up, leaving him to perish in this isolated wilderness.

When the second moon crested the nearest hill, Colin almost fell backwards in shock. The twin orbs continued hauling their impressive forms across the cloudy night sky, oblivious to the human machinations below them. The sight of twin lunar entities confused and startled him to the point he actually forgot his screaming pangs of hunger. A third moon appeared some short time later, which only added to Colin's mental torment.

"How many are there?" he blurted aloud at such a perplexing sight.

Astronomy had never been a favourite topic, but Colin had already figured something was definitely wrong with the night sky by the unfamiliar formation of the overhead stars. Now that he thought about it, these lunar bodies all appeared to be either smaller than the Earth's own moon or perhaps just more distant. It was impossible to judge which was correct without scientific measuring implements.

"I'm definitely not on Earth anymore," he muttered in awe at his own proclamation.

He remained silent, intently studying the multiple moons as they continued to elevate their lofty positions. Colin's attention was diverted by a large moth with dark red and black wings entering the fire's inviting light. The insect appeared unremarkable except he could not identify the species. The moth flew in an uncoordinated pattern about the flickering fire before irrationally plunging headfirst into the hungry flames, which let out a mild hiss of victory as they roasted and devoured the unfortunate insect.

"I know just how you feel," Colin grumbled.

His stomach growled provocatively, as though attempting to stir him into action and provide it with a meal before the night was over. Hopefully, tomorrow would be a better day. He believed his situation could not deteriorate any further.

Colin just kept making one wrong prediction after the other.

***

Clearer skies prevailed where Connie York, Dale Johnstone and their recently acquired travelling companion, Sean Corrigin, were camped for the night. All three exhausted travellers forgot about their aching bones and tired muscles and stood; their mouths partially agape in mute shock, their eyes simultaneously cast up towards these unknown heavens. The rising celestial bodies they were staring at told them everything they had suspected about their plight was correct--they were no longer on planet Earth.

Nearby, a sizable fire they had constructed out of various bits and pieces of wood was burning heartily. To begin with, the two scientists had been greatly concerned such a blaze might draw unwanted attention to their nighttime settlement. Sean merely chuckled as if the notion was highly amusing.

"So," Sean laughed, eyes still focused on the astonishing sight before them, "shall I scream first or would one of you enjoy the privilege?"

Connie slowly turned her head, her green eyes gazing at the short Irishman.

"I sort of guessed we weren't on good old Earth anymore," he admitted in an uncharacteristically hushed tone. "How the hell did this happen to us? I mean, it's not as if little green men snatched us up into their spaceship and then dropped us off here because they didn't appreciate our smell. One minute I was in Derry, having some fun with the high-and-mighty British paramilitary, and the next I'm wandering around here with you charming people. I know you two were involved in some sort of experiment, but really, how bad could it be?"

"You know something, Sean," Dale commented, smiling wryly, "you sure can talk once you get started."

Sean laughed at Dale's remark. "You've obviously never been to my home country, Dale. I'm one of the quiet ones!" he grinned. "Now, who wants a drink to ward away the chill of this miserable night?"

"What!" Dale exclaimed.

Reaching into his coat, Sean hauled out a half pint hip flask made of a particularly shiny metal, presumably silver.

"What's in there?" Connie inquired, eyeing the flask at a respectful distance.

Sean breathed in the liquor's spirited aroma, swallowed a quick mouthful and sighed gratefully, enjoying the warming feel as the whiskey slid down his throat. He handed the small container across to Connie; keen to see for himself what sort of people he had attached himself to on this odd journey.

"This is one of the best whiskeys money can buy," Sean informed her. "It's one of my few indulgences in life."

Sniffing the acrid fragrance emitted from the flask, Connie looked to her companions, winked, and then took a sizable gulp of the liquor. Instantly, she was overcome by a bout of coughing and spluttering. Some of the spirits spilt onto the front of her shirt.

"Careful, Connie," Sean advised, mildly amused by her display, "you might spill some of it."

"I think I just did!" she gasped in between coughs. "I wasn't expecting it to be so strong!"

Dale reached across with one hand. "Here!" he announced. "Let a real man try some of that."

He indulged himself in two full mouthfuls of the hard liquor, but was careful to keep a check on his reactions having seen Connie almost choke. He handed the shiny container back to its owner. "That's strong stuff," he conceded, a little hoarsely.

"It sure is that," Sean confirmed cheerfully, flashing the other man a quick grin. He deftly helped himself to another portion of the fiery alcohol.

Between them, the trio quickly managed to finish off the flask's potent contents. There was certainly not enough whiskey in the metal container to get them all heartily drunk, but at least it dulled all concern about their wayward location. Anything that took their minds away from the dreaded sight of three hovering moons had to be a good thing.

"Now," Sean continued, his smiling features partially illuminated by the flickering firelight, "what I want to know is... What the hell were we talking about?"

"Don't remember," Dale admitted.

"Damn!" the shorter man blurted. "I hate it when that happens."

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" Connie inquired.

"That was my question!" Sean exclaimed.

"Well, sport," Connie laughed, "you're too late. You've been pre-empted."

"Don't you hate that?" Dale joined in. He really wished he had something to roast on the fire. "You wouldn't have any marshmallows in that magic coat, would you?" Dale asked.

Dale's comment prompted Sean to spend the next few minutes frantically searching about his person for something to eat. Every so often, he would discover some long lost treasure and stare at it, frowning intently. Then he would shove it back into the appropriate pocket and continue his exploration. "I found some chocolates," he announced triumphantly, holding aloft some foil-wrapped bars.

"How in God's name am I supposed to roast chocolate?" Dale demanded.

"Why do you haul all of this crap around with you?" Connie inquired, deftly relieving him of one of the chocolate bars. She was starving and chocolate would most certainly help plug up the hole she could feel in the pit of her stomach.

"In my line of work you learn to depend on yourself," Sean replied seriously.

"And what is your line of work?" Connie asked.

"Is this something we're not going to be happy to find out about?" Dale asked.

Sean grinned. "Probably, so I won't burden you both with the terrible truth." He paused, deep in thought. "Connie, didn't you just ask a question?"

Her mouth full of half masticated chocolate, Connie finally gasped, "What are we going to do tomorrow?"

"Same damn thing as we did today," Dale grumbled.

"You mean wander about aimlessly, hoping some kind soul can tell us what the hell's going on and where we are?" Sean mused.

"Basically, yes," the other man agreed.

"Great plan. And if we don't find anybody?" Connie asked.

"To be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead yet. We've really got no choice but to keep on moving and pray we find some place where there might be help."

"Some place with people," Connie continued, finishing off her chocolate bar. "But what if they're hostile?"

"They could also have three heads," the other scientist remarked, "but we have to take that chance. We have to take every situation on this world as we find it and just deal with it the best way we can. If the locals seem to be hostile, we simply avoid them."

"That could be easier said than done," Connie scoffed. "It might be difficult to avoid someone who's intent on cutting off your head."

"You just let me worry about that sort of thing, Connie," Sean announced, before removing a couple of fat Cuban cigars from his coat. "Anyone want a smoke?" He cut off the end of one of the cigars with a penknife and ignited it in the fire. After eagerly puffing away, he began blowing expert smoke rings across the campsite.

"Pass," Dale murmured. "I spent most of my teen years smoking anything I could get my hands on and most of my adult life trying to quit."

"I'll try one," Connie offered.

"Do you have a spare chocolate bar?" Dale inquired, while his companions began their pollution of the formerly pristine air.

Sean nodded and gently pitched a covered bar across the fire to the tall scientist. "You both realise I've only got a very limited supply of food and virtually nothing to drink," he remarked. "Tomorrow we've got to think about getting ourselves something decent to eat and drink."

"Can't you shoot some game with that gun of yours?" Connie enquired.

"Connie," Sean retorted, "so far we haven't laid eyes on anything larger than a guinea pig. If I hit something that size with anything I'm carrying, there wouldn't be enough left of the poor creature to spread over a cracker, let alone feed three full-size adults."

"Then let's set some traps." Connie offered.

"Do you know how, Connie?" Dale asked.

"Sure!" she exclaimed, smiling broadly. "I used to go hunting with my father and four brothers. We did all of those things: shooting, fishing, setting snares."

"You had four brothers?" laughed Sean.

"Sure did!" Connie smiled.

"Me too! Couldn't tolerate a single one of 'em."

"I got on just fine with all of my brothers," Connie insisted cheerfully, holding her smoke in the delicate fingers of one hand. She leaned forward, so her newfound friend could hear clearly what she had to say next. "But there wasn't one of them I couldn't beat in a fair fight on any given day!"

The cigar still stuck in his mouth, Sean began laughing so hard Connie was worried he would rupture an internal organ.

"Good chocolate," Dale murmured, placing the foil wrapper into one pocket of his jeans.

Regaining most of his composure and the cigar still between his gritted teeth, Sean stood up. "Back to business!" he stated, clapping his gloved hands together. "I'll take the first watch and in a couple of hours someone else can stand guard."

Connie turned to gaze up at him. "What?"

"I'm more than certain none of us wants someone or something sneaking up on us during the night while we sleep, so it's advisable if somebody's awake all the time. Oh, but if there's a real problem, please feel free to wake me up, no matter how peaceful I look. For God's sakes don't try to handle the situation by yourselves. Is it a deal?" Sean asked.

Connie and Dale looked to one another then back to the Irishman and nodded.

"Great!" Sean exclaimed, stepping away from the fire until his form was lost in the darkness. "I'll see you both later," he called from out of the night.

Within a minute of closing their eyes, both scientists were sound asleep despite possessing neither blankets nor pillows. It had been a long, exhausting day.

***

The high moons created a mixture of emotions amongst the Bonaparte family as they sat about their campsite. The site comprised of two modest-sized tents, the station wagon parked to one side, a small fire placed inside a circle of large, blackened rocks and an assortment of camping equipment scattered around the immediate area. Surrounding their campsite was a multitude of tall, fearsome-looking trees with the fire's constantly flickering light made these natural monoliths look even more sinister.

Ernest and Edith watched in stunned silence as the three moons took up their nighttime position in the night sky. Their children remained surprisingly quiet and unemotional about the appearance of the three natural satellites and continued to stare up at them, watching with a serene sort of interest.

"They're awful small, Dad," Ernest junior stated, squinting slightly to emphasis his remark. "Why is that?"

His father turned slowly to stare at his youngest child. He could ignore the boy's question. Unfortunately, in the way of small boys, Ernest junior tended to be persistent once he had a question up and running. Something needed to be said. Ernest's mind began sorting through possible responses and found none were plausible.

"I've really no idea," he finally responded. This was a lie. Ernest knew perfectly well; he simply could not figure out how to tell his boys without panicking them. He certainly had no desire to traumatise his own children.

"We're not on Earth anymore, are we?" Ernest junior asked in a solemn manner for an eight year old.

His father remained seated in his folding camp chair, staring awkwardly at his son. Doctor Spock never covered this sort of discussion in any of his child-rearing books.

"Have you finished your meal?" Edith inquired, attempting to change the subject. But she could not disguise the fear and her voice came out in a strangled squeak.

"Yes, Mom," Ernest Junior responded, displaying his relatively empty plate to her.

Ernest senior looked across to his struggling wife, who nodded sadly at him. They realised the boys needed to be told the truth, which would doubtless frighten and confuse them, but they could no longer hide their quandary. There was no way Earth could have grown an additional two moons overnight.

Their father cleared his throat. "Joseph, Ernest, there's something I have to tell you." He paused, trying not to lose his train of thought. "Unfortunately, we are no longer in the United States... nor are we on the planet Earth." His desperate voice trailed away into the night.

The two boys turned to stare at one another.

"Neat!" Joseph blurted, leaping excitedly to his feet. "Tomorrow, can we go exploring?"

"Can we, Dad?" Ernest junior enthusiastically backed up his elder brother's plea. There was strength in numbers.

An odd expression swept across their red-bearded father's features. Collapsing back into his chair, he began roaring with laughter. "I don't believe it!" he exclaimed. "They should be beside themselves within fear, but no--they want to run around and go exploring!" He halted, sitting upright. "Actually, that's not such a bad idea. Good thinking, Joe."

Joseph was extremely pleased with himself.

Edith thought her husband had relapsed into the state of shock she had seen him in earlier. "Ernie, you can't be serious? Exploring?"

"Not exactly. But I think we should look around this part of the world to see for ourselves just what's out there."

"You will do no such thing, Ernest Bonaparte!" Edith protested angrily. "I'm not going to have you wandering around this backwater like a lost sheep. You've no idea what things live in these parts. You still won't talk to us about what you saw inside that huge, glass building and now you want to go walking around in the open. Why don't we keep on driving around and see if we can find civilisation?"

"That building," Ernest argued, "is a good three hours behind us. I doubt if anything from it followed us all the way out here. Anyway, we're running low on gas. We've only got about half a tank, plus a couple of jerry cans. Look, Edith, I don't plan to go far. I'll just spend a couple of hours walking in one direction to see if there's anything of interest out there."

"What if you run into something dangerous?"

"I'd say I'm more likely to be running away from something dangerous, Edith; I'm not that silly."

The children laughed at his off-handed remark, but were hastily silenced by a stern look from their mother.

"And besides, I brought the gun."

"You did what!" his wife exploded, her features reddening, which was clearly visible even in the fire's mild light.

"There's something I have to get from the car!" Joseph announced, before charging from the warmth of the fire. Ernest junior was hot on his heels. They both knew when an argument was imminent and had no wish to witness the event close up.

Edith continued: "Why would you bring along that dangerous thing? One of the boys could have gotten hold of it and shot himself!"

"It's locked away in the glove box. They can't get to it because I have the only key," Ernest defended himself valiantly.

"You mean the glove compartment that's been broken for about a year?"

Ernest paused. His dear wife had just punched an extremely large hole through his defence. He fell back to the time-honoured husband's decree: when in trouble, act dumb. "Really?" he murmured, frowning slightly. "I could have sworn I had that darn thing fixed ages ago. I guess I forgot."

"I guess you did."

Time to try a different tack, thought Ernest. "But it will come in handy, Edith. I mean, we don't really know who or what's lurking out there, do we?"

"I'll tell you, Ernest Bonaparte, exactly what you are going to do," Edith instructed in the manner of a drill sergeant. "From this moment on, you will never let that ugly piece of junk out of your sight. I want you to sleep with it at night."

"That sounds kind of uncomfortable," he bemoaned.

"It's a big step up from sleeping all by yourself, mister. And if I see either of our offspring so much as touch that thing, I'll see to it your life becomes a living hell!"

He nodded at her ultimatum. "Yes, dear," he said as sincerely as possible.

A wry smile etched itself across his bearded face. "So, Edith," he casually inquired. "What's the chance of seeing a little action tonight?"

Edith slept peacefully in the larger of the two tents by herself. Ernest spent the remainder of the cold night sleeping on the back seat of the station wagon.

A little bad timing goes a long way.

***

A generous, cooked portion of meat was positioned directly above the fire. A thin, though sturdy branch had been rammed through the mid-quarters of this chunk of seared flesh, acting like a spit. Flickering light spilled out from the flames, washing back the surrounding darkness that retreated to just beyond the nearest row of large trees. Two figures sat near the warming fire on the leaf-littered ground. One of these figures was positioned beside an unsheathed broadsword while the other remained near him. Both were indulging themselves in this surprisingly tasty meal.

Immir Hanis tore a large chunk of cooked flesh away from a huge drumstick he clutched firmly in one gloveless hand and shoved the morsel into his hungry, salivating mouth. Chewing on the delicate meat, he nodded in appreciation of the highly unusual and unfamiliar flavour. It was not all that often he indulged his appetite in such a flavoursome meal while travelling on the road.

"This cassowary thing is as tasty as it was vicious!" he announced, in between chews.

As her mouth was also full, Lorraine Montague could only nod in complete agreement.

"You say your planet has only one moon?" the Rider continued their conversation about the blonde woman's world.

"We... just... one moon," Lorraine managed to confirm, as she tried to swallow a portion of the dead bird. "It's a bit larger than any of those," she pointed to the sky and paused. "Or it's a bit closer to Earth than any of your three moons. Are you sure there aren't any more floating around out there?"

"Positive," he assured her. Even if other orbiting bodies had been present in Perencore's night sky, the Rider would not have told her. He did not wish to antagonise Lorraine any more, as earlier in the night she had become quite hysterical at the sight of a second moon, and the arrival of the third moon distressed her even more.

Immir Hanis had proposed roasting portions of the large bird while they discussed their respective home planets. At times, both were completely amazed by the revelations of their counterpart as neither of them had ever met a person from another world before this day.

"Tell me about this Order of yours," Lorraine requested, before placing another sliver of cooked meat into her mouth.

Immir Hanis was more than pleased to oblige. "The Order of the Royal Decree was started by his Majesty, King Entell Thellon, the Second, 'The Bringer of Law'. As I have mentioned, he is the present King's father. He proclaimed there should be justice for all the people of his lands, no matter their social or economic standing within the community. He created The Order of the Royal Decree to ride amongst the people, protecting everyone under his rule. We of The Order are all trained in Hamaforth's capital of Valderhien, also known in the old language as 'Havenview'. There is usually at least one member of The Order stationed at even the smallest of villages. We will meet some of my fellow Riders when we reach Carous. It is one of the more modest towns within the province of Phornimiren, or 'The Forest Great', which is where we are at this time."

"I kind of gathered that," she smiled looking up at the huge trees surrounding them.

The Rider ignored her remark and continued: "His Lordship, Lord Perorn, one of the King's most abject supporters, rules this nation. Personally, I believe him to be a complete fool. The gods willing, he may one day fall headfirst from one of his palace's higher windows. The only problem with that idea is his son, Annus Perorn would assume control."

Connie raised her eyebrows at the comical sounding name and almost burst out laughing, but she decided her serious companion might not appreciate such crude, Earthly humour and kept it to herself. "Now tell me more about yourself, Immir Hanis."

"Such as?"

"Like, where do you live when you are not working?"

"I am always on duty. If I am near a village or town, I am provided with accommodation, without charge by some honest citizen of the Kingdoms. A Rider's presence within a settlement usually assures that the local people are not bothered by unscrupulous persons. Few dare to openly oppose The Order." He paused before speaking again. "These friends of yours that you spoke of earlier, do you believe them to be somewhere in the Hamaforth Kingdoms?"

"I hope so. I'd hate to be the only one of us here."

"Then I will spread word of this to the other Riders of The Order to keep watch for your compatriots. We should eventually hear something if they are within the Kingdom's boundaries. Pray they are not in the Azzil Territories or worse still, in the nation of... Blurican--the gods save their souls. Either place is unfit for a dinnertime discussion." He paused, obviously deep in thought. "There is one thing I should mention to you, Lorraine. Some short time before rescuing you from this delicious fiend, I sensed I was being observed deep in the woods. Usually I am not mistaken in these matters, so I challenged this person to show themselves. Whoever was hidden there failed to disclose their presence, so I left. Most people in the region know me by sight and would have taken advantage of the situation by revealing their identity. The local inhabitants would not have felt threatened. I now believe this person in the deeper woods may have been one of your friends."

Lorraine ceased eating and gazed across to her rescuer.

"You could be right," she agreed, attempting to hide her feelings of anxiety. "We should go back there tomorrow and check it out."

"I do not wish to disappoint you," the Rider stated gently, "but that is not a particularly good idea."

"It's not?"

"As you have seen for yourself, the forests of Phornimiren are vast. It would be best if we continued to Carous to get assistance with our quest." He grinned mischievously. "I will eventually give my fellow Riders permission to join us in this most important search."

"That's big of you."

"For a price, naturally."

Lorraine was taken aback by his last comment. Until now, she had considered her host to be a noble and honest individual, even if he tended to be a touch pompous.

"Please do not mistake my intentions, Lorraine," he added quickly, as though sensing her trepidation over his character. "I would certainly not sully our mission by accepting mere money for the great privilege of assisting us. I shall just insist that at a future date they invite me to join whatever venture they might undertake."

Satisfied with his explanation Lorraine shrugged. "Whatever turns you on."

"I beg your pardon?" Immir Hanis inquired, unfamiliar with the term.

"Don't concern yourself," Lorraine corrected. She was too tired for any more explanations of Earth slang.

"We should get some sleep," the Rider suggested, "so we can arrive at Carous as early as possible." Immir Hanis stood up and wandered across to his resting horse, Rell. From a saddlebag, the Rider hauled out a couple of thin but warm blankets made of a rough, wool-like material. He passed one of them across to his guest who thanked him then wrapped herself up in it.

Although emotionally wound up by her unexpected misadventure, Lorraine almost instantly fell into a sound slumber: this had been an extraordinary and exhausting day for the scientist. Her last thought before sleep swept over her tired mind was the hope her protector was correct that one or more of her Minerva Project companions was lurking nearby in the woods. She was desperate to discover if they knew any further details about their most unusual situation.

Immir Hanis slept lightly, always alert for any possible danger. Tomorrow, he had to explain his acquaintance's presence to his fellow Riders in town and hoped they took him to his word. There was no guarantee of this at all.

***

A mere couple of hour's riding distance from where Lorraine and Immir Hanis slept, Victor Chan was in a far more comfortable position. He had eaten well then retired to Simon Leveque's huge and very comfortable bed. The surrounding night's cold air failed to penetrate the numerous layers of blankets and the feather-filled quilt and chilled only the face of the resting scientist.

As he drifted off, he reflected on the bizarre turn of events. Completely adrift in this ocean of huge trees, at least he could enjoy the best comforts available. His thoughts turned to his companions from the ScienceStart project. They could quite easily be wandering about in the cold wilderness, half-starved and suffering from hypothermia. He was warm and well fed. Life could be good: Strange, but good.

Just before sunset, he had made another close inspection of the airlock to the main laboratory. He believed it might be possible to pry open what remained of the firmly sealed metallic door. The scientist was not quite certain how to accomplish this task without an acetylene torch and a reasonable quantity of explosives. Currently, all he had at his disposal was virtually nothing of any use. The laboratory was stacked with all types of useful equipment. Victor knew he could find technical kits inside the laboratory containing literally hundreds of tools, a first aid kit, a welder, even a reasonable-sized portable solar generator, although he was not certain just how well this last item would function deep inside the forest.

The only thing in his favour was the airlock door contained an emergency opening mechanism to crank open the inner and outer doors in case of any disaster. Such a disaster had indeed occurred. The only problem was the handle to the device had been severed halfway through its length during whatever catastrophe had caused this entire fiasco.

Victor had pondered on the problem for almost an hour before finally coming up with a remarkably simple solution. He would simply rewire the door's opening mechanism and hope this allowed him access to the laboratory. So far, he had failed to locate any of the required parts necessary for this solution. Victor promised himself he would make a much more thorough search of this section of the mansion for any items required to open the lab door. He already knew he was in serious trouble on earlier viewing Perencore's three moons high overhead through the expansive umbrella of tree branches and accompanying leaves. These questions swirling about in his mind would have to wait: Until tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A large number of practically meatless bones lay in the lifeless ashes of an hour-long dead fire. The small rabbit-like rodents had proven to be extremely good eating, although a particularly large number of their species had to be caught and killed then skinned, gutted and prepared to provide the squad with a decent meal. In fact, a total of seventeen had been killed the previous day before being roasted over an open fire. These roasted animals had been devoured with consummate fervour, as they were the first decent meal the men had enjoyed in a number of days, both on this world and in their former home.

Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw had ordered the pelts of these creatures be properly treated and packed away, as he believed they might become useful, especially if the weather turned particularly cold. Also, he wanted some task to keep the men under his command busy and well away from the thoughts of last night's spectacle of no less than three moons slowly scaling their way across the night sky. At one stage that night, Bradshaw feared the remnants of his regiment would disintegrate into bedlam once the soldiers fully comprehended their predicament. However, a few loudly screamed commands, a swift kick to a couple of backsides and a very timely reminder that any man not conducting himself in a professional manner would be immediately shot as a deserter, put a complete cessation to any unbecoming behaviour.

Buttoning up his bright red, slightly dirt-smeared tunic the sergeant major closely studied the activities of those troops still under his command. He was duly satisfied they were acting in a highly disciplined and professional manner. Then he noticed one soldier who appeared to be staring off in the distance as though in a trance.

"Private Beagle!" the NCO bellowed. "Come here right this very second, man!"

The startled trooper charged up to the older, taller man, saluted then stood at full attention.

"What in blazes do you think you are doing, private?"

"I..."

"Don't talk back to me when I'm yelling at you! Perhaps you think you're too good to be performing such mundane tasks as packing your kit? Maybe you would like someone else to pack your kit for you?"

"But I didn't bring..."

"Silence! Would the private like it if we built him a stretcher to carry his precious self across the countryside?" Bradshaw continued bellowing at the top of his lungs with habitually practiced expertise. "After all, we wouldn't want your poor feet getting tired from something as mundane as marching, now would we?" Bradshaw ceased his verbal tirade.

Beagle chose to stay silent. He was a quick learner.

"Answer me when I ask you a question!" the sergeant major roared in full voice.

"Not at all, Sergeant Major."

"Then get your lazy backside moving, private! And I mean right this very second!"

"Yes, Sergeant Major." However, Richard Beagle remained standing to attention.

Bradshaw took a deep breath. "What is it, private?" he inquired as calmly as possible.

"I wish to report an incident, Sergeant Major."

"What sort of incident?"

"Just this minute I saw a large... er... 'thing' flying in the distance. I'm not absolutely sure what it was but at least it was heading in the opposite direction."

Remaining silent for a moment, Bradshaw pondered the private's reported sighting. He quietly dismissed the soldier, fired off a return salute to the man then stepped to one side of the encampment. Whatever had concerned Beagle could only cause more trouble for the unit, so Bradshaw decided to let the matter rest for the moment.

When they were ready to leave, the sergeant major assembled his meager squad on the top of a hill where he carefully inspected their uniforms and rifles for the slightest signs of torpor. Their most peculiar situation did not call for discipline to go out the nearest window. Parading in front of the company's pitiful remnants, Bradshaw began speaking in a voice that might have been heard halfway across the continent.

"Right! The more observant of you may have noticed that, for reasons I do not pretend to understand, we are no longer on the planet Earth. However, no matter how far from home we may find ourselves, we are still part of the British Army and at all times will conduct ourselves in a respectable, highly-disciplined manner. I trust this is perfectly understood. I have been informed, by a rather dubious source there may be highly unusual and quite possibly dangerous animals about. Therefore, you will keep an eye out at all times for any signs of danger. If any of you happen to see a dangerous-looking beastie lurking about, feel free to shoot it. Any man not staying alert at all times will answer to the business end of my boot! Now, as you all had such a fun time marching yesterday, this is precisely what we will be doing today. You will all march in a nice, straight line until I tell you to do otherwise." He paused to take a breath and continued, "Private Beagle, as you appear to have such remarkable eyesight, you will kindly place yourself at the very front of the formation and keep a watch for any nasties that may wander across our path. Now get moving!"

When Richard Beagle had taken his place further ahead, the uniformed men started marching from the area with as much precision as they could muster under such difficult circumstances. Eyes straight ahead, feet pounding the narrow trail, they moved at regulation pace--just the way Walter Bradshaw liked it.

***

They had been moving across the open, rolling terrain with the mountains to their backs for three hours--or about that time. No timepieces dictated any observance of the movement of time, so the passing of the day was done more or less on guesswork. The last of this strange world's three moons was still visible in the morning sky, hovering just above the distant horizon. This sight was a chilling reminder of the undeniable fact they were no longer on the right planet. Although in unfamiliar territory and without any linen to speak of, all three travellers had slept quite soundly, except when on guard duty. After rising from their slumber, they consumed some more of Sean Corrigin's chocolates for breakfast, which was far better than nothing to eat at all. Their food supply was now almost non-existent. Inevitably, they would have to either find some form of civilisation, or catch their own food. They continued walking across the open, uneven countryside. As yet, they had been unable to put Connie York's hunting skills to the test.

Walking down a hillside with Sean at their lead, all three halted at the sight of an object protruding crudely from out of the knee-high grass. In silence, they studied the mysterious item at a safe distance before venturing closer. This was a time to exercise extreme caution.

"What the hell?" Sean muttered, stepping closer to inspect their discovery. While he knelt down beside the object, Connie and Dale Johnstone joined him. Both appeared equally bewildered by the sight of the metallic device.

"It's a slot machine," Connie stated the completely obvious. "And an old one at that. I imagine it got here the same way we did."

"What!" Sean laughed. "It grew legs and wandered into that creepy fog?"

"No," Dale surmised, reaching across to gently touch the item in question. "Somehow, the fog must have engulfed the slot machine. This means inanimate objects can come through without being carried by someone. I thought only people and animals could be... 'transferred'--I suppose that's as good a term as any. We should keep an eye out for anything else that might have joined us on this side of the rainbow. You never know what might come in handy."

Running her delicate fingers across the metal machine's highly decorative casing, Connie turned to the others. "Anyone got a quarter?"

Dale delved into his pants pockets for a moment before hauling out a handful of loose change. He flicked through it, selecting the required coinage. "I've only got three," he announced, gazing down into the palm of his hand, "so you'd better make them last. I don't think you're going to find any change booths all the way out here."

"You never know," Connie replied, flashing a cheeky grin, "there just might be."

Squatting down in front of the gaming machine, she pushed the first coin into the slot then hauled hard down on the lever. The wheels rotated at an astonishing rate, providing the three wanderers with a colourful, albeit brief spectacle. A mild humming sound emitted from the machine.

"It must be self-contained," Dale deduced, "otherwise it'd need electricity."

They all eagerly watched as the tumblers fell into place. The pattern displayed on the gaming line of the device displayed two pears and a peach; it paid nothing.

"Damn," Connie grumbled. She shoved the second coin into the slot and once again pulled on the lever. A plum, a pear and a pineapple appeared: Another disappointing turn.

"Shit!" The third and last coin vanished into the machine, which taunted the gamblers with some further fancy noise and spinning fruits, before rewarding them also with nothing.

Connie stared down at the poker machine and sighed. "That's just a damn shame. There was actually a point to this. I was really hoping to win some sort of jackpot."

On hearing this, Sean shot the machine.

His two new friends leapt into the air in quite an acrobatic display as the metal device cartwheeled a short distance across the dew covered grass. On its impromptu journey, the machine spilt a large collection of dull as well as shiny coins over an impressive area. These discarded coins now littered the ground like bizarre, metallic confetti.

Connie jumped once more into the air. "Bingo!"

"I wish you'd be careful with that thing!" Dale blurted, rather unnerved by Sean's gun happiness. "You could accidentally shoot someone."

Sean slowly shook his head. "Never going to happen... accidentally."

Connie eagerly started picking up the coins from the debris across the field until she was standing over the fatally wounded device. "We should take you to Vegas, Sean," she joked, carefully inspecting the bounty. "You may think I'm just displaying wanton greed, but there's method to my madness. These coins all have a mint date on them, so we can check the approximate time the machine was transferred across."

Instantly working out the importance of this odd little scenario, Dale likewise started snatching up handfuls of discarded currency. "The latest date on any of these is 1948," he gasped.

Connie nodded. "Looks like our dead friend here is from just after the Second World War." Her interest in the collection of coins satisfied, she casually threw the currency back to the ground where they lay in a disorganised pile.

"We should keep them," Sean suggested. "You never know if they might come in useful."

"I don't see how," Dale responded, likewise relieving himself of the coins. "Somehow, I don't think the local population--assuming there are any people around here, will accept US currency."

"Take my word for it," Sean insisted, "we should bring along all of these nice, shiny coins--just in case."

"I think I know what he's talking about," Connie added, looking around at the coins at her feet, "but there's about fifty dollars' worth here. That's a lot of weight to haul around with us."

"Not if we each carry our fair share," Sean added. "Also, we don't really have to take the lot. I mean, let's not get greedy about this."

Dale shrugged; it was no real concern to him. "Alright, but it sounds like a lot of work for fifty lousy dollars of coins we can't even spend around here."

All three stooped over to gather up the quarter dollar coins from amongst the blades of grass. Once their task had been completed they continued onwards, feeling that with a bit of good fortune they would soon come across some inhabitants of this new world, if there were indeed some indigenous people living in this remote part of the planet. Each of them prayed silently that the local population amounted to more than just a handful of lost souls such as themselves aimlessly wandering around. With grave doubts plaguing their thoughts, Sean, Dale and Connie walked bravely on in the same direction they had been following since first light that chilly morning. At least this was some sort of a plan. There was hope in plans.

***

Approximately forty-five minutes later, the three travellers, jingling merrily away due to the additional weight of the recently acquired coins, stumbled across what appeared to be an eight-lane highway. This long section of major thoroughfare came complete with lights and lane indicators.

"What's that up ahead?" Dale asked, peering into the distance towards a row of small structures lined across the road at about a five-metre distance from one another.

Producing a small pair of binoculars from his ever-handy coat, Sean gazed across at the buildings located well away from their present location. "Those," he said squinting, "are toll booths, if I'm not mistaken." He turned to stare away in the opposite direction. "This things ends in a forest over in that direction," he informed the others, pointing with his free hand. "So let's see what's in the other direction. I want to check out those toll booths."

"Why bother?" Connie asked.

"Have you got a better suggestion?"

"Yes. Let's get the hell away from here. It could be dangerous."

Sean grinned. "You let me worry about that, Connie dear. Anyway, it'll be easier travelling on this surface rather than slogging our way across these godforsaken hills."

"Okay," she finally agreed, "but I want it on record that I'm concerned about this."

"Concern duly noted," Dale added. "Let's go."

Considering there was no particular hurry, the group did not rush themselves. Instead, they opted to wander along the wide cement road. The row of tollbooths loomed up ahead. The trio discovered this stretch of highway ceased to exist just past the line of tiny buildings.

"Looks like we're back to the hard slog on foot," Sean stated, approaching the booths. He walked across to the first one, stepped inside its cramped interior and began searching for any signs of the last occupant. To his surprise there appeared to be no place for a person to sit. "Doesn't make any sense," he muttered.

Joining him inside the booth, Dale also looked around and was a bit disappointed to find nothing much at all. "They're all automated," he observed.

While they discussed the booths, Connie wandered across to inspect the service booth. "Sandwiches!" She triumphantly held aloft a plastic wrapped bundle of sandwiches like a trophy. Her companions joined her near this particular booth where they each devoured their allotted portion of the prize. This was the first taste of real food they had indulged in since being transferred to their new world. They savoured every bite until nothing remained.

"I just hate peanut butter," Sean announced. "But it sure beats the hell out of starving. Although, I still can't figure out why there's no place for anyone in the booths?"

"They don't need anyone to operate them. They collect the fee automatically without the cars having to stop," Dale surmised, having already scoffed his sandwich. "Also, I'm pretty sure this highway's brand new. That's why there are no tyre marks on the surface, or any other signs of use; it's never had a car on it."

"Then where did the sandwiches come from?" Connie demanded, her left hand covering her mouth while she chewed.

"Possibly a guard or night watchman left them."

"Then where is he?"

"Maybe he didn't come along with the road," Sean suggested, grinning broadly in mirth. "Can you imagine? He goes behind a bush for a pee, wanders out and finds the highway's vanished into thin air!"

Suddenly, Connie ceased chewing. Her eyes widened as she stared to the far side of the roadway. "I think you might be wrong about that, Sean."

They found what remained of the elderly uniformed man lying beside the highway he had been guarding. The unfortunate man's dull grey uniform was liberally coated in half-dried blood and part of his face had been sliced away. His wide, dead eyes stared away into the distance. He had been butchered.

"Who would do such a thing?" Dale gasped, his recently appeased stomach feeling queasy.

Sean inspected the freshly murdered man. "It was a human that did that to him. And they're not far gone from here. The blood's still reasonably fresh."

"Why would someone kill a harmless old man?" Connie demanded, her features flushed with anger.

"Who knows?" Sean replied, searching through a number of personal items strewn about the body. "I found his wallet."

Shuffling through a variety of cards, credit cards and other personal items, he came across the unfortunate guard's driver's license. "I can't quite make out the name, but he was from South Africa." Sean studied the document for a minute in silence then dropped the item to the ground and gulped. "...And he was born in the year 2056. Whatever happened to us is grabbing people from all over the..."

The attack occurred with such speed that Connie and Dale were caught completely off-guard. Sean did not bat an eyelid. In fact, he appeared to be expecting such an event. The short Irishman remained still, watching in vague interest as four of the most bizarrely dressed individuals he had ever seen rushed at him. Each of these marauders brandished some sort of sharp implement as they swiftly approached their target. Slowly raising a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun from the folds of his coat, he waited until they were almost on him before squeezing the trigger. At such close range, the shotgun was much more effective than knives or swords. The blast cut down all four men, killing two outright. One fortunate bandit was only moderately injured. He scrambled to his feet before fleeing in terror from the odd little man who called thunder down from the sky. Not far away, the last member of the charge rolled about the bloodied ground, screaming shrilly and clutching at the remnants of his ruined face. Sean saw fit to finish the man off with a single shot to the head from his handgun.

A short distance from this awful carnage, Dale stood in between two other thugs who circled him, knives in hand. Each of these men appeared to be quite reluctant to continue their attack. They stared at the tall, somewhat perplexed scientist, their features reflecting the fear and surprise they felt over their choice of target.

Connie was not quite so fortunate. Two men and a woman had set upon her, knocking the scientist senseless and were in the process of tying her hands behind her back. Sean rushed over and shot all three of them, performing this deadly task in the most rudimentary fashion. The angered man relieved Connie of her bonds, apologising for his tardiness. "I'm terribly sorry, Connie," he insisted, removing the last section of thin rope. "I would have been here sooner to help you, but there were others in need of my... services."

Some quite bulky form slammed into Sean, driving him sideways where he crashed mercilessly onto the cold, hard surface of the highway. When Connie's eyesight finally cleared enough to recognise her surroundings, she found herself untied and gazing at the disturbing sight of a huge man hovering over Sean about to run a large knife into the dazed Irishman. Snatching up one section of the ropes that had bound her, she gamely staggered to her feet and lashed out at the brazenly dressed man. The cord struck the foul smelling bandit across the face, but failed to deter him from his attempt to assassinate Sean. He turned to glare at her. "You will be next if you are not careful!" he snapped, his lips slightly out of sync with his violent words.

An abrupt detonation lifted him clear of the ground, depositing his lifeless body a good distance from his intended victim.

Sean gingerly sat upright, a very slight trickle of blood emitting from the corner of his mouth. He appeared to be clutching a short weapon resembling little more than a section of copper piping. Smoke was furiously pouring from one end of this pipe, which he casually discarded to one side.

"Thank you for the distraction," he said to Connie, blinking a couple of times to clear the fog from his vision. "It's a little invention of my own. It's sort of a stun gun that doesn't really bother about that nonsense of stunning people."

The two bandits around Dale continued their evasive dance. They appeared uncertain whether to attack the taller man or run for their lives. Sensing their reluctance, he suddenly leapt closer to them, waving his arms about as if in a mad panic. "Get the hell out of here!" he bellowed, causing the assailants to turn tail and run. Satisfied they would not be returning in a hurry, Dale stepped across to where his companions were now seated on the wide stretch of transferred highway.

Connie was talking to her benefactor about the incident. "What's wrong with the way these people speak?"

Sean shook his head. "I haven't the faintest idea. I'm still trying to figure out where 'fat boy' came from."

Connie pointed up towards the awning joining the line of automated tollbooths. "I think he was hiding up there and jumped on you when you weren't looking," she surmised, her head still aching slightly from her ordeal. "Dale, what kept you?"

"I was entertaining company myself, Connie," he replied. "But they ran off the minute I made a loud noise. I can't for the life of me imagine why."

She grinned, "I think I can. But I'll tell you later."

"I'm not going to like what you have to say one little bit, am I?"

She grinned some more. "Not a bit." Brushing herself off, she checked her own person. Thankfully, there appeared to be no permanent damage.

Sean rose to his feet. His head was still a bit dizzy after his nasty encounter with the large bandit. "I think we better get the hell out of here as quickly as possible," he suggested, "before the ones who escaped come back with more friends for us to meet."

Glancing across to the dead bodies scattered about the road, Dale wondered if another attack by the bandits would be successful, even if they arrived in greater numbers. Their companion on this journey appeared to be a one-man killing machine.

Almost as if reading the scientist's thoughts, Sean shook his head. "Even I have a limited number of rounds on me, Dale," he stated. "If there had been any more of these morons, I would have been hard-pressed to save even my own skin. I really can't guarantee your safety if events get out of control, although I can say I would dwindle their number a fair bit in another fight."

"We should leave," Connie confirmed, staring in shock at the corpses strewn across the stained tarmac. "The last thing I want to see is another massacre."

Sean appeared highly offended by her remark. "It's only a massacre if the people dying are unarmed. These silly bastards brought it on themselves. If they'd left us alone they'd still be alive instead of the sorry condition they're in right now." His voice raised an octave. "Or would you prefer to see us lying dead all over the road?"

"I... I didn't mean it like that, Sean," Connie stammered, taken aback by the vehemence in his response.

"It sounded like it to me! I think a little gratitude is in order instead of condemnation."

"We are grateful, Sean," Dale Johnstone added. Their travelling companion was becoming pent-up and irritated and he needed to be calmed down. "If it hadn't been for you, we'd have been in real trouble."

Sean nodded to the taller man, "You're most welcome, Dale."

"Let's go," Connie York instructed, "the sooner the better."

Fortunately, they encountered no other bandits on their way out of the region. In fact, they would see no signs of human life for some hours. When they did finally encounter others, they would be amazed by what they discovered about their new world.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Having decided to arm himself with a knife and leave the pistol with his wife and sons, Ernest Bonaparte trundled along a trail he had discovered running its crooked way through the forest. The sun was high and he had been away from his family for much longer than originally intended. So long as Edith had control of the gun, he believed his family was safe. Initially, his spouse had been decidedly against having anything to do with the firearm. On his insistence that she only needed it for real emergencies, Edith had relented on condition the dreaded object remained in the glove compartment of their car.

The boys had been less than impressed with their father's plans of exploration because it did not include them. Ernest rationalised to his sons that they needed to stay behind to protect their mother. From a practical point of view, he realised if he did come into contact with anything nasty out in the woods, having to run away with one or more of his sons tucked under either arms could impede their escape. So far, he had, thankfully, only encountered a variety of unfamiliar birds, a rabbit-like animal and most surprisingly, a tiny horse only knee-high in height. This odd creature took one fleeting glance at him and bolted after releasing an almost inaudible bleat of fear. The incident had occurred almost thirty minutes ago and he had not witnessed any other signs of life since then. It was a shame about the horse, Ernest mused; the tiny animal would have made a great pet for Joe and Ernest Junior. At this odd thought, he abruptly halted in his tracks and began to laugh. "We could die out here!" he blurted, in between bouts of laughter. "And I'm thinking about pets!"

When a stern face suddenly peered at him through a nearby bush, Ernest's mirth instantly vanished as he staggered back in fright. Instinctively, his left hand reached for the hunting knife he had secured in his belt. He only hoped the owner of the stern features was not in possession of any sort of firearm.

A somewhat younger woman of about his height with extremely dark eyes and hair stepped from behind the undergrowth holding up both hands in a calm, graceful fashion. She remained almost motionless, studying the unusual man out here in the middle of the forest. If the tallish girl harboured any ill feelings towards Ernest, she certainly gave no outward indications of a violent tendency.

Ernest saw that the woman wore a tight fitting black top and pants with thin leather shoes of the same colour. Oddly enough, he wondered if she was not a bit cold in such thin attire. All the while, he kept one hand hovering close above the hilt of his hunting knife.

"There is no need for violence," announced the woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties. "I am Sil-Ta-Dan of the Appor tribe. Our hunting party is lost and I require any assistance you may be able to provide."

Despite the unnerving manner in which her mouth moved slightly out of sync with the words she spoke, Ernest found himself relaxing under the unflinching gaze of her deep, dark eyes. There was a gracious, trustworthy aura about the woman. After his initial shock at their impromptu meeting, he began to relax.

"To be honest, I'm sort of lost myself," he replied with a simple shrug. "Where did you say you were from again?"

"The Appor tribe is from the planet Gobbor-Den-Ittar. We believe ourselves to be somewhere foreign from our home world."

"Yeah," Ernest responded, "I saw three moons rise last night. Not the most comforting thing to happen to me in recent memory. I'm Ernest Bonaparte from the United States of America; that's a country on my planet--Earth."

During their introductory conversation, they tentatively stepped towards each other as if the first abrupt sound or movement would send them scurrying to opposite ends of the surrounding forest. When within touching distance, both parties halted. There seemed to be an instant and mutual trust between them, but they still kept a close watch on one another.

"Where are you camped, Ernest Bonaparte?"

"Back that way," he stated, pointing into the distance. "It's a bit of a walk from here. My wife and kids are at the car. Where are you and your people camped?"

"My tribe are a short flight away from this place." She paused to consider his last words; something about them bothered her. "Do you have the young of goats with your partner? And I am not familiar with the term 'car'?"

"No!" laughed Ernest. "We call our children 'kids'--don't ask me why. I have two boys, Joseph, who's ten and Ernest junior; he's all of eight, and a car is our means of transport. You said your camp was a short flight from here; do you have a plane?"

She stared at him before repeating this foreign word: "Plane?"

Ernest was startled by her apparent confusion on the new arrival's part. "You never heard of a plane? What do you use to fly with?"

"I believe it is best if I show you, Ernest Bonaparte," she informed him; wandering along the same trail her new companion had been following for most of the morning. "Please walk with me."

Ernest shrugged. "Well, it's not as if I'm doing anything more important."

Following behind the dark-haired girl, Ernest found himself intrigued. If her people did not use planes then how did they fly? With burning curiosity, he dutifully trailed behind her; all the while hoping he was not making what would be referred to in military circles as a 'gross tactical blunder'.

Walking around the bend in the narrow, slightly overgrown path, Ernest and Sil-Ta-Dan came across a man of similar appearance to the Apporan woman. He was seated on a white horse that stood on a slightly elevated rock platform. He casually observed the two as they approached his position. If he felt any cause for alarm at the other man's appearance or unusual attire he certainly gave no outward display of unease. The bearded man waited until the pair were much closer to his position before he spoke. "Sil-Ta-Dan, where is your mount?"

Ernest halted in his tracks. His mouth moved without co-ordination as if he were unable to keep pace with his racing mind. He had already witnessed the impossible over the space of a mere twenty-four hours. Now, he was presented with yet another example of the impossibilities to be found in this strange world. "Dear God Almighty!" he finally blurted.

"What appears to be the problem, Ernest Bonaparte?" Sil-Ta-Dan inquired, turning to gaze at the dumbfounded man.

"That... that horse has wings!"

The woman frowned. "Yes, of course they do. Otherwise, they would find it exceedingly difficult to get off the ground. On your planet Earth, do your horses not fly?"

"Not that I know of," Ernest insisted. "They sure as heck don't have wings."

"Strange indeed," the man commented, while his horse stretched out two feather-covered wings with an impressive span of almost four metres. "Your horses must look odd without wings."

A sound similar to a horse neighing reached Bonaparte's ears. Staring upwards, he was astounded to witness another of these odd animals as it circled the small gathering before landing in a display of great agility directly beside him. This test of the limits of his imagination was simply too much for the middle-aged American. He emitted a strangled cry and toppled backwards, landing on the grassy surface of the clearing. His abrupt outburst startled the horse, which instantly lifted its bulk back into the cool morning air. Hovering just off of the ground, the animal continued its inspection of this new and exceedingly noisy person.

Ernest glanced across to Sil-Ta-Dan. "Do they lay eggs as well?"

The tall girl and her companion looked at one another then burst out laughing. Still horizontal, Ernest's face went bright red.

"No, friend," the man replied, "our horses do not lay eggs. Tell me, do the horses on your world lay eggs? Or eat worms? Or make nests in tree tops?" Once more, he burst out laughing at the obviously ridiculous questions.

"Very funny," Ernest muttered, hauling himself upright once more. "No, horses on Earth don't do any of those things. But then they don't have feathers or fly about either."

"Our horses bare live young," the man informed his new guest. "To an introduction: I am Zer-Qil-Ard, Horsemaster of the Appor tribe, or what is left of us."

"Horsemaster. Is that like some sort of wrangler?" Ernest asked.

"I do not know this term," Zer-Qil-Ard confessed. "My duties are to care and maintain our horses in good health."

Ernest scratched his chin, his fingers ruffling his beard, "Oh, you're more like a veterinarian."

"This word is also unfamiliar to me," the Horsemaster admitted.

"It's sort of an animal doctor," Ernest explained.

Sil-Ta-Dan's animal had landed a short distance away from the group and was presently nibbling on some fresh grass growing at the edge of the clearing. While the two men continued their discussion, the Appor woman wandered across to the saddled animal. She ran both hands along the horse's long neck causing it to cease eating and nuzzle her while some blades of half eaten grass protruded rudely from its mouth.

"Oh," Ernest announced, stretching out his right hand in the universal greeting. "I'm Ernest Bonaparte. My wife and children are back at our camp."

Apparently, shaking hands was not such a universal gesture, as he believed. Zer-Qil-Ard simply stared down at his hand. Ernest lowered it, somewhat embarrassed.

"I am pleased to meet you... " The Horsemaster paused as though having difficulty with the name. "...Ernest... Bonaparte. I have an idea: As protection for your family, you should join your camp with ours. We have seen a number of dangers on this new world. It is not safe for such a small group as yours."

Remembering the skyscraper, Ernest shivered involuntarily, his naturally ruddy complexion paling. What the so-called Horsemaster said was a huge understatement; there were unspeakable terrors in this world. "You're so right about that," Ernest managed to say.

"Is there a problem?"

"I'll tell you this. If you or any of your people ever come across a very tall, glass building, keep well away from it; it's very dangerous."

Zer-Qil-Ard frowned. "Can I know the reason behind your concern?"

"No," Ernest replied bluntly.

There was such finality and fear behind Ernest's one word reply, the Horsemaster decided to let the matter rest. If this recent arrival chose not to talk about a past experience, it was not the Apporan's place to push for further details. "Very well," he responded. "As you have been kind enough to warn me of this danger, I will see to it the other members of our tribe are likewise warned. Now, I believe we should locate your family. We will break camp and follow you to yours. Where is your horse?"

"I don't have one," Ernest admitted, "especially not one that flies. I came this far on foot. I've got a car though. It's back at the camp."

"Car?"

"It's a machine for moving around on the ground."

Zer-Qil-Ard patiently nodded, although he had no notion what this traveller was talking about. "It is going to be interesting to know you, Ernest Bonaparte."

"We can provide him with a horse," Sil-Ta-Dan announced, still attending to her animal.

Her statement appeared to cause the Horsemaster some measure of concern. "Under regular tribal laws no one but a member of the tribe may ride an Apporan horse." He then grinned: "However, under such highly unusual circumstances such as these I am certain we may appeal to our High Councillor, Wan-Re-Fah; he is usually most obliging."

Leaping gracefully onto her horse, Sil-Ta-Dan rode across to Ernest and held out one hand. "I will escort you back to our encampment."

Ernest abruptly took a backwards step. "I don't think I'm quite ready for this sort of thing yet. Can't I just walk?"

"Trust me, Ernest Bonaparte," she told him, smiling brightly, "you will be safe."

"Just 'Ernest'," he stammered.

"Ernest," she repeated his foreign name. "If you wish it you may walk, but it will take a long time to travel to our encampment by foot."

He reached up to take her still outstretched hand. "Okay, let's try it. But if I fall off this thing, it's all your fault."

"As you wish."

Complete with their owners and foreign passenger, both horses leapt into the slightly overcast sky, creating another bizarre scene in this unusual land. In a remarkably short space of time, they were little more than dots over the horizon.

***

The woman's hair fell over her face as she gently tossed some more twigs onto the small campfire her spouse had dutifully started the previous night. Edith abruptly halted. A brief flash of panic and fear flew through her mind. She suddenly realised she had not seen her eldest son for a good thirty minutes. Absently pushing her disobedient hair back into place with one hand, she stood upright and scanned the campsite, then called out at the top of her lungs. "Joseph Bonaparte! Where are you?"

No reply.

"Joseph!" she repeated.

Edith absently scratched her head. Her other child, Ernest junior, was playing cheerfully by himself near the parked station wagon. His efforts to amuse himself were punctuated by periodic giggles.

"Ernest junior, have you seen your brother?" Edith inquired.

Halting his play, Ernest junior turned to face his obviously troubled mother. Edith suddenly heard a large bird fly overhead, but paid no attention to this distraction; she was far more worried about her son's whereabouts.

"He said he was going to the creek to look around, Mom," the youngest child dutifully informed his mother.

Earlier in the morning, they had located a stream of fresh water only about a ten-minute walk from the camp. Apparently, her eldest child had secretly decided to try his hand at a bit of big game hunting for frogs, fish and other peculiar wriggly things small boys coveted. Like most mothers, Edith wished small boys would collect less disgusting creatures--like butterflies. "He should have told me he was going to wander off!" Joseph's mother commented in exasperation.

Ernest junior appeared to be completely disinterested in anything his mother had to say on the topic. Instead, he began laughing and pointing to something behind Edith's head. Obviously, some airborne object had caught his attention. Sensing something was amiss; she turned around and came close to collapsing on the spot.

Hovering just overhead was an unconcerned-looking man on a large white horse, which maintained its position by gently moving an enormous set of feathered wings.

The scream of shock and terror that ripped from Edith's mouth startled the recently arrived horseman, his mount and Ernest junior. While all three watched in astonishment, the woman fled, still screaming into the nearest bushes, where she promptly vanished from sight.

The horseman and his mount slowly lowered to the ground and watched as the small boy deserted his secret game and walked across to him. Ernest junior had never seen a horse like this one before in his entire young life. He did know one thing; horses no matter their breed had one purpose.

"Hey, mister!" he spoke up, grinning. "Can I have a ride?" He suddenly remembered his manners. "Please."

Smiling, the horseman extended one arm to assist the polite child up onto his horse. It was at this moment a large stick struck the unsuspecting man a decent blow across the back of his exposed head. The unannounced assault caused the darkly garbed man to topple from his horse and land without one iota of grace onto the ground. While this attack continued with all of the viciousness of a mugger, his mount launched itself high into the air, flying in tight circles about its master.

Back on the ground, the Apporan attempted valiantly to protect his person from further harm as Edith flayed away at him with the dexterity of a professional baseball batter.

Someone suddenly slammed into her from behind, causing both individuals to fall to the ground. Her assailant tore the branch from Edith's fearful grip, scratching her skin and breaking a fingernail. Rolling onto her back, Edith clenched a fist and swung it into the other person's red-bearded face. Red-bearded face?

"Sorry, Ernie," Edith apologised, breaking off her attack.

Ernest shook his head to clear his blurry vision. "Edith!" he exclaimed, once his eyesight had cleared. "What on Earth are you doing?"

"I thought he was going to hurt Ernest junior." A single tear of fear welled up in one eye. "Did you see that thing he was on?"

Clutching at his aching head, the Apporan horseman attempted to regain his footing and some small measure of his dignity, but his legs refused to co-operate.

"You'd better sit down, Vac-No-Var," Ernest senior instructed the injured man.

Vac-No-Var nodded in agreement as he continued to roll about the ground, his head aching in pain. He could get up and face the humiliation in a short time; his fellow tribe members would, no doubt, repeatedly remind him of this shocking defeat at the hands of a woman with a stick.

"These are our friends," Ernest informed his still shocked wife.

She stared up at him, her eyes wide in wonder. "Friends?"

Within the space of a minute, the area was overrun by the flight-capable horses, along with their owners. They landed about the clearing. Some still hovered in the air overhead, but kept a respectable distance of the stationary automobile, as this item was highly unfamiliar to them. Some of the Appor and their mounts flew off in different directions to act as lookouts. The oldest member of this recently arrived group landed his horse close to the Bonaparte family and the stunned horseman, who remained seated on the ground.

"Has there been some problem here, Ernest Bonaparte?" the aged man inquired, glancing down at his fellow tribesman.

"Sorry, Wan-Re-Fah," Ernest responded respectfully, a touch embarrassed by this latest development. "Apparently my wife saw fit to beat Vac-No-Var's head in with a stick. I'm terribly sorry. She gets like that at times."

Some of the other newcomers wandered across to inspect the injured man at closer quarters. They appeared to be quietly amused by the strange woman's attack on Vac-No-Var, who was very much taller. Some of the men made a mental note to remind the injured man of his embarrassing incident at every available opportunity.

Finally, Ernest assisted the injured man to his feet. "Are you okay?"

The assaulted horseman nodded, brushing dust and grass from his outfit. Despite his embarrassing predicament, he attempted to make light of the matter. "Your wife is a fierce warrior, Ernest," he informed the other man.

Edith faced her husband. "They're making fun of me."

"Yes, dear, I know."

"Well, you're a great help."

"It's your own fault, Edith," he told her, deadpan. "You will run around attacking people with a huge stick."

"It's not my fault!" she protested.

Wan-Re-Fah's mount stepped closer to Edith, sniffing the loud person. This caused the woman to let out a yelp and back away from the animal. The horse stood its ground, staring across at the odd female person.

"And what is it with their horses?" she demanded, wide eyed.

Her husband stared at her in blank bewilderment. "What about their horses?"

"They... Look at them!"

While this discussion continued, their youngest son wandered across to the unoccupied animal, which was helping itself to some lush grass at the clearing's edge. He reached up, fearlessly patting the horse as it continued eating without taking the slightest notice of the particularly impressed child.

"Nice horse," the child murmured, then turning to his bickering parents he announced, "Here comes Joe!"

The argument halted as the group turned to watch as a horse and two passengers flew towards the campsite.

"Oh, my God!" Edith gasped at the sight of her eldest child astride a creature flying an impressive distance above the ground.

"It's okay, Edith," Ernest informed her, in a calming voice. "I didn't fall off."

The horse hovered with ease above the clearing, then lowered itself so the boy could, somewhat reluctantly, climb down to the ground. The Appor horseman looked across to Bonaparte, smiling. "I found this fearsome hunter terrorising the local wildlife. He claims to belong to you, Ernest Bonaparte. Do you wish to keep him, or should I drive him away?"

"We'll keep him, thanks," Ernest replied.

Ernest junior's keen young mind was working overtime. So far, his father and elder brother had flown on these incredible winged beasts. To his thinking, this was grossly unfair. Boldly marching up to the recently arrived horseman, the child tugged on the man's pants.

The Apporan man stared down at him.

"May I have a ride, please?"

His mother's sharp ears caught hold of this request from clear across the campsite. "No, you may..."

Before his mother could finish her sentence, the horseman grabbed hold of the child by the scruff of his neck and hauled him onto the horse. As if on some inaudible command, the animal beat its massive wings a couple of times and took to the sky. In the space of ten seconds, both animal and humans were high in the air.

Edith let out a scream of fear, and then covered her mouth with one hand. She watched in awe as her youngest child vanished from sight past the nearest group of tall trees. "It's going to take me a while to get used to this," she told her spouse.

"There is one question, Edith," Ernest inquired. "I left the gun in the car in case of an emergency, so why did you resort to using a tree branch?"

"I told you before, I don't like guns."

"Gun?" inquired the tribe elder.

"It's a..."

Ernest's words were cut short by a loud blast from the car horn. He turned towards the vehicle in time to witness about a dozen Apporans frantically scrambling away from the immobile vehicle. One particularly brave girl hauled a short, white spear from its sheath, raising the weapon high overhead.

"Kill it!"

A number of her companions followed suit and charged the defenceless station wagon.

"No! Wait a minute!" called Ernest, charging off to intercept the attacking horde. "Don't damage the car!"

"Halt your attack!" Wan-Re-Fah commanded in a calm, loud voice.

Somewhat reluctantly, the Apporan warriors ceased their aggressive stance towards the vehicle, moving back a couple of paces in the process. Still clutching their weapons, they watched with interest as Ernest, in a display of utmost urgency, closed the doors and windows of his beloved station wagon. Relieved his newfound companions had not damaged his car, he ventured back to his wife, eldest child and the Apporan High Councillor.

Where had Ernest junior vanished too? In answer to his unspoken question, a horse, its wings spread to their full width swooped in over a nearby row of trees. Thankfully, the horseman and child were still astride the swift creature. The animal in question came in to land near the group and remained stationary long enough for the small child to leap down to the ground.

"Thanks, mister!" Ernest junior exclaimed, truly grateful to have had this experience. "Can I please have another ride?"

"Perhaps later," the horseman answered. "For the moment, I believe you have far greater issues to contend with."

"What?"

The Apporan pointed towards the direction of the child's mother who was marching directly at them. She did not look happy.

A quick kick with his heel sent both horse and man skyward, just as Edith reached their position.

"Ernest Bonaparte junior!" Edith bellowed furiously. "Since when do you just go flying off with some strange man and his horse?" she halted, stunned by her own words. "I don't believe I just said that."

"Yes, you did," the boy unwisely added before realising his dire mistake. Sometimes silence truly was golden.

"From now on you ask permission before you leave the area!" The enraged woman spun about to glare angrily at her other son. "And that includes you too, Joseph! No more wandering off into the wilderness! You don't know what's out there!"

"Couldn't be any weirder than what's going on right here," Joseph foolishly replied.

"Don't talk back to me, Joseph! For that you can wash the dishes for the next couple of nights!"

The injured Appor horseman, who was still clutching his head looked across the clearing. "She yells as loud as she hits," he commented.

Despite their severe and fearsome looks, the Appor gathered in number around the campsite. They appeared to enjoy this brief domestic drama and watched with intense, though silent interest. Despite their apparent mirth on viewing the mild domestic interaction, none of the men or women were foolish enough to become directly involved.

Sil-Ta-Dan was standing near Joseph. The slim, attractive girl looked at Joseph with a grin. "My guardians always made me scrub the eating ware," she informed him. "It builds up character in one's soul.

"It builds up grease under your fingernails," the child retorted.

She laughed at the boy's remark. Apparently washing dirty dishes was a universal hatred. Sil-Ta-Dan stepped across to his father and waited respectfully until both he and the High Councillor ceased their conversation.

"Ernest, would an introduction to your family be possible?" she asked politely.

He smiled at her. "Easy! Sil-Ta-Dan, these are Joseph and Ernest junior, my sons. The charming woman with the stick is Edith, my wife."

The Appor woman stepped across to Edith and took both of her hands.

"It is a great honour to meet you, Edith Bonaparte," she remarked, expressing the utmost sincerity. "Your husband has greatly praised you."

"He did, did he? What exactly did he say? What was your name?"

"This is Sil-Ta-Dan," Ernest announced, wondering where this conversation was heading. "All of the Appor have three names, but you say them as one."

"Ernest said no one would dare attack the camp with you on guard."

Edith squinted slightly at the younger woman, "Did he now?"

"Ignore her," Ernest spoke up, more to protect himself from his beloved wife's wrath than out of any real sense of duty towards the truth, "The Appor also seem to have picked up an odd sense of humour somewhere around here. Sil-Ta-Dan was the first one of the Appor I met."

"Really?" commented Edith, who gazed suspiciously at the tall woman and her quite tight clothing. "Lucky you."

Something in Edith's tone told her spouse he would be spending yet another cold, uncomfortable night sleeping in the car.

Wan-Re-Fah wandered across to the parked vehicle and was in the process of gazing through the closed, dusty windows. He rapped gently on the smudged glass then ran his weather-beaten fingers along the brown exterior. The machine before the elderly Apporan fascinated him no end.

"Never before have I ever seen such a machine," he gasped, glancing about and managing to attract Ernest's attention. "Ernest Bonaparte, would it be possible to be shown how this device works?"

"Sure," Ernest responded, shrugging, "I don't see why not."

Fishing his set of ignition keys from out of a trouser pocket, he pulled open the driver's door and climbed inside. Once in position behind the steering wheel, he switched on the engine after the second attempt.

To his credit, the High Councillor stood his ground, refusing to yield to the fears he held about the odd machine. It would be well beneath his dignity to run away like a frightened child.

"Go to the other side," Ernest instructed, before shutting his door.

By the time the older man had walked around to the passenger's side of the car, the door was open and waiting for him. To Wan-Re-Fah, it resembled the gaping maw of some hungry monster wishing to devour him. Cautiously, he seated himself inside the waiting vehicle.

"Please shut the door," Ernest requested, patiently. "We wouldn't want a door knocked off the first time we drive past a tree."

Reaching across, the High Councillor managed to close his door.

The vehicle gently pulled itself into motion, causing the elder Apporan some concern over his wellbeing. He grabbed hold of his seat with both hands, watching through wide eyes as the scenery flashed past his window with ever-increasing speed. The station wagon located a track wide enough to move along without clipping half of the bushes and undergrowth in the region. At one stage of the short journey, the car was travelling at a considerable speed, blowing up a billow of dust in its wake. After five minutes, they returned to the campsite, watched closely by the gathered Apporans as the car came to an abrupt halt almost exactly in its former parking spot.

"A strange way of travelling," the elder man commented once he had safely alighted from the car.

"Says someone who flies around the countryside on a horse," Edith added wryly.

Ernest wandered back towards the small crowd who had gathered around his family as they and the Appor became acquainted with one another. Ernest Bonaparte realised as he approached these people he had never dreamed existed before this time, the Appor could be the solution to a great many troubles that had filled his mind over the last couple of days.
CHAPTER TWENTY

About two hours after fleeing the transferred stretch of highway, Sean Corrigin, Dale Johnstone and Connie York discovered another road. On this occasion, the thoroughfare looked to be a more primitive construction, as it lacked the trimmings of a modern freeway without lights, gutters or lane markers. Gazing the length of this road's slightly winding formation, Sean saw no signs of human life in the area, hostile or otherwise. There were also precious few places along the road for wanton villains to hide in ambush, as only a motley collection of small trees and shrubs littered the roadside.

"This looks interesting," Sean commented to his travelling companions, who were likewise scanning the region with a newly ingrained sense of self-preservation. The bandit attack had scared them into heightened vigilance.

"Do we follow it?" queried Dale.

Sean shrugged. "I don't see why not, Dale. After all, what's the worst that can happen?"

"Well for one thing, we could be brutally murdered by another gang of bandits," Connie offered with uncharacteristic pessimism.

"Nonsense!" Sean laughed. "After what happened to the last lot, I imagine they're spreading the word to their compatriots to steer well clear of us."

"You can't be sure of that," Dale countered. "I doubt the locals have any hi-tech communication systems judging by the look of them."

In fact, Dale was sorely mistaken. These marauders had at their disposal some effective, albeit rudimentary methods of communicating with their counterparts in the region.

"Let's get moving," the Irishman instructed. "We won't do ourselves any good standing around here waiting for disaster to strike."

Nodding in agreement, the two scientists followed Sean along the roadway.

Further along the road they came across a signpost jammed roughly into the ground. At least, they thought it was a road sign of some description. The characteristics that confused the three travellers were the strange symbols on the board comprising a collection of squiggles and lines, all of which conveyed absolutely no meaning to any of them.

"What the hell's that supposed to say?" Connie demanded.

"You've got me," Sean admitted, stepping closer to the post so he could study the object and its bewildering markings. "At a guess I'd say it's some sort of road sign."

Moving closer to the signpost, Dale reached up and ran his fingers across the odd hieroglyphics. He turned to the short Irishman who silently observed his movements. "Obviously it's a sign, but where to?"

"It's pointing in that direction," the other man stated the obvious, aiming a glove covered finger in the same direction. "I say we go that way and check it out. There could be a village, a town or even a city that way and right about now, I could really do with a good meal."

"I second the motion," Connie added.

A few loose white clouds wafted overhead as they walked at slightly brisker pace along the unpaved road. All eyes were constantly on the alert for any signs of possible bandit attack. At one point they spied a lone horseman on a dull brown horse in the distance, but on sighting the three travellers, the man and his horse bolted clear of the path, vanishing behind a nearby hill.

"Nice meeting you too, sport," Sean murmured. Although dissatisfied by the brief encounter, the three travellers were relieved to know there were other humans in the area that did not appear to be violent, and raised their hopes they were coming closer to some form of civilisation.

The crude road eventually led them through a narrow valley then up the moderate incline of a hill. At the crest, the trio halted, surprised and somewhat relieved to find the next valley contained the object of their search. The town below appeared to have been erected rather haphazardly, except most of the larger buildings were located directly beside the main street, which cut its way through the modest community and continued on to the distant horizon. The larger of the structures were only two storeys high and their functions were not obvious. The new arrivals could clearly see people wandering about the streets and stepping into and out of the various buildings. None of the townspeople appeared to have noticed the small group closely observing their movements.

"Quaint, ain't it?" Sean muttered, his voice displaying practiced neutrality.

"Well," Dale commented, "what are we waiting for? Let's go and introduce ourselves and hopefully get something a bit more nutritious to eat than chocolate bars."

Standing his ground, Sean continued his surveillance of this outpost of humanity. He silently wondered if his well-honed skills would be needed if the locals proved to harbour violent tendencies. He decided the only way to find out was to venture down to the small cluster of buildings. Caution in any unusual situation was always good practice, but the terrible hunger pangs screaming in his stomach needed to be sated right away.

With Connie at the lead, they made their way down to the township and its hopefully hospitable inhabitants. They had dealt with more than enough violent people for one day. This journey was admittedly fraught with risks. Their encounter with the thugs at the tollbooths had been at the odds of about three-to-one. Now they faced the prospect of fighting their way out of a reasonably populated town. The odds against them could be far greater.

Most of the township's buildings were constructed out of a mortar similar in texture to concrete, giving the impression they had been made in one piece at another location, hauled to this place and set into the ground like some sort of modular housing. The frontage of all of the structures had slightly elevated footpath to provide the townsfolk a walkway that prevented them from having to walk in the dirt or mud if the weather turned nasty. Amongst the buildings lining the main road, the newcomers located a tavern, a boarding house and a reasonable assortment of stores that sold everything from clothing to herbs and other basic food items and another shop that sold travelling provisions.

This store caught Connie's undivided attention. She stepped up to the window of the establishment and gazed inside with a mixture of curiosity and longing. While admiring an expertly displayed collection of canvas tents and other such camping equipment, she became aware of a small crowd gathering around her and her two companions. A couple had taken to staring at Sean, but a greater number were swarming about Dale. These people in their dull green and brown coloured garb stared at him in awe, along with no small measure of trepidation.

"What's their problem?" he demanded, never one to like being the centre of attention.

"Dale," Connie spoke up, "Look around and tell me what you see."

Frowning slightly, the tall scientist scanned the faces of the townspeople around him, their attire and the fact they were all...

"Let me guess," he grumbled, as the throng moved ever closer, "They've never seen a black man before!"

Neither of his companions needed to answer; the truth was blatantly obvious.

"I'm probably the only black person on the whole damn planet," Dale lamented, less than impressed with this revelation.

"That's okay!" Sean laughed, grinning cheekily. "I'm probably the only Irishman!"

"It's hardly the same thing, Sean." Dale rumbled in his deep voice. "Now what do I do?"

By this stage, about thirty local inhabitants had gathered around the group. None of them disguised their perplexity at the sight of the tall, black man and with every passing moment more of the stunned locals turned up to stare at the bemused scientist. One particularly brave denizen pulled an aged rag from out of his pocket and attempted to wipe Dale's face with it. The result was predictable.

"Get the hell away from me, you damn fool!" Dale exclaimed, pushing the villager's hand away.

The overly curious citizen tumbled backwards, falling onto the road's compacted dirt surface. Scrambling to his feet, the villager turned and sprinted from sight.

"Okay," Connie announced in her calmest voice. "I think we've had more than enough of this. We should pick up some supplies and get out of here, before the locals decide we're some sort of threat. Let's try to use the coins we found earlier on."

"I still don't think they're going to take US currency," Dale informed her, stepping through the throng of onlookers.

"Don't use them like cash," she insisted. "Trade the coins as if they're some sort of valuable medallions."

"Isn't that a Felony?"

"Who's to know, Dale?"

A girl of about twenty years of age approached Dale. She stared at him in the same awed manner of the other local people. A question came to mind in regards to a myth she had heard about people such as this tall, black man. "Are you from the Kingdom of Valouras?" she politely inquired.

At least she did not try to wipe the colour off his face.

"No," Dale answered. "Are you?"

"Why, no!" she retorted, obviously startled by his reply.

"Then what makes you think I am?"

"It is said the people of Valouras are dark-skinned such as yourself."

"Look, dear," he replied. "I've never heard of the place." He turned to his companions in this most unusual assembly. "Perhaps I was wrong about being the only black person here." The tall scientist returned his full attention back to the girl. "Where is this 'Valouras' place you mentioned?"

"To be honest, it is just a myth. You are the first of their kind I have ever seen."

"Lucky me, eh?"

The man Dale had scared only moments prior reappeared, followed closely by two tall, grim-faced men who were attired in a blue uniform of sorts, complete with a deep blue cloak. Both of them had their hands strategically placed on the hilt of the swords dangling at their sides.

The grin on Sean's unshaven features vanished. "Shit! It's the cops!"

Connie looked from him to the approaching men then back again. "How do you know they're police?"

"Take my word for it."

The slightly elder of the two men stepped forward, his expression betraying the irritation he felt over this extremely disorganised gathering in the middle of town. He inspected the increasing crowd then peered at the three strange newcomers standing in a group on a shop walkway. He paid scant attention to either Connie or Sean; Dale was an entirely different matter. The uniformed man stared at him, mouth agape. After hesitating momentarily, he quickly gathered his thoughts. "Disperse this meeting immediately!" the Rider commanded in a fashion indicating he was used to his instructions being followed.

Slowly and reluctantly, the townspeople moved away from the shop. Once the gathering had more or less dissipated, the man in charge of order in this settlement marched straight up to Dale and inspected him at close quarters. The other armed man remained a couple of paces behind, poised to intervene if required to do so.

"Where are you three people from?" the elder Rider demanded.

"Why don't you mind your own damn business?" Sean retorted, standing near the Rider.

Before anyone present at this tense gathering could respond, Dale abruptly found the business end of his interrogator's sword under his chin. He realised one wrong move by either himself or his friends could land him in hospital--or worse. Assuming this town had such a facility at its disposal.

"I am Jericar, Lead Rider of The Order in this town."

"If you're taking orders, I'll have a beer," Sean quipped. Much to his companions' dismay, they saw he was now brandishing the sawn-off shotgun in his left hand.

"Silence!" Jericar snapped, his sword still at Dale's throat. "You shall accompany me to the regional office. I intend to get answers about your arrival to this place."

That was when Sean pointed his weapon at the other Rider and pulled the trigger.

Only Connie's quick intervention stopped the startled man from catching a full blast from the gun's shortened barrels straight in the face. Instead, as the weapon was knocked in an upward direction, the blast slammed into the upper floor of a nearby building. A number of windows shattered and small holes perforated the mortar work. Dust scoured up by this damage was caught in the breeze and carried away.

Stunned by such a display of open hostility, Jericar remained affixed to the spot. Realising his weapon was now empty, but also figuring these local law enforcement officers had no way of knowing this fact, Sean stepped closer to the Rider. In one swift movement, he raised the discharged gun up to the other man's face. "One wrong move from you, sunshine and you'll be the worst stain in this pigsty of a town! Now drop the sword!"

Not surprisingly, the cloaked man did exactly as he had been instructed. The razor sharp blade landed on the timber walkway at his feet, sending out a clattering report on impact with the hard surface. Jericar gazed at the enraged Irishman in awe and fear. "My apologies," he intoned, "I did not realise you could do such things."

"Well, now you know." Placing the gun back into the seemingly depthless folds of his coat, Sean smiled thinly at the Lead Rider, who was still pale and shaking slightly after his brief encounter with a grisly death. "Now," he murmured, still smiling. "Where's this office you wanted to take us to? I think there's a couple of things we need to sort out."

Introductions were made between the trio and the two Riders. Sean was the only one reluctant to give out his name; it went against every fiber in his being. He was not used to volunteering detailed personal information to anyone of authority.

Sean also noticed the shotgun blast had sent all the locals hiding well out of sight as he and his companions joined the Riders to wander slowly through the town towards their regional office.

***

A shower of bright, hot sparks flew from the ends of two naked wires the instant they came into contact with one another. This unexpected reaction to his experiment caused Victor Chan to startle and lose his precarious balance. Almost toppling from the makeshift platform he had constructed in front of the airlock door, he steadied himself with one hand. He then switched off the power to both exposed wires. This business was going to be even more difficult than he had first imagined.

So far, he had spent nearly all morning playing around with the manual door lever, eventually realising such a tactic was entirely useless. He had then managed to reroute power down from the solar panels positioned on what remained of the mansion's roof. In this way, he had partially reactivated the segmented doorway's power in the hope of opening the entrance to the Minerva Project laboratory. Nevertheless, the door refused point-blank to budge even slightly. Pausing briefly, the team doctor allowed himself some time to consider his problem. When all available options fail miserably, try something else.

He picked up the two deactivated wires in the control panel and tied them together, hoping this would perform the minor miracle required to allow him to gain access through the defiant door and into the lab. When this task was complete, he reactivated the panel and waited. Emitting a barely audible hydraulic hiss, the airlock door slid wide open, displaying the lab's darkened interior.

"Yes!" Victor exclaimed. His loud exuberance seemed out of place in the peacefulness of the deep forest and his sudden, unplanned motion caused him to overbalance and fall from the makeshift work platform. He crashed unceremoniously into the cold, hard ground a good metre and a half below.

"Shit!" Grumbling irritably to himself, he staggered back to his feet, readjusted his spectacles then slowly climbed back up to the platform and the agape lab door. First on his mental list of tasks to perform was to reactivate the lights within the large room. It was as dark as a bear pit in there, even with the emergency lighting. Stepping across the room to a bank of controls located on one wall, the doctor used the meager available illumination to play with the touch-sensitive control pads. He continued this process for about five minutes without success. The chamber was still disturbingly dark.

"What's wrong!" he grumbled, his taut features a dull red under the glare of the reserve lighting. There was no way known he could work under these conditions. The situation was bad enough without having to rummage about the interior of this room with only minimal lighting.

"Got it!" Racing back outside, he initiated the automatic hold on the door so the entrance would not reseal itself at an unexpected and probably most inopportune time. Being locked inside Minerva Project lab could well prove disastrous. Next, Victor rerouted the power from the solar panels directly into the chamber. His hope was to first activate the lights then eventually, resurrect every other non-functioning piece of equipment. Once this had been completed, he held the faint hope of figuring out what had gone wrong with the Minerva Project's first test run and reverse the process. Either that, or he would blow himself and what remained of the building, as well as a good portion of the forest to smithereens in the process.

Now back inside the lab, he discovered the controls for the lights responsive to his touch. Responding to his fingertips' demands, the lights within the room abruptly activated, bathing the room in a strong, brilliant light.

"That's much better," he stated in appreciation of this minor miracle of science.

Scanning the chamber, Victor could clearly see that nothing was really amiss. His main concerns about entering the area was the possibility the malevolent bright, white light would still be present, or the dead bodies of his co-workers would be inside the lab still positioned at their workstations. But everything inside the lab was in a peaceful state of hibernation due to the lack of power, and there was no sign of his colleagues.

Victor Chan smiled. In a short time all this was about to change.

***

Marching in a group, the two Riders and three unusually attired newcomers to the town moved along the now deserted main street. Every so often, a collection of curious, staring faces appeared from around a corner or behind a partially curtained shop window. The local people gazed in trepidation and fascination at the procession, their main focus being the tall, dark man who appeared to be either unaware or uninterested in the stares launched in his direction.

"They're staring at me again," Dale Johnstone grumbled.

"Just ignore them," Connie York instructed him.

The group marched around the corner of this thoroughfare towards a less respectable quarter of the modest town. Still closely observed by numerous members of the local community, the three outsiders were escorted by the Riders straight into their office. Directly opposite this single storey building was what appeared to be a drinking establishment.

"I would advise you all to steer well clear of that particular saloon," Jericar explained, eyeing the building with disdain. "We purposely placed the regional office across the street to discourage wayward behaviour. As yet, this has not proven successful. Almost every night there is some unsavoury incident that requires our attention. If you require beverages, there are certainly much more respectable establishments to be found in Enwardous. Later, I will be more than pleased to escort you to one of these places."

The Rider's regional office was a simple affair comprising of a minor assortment of small rooms. The first room was furnished with a couple of wooden benches, a large desk, a cloak rack and a fireplace, although the fire was unlit. The front window to the office was made of a number of panels of clear, crude glass that appeared to be abnormally thick, presumably to repel any assaults by any inhabitants of the town of Enwardous not overly impressed by the Riders' peacekeeping duties.

"Please follow me," Jericar instructed, walking into the next room, which was a great deal more lavishly furnished than the front office.

"This is my private office," he informed his guests. "We should be able to talk freely in here without being disturbed by any overly curious townsfolk."

The three Earthlings placed themselves on the available padded seats and lounges and waited patiently. Their two hosts relieved themselves of their swords, which were placed in a glass weapons case.

The second Rider took a seat on a lounge beside Connie. Jericar stepped across to a polished timber cabinet, opened the doors and pulled out a decorative glass bottle containing a light brown liquid. From out of another part of the cabinet, he removed some crystal goblets and placed them on a side table.

"You may find this drink to your taste," he commented, pouring a measure of the liquor into each glass. "I can tell you this for a fact; it is far better than anything to be found in any of the local taverns."

All this time Sean kept an eye on the Rider who was seated beside Connie.

They all gratefully accepted the glasses of liquor, sipping their respective drinks cautiously at first. The taste was something similar to a strong port. Sean sniffed the liquid suspiciously, then, satisfied it was safe, finished his drink off in a single large gulp. He looked appreciatively at the now empty glass. "Not a bad little drop," he stated thoughtfully. "Although, I usually prefer something with a bit more of a kick to it."

The Lead Rider refilled his guest's glass.

"You should take care, Sean Corrigin," he informed the seated man. "This liquor has a subtle bite to its nature. I have seen many people succumb to its effect in a short time."

"Don't you concern yourself about me, Jericar. We've been roaming about your rather picturesque countryside for some time while stone cold sober. Well, most of the time. Just keep pouring and I'll tell you when to stop."

Sean glanced across the room. That bastard in the pretty blue cape was edging closer to Connie.

"We could really do with something to eat," Connie announced.

Bingo! Sean leaned across to the junior Rider. "Hey, whatever your name is! How about you run along and get us something decent to eat?"

A crestfallen expression that the Irishman found highly amusing swept across the uniformed youth's face as he looked towards his senior partner for some sort of support in this matter. He was looking in the wrong direction.

Jericar gazed back at him, wondering with some measure of irritation why his subordinate appeared reluctant to accept their guest's request. He nodded his head to the younger Rider in approval of this plan to acquire decent meals for the three odd visitors to their township.

Less than pleased with his assigned task, the junior Rider stood up, retrieved his sword, and stormed from the office. He took great care on leaving the building to slam the front door as a sign of his disapproval. The Lead Rider frowned, mystified by this unexpected bout of petulant behaviour by the normally polite, even-tempered young man under his command.

"I wonder what his problem is," Sean commented, barely able to contain his amusement.

"While he has gone to gather your meals," Jericar declared seriously, "we need to discuss your presence here."

Sean was a touch less impressed by this announcement. Handing over his name had been bad enough. To divulge any further details was going too far. Much to his dismay, both of his friends began readily detailing their misadventures since arriving at this town. They also saw fit to divulge some information concerning the mysterious Minerva Project and the fact that the term 'not from these parts' extended to way beyond the next county. The Lead Rider listened with undivided attention, nodding at various times and occasionally raised an eyebrow in surprise. Clearly these travellers were in need of the Riders' assistance.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

At least the wind had died down to some extent since this morning. Unfortunately, the rain continued to bear down on Colin Bourke in an unrelenting deluge. The torrential downpour had soaked him to the bone. Arms folded in a vain effort to maintain a modicum of body warmth; he marched onwards, each step splashing cold rainwater about his feet. This was not a pleasant way to spend a day.

Above him, a grey ceiling of rain clouds stretched effortlessly from one horizon to the other. To make matters worse, Colin had not been able to locate even the most humble of shelters from the miserable weather since departing his prior haven a day ago. There were no caves, trees of any size, overhanging ledges or manmade structures to be found in this desolate, continuously rolling terrain. Climbing to the top of yet another grass-covered hill, he scanned the seemingly endless landscape of the accursed things.

"This really sucks!" Colin realised that if he did not acquire food and shelter sometime in the near future he would be in extremely poor shape, both physically and mentally.

Almost as though reading his miserable thoughts, the vindictive weather abruptly changed; but not for the better. The clouds darkened to a menacing hue and seconds later, the first long, loud blast of angry thunder detonated across the sky, shaking the unspectacular land beneath Colin's feet. To his dismay, one bout of thunder after another rumbled down from the sky as if all the gods in the heavens had decided to take their fury out on this lone, miserable wanderer.

The orchestral performance in the clouds was so loud it would have impressed Beethoven, but it failed to concern Colin in the slightest. However, the blinding bolts of lightning that proceeded to smash into the ground around him were an entirely different matter. Turning away from the approaching electrical storm, Colin ran as fast as his aching feet could carry him across the uneven terrain. A huge bolt of lightning blasted the very hilltop on which he had been standing only moments ago. Throwing himself to the ground, a multitude of lightning strikes detonated about the area in a spectacular but terrifying display.

Colin knew it was only a matter of time before one of these deadly lashes of natural electricity found him as he lay in the open, cowering from their fearsome power. Continuing to recoil in a shallow pool of muddy water, he gazed about the vicinity as the heavy rain unrelentingly pummelled his sore, tired body.

To his relief, he discovered a narrow rock ledge located well within reach. Scrambling on all fours, he quickly made his way to the ledge and jammed his drenched and half-frozen body beneath its protective form. Once there, despite finding it highly uncomfortable, he watched with building apprehension as even greater volumes of rain and lightning plummeted onto the drenched ground. One bolt struck the small valley he was hiding in, sending hot rock shrapnel scattering across the ground. One of these sharp, heated shards struck him in the face, drawing a tiny amount of blood. The red liquid trickled down his face to eventually drop and mingle with the rainwater pooling about his form.

"Are we having fun yet?" Colin grumbled to himself. "No, not at all."

Gradually the lightning and fearsome thunder grew increasingly spasmodic before abating altogether. The torrential rain also lightened up to become little more than a mild drizzle. With his head resting on one arm, Colin patiently waited until all signs of the extremely hazardous weather had dissipated. He did not wish to continue this daunting, seemingly impossible journey only to be caught out in the open by another deadly electrical storm.

In the not too distant future, bad weather would be the least of Colin Bourke's concerns.

***

The small town of Carous was completely different to the larger settlement of Enwardous that Connie York and her associates had entered earlier in the day. The main street of this glorified village was little more than a wide, muddy track positioned between two clusters of mostly single level stone and mortar buildings. A handful of local people wandered about the area in no particular hurry, while a couple of groomed horses were tied to a vertical hitching rail positioned outside the largest structure in the township. Wafts of light grey smoke climbed from chimneys jutting from several buildings, only to be carried away by a gentle breeze.

Sitting astride Rell, who was less than amused at the extra weight, Immir Hanis and Lorraine Montague studied this outpost of civilisation as they rode along the main street. Tufts of mud sprayed up from the horse's constantly pounding hooves as the heavily burdened mount ambled along in a reasonably straight line.

Immir Hanis expertly guided his overloaded mount towards the only double storey building in sight. After climbing down from the saddle, he tied Rell's reigns to a handy hitching post. The horse remained motionless, his disposition firmly set on 'unimpressed'.

"We will find the other Riders inside this place," Immir Hanis informed Lorraine, assisting her onto the veranda. "But first it is necessary to acquire accommodation for us both. The rooms are well kept and the food is reasonably good."

"What's the chance of getting a hot bath?" Lorraine glanced down in disgust at herself. Since the disastrous mishap in the laboratory, her clothes had become torn, wet and mud splattered, not to mention covered in an interesting array of leaves and twigs from half of the foliage to be located in the region. And of course, her shoes were ruined.

"A bath should be readily available," Immir Hanis informed her, likewise inspecting her less than presentable attire. "If I may be so bold as to say so; your clothing and footwear also require some attention. There is a local seamstress who works cheaply."

"I'm afraid I don't have any money."

"For the time being, please leave such things to me. After all, you have been courteous enough to provide me with a suitably impressive tale to tell my fellow Riders. Such a gift should not go unrewarded."

"If you say so, Immir Hanis," the scientist responded, flashing a light smile.

Stepping inside the village tavern, she discovered herself standing in a brightly illuminated chamber complete with a collection of chairs, long timber benches and a couple of simple candelabras dangling precariously from the flat ceiling. A burning fire in a stone fireplace radiated some much needed warmth across the room. Along one wall was a highly polished bar, behind which stood an elderly woman with grey hair and a pleasant smile. She aimed this smile at the newly arrived Rider, but appeared at a loss about Lorraine.

"Immir Hanis!" she chortled, "Where have you been? The others have been expecting your arrival now for about two days. And who is your pretty friend? And why is she wearing men's trousers?"

Lorraine again stared down at her ripped, dirty clothing. Her expensive, high quality jeans in their current condition did resemble men's pants. She also realised jeans were not the latest fashion trend in this new world. There it was again: 'New world'. She was never going to get used to that term floating around in her befuddled mind.

"This is an acquaintance of mine, Lorraine Montague," the Rider informed the old woman. "Lorraine, this is Retar Sahir, the owner of this most pleasant inn."

"This is the finest tavern in all of Phornimiren!" the woman announced to anyone who happened to be listening, although the taproom was otherwise deserted. "Take the two rooms on the east side," the innkeeper instructed, nodding her head towards the staircase leading in that direction. "I have just had those rooms cleaned and the bed sheets washed."

"Where are the others?" he inquired, his tone strangely serious.

"Upstairs, in the usual place."

"My thanks," the Rider responded.

Immir Hanis guided his companion up the only flight of stairs to a nearby guest room. Here, she discovered a comfortable-looking double bed, a small fire burning in a central fireplace, rugs on the polished floorboards and a couple of paintings hanging in various places on the walls. The item of greatest interest to her was a portable copper bathtub sitting in one corner of the pleasant room. Stepping across to inspect this basic bath facility, she noticed all of the rear windows to her new room faced out to the surrounding forest. As she gazed into the woods, a grey deer wandered from out of the undergrowth to graze on some grass near a clearing. This image sent her mind reeling back to recent times on Earth. A pang of regret coursed through her mind and body. Would she ever get back home to see her family and friends? To her surprise, a couple of tears escaped her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

"Are you unwell?" Immir Hanis cautiously inquired, standing at the open doorway. He would never have conceived of the idea to enter a lady's room without her permission.

Wiping her face, she turned to her gracious escort, an indefinable smile etched lightly on her dirt-smeared features. "Yes. I'm just fine, thank you."

"That is good. I will see that Retar Sahir has her staff attend to your needs."

He turned to leave.

"Immir Hanis!" Lorraine called to him. "Once again, thank you for everything. I don't know what I would have done out there if you hadn't turned up."

Smiling, the Rider bowed lightly to her. "It is my pleasure, Lorraine Montague," he stated, grabbing the door handle to close it. "Later, you may wish to join me in The Order's regional office for a meal and something to drink. Just ask the staff for its whereabouts. Now, if you will excuse me, I am destined to locate my fellow Riders and tease them mercilessly about my, I mean, our recent adventure."

Without another word, he firmly shut the door, leaving Lorraine Montague alone in the very silent room.

***

The Order's Regional Office in Carous turned out to be just a large single room located in the rear section of the tavern. This room came complete with its own tiny kitchen and a private bar. Inside this area, three men of varying ages, all dressed in a similar manner, bantered in a friendly fashion. The measure of ale each participant had consumed during their debate caused them to talk in louder than normal voices. Occasionally, one of the establishment's staff wandered into the room, collected the empty drinking mugs, made note of any food orders, then darted away without saying another word.

"I tell you truthfully, Loterin," Immir Hanis' voice carried down the hallway. "This fearsome beast stood taller than three full-grown men..."

"Wait!" Loterin, the Lead Rider at Carous blurted, his voice even louder than the other man's. "When this tale of yours was first told, this beast stood only the height of two men! Are you telling us it grew while you were doing battle with it?"

Immir Hanis had to give the question significant thought before providing an answer. Even though the other Riders present in the room had consumed more alcohol than he, they were still in reasonable possession of their mental faculties.

"This ferocious monster," he continued, "possessed such speed and stealth that during this mighty battle, it appeared to be altering its height right before my very eyes!"

The other Riders' language became extremely colourful at this point. For some inexplicable reason, they appeared not to believe a single word Immir Hanis was saying during their impromptu gathering. It was a most distressing predicament for Immir Hanis, who prided himself on his high level of integrity, even if this integrity did tend to lapse under the duress of a couple of mugs of the inn's strong ale.

"So tell me this, Immir Hanis," the youngest Rider present inquired, "How did you finally dispatch this horrendous, and I might add, height-altering monster, who was threatening the fair maiden?"

"Is that doubt I hear in your words, Ulac Zat?"

Ulac Zat nodded in complete contradiction to his response. "I would never doubt you, Immir Hanis. All the population of the entire Hamaforth Kingdoms know you are a bastion of honesty."

The truth was the junior Rider seriously doubted there had ever been a savage bird-like beast, or a fair maiden. As far as he was concerned, the only monster Immir Hanis had battled had emerged straight out of a bottle. However, it was considered exceedingly impolite amongst any members of The Order to call another member a blatant liar, so for the time being the other Riders allowed their recently returned companion to spin his far-fetched fable.

"The creature," Immir Hanis continued, his eagerness not at all blunted by the expressions of doubt on his companions' faces, "sprang at me with remarkable speed, venom dripping from its fangs..."

"Venom!" Loterin roared in shock. "Tell me, did this evil beast also possess a loaded crossbow?"

Immir Hanis motioned as if to leave the room. "It is not in my oath to The Order to put up with the drunken taunts of my fellow Riders."

"Stay! Please!" the Lead Rider insisted. "We both give our solemn word to remain silent while you continue your amusing story."

Once again seated, Immir Hanis continued, "As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted..."

Loterin rolled his eyes.

"The creature, which did not carry a crossbow nor any other manmade weapon, attacked my person with truly incredible viciousness. For most of the day..."

"What!"

"Please do not continue these interruptions!"

"Sorry."

"The enraged monster made many attempts to find a weak spot in my well-trained defences, but failed miserably. Then just as I was beginning to tire badly, it made a most shocking mistake in its strategy. Falling too close to my reach with a sword, the beast realised its mistake, but it was too late. With one final thrust of my sword, I removed the beast's gruesome head, which found its way up into the branches of the tallest tree." He paused for dramatic effect. "But, to my amazement, the body continued fighting!"

Loterin placed one hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"With further strokes from my sword, I took a terrible toll on the headless body until all signs of life were permanently extinguished. Once I fully recovered from my ordeal, I assisted the maiden, Lorraine Montague, from her imprisonment in the mighty tree and then made it my solemn duty to escort her through the dangerous woods to Carous."

Ulac Zat leant across the table towards his fellow and slightly senior Rider. Enough was enough. "Immir Hanis, that is without a doubt the mightiest pile of horse..."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

All three men turned towards the petite figure standing in the doorway.

Lorraine now wore a light grey dress that was of reasonable fit--although the hem did brush the floor, as the former owner must have been a touch taller than the scientist. Her face and blonde hair were now free from any dirt and grime, having spent a good thirty minutes soaking in a tub of hot, soapy water. On her feet was a pair of soft leather shoes.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you?" she politely inquired.

"You were right, Immir Hanis," Loterin muttered somewhat absently as he stared at the woman. "She is quite the gorgeous maiden."

Lorraine stared at the Rider.

Immir Hanis' face went bright red.

Eyes wide in bewilderment, Ulac Zat gazed at the pretty blonde woman. He then turned to stare across the table at Immir Hanis. This turn of events truly shocked him. "So you were speaking the truth!"

Immir Hanis shrugged. "Was there ever any doubt in your mind?"

All three Riders stepped back from the table as Lorraine joined them. They waited until she had been properly seated before reclaiming their original positions.

"I hate you for this!" Ulac Zat grumbled in complete disbelief.

The other Rider grinned in triumph.

"I owe you a humble apology," Loterin added, realising there would be no living with Immir Hanis and his burgeoning ego from this moment on.

"Apology accepted."

"I was not speaking to you," Loterin stated. "I owe the apology to Lorraine Montague."

"Please, just call me 'Lorraine'."

"There was a time when I seriously doubted your existence. I felt you were little more than a figment of Immir Hanis' rather overactive imagination. Again, he is quite correct in his assessment. You are a breathtaking maiden."

She stared at him in shock. "I beg your pardon?"

"The man always was a hopeless show-off," the Lead Rider continued. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell when he is being truthful, or if his mighty imagination has once again just overridden common sense."

"Please forgive him," Immir Hanis added. "He is getting old and developing a feeble mind."

"And you are forgetting your manners," Lorraine hinted, smiling coyly at the men.

"Of course. Lorraine, these are my brother Riders in The Order. The grey-haired, slightly senile one is Loterin, the Lead Rider in Carous. The other miscreant is Ulac Zat, a newer member to our affiliation."

Loterin reached across the table to take one of Lorraine's hands in both of his own. "If there is anything I can do to be of service for you, Lorraine Montague, simply ask."

"Loterin is a hopeless womaniser," Immir Hanis quickly advised Lorraine.

"Now was that comment really necessary, Immir Hanis?"

While the barbed conversation continued, a tavern barmaid entered the office. She carried a sizable tray containing a couple of plates that held piping hot food. Carefully and without uttering a word, the girl placed the tray onto the occupied table, smiled politely at the group then left.

"Oh, that reminds me," Lorraine piped up cheerfully. "About that other matter." She gazed at the contents of the food on the tray and silently wondered what it had been in its past life, "I wouldn't throw the title 'maiden' in my direction. After all, I am twenty-seven years old."

"Years?" Loterin repeated, frowning in confusion.

Despite the interruption, Lorraine continued, "Well, let's just say I'm old enough to have been around the block a few times."

To her surprise, the three blue-garbed men blushed profusely. Immir Hanis' face was by far the most colourful, as he had boasted to his fellow Riders about this attractive woman's virtue.

"Please, Lorraine!" Immir Hanis wailed plaintively, "There are some things one does not discuss at the dinner table!" He was immensely disappointed by this revelation from his honoured guest. His story would have sounded so much better if he had rescued an actual maiden, not a woman who in her own words had 'been around the block a couple of times'.

At this point, Lorraine felt a pang of melancholy. Considering her current circumstances, she realised there was little chance she would ever see her family members or friends again. This heartbreaking realisation swept over her like a shroud as she sat at the table. Nothing would ever be the same. Lorraine reluctantly placed a heated plate in front of her and began eating only to satisfy her hunger.

***

Although the rain still pelted down onto the sodden ground, the deadly lightning strikes had long since ceased tearing up the countryside. Soaked to the skin, Colin Bourke finally rolled out from under his protective rock shelf. He paused momentarily to gaze up at the dark, murky sky. The storm clouds, though still an endless grey carpet across the afternoon sky, had lightened up enough to give him some hope of an eventual end to the downpour. Any further exposure to the miserable weather would only lead to a continual decline in his already ailing health. The last thing he needed was to contract a case of full-blown pneumonia. Pulling his waterlogged leather jacket around him as tightly as possible, Colin continued his enforced journey without a destination, knowing full well if he stopped in one place for too long he would simply curl up on the spot and die.

***

By mid-afternoon, the squad had, thankfully, stumbled across a primitive road, though the thoroughfare was lacking in any modern facilities. Any sign of humanity was a huge step up from the vast expanse of untouched wilderness. While the regular troops rested their tired, heavily punished feet, Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw conducted a closer inspection of the thoroughfare. He gazed along both directions of the slightly meandering road in an attempt to figure out which way would lead them to civilisation.

He had long since realised both he and his troops could only survive for a certain length of time with the limited rations they carried in their kits. Admittedly, only about half of the enlisted men had managed to bring along their kits. The occasional animal they caught and ate sustained them, but this was a short-term solution at best. They desperately needed to acquire further supplies. This road was, hopefully, a step in the right direction. Bradshaw continued his surveillance of the otherwise deserted road without comment.

A man riding a dull brown horse came into view over the nearest hill. Apparently, this individual was in something of a hurry as he was mercilessly whipping his mount with what appeared to be a small branch. The animal beneath him was obviously in some physical distress about its unsavoury treatment as the poor creature was huffing violently and covered in a liberal coat of foamy perspiration.

Sergeant Major Bradshaw took umbrage to this behaviour as the horseman galloped ever closer. Stepping to the centre of the road, he waited patiently for the horse and its abusive passenger to come within reach.

The animal and its shabbily dressed owner slowed directly before the NCO, who now held aloft one hand as a signal for him to come to a halt: No matter how much of a rush he was in.

By now, most of Bradshaw's greatly decreased company had retrieved their loaded firearms. They wanted to be ready in case they were required to intervene in this matter. There was no telling what sort of violent lunatics were running about the countryside on this weird planet.

"Get out of the way, you fool!" the horseman bellowed.

"Now, now," Bradshaw murmured. "There is no need for that sort of uncivil behaviour, sir. All I require is a bit of information, then you may go about your business."

"You talk strangely," the horseman observed, staring down at the red and black uniformed man with the utmost suspicion. "And what sort of clothing is that? Are you a member of The Order?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about, sir. However, I was wondering if there is a town near here and if so, in what direction?"

The man pointed in the direction he had come from only seconds earlier.

The horse beneath him bucked sideways, bringing an instant response from its owner. He viciously lashed the animal a couple of times with the crude whip.

Calmly reaching out with one hand, Bradshaw latched onto the terrified animal's reins in an effort to keep the creature reasonably still. "Sir, how far is it to this town?"

"About half a day's walk from here," the angry horseman explained.

"Do you mean to tell me you have been riding that poor animal all this time?"

"Do not be so stupid! It took only about half that time by horse!"

Almost as if to prove his superiority to the odd man with the white whiskers, the horseman struck his mount once more with the stick. On this occasion, the beating left a red welt across the animal's hide. The man stared at Bradshaw, an inane grin across his unshaven features.

The sergeant major's response was swift and to the point. He stepped back two strides then called out an order to one of the men in his charge: "Private Carlton! Discharge your rifle!"

Instinctively obeying this command, Jim Carlton pointed his Martini Henri rifle towards the sky as the soldiers around him stepped back to a safe distance. The resulting discharge of the weapon created such a panic from the horse that it immediately launched its full mass high into the air. Naturally, the panicked animal's occupant likewise went skyward in a swift, single motion. The horse landed safely on all fours, while its owner crashed heavily on the ground. He lay there stunned into silence for a minute while his wayward mount bolted up the road, away from the sudden thunderous discharge and its abusive owner. Moaning wearily, the man rolled onto his back. To his amazement, a strong pair of hands clasped the front of his dirty tunic and unceremoniously hauled him upright. Once the townsman's eyesight cleared, he found himself staring into a face that was strangely expressionless but radiated no small measure of anger.

"Can you hear me, sir?" Bradshaw inquired.

The man gave a haphazard nod of his aching head.

"Very good. Now you listen to me, you scruffy, little swine. Nothing, but nothing is lower than a man who beats a helpless animal, especially when the animal in question has already been badly overused. Is this clearly understood, you grub? Or would you care for a first hand demonstration of what it feels like to be beaten with a stick?"

The remainder of the unit gathered around to watch this spectacle. Nothing pleased them quite as much as when the sergeant major was focusing his dreaded attention on someone other than themselves. It was also rather amusing, as they had never picked their NCO as an animal lover.

Having thoroughly expressed himself, Bradshaw gave the still senseless man a good shove followed by a particularly brutal kick to the rear end.

Not wishing to continue the conversation, the horseless man ran from the area in a staggering sort of gait. Never once did he bother to look back to the scene of his humiliating denouncement.

"What are you all staring at?" Bradshaw bellowed the very instant he caught sight of the other soldiers gazing at him, grinning in a most foolish fashion.

Instantly they all leapt to their feet.

"Now that you have all had a nice long rest," he informed them--it had been all of ten minutes since they had halted at this place by the road, "We can recommence your favourite thing... marching in a nice straight line! There appears to be a town close by and with something akin to an effort, we should reach it before sundown. If there is anyone who does not agree with this plan, shut up and keep your idiotic opinions to yourself! Now, let's move!"

Once again, the redcoat unit proceeded with their enforced march. At least now they had a destination to focus on. Hopefully, this next bout of travelling would lead them to a place of some comfort and safety.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Stepping onto the timber walkway, Sean Corrigin stretched then directed his gaze skyward. The sun was hanging quite low over the horizon. By his reckoning, the time was about four o'clock in the afternoon, although on this odd planet he had no way of telling if his estimate was indeed correct. Such a virtually timeless state of mind concerned Sean as he stood affixed to the spot while a handful of local townsfolk wandered past, staring at his peculiar mode of attire. Hearing the distinct sounds of footsteps behind him, he turned to see Connie York and Dale Johnstone leaving The Order's regional office with the Lead Rider, Jericar following behind. Like Sean, his eyes were alert for any signs of possible danger. During the course of the afternoon, they had discussed numerous topics in the Rider's office, the main one being the characteristics of life in the Hamaforth Kingdoms.

The three Earthlings were less than impressed by a variety of facts they had been told by their two hosts. Two important pieces of information had surfaced: Firstly, keep well away from the Azzil Territories and secondly, never even mention a nation called 'Blurican'. For some reason beyond the limited grasp of the new arrivals to this world, Jericar refused point-blank to discuss this distant northern country other than his initial warning. It was as though even to mention the name was beneath his dignity. Jericar also made the extraordinary comment that he was astounded they could fluently speak the native tongue of the Hamaforth Kingdoms as if they were born here. Given he spoke near perfect English this seemed a strange statement, even though his mouth moved slightly out of co-ordination with his words.

Jericar and the junior Rider were also highly disturbed to hear their charges' story about the transferred length of roadway now in their sector; they were even more alarmed at the news of the vicious bandit attack. It occurred to both Riders that the new arrivals in their midst could be suffering some sort of physiological malady, but they doubted their guests were purposely lying to them, as all three appeared to be honest, intelligent beings.

"These robbers and murderers you speak of are called Anhil," the Lead Rider had informed them, his features twisted in distaste. "Usually they do not bother to attack groups of people; these cowards prefer assailing lone travellers. They are becoming far too bold for my liking. I will have to send word of this matter to The Order's Elite Command in Valderhien."

"Where do we go from here?" Sean asked his companions once the meeting had broken up.

"I think we should stick to the original game plan," Connie announced. "If we keep moving, we might just get lucky and find the lab or someone else from the Minerva Project team. If Dale and I can find each other, then anything's possible."

Jericar wanted the three wanderers to travel with him to the Hamaforth capital city of Valderhien. He believed his superiors at Elite Command were more likely to believe his fanciful tale if supported by the strange travellers' immediate presence.

Connie had instantly rejected his proposal. She felt that if they became directly involved in the country's bureaucracy, there would be no getting free to pursue their ultimate goal of finding the lab, assuming it was on this world with them.

Somewhat reluctantly, Jericar agreed with her request they be allowed to leave of their own free will. He also promised to keep an ear out for any news concerning anyone else involved in this 'Minerva Project'. He was secretly delighted to be a participant in their quest, even if it was only a peripheral role.

After leaving the office, the trio took in the sights of Enwardous and its people, most of who stared in a bewildered fashion at Dale. Even the furious glare of both Riders accompanying them was not enough to divert the townspeople's curious attention. There was no escaping the fact the tall African American stood out in the crowd.

"I'm really starting to get fed up with this shit," Dale declared, staring angrily back at the onlookers.

"Move along!" Jericar commanded to the building throng of townspeople. Fortunately, his stern voice and authoritative stare was enough to send them scurrying elsewhere. Some of the male population of the town were paying particular attention to the attractive scientist during her exploration of Enwardous. However, this was far less concerning than anything her colleague was experiencing.

"We really have to do something about you," Connie stated, watching the townspeople reluctantly move on.

"Somehow, I don't like the sound of that suggestion," Dale responded.

"You'll be okay," she reassured him, flashing a mischievous smile. "But right now we have to get money and accommodation before nightfall. Spending one night under the stars was kind of quaint, but it's not something I want to do on a regular basis."

"If you go to the stores I told you about," the Lead Rider insisted, "you will find them to be honest traders who will give you a fair price for anything you may possess that is of any value. Also, the guesthouse at the far end of town is a respectable establishment run by a kindly woman of good name. She will provide you all with clean, if somewhat sparse rooms and good food. Although, she does have the unsavoury habit of rousing her guests out of their rooms at an uncivil time of the morning."

"That's alright," Connie replied. "We won't be staying long. It's been a pleasure talking to you, Jericar. And thanks for the information."

The Lead Rider gave a slight bow. "The pleasure is all mine, Connie York. I wish you all the best of luck with your travels. And if I do discover any useful information, I will do my utmost to relay these details to you as soon as possible."

After the Riders took their leave, the travellers wandered about town, inevitably attracting a following of curious onlookers. Stopping near an alleyway, the trio equally divided up their collection of coins acquired from the gaming machine. Their fortunate bounty was deposited in whatever pockets they had available.

Sean gazed down at his collection of coins as he stuffed them into his jacket pockets. "How much are we supposed to get for these things, Connie?"

"Damned if I know. Just do the best you can. We'll meet back here in about thirty minutes and see how we're doing. I'm sort of hoping we'll have enough of the local currency for at least a night's room and board."

Not saying another word, they quickly wandered off separately into various side streets in whatever direction caught their interest. The stores they had been informed about were located in various parts of the town. Despite the random nature of their bargaining expedition, all three realised their future survival depended on this rather bizarre scavenger hunt for supplies.

***

The rain had mercifully stopped, but a terribly bitter wind had taken its place as the weather continued to mercilessly torture and torment Colin Bourke. Arms still crossed to ward away some of the oppressive chill, he marched along the rolling ground with ever-decreasing paces. He knew his heath was deteriorating at a constant rate and unless he could locate adequate shelter and a food source soon, there was every chance his days would end in this desolate part of whatever world he was on. Not surprisingly, the thought of ending up as a pile of wind-polished bones on the side of some nondescript hill filled Colin with a sense of dread and kept him moving along, even though he had all but given up hope of surviving his ordeal.

Colin played one of his music pieces on his miniaturised entertainment player as he continued his aimless wanderings. His hands were gradually going numb from the wind-chill factor, even though they were shoved firmly under the armpits of his leather jacket. At least there would be some measure of dignity in his imminent demise--even if it was provided by a long-dead composer from another time and a distant place.

That was when he stumbled across a small river.

Colin stood on the rise of yet another small hill, gazing with admiration down at what would usually be a small stream, except the drastic effects of the recent storm had now made it a considerable torrent. The body of swiftly moving water would provide him with not only something to drink, but if he followed its path, a possible route to civilisation, assuming such a thing existed on this world.

Shivering constantly in the chill air, his stomach felt as if it would burst and his vision blurred at regular intervals. Colin grinned like a child who had just discovered a never-ending source of chocolate. After drinking deeply to stave off dehydration, he placed one foot eagerly in front of the other and started following the stream's turbulent path.

It would lead Colin straight into Perencore's violent history.

***

For Immir Hanis, it was becoming a disaster of monumental proportions. By relaying her side of the story about her dashing rescuer, Lorraine Montague had quite innocently destroyed the worthy legend he had so diligently created. With the expression on his features somewhere between exasperation and desperation, the Rider looked on helplessly, as yet another fictitious detail was disposed of at leisure by the Lead Rider, Loterin.

The older man leaned a touch closer to the blonde woman seated at the table. "So," he asked, grinning all the while, "this fearsome beast was not as tall as three full-grown men?"

Diligently finishing off a mouthful of basic, but quite delicious food, Lorraine shook her head. She was admittedly hungry and would have preferred to have been left in peace to eat her meal.

"No," she replied, "not at all. I'd say at best it was about six feet tall."

"It had how many feet?" Ulac Zat, inquired, a confused frown on his youthful face.

"That's about the height of an average man." These people did not appear to comprehend basic imperial measurements. She wondered how her hosts were with the metric system. One thing was for sure; these 'Riders' had a highly unusual sense of humour, although Lorraine suspected it may have had a great deal to do with the amount of alcohol they had consumed.

The two Riders launched into a verbal tirade against the stony-faced Immir Hanis. In no uncertain terms, they accused him of having suspect eyesight and being completely incapable of judging even the simplest of distances and heights.

"Lorraine," Loterin continued, glancing mischievously towards Immir Hanis, who was in turn looking at Lorraine with an apprehensive expression. "I have one more question."

"Sure thing," she murmured.

"After our most brave brother Rider and hero of this encounter cut off the beast's hideous head, did it come back to life to recommence its vicious attack on you both?"

Immir Hanis' head slumped. He knew where this obvious line of inquiry was leading and the huge measure of trouble his new acquaintance's answer was going to provide. The other Riders were going to give him grief for the rest of his life.

A short, sharp laugh burst from Lorraine's lips. "What moron told you that!" she scoffed.

Both Loterin and Ulac Zat roared with uncontrollable laughter. The intoxicated Riders simultaneously pointed towards a crestfallen Immir Hanis, who remained seated on the same bench as Lorraine, gazing down in shame at his half-finished meal.

"Oh-oh," she stammered, both hands briefly covering her mouth. "I seemed to have ruined everything."

Without so much as glancing in her direction, the disappointed Rider nodded slowly.

"But he saved my life!" Lorraine announced to the other Riders across the table. "That has to count for something. I'm sure that thing would have killed me if Immir Hanis hadn't intervened."

The Lead Rider ceased laughing. Considering this last statement, he nodded in complete agreement. "He did at that! Immir Hanis still deserves some credit for his brave deed. I should send word to the Elite Command in Valderhien. There may be an accommodation due to him for this service."

"Where did you dispose of the fiend's corpse?" Ulac Zat inquired.

"We ate most of it later that night," Lorraine responded truthfully. "And had some of it the next morning."

Both Riders' eyes widened in response to her answer.

"I do beg your pardon, Lorraine?" Loterin uttered in shock.

"The thing was basically a gigantic chicken, when all was said and done. So, Immir Hanis chopped it up and cooked the stupid bird. It didn't taste half bad, actually."

Loterin turned to Immir Hanis who stared back at him, mortified.

Very slowly and deliberately he remarked to his fellow Rider: "You... ate... the... beast... for...dinner?"

Instantly, the offended Rider was to his feet. Stepping across to the weapons rack on the far wall, he drew his sword, brandishing the blade about the room in an expert manner. His rage clearly etched on his reddened features, he glared at his fellow Riders with feelings beyond mere embarrassment. "I will not be degraded in such a fashion!" he bellowed, eyes wide in anger. But Immir Hanis knew he was beaten. Lowering his sword, he glanced across to the Lead Rider who was presently leaning on the heavy timber table, his face clutched in both hands as his body shook from laughter.

"I should be shown more respect by my fellow members of The Order," he grumbled.

Now holding his drinking mug in one hand, Loterin could not bring himself to even cast his gaze on the furious Rider. "Then you should not have consumed the fearsome monster for a meal!" he responded. "But, I am certain many members of the Order will rejoice in the telling of your brave story: The tale of 'Mighty Immir Hanis--The Monster Eater'!"

The Lead Rider placed his near empty drinking tumbler to one side and rose to his feet. "I must leave your company now," he declared. "I believe I need to tell a great many people about this." Loterin looked across to the blonde scientist who also appeared to be having some difficulty maintaining her composure. "Lorraine Montague," he announced with a curt nod. "It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Ulac Zat dragged himself from the table and dutifully followed Loterin from the room. They both had a duty to share this story with as many people as humanly possible in the shortest space of time.

"I may never get over the embarrassment," Immir Hanis grumbled, his hopes of becoming a legend cruelly dashed into fragments by the blatant truth. His fellow Riders were intolerable.

"Lorraine Montague?"

"Yes, Immir Hanis?"

"We need to have a serious discussion."

"About what?"

"Why, about the events of the other day when I rescued you single handed of course."

And out of small lies grew mighty legends.

***

As the afternoon sun threw mild beams of warmth and light across the sweet smelling grass of the valley, Captain Carl Buchanan marched towards a group of shabbily uniformed men huddled about a recently built fire. After their first night in this strange land they had discovered, to their dismay that once the sun dropped behind the distant horizon the air temperature plummeted. After the blood-thinning temperatures of the south, the less hospitable climate of the Hamaforth Kingdoms was a serious shock to the system.

Scratching beneath one armpit, the Union officer halted in front of the camped Confederate troopers. His usually calm expression was livid with anger. "I have lice!" he blurted, his voice carrying across the valley.

"I wonder where you got those from?" Harry Barren inquired, scratching vigorously at his crotch.

"I know exactly where I got them from!"

"That would be us," Barren answered his rhetorical question. "But think of it like this; our lice only hang around the best of company, so you should feel honoured."

"And also remember, Captain," Corporal Roddy Meredin added smugly, "at least you'll never go hungry."

"That's not at all amusing, Corporal," Buchanan snapped. He was just waiting for the right timing before springing his coup d'état on his unwilling companions.

"I'm sure the lice don't think so either, Captain," Meredin explained. "Because we've got southern lice, and they don't take kindly to chewing on Yankee officers."

"You got any other complaints, Captain?" Private Barren demanded. "Piles perhaps? Cause you didn't catch those from us."

"As you all think it's so damn funny," Buchanan remarked, glancing about at the Confederate assembly, "you'll be happy to know I spoke to the wagon master and he's insisted that the first thing we do tomorrow morning is take a good bath and get rid of your hungry little friends."

"What!" Bernard Talbot blurted, eyes wide in fright.

"He won't pay us until we reach our destination and the wagon train doesn't move from here until each and every last one of us is deloused."

"No baths," an adamant Meredin stated.

"We'll see about that."

"No. I mean there are no bathtubs or even water for us to bathe in. What are we supposed to do? Take a dirt bath?"

The captain grinned. "The wagon master informed me there's a fresh creek not far from this place."

This information brought forth a symphony of groans and bellows of general dissatisfaction from the Union troopers. Meredin stared in their direction, unimpressed with their childish behaviour. "Well," he finally announced, "it looks like you got us on this one, Captain." He paused, "But I'll tell you this for nothin'. When this trip's finished and we're all paid up, you can go on your merry way. This is a brand new country--hell, a brand new planet! So I've no intention of spending the rest of my days here doin' things just to please the likes of you."

As they accompanied the caravan on its journey, the soldiers gathered a number of quite disturbing facts about the place it seemed they would now be calling 'home'. Some of the nations on this world did not get along with one another and that was just fine by the members of the Confederate unit, just so long as they were left well enough alone to get on with their own business. One of the more unsettling facts was that the bandits responsible for the earlier atrocity were called 'Anhil'. Usually they attacked lone wagons or travellers. The wagon master himself was at a loss to explain why the Anhil had drastically altered their standard attack patterns.

Another fact that greatly interested the soldiers more than any of the other information was that these people had never heard of rifles or pistols, let alone seen any in use before this day.

"We're rich!" Roddy Meredin had announced to anyone willing to listen. "Don't any of you get it? We've got something nobody else does. That I believe is known as a 'monopoly' advantage."

Richard Maret scratched his chin in confusion. "So?"

"So we can pretty much do anything we want and who's to stop us."

"Now look, Roddy," Maret argued, "I didn't put on this uniform to become a criminal."

"It doesn't have to be illegal, Richard," the corporal had protested. The thought had actually crossed his mind on more than one occasion. "If people want to travel around without being bothered by these 'Anhil' types, they will have to come to us for protection. After the ass-kicking we gave the last lot, those Anhil won't be coming up against us for a fight in a hell of a hurry."

"You could be right about that," Barren then piped up. "Although it does sound like a lot of hard work."

"Hell, no! We just ride around looking mean as dirt. Everyone else does all the hard work and we just build up stacks of silver coins."

"What about the Captain?" William Hill inquired.

"What about him? That fool could have gotten us all killed--and for what? To show off on his pretty horse in front of some girl."

"Sounds like a good enough reason for me!" Barron blurted, cackling at his own wit. "If I'd been a couple of years younger, it might've been me riding down that hill."

Meredin had cast an evil stare across at the amused private. "As I remember it, that's exactly what you did, Harry. All of you!"

The Confederate soldiers then blushed to varying degrees at the corporal's statement. Right now, they braced themselves at the thought of the early morning ordeal of having a bath in a probably ice-cold stream.

After gazing absently into the small pile of burning sticks, Buchanan turned and started marching away. Suddenly he halted and about-faced to make one more announcement. "One more thing..."

"What now?" Meredin demanded.

"We also have to wash our clothes tomorrow."

"Oh, that's just great!" Meredin blurted.

"It's either that or burn the lot, Corporal. Take your pick."

"If I had my way, you'd go head first into the fire," Meredin countered, almost inaudibly as the officer moved away from the group.

Not surprisingly, Carl Buchanan still did not feel quite safe around the soldiers who only days earlier had been his sworn enemy. Any one of the grey-uniformed men could simply walk up behind him and place a bullet right into his exposed back.

For all of them the war was now well and truly over. But some feelings stay with a person for life.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

A smoke pall, similar to the one previously spied by Carl Buchanan and his Confederate escort, caught Colin Bourke's eye as he stood on the peak of the highest hill he had managed to locate so far on his godforsaken trek. Watching not one, but three trails of evil grey smoke climbing high into the cloudy afternoon sky filled him with apprehension. These apparent funeral pyres gradually rose until they appeared to meld with the overcast sky. Clearly, something disastrous had occurred downriver.

Trembling violently under the duress of the chill he had developed overnight, while huddled in an indentation in a low-lying hill, the half-starved scientist remained affixed to the spot. His mind calculated the possibilities of his assistance being of any use to whoever was involved in what was most likely an unpleasant scenario. In his present condition, he would most probably be the next best thing to useless if open hostilities were in progress. He had some first aid knowledge, but no real practical medical experience, so if anyone was injured near the site of the fires, there was precious little assistance he could offer them. However, it also occurred to him anything would be better than standing idly by if people were dying. A minute more passed as he continued his observation of the distant smoke stacks. Something had to be done.

"Ah, to hell with it." As rapidly as his feeble legs would carry him, Colin Bourke half-ran, half-staggered towards the source of the foul-looking smoke and whatever trouble lay just beyond his line of sight.

History was waiting.

***

Alone in an alley, Connie York watched with interest as numerous townspeople wandered past her vantage point, their attire unwittingly under the scrutiny of her appraising eyes. The scientist realised she and her companions would definitely have to acquire clothing more in keeping with local styles, otherwise the trio would continue attracting the wrong kind of attention. Dale Johnstone was by far the biggest problem the travelling troupe had to face. She had already figured out a way to get around this obstacle, despite the immense distaste she felt towards the remedy. She knew Dale would not be impressed with her suggestion, but Connie figured she would deal with his protests when the time came.

Sean Corrigin was another problem. The short Irishman was open and friendly towards her and Dale, but had been otherwise hostile to pretty much everyone else they had so far encountered in their brief travels. If she had not pushed his sawn-off shotgun upwards on their first meeting with the Riders, one of the Riders would have been splattered clear across the wall of the building he had been standing in front of at the time. Connie realised she would have to keep a close watch on the third member of their group.

Both Dale and Sean soon joined her at their planned rendezvous point in the laneway. Now in relative privacy, they compared their wares from trading the coins to local merchants. Connie had fared the best, bringing in a silver coin and a handful of copper coins. Dale had managed ten coins all up. Sean stared down in disgust at his minimal fare; he had only managed to trade his quarter dollars for a bounty of five copper pieces. This outcome was somewhat disappointing and embarrassing.

"I appear to have been slightly cheated," he murmured.

His companions both caught the menacing undertones in his comment.

"Sean," Dale sighed, "just leave it."

Clutching his modest amount of coins, Sean nodded slightly, as if in agreement with Dale. "You're right," he conceded, his face unemotional.

Somehow Dale and Connie knew this was a bad sign.

"It really doesn't matter if some ignorant peasant of a shopkeeper brazenly cheated me out of money which would have put food in our mouths and a roof over our head." He looked across to his friends. "I'll just go and have a quiet chat with the gentleman and inform him of the errors of his ways. I'll see you both in just a minute or two."

Desperate to avert another violent encounter, Dale and Connie followed Sean almost halfway across the settlement. Eventually, they came to a whitewashed building outside of which hung a sign they found impossible to read.

"Sean!" Connie pleaded, "Don't do this!"

Sean ignored her and boldly marched into the almost deserted convenience store.

Through the front window, both his companions watched with great apprehension as the small Irishman approached a portly, middle-aged man wearing the local attire as well as an old, badly beaten leather apron. Both of the men proceeded to argue, their voices muted by the crude panes of glass. Their difference of opinion continued up to the point where Sean reached across the counter, latched onto the other, much larger man's shirt and physically hauled him over the top of the counter. This caused the storekeeper to cease shaking his head indignantly, and begin nodding in complete agreement with whatever his dissatisfied customer was saying to him. After all, the customer was always right.

"I hope they have a bail bondsman around here someplace," Dale commented.

After another minute had passed, Sean stepped out of the shop, a merry grin on his craggy features. In his left hand he now held a leather satchel similar to the one Connie had been carrying. He appeared to be extremely pleased with his second encounter with the local merchant. "Fancy that. The nice man just kindly upped his offer!" he announced to his less than amused companions.

"Oh, Sean," Connie sighed, shaking her head at his anti-social behaviour, "What are we going to do with you?"

He was genuinely surprised by her remark. "Why, Connie, I'm shocked. After all, I just made a major contribution to our cause. Now, let's find some suitable accommodation for the night. To be perfectly honest, I'm exhausted. After all, it's been a long couple of days."

"You're so right," Dale Johnstone added, also less than impressed by Sean's behaviour.

Allowing Connie to carry their complement of local currency, they began searching the town for the guest house Jerica had advised them to find. Night was fast approaching and none of the weary travellers wished to spend any more time exposed to the elements.

***

Bodies were everywhere, strewn across the bloodstained grass, some piled on top of each other in nauseating heaps. Most of the casualties were dressed in mismatched, brightly coloured garments, but the occasional corpse wore white robes that were now drenched in bold splashes of thick, congealed blood. A number of other corpses were also attired in unfamiliar military style uniforms. Various weapons were scattered about their dead owners, including swords, both long and short-bladed knives, battle axes and strange lances with flat, razor sharp tips that lay covered in the life fluids of their victims. Many of the deceased, both male and female lay on the bloodied ground, their wide, dead eyes staring up at the sky.

Fighting for control of his empty stomach, Colin picked his way through the throng of dead people. The smoke stacks had lessened in intensity in the past thirty minutes, but they now emanated just beyond the next hill. A terrible thought picked mercilessly at Colin's horrified mind as he moved ever closer to the source of the smoke columns. Where were the butchers responsible for this terrible slaughter?

Carefully gazing over the rise in the next hill, he was mortified to discover the massacre extended across the next valley and up the nearest hillside. As well as more hacked and mutilated bodies, Colin could clearly see the badly mauled remnants of some once elegant wagons. Most of these vehicles had been badly burned. Even the horses attached to them had been slaughtered, their corpses riddled with what appeared to be crossbow bolts.

Making his way down into the next valley, he stumbled across a most unusual discovery. One of the white robed men, still clutching a strange lance in his dead hands was surrounded by a multitude of bodies of the brightly clothed men and women. Instantly, it became clear to Colin; the corpses were not all from one faction, but rather from two warring parties. Wandering unsteadily past this grim assortment of bodies, he tentatively approached the nearest wagon, which had not been set on fire. Inhaling deeply, he gently lifted the heavy cloth canopy to peer inside the vehicle.

"Oh, dear God!" he stammered through swollen lips. The bodies inside were all women ranging in age from mid-forties to early teens. These unfortunates sported a variety of horrific gashes and other fatal injuries. One girl appeared to be staring at him in an accusing manner through dead, half-open eyes. Her once light coloured hair now stained in spilt blood.

In that instant, a shrill, terrified scream pierced the deathly silence. Colin spun round and crouched down behind the wagon. He saw two bloodied, rough-looking men holding a violently struggling girl by both arms on a rock ledge positioned high above a large, still pool of cold water that was stained by the blood of corpses that lay around and in it. The tainted water eventually emptied into a narrow, slow flowing river. Other similarly dressed men stood nearby, admiring the scene. As the two gaudily dressed men continued to hold the girl in a relatively subdued posture, a third member of the group surrounding her stepped closer to inspect his prize. In his hands he clutched a large battle axe, both sides of which bore witness to the grievous harm it had caused others during this violent confrontation. Scratching absently at his ruffled grey beard, he reached across with his free hand and latched on to the girl's dirty face. Adjusting his grip on her, he forced his captive to look up into his face.

"Princess Paura Thellon," he announced in a burly voice, "I bring you greetings from your most humble servant, Lord Laninval of Porra--oh, and naturally, his lovely wife the Lady Laninval."

The tall blonde girl ceased all attempts to free herself from the two thugs. She gazed up at her assassin, her blue eyes stained with fear and astonishment.

"That cannot be true!" she gasped, tears welling in her eyes.

"How do you imagine we knew where to look for you?" the grey bearded man informed her.

"What do you want?"

"Just that you do not suffer unduly. Your role in this is to upset your father, the King." He faltered after saying this last sentence. "After all, his Majesty does care for you, does he not? I would hate to have gone to all of this trouble, only to find your father is not overly concerned about your demise, or the violent nature of it."

"My father will make you suffer!" the girl screamed, her breath blasting from her body like venom from a striking serpent. "He will..."

"He will do nothing!" the bearded assassin snapped. "By the time his Majesty recovers from his overwhelming grief, it will be too late." He directed his gaze at the underlings holding her in place. "Hold her steady. I do not want to have two or three attempts at this."

As he raised his axe high overhead for one final act of violence, his companions in this horrific deceit held the girl in a manner that allowed her to shake her head, but do little else. Her dark blonde hair swirled about her face and shoulders as she struggled in a last ditch attempt to escape.

"Please, Princess," the leader of the group pleaded, lowering his weapon, "If you do not cease this useless struggling, I may make a mess of you. And we certainly do not want that."

Once more raising the blade so it hovered high over the girl's head, the tall, bearded man took a careful aim, so the axe would neatly sever her head from her neck with the first stroke.

It came as no small surprise to the other men gathered around this scene, staring at the soon to be deceased princess, when an object suddenly protruded straight through their leader's chest. Bright red gushes of blood sprayed across the girl and her captors. Instantly discarding his battle axe, the mortally wounded man managed the incredible feat of staggering a few paces before turning to view the person who had defiled him in such a swift and violent manner. To his further incomprehension, the ringleader of the assassins found himself staring in disbelief at a slightly taller man wearing little more than tattered, drenched rags and a particularly odd leather jacket.

The girl's captors were so astonished by this event they neglected their duties, allowing her to struggle free from their murderous hands. She fled at speed towards the river, praying a handful of survivors from her party had managed to form some sort of resistance against the vastly overwhelming numbers of Laninval's killers who dared to dress themselves as Anhil. There was certainly no time to thank the man responsible for her freedom and for saving her life. Whoever her benefactor was, he had completed his part in her survival. The sprinting girl needed to put as much distance between her and the remainder of the assassins as possible. She hoped her rescuer would remain in good health long enough for her to thank him properly.

Confused to inaction by the astonishingly abrupt manner in which the culmination of their scheme had collapsed from underneath them, the remaining four men stared at each other, incredulously wondering which of them would come up with a backup plan. The entire endeavour had abruptly turned into a complete debacle and they needed to be told what their next actions should be. As the man with the plan now lay dead on the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood, they turned to stare at the filthy beggar who had done the unthinkable.

The peculiar-looking assailant snatched up the discarded battle axe and stepped back a couple of paces. This defensive posture placed him dangerously close to the edge of the rock ledge just above the crimson water below. "Come on you bastards!" Colin called, his voice a mere rasp. "I've got you all now!"

The remaining men were finally motivated into action. They instantly drew a variety of knives and swords from their respective belts.

Colin grimaced. "But then again..."

Displaying the sure footedness and stealth of someone who possessed absolutely no idea what he was doing, Colin swung the axe at the advancing men. He managed to lose his grip on the slippery, bloodied handle, sending the weapon flying into the air. Fortunately for him--and tragically for the thug at his far right--the wayward weapon struck the man in the head, sending him crashing lifeless to the ground.

On witness, their intended victim's apparent masterly use of an axe, two of the ruffians lost their composure, turned and ran for their lives. However, the final thug was not so certain of the unfamiliar man's capabilities in a fight. Raising his sword, the last remaining assailant rushed towards his latest opponent.

Colin instinctively ducked to one side as the bloodstained weapon sliced past his moving head. He reached across, latching onto the other man's hands, thus preventing him from continuing his vicious assault. Both individuals proceeded to perform some type of bizarre battle dance on the raised ledge, each vying for a superior position in this grim fight for survival. One motion in the wrong direction sent both men cartwheeling off their precarious perch. They fell in a tangled mass of waving arms and legs, their combined weight striking the cold, bloodstained water, which bit into them with its merciless chill.

As both disorientated figures emerged from the lake's cold water a short distance away, Princess Paura Thellon raced along the opposite bank, a confiscated sword clutched in both delicate hands, her feet occasionally slipping in the bloodied mud. She watched intently as the men parted company, her rescuer wading in her direction. The other man, one of the last of the initial raiding party, made his way towards a scattered collection of corpses positioned near the water's edge.

"Get the hell out of here!" Colin roared to the girl while still knee deep in the lake.

By now, the pseudo bandit had reached the bodies and began rifling amongst them, his hands becoming stained with their recently spilt blood. Finally locating a weapon to his liking, the man snatched up the item and charged back to the water's edge. Lifting the crossbow to his shoulder, he took careful aim at the motionless princess and gently squeezed on the trigger.

"Hey!" Colin called, waving his hands in a frantic fashion. "Over here!"

Through either accident or intention, the thug's aim faltered at this point, causing the weapon's single bolt to roar from the crossbow in the wrong direction. The projectile tore its way through Colin's left hand as though it were made of soft butter. The resulting pain inflicted by the bolt was excruciating. Clutching his appallingly wounded hand, which proceeded to pump fresh blood all over him, Colin staggered from the water, his legs numb from the chill. He was astonished to see an impressive number of men and women dressed in white appear from all directions. Colin realised he was now hopelessly outnumbered and badly injured to the bargain. Losing his balance when finally free of the water's cold embrace, he collapsed just past the water's edge. Using what limited energy reserves he possessed by this time, he hauled his failing body further away from the soiled pond. Lifting his face from the mud, he looked up to find himself staring up at a tall, grim man with white hair and beard.

This was the last thing Colin remembered before losing consciousness as a staff-like weapon thundered into his exposed head.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

After spending quite a restful night in the plain but neatly kept boarding house, Connie York, Dale Johnstone and Sean Corrigin consumed a breakfast in their respective rooms then departed to gather the supplies necessary to continue their journey. No more than two minutes from the boarding house, they ran into the junior Rider who spoke to them at length about their upcoming travels. Most of the time, he addressed Connie, while Sean hovered menacingly nearby. Dale chased away some early rising onlookers who asked him if every part of him was the same colour as his hands and face.

"Damn fools!" he grumbled, still half asleep, "I have to tell you, I'm getting sick of this shit!"

"My friend," Sean spoke up, smiling wryly from behind his sunglasses, "I'm afraid you're going to be putting up with a lot more of that. And honestly, I really can't see a solution to your problem."

"Problem! I don't have a problem!"

"Whatever you say."

The junior Rider bid them good day then left to complete his morning rounds of the settlement. Waving once to him, Connie turned to the others, satisfied they could now secure the required items to make their upcoming journey a touch more agreeable.

"Apparently, there's a place we can get some good, cheap horses. It's just a few streets away from here."

Sean and Dale were equally mortified by her announcement.

"Horses!" her Minerva Project teammate blurted, "What makes you think we need horses?"

Sean remarked: "I haven't ridden a horse since I was about ten years old. And that thing was attached to a merry-go-round!"

"Maybe you'd prefer it if I called a cab?" Connie retorted, less than pleased by her companions' whining.

"That'd be nice if you could arrange it," Dale commented.

"I second the motion," Sean put in for good measure.

"Good for you," Connie murmured, unimpressed by the non-realistic attitude of her companions. "Look, we have one of two choices here: We either ride horses or we walk. And after spending the past couple of days traipsing around the countryside, I for one don't want to walk another step."

"We're staying right here then," Dale informed her.

She grinned at him, "Smartass. No, we're going to buy some horses. You'll both get used to riding them--after about a week or so."

They followed her down a side street past a couple of stables and fenced yards, and eventually came across a particularly large livery and stables. During their time on this planet, the travellers had noticed one unusual fact; every horse they saw appeared to be a monotone dark or light brown hue, nothing else. The three Earthlings wondered if this were synonymous with the entire Hamaforth Kingdoms or just this particular region. In the stables, they noticed three men busying themselves with various duties about the place.

A man, possibly in his sixties as measured in Earth years, noticed their arrival and instantly wandered towards the newcomers. If he was at all startled by Dale's appearance, he certainly gave no outward indication. Apparently, this particular resident of Enwardous had already heard about the mysterious stranger in their midst.

"A good morning to you all!" the elderly man cheerfully intoned, wiping dirt from his hands. "I am the proprietor of this business. How may I be of help to you?"

"The Riders told us to see you about buying some good horses and saddles," Connie stated.

Sean and Dale both wondered exactly who had voted her in charge.

Connie smiled at the proprietor of the stockyard, "But I see they've already told you about us?"

The stable owner smiled back at her: "They might have mentioned something about it earlier this morning. Jericar figured you would all be in need of some mode of transport. I have been supplying horses to The Order for scores of seasons and they have always been grateful for my services."

Connie could not help but grin at his obvious self-promotion.

"I will personally show you a pen of my best animals," he added, "And, I would not be immodest by claiming these horses are the finest to be found in the entire region."

"Do they come with a warranty?" Dale inquired on hearing this boast.

The older man frowned. Obviously, the term 'warranty' was foreign to this part of the world. A used car salesman's dream come true Dale thought, smiling to himself.

"I give you my word these horses you are about to see are in the best condition. Healthy and well-fed!"

Connie was barely able to contain herself, while Dale laughed out loud at the proclamation. Up until this point of the conversation, Sean had displayed no interest at all in what was being said. He simply studied the surrounding yards and stables and noted with some satisfaction the area appeared to be in reasonable condition. You could always tell a man's character by the condition of his workplace. An object positioned in the far corner of the main barn just beyond the blacksmith's forge caught his attention.

"What about that?" he asked, pointing across to the object at the centre of his interest. "Is that carriage for sale?"

The other travellers turned to stare at the timber vehicle, a hard-covered, four-wheeled wagon that had apparently seen better days, but was still in reasonable condition. Its once brilliant paintwork was faded and peeling in places about the frame and one wheel had been shattered, quite possibly from a collision with a large rock or other hard object. They wandered over to inspect the vehicle.

"What would we want with that piece of junk?" Dale demanded.

"Dale, would you prefer to ride around this picturesque countryside on some half-trained beast and sleep every night on the cold, hard ground?"

"Good point, Sean." Dale directed his gaze back to the stable owner. "How much is it? And can it be repaired?"

The proprietor scratched his balding head as he studied the decrepit-looking wagon. "I will make a fine deal for you," he finally announced, "as you come with the personal blessings of the Riders." He paused once more, his mind ticking over a possible deal. "That carriage fully repaired plus a team of two strong horses will cost you only a two silver coins."

"You stinking, lousy thief!" Sean roared.

The bewildered stable owner looked away in embarrassment at the insult, but the Irishman merely faced Connie and shrugged. In truth, he had no notion whether the deal was good or not.

"I am astounded you could say such a thing!" the stable owner retorted, wandering about the stockyard as though incensed by such an outrageous accusation. Two silver pieces for such an outfit was in fact an incredibly high price to pay.

"One silver piece," Sean counter offered adamantly. "Take it or leave it."

"One!" the elderly man exclaimed incredulously. "Do you wish me to go broke? I have a business to run. All of my hired hands depend on this business being successful and not going into ruin! What do you want me to do?"

"Make us a much better offer," Sean immediately countered.

"Two pieces of silver and five local coppers for the carriage, two horses, plus any equipment you need. And I'll have the wagon repaired today."

The Irishman shook his head. "I really thought we were being serious about this," he informed the other party in these negotiations. "I say we make it one of these pretty silver coins and some of these other not so pretty copper ones. And that's for everything you mentioned before. I don't want to find the horses don't have any shoes when we get them."

The stable owner thought long and hard about this deal. This was really a reasonable price for the outfit and horses. "Done!" he finally agreed giving a curt nod of his head.

"Good," Connie remarked, stepping closer to the wagon so she could inspect it at closer quarters. "And if you would be so good as to get someone to paint it as well."

The stable owner was mortified. "That was not part of the original agreement!"

"Oh, yes it was," Sean added.

"And try to paint it better colours," Dale weighed in on these proceedings. "I don't want to travel around the countryside in a wagon that looks like we're part of a carnival sideshow."

The old man had no notion how they could be part of a sideshow, but by this stage he really did not care. He just wanted his business with these exceedingly odd people over and done with. Barking commands to his hired hands, he instructed them to commence repairs to the sorry-looking vehicle.

"And if you could get them to clean the inside for us, thank you," Connie added, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the state of the carriage's surprisingly spacious interior. "There's about an inch of dust in there and I suffer from hay fever. Now, let's go find ourselves some horses," Connie smiled disarmingly at the bemused stable owner.

"Wonderful!" he blurted in a display of theatrical dismay. "Another chance to be outrageously cheated!"

Before leaving for the horse corrals, Connie handed each of her companions a surprisingly long list of required necessities and a handful of dull, copper coins. There was a great deal of work to be done and supplies to be gathered for the upcoming journey.

"I want you to get all of these things before we leave," she dutifully instructed both men.

"Yes, sir!" Dale responded; the list clutched firmly in one hand. He turned to Sean. "I told you she was in charge of the project we were working on. I guess she still feels the need to be in command."

"Is it too late to run away?" the other man bemoaned, eyeing the list in his right hand. It was a very long list. He turned to Connie. "Are you sure about this?"

"Positive."

He shrugged. "Fair enough. We'll see you later, Connie. Come on, Dale. Perhaps we can get this over with quickly and spend our spare time in a nice, friendly pub for a pint or two."

Walking out of the livery stable under Connie's concerned gaze, the men left to gather all of the required items on her list. For the life of him, Sean could not understand her bizarre request for a large monk's habit, or some mode of similar attire.

***

Behind the Rider's regional office in town, Jericar carefully rolled up a very small, thin sheet of delicate paper. He cautiously placed the lightweight roll into an equally delicate metal tube and sealed both ends. The Lead Rider then walked across to a small aviary containing no less than four small, though powerful birds of prey. Temporarily putting aside the mail tube, he placed a sturdy leather glove onto his left hand and opened the cage's main door. No sooner had he placed his gloved hand into the cage than one of the birds leapt across, landing with great grace and agility onto his extended limb. This bird observed the tall man with a distinct lack of emotion as he withdrew his arm, picked up the tube and tied it to one of its legs. The bird, known as a kilit, had been specially bred to perform such services for The Order. They were fast, strong for their diminutive size, and completely fearless, as they knew no natural enemy in this part of the world. More importantly, they were exceedingly intelligent, which made these birds of prey extremely easy to train. Even though the distance between the town and The Order's Elite Command in Valderhien was considerable, the kilit would, no doubt, complete its task within a couple of days, stopping only every once in a while to rest or hunt for food.

Once satisfied the message cylinder was properly secured, Jericar raised his left arm, a designated signal for the bird to take flight.

The kilit turned its head to stare at him for a moment before spreading both surprisingly long wings and hurling its compact form up into the cloudy sky.

As he watched the bird swiftly vanish into the distance, the Lead Rider hoped his message would safely reach Valderhien and alert The Order's Elite Command about the presence of these visitors from another world. He harboured a deep-seated belief these individuals and many others like them would be actively participating in important events in the foreseeable future. In this respect, Jericar was quite correct.

***

To their disappointment, the men had been forced to set up camp just beyond the village's boundaries. Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw was quite adamant he did not want his soldiers roaming about the neighbourhood at night, as he deduced their uniforms could attract unwanted attention and invite trouble. He had informed the unit he would be leading a contingent into the village to trade with the local people for further supplies to replenish their rapidly dwindling reserves. Bradshaw expected his troops to comply with his exact orders at all times, without one iota of complaint or protest.

Walking down to a small stream the next morning, Private Theodore Jones watched with faint interest as the early morning sun hauled itself clear of what he figured was the eastern horizon--at least he assumed it was the eastern horizon. Any planet with no less than three moons could hold any number of surprises. Kneeling beside the swiftly running body of water, he splashed the frigid, clear liquid up into his freshly-shaven face. The low temperature of the water instantly revived him, as well as easing the stinging sensation of this morning's shave.

The sergeant major insisted everyone, including himself, remain neatly groomed at all times. Personally, Theodore Jones believed the instruction nothing short of ludicrous. It was highly unlikely a commissioned officer was ever going to show up in this godforsaken place and conduct an inspection of the troops.

A sudden, deep growl caused him to swivel his head to one side while still kneeling beside the stream. His mouth dropped in astonishment as he witnessed an enormous species of big cat crouched on the opposite bank not far from his present position. Not only was the fearsome predator easily over double the size of an average lion, but it possessed an impressive set of upper canine teeth, giving the creature a terrifying appearance.

Keeping his rather hefty frame motionless, the private slowly and cautiously adjusted his line of vision to check if anyone else was in the immediate vicinity. To the best of his limited field of vision there was not another soul around. Private Jones solemnly wished he were back at the makeshift base right at this moment.

For close on five minutes, he remained crouched beside the running water, his legs gradually losing all feeling and beginning to cramp significantly due to the restricted blood flow to his lower limbs. He already knew there would be precious little chance of outrunning the beast. Now with pins and needles, there was virtually no way he could outpace whatever that thing was crouched just across the stream. The big cat looked as if it could run him down in the space of a couple of seconds. Jones realised with mounting horror the predator would not wait forever before it launched an attack on him at any tick of the clock. To test any doubts about the creature's interest in him, he budged his large form a touch to the right.

The huge, striped cat's reaction was immediate. It moved closer to him, its massive claws now hanging over the embankment. Recoiling for its first and most probably only strike at the two-legged prey, the big cat bellowed ferociously, bearing its huge fangs. The deafening roar echoed about the stream and surrounding terrain. The striped beast launched its full length from the raised embankment and pounced directly towards the cowering biped.

The air reverberated with the sound of a multitude of gunshots as the attacking airborne predator abruptly lurched to one side, as though struck by some huge yet invisible hand. The animal collapsed by the side of the running water, blood flowing freely from its open mouth and the two bullet perforations in its thick, striped hide.

Looking further along the stream, Theodore Jones was both astonished and thrilled to see the sergeant major and Privates Marc Horsham and Richard Beagle approach. The firearms the two soldiers clutched were emitting barely visible wafts of grey smoke, testament to the true forces that had so effectively killed the predator.

Bradshaw marched down the mild embankment and directly up to the fortunate soldier. "Private Jones!" he bellowed. "Why did you come here unescorted?"

"To wash myself Ser Major!" the trooper instantly responded.

"Really? Then why did you find it necessary to start cavorting with the local wildlife?"

Theodore Jones, although not the mentally sharpest man in the unit, had been around long enough not to become involved in this sort of mind game.

"Sergeant Major Bradshaw!" he dutifully bellowed right back. "It will never happen again, sir!"

"Correct! Now get your fat carcass back to the camp and finish packing up! And be quick about it!"

While the exceedingly relieved Private Jones raced from the area to join his companions back at their site, Bradshaw turned to face the remaining soldiers. For reasons best known to themselves, both Horsham and Beagle had decided to guard the big dead cat. They stood close by the motionless form, their reloaded rifles pointed down towards its large, bloodied head.

Bradshaw rolled his eyes in sheer disbelief. "What in heaven's name are you two doing?"

"Making sure it doesn't move, Sergeant Major!" Horsham answered, his eyes never wavering from the dead animal.

"Tell me, Private Horsham, are dead things in the habit of getting up and running around?"

"No, Sergeant Major. Not that I'm aware of."

"Then may I suggest you both stop wasting your time and commence skinning that thing. And while you're about it, you can cure the creature's meat for our supper. I expect this to be completed in no less than thirty minutes. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" both soldiers responded in unison.

Watching as they busied themselves in the rather gory process of skinning this strange animal, Bradshaw studied the huge incisor teeth of the beast. He inwardly shuddered. What sort of place had they found themselves in? Straightening up his red tunic, Bradshaw marched back to the temporary campsite. He wanted to be certain the men in his charge were not being idol.

***

The sergeant major was thankful the locals in the nearby village appeared to speak the Queen's English, if in a somewhat archaic manner. They also appeared to be reasonably harmless, although some were unnecessarily abrupt to their horses.

At first, the merchant, whose odd name completely escaped Sergeant Major Bradshaw, refused to discuss trading the furs they had gathered from the small rodent-like animals during their recent march. His attitude changed drastically when he spied the pelt removed from the recently deceased big cat. The merchant made the strategic error of momentarily allowing his customer to witness his eagerness. This was certainly going to be a difficult deal, though even with some holes in the huge pelt, the local man realised he was observing something quite unique. He reached into a small purse dangling from his plain leather belt and produced a couple of ordinary looking copper coins. The merchant scattered this currency across the timber counter of his shop.

Bradshaw failed to hide his displeasure at this paltry deal. "Try again, sir," he intoned, his voice stern and displeased. "Your next offer had better be to my liking, otherwise I will be forced to take my business elsewhere. I trust this is understood?"

His mouth dropping open in surprise, the elderly merchant eventually had enough sense to nod his head. Dealing with the whiskered, hard-eyed man was going to be a challenge. Politely excusing himself, the merchant gathered his coins from the counter then vanished into the back room of the store. Bradshaw turned around to spy his escort, Richard Beagle and Marc Horsham rummaging through the store's various wares.

"Privates Beagle and Horsham," the sergeant major remarked evenly, "You were told to keep an eye out for trouble, not go on a shopping spree."

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" they chorused, scrambling back to their positions near the shop's front windows. They recommenced their prior activity of closely monitoring the activities of the local villagers. These simply attired individuals were in the process of going about their business; however, an increasing number of them were stopping in front of the large shop windows to stare right back at the soldiers.

Beagle turned to face his fellow trooper. Making certain his movements and words were not being monitored by the NCO, he whispered, "He didn't yell."

Horsham nodded. "I know. I think he must be sick," he whispered back.

"I am not sick! Now shut up the both of you," their sharp-eared commander retorted.

Finally, the shopkeeper returned to his counter. This transaction was going to temporarily financially break him until he had the odd, striped hide delivered across to his business partner in Valderhien. In the Kingdom's capital, such a pelt would bring in enough cash for them both to seriously consider retirement.

"I'm glad to see you did not run off," Bradshaw announced.

"Oh, no!" the other, much shorter man laughed nervously. "I was just organising my finances." With this remark, he placed no less than three silver coins carefully onto the counter top directly in front of Bradshaw.

"Three silver coins for the lot!"

"To be honest, the amount leaves me a bit nervous," the sergeant major informed the man behind the counter, "But consider it a deal."

Without being instructed to do so, Private Beagle stepped across the store floor, picked up the bundle of furs and deposited them onto the main counter. Before the soldier had a chance to wipe the dirt from his hands, the merchant had snatched up the pelts, dropping them at his feet. The smaller furs were of little worth to him; a great many of the useless things crossed his counter day in, day out, but the huge, boldly-striped pelt from the unknown animal was possibly literally worth its weight in gold.

Bradshaw cautiously picked up his newly acquired coins from the counter top and silently felt their weight in the palm of his large right hand. He had no real notion of their worth, but correctly deduced there was more than enough of the local currency to purchase all of their requirements. His estimate also included some sturdy, weatherproof tents and other camping equipment. The weather in this part of their new world was a touch on the chilly side and appeared to be becoming colder as the days went past. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you," he informed the inanely grinning trader. He then focused his attention towards the two enlisted men still maintaining their posts near the front windows. By now, a particularly sizable crowd of locals had gathered outside the store and continued to peer at the red uniformed men.

"When you two have finished gawking at the locals, there are still a number of tasks we have to undertake before leaving this place."

Private Horsham opened the front door for Bradshaw then followed him out into the cobbled street. Beagle remained always nearby, his Martini Henri rifle fully loaded and ready for any trouble.

Closely scrutinised by the local inhabitants they passed, the three redcoats walked along the thoroughfare, peering into local trading posts and assorted stores in case any of them happen to sell one of the items they required for their onward journey. Eventually, after a couple of hours purchasing the necessary goods and food supplies, they stumbled across a two-storey structure complete with a wide balcony running its entire length. To the delight of Privates Beagle and Horsham, a couple of 'ladies' wandered across to the balcony railing and gazed down at them with mixed feelings of intrigue and amusement at these young, unusually attired men. Their initial bemusement was promptly followed up by some smiling and hand waving from the girls positioned high overhead.

Beagle was the first one to speak up on this matter. "Sergeant Major... "

"Don't even think it!" Bradshaw retorted, cutting off the enlisted man's sentence. "We have serious work to do, none of which entails spending time with those... er... ladies."

"Could we at least go somewhere for a quick drink, Sergeant Major?" Horsham inquired, his arms tiring since they were loaded with supplies. "After all," he cheerfully added, "It's been a while since any of us touched a pint of ale."

His arms also burdened with camping supplies, Bradshaw turned and glared angrily at the other man. "Private Horsham, do you think such a thing would be fair to our fellow soldiers patiently waiting for us back at our campsite?"

"Not really, Sergeant Major," the enlisted man conceded. "But what they don't know won't hurt them."

"Fair enough," the NCO announced. "But I warn you both: one drink each and then we are out of here." He threw the large building an unsavoury glance. "This establishment does not appear to be one of the town's more civilised businesses."

Grinning broadly, but daring not to utter a word in case Bradshaw changed his mind, both enlisted men led their NCO into the tavern. Inside this stone and timber structure, they discovered a throng of smelly, noisy, disagreeable and generally drunken individuals. There were close to fifty people of varying appearances occupying the tavern's main drinking room.

"This is wonderful!" Beagle exclaimed, scanning the smoke-filled chamber.

Just about every single person in the main bar room turned to stare in bewilderment at the recent arrival of the three strangely dressed men.

"I warn you both right now," Bradshaw instructed, "if word of this grossly generous act gets out to the other men they will think I have gone soft. And you know what happens then?"

"Marching!" both enlisted men responded.

"Correct!" the sergeant major retorted, his eyes failing to disguise his glee. "More marching than you can possibly imagine!"

Taking this unconcealed threat with them, the two soldiers wandered across to an unoccupied table set to one side of the main bar. They placed their burdensome supplies underneath the rickety piece of furniture and seated themselves on two equally rickety wooden chairs.

Sergeant Major Bradshaw followed the men to the table, placed his bundles of recently purchased goods with their other supplies, then moved across to the main bar. Much to his dismay, the interior of the tavern was in even greater disarray than he originally thought. Tables and chairs were crammed into every available space, making it exceedingly hazardous to move about the place. Jammed under one table was a prone, but hopefully not dead, reveller who obviously had succumbed to his abundant intake of local ale. One particularly disreputable character mentioned something or another to some of his drinking cohorts, causing them to explode into raucous laughter. He punctuated his comment by belching thunderously, then hauled his enormous frame from his seat and staggered across to the patiently waiting redcoat privates.

"What pretty, clean clothes you boys have on!" the intoxicated drinker blurted, a smirk wiped across his unshaven face. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Beagle and Horsham remained seated, ignoring the rude intruder into their personal space. They continued their conversation as though this troublesome patron simply did not exist. Sometimes it was far better to ignore people with ill intent.

"I believe I was speaking to you pretty boys!"

Their discussion went on, unabated.

"When I talk to people..."

"What seems to be the problem here, sir?" Bradshaw inquired, clutching three not particularly clean mugs of what was reported to be the tavern's finest brew.

"Another pretty boy!" the large drunk roared.

The sergeant major may have been a couple of years the man's senior and a bit shorter, but he was in far better physical condition and possessed a very no-nonsense attitude towards the local man's demeanour.

A couple of the drunk's companions left their table across the room to join their inebriated friend. They looked particularly eager for a fight, the one thing Bradshaw was hopeful of avoiding. They had already attracted far too much attention from the local population.

"We are just here for a nice, quiet drink, sir," he informed the local drunks in an even voice, placing the mugs of beer on the table.

"So what?"

Privates Beagle and Horsham slowly rose to their feet. After encounters with enraged Zulu hordes and long fanged beasts, they were not overly concerned about a room full of half-wit drunks.

"Those pretty red clothes! Why are you wearing them?" the large drunk demanded. "They make you look like damn Anhil!"

"Sir," the NCO spoke up. "I have no idea what 'Anhil' are. So we will be on our way right now."

"You will stay until I tell you to leave!" the intoxicated man bellowed, lurching forward in a menacing manner.

Stepping to one side, Bradshaw thrust a tightly clenched fist directly into the advancing patron's solar plexus, grabbed his head, and slammed the greasy object straight into a nearby table. Once finished with this manoeuvre, he shoved the drunk back into the throng of his stunned friends, who unceremoniously dropped the unconscious man to the floor and retreated back to their respective places about the crowded taproom.

Bradshaw looked across to the two enlisted men, both of whom were staring at him in open-mouthed amazement. A moment of stunned silence passed between the three men.

"Did you two think I was just a loud voice in a starched uniform?" the NCO eventually asked.

"No. Not at all," Beagle slowly responded.

Horsham merely shook his head then sat back in his former position on the rickety chair.

"I'm so glad to hear it," Bradshaw stated, likewise taking his seat at their table. He gazed about at the interior of the tavern. "To be honest, I wouldn't mind owning an establishment such as this one." He picked up his mug then paused to consider his own words. "Only my place would be the very model of efficiency and cleanliness--and without the prostitutes upstairs." He paused once more to sip a couple of mouthfuls of his brew. "Perhaps you two lads would like to hire on as employees?"

"Of course!" they chorused, wide-eyed at this revelation. Oddly enough, both men were quite fond of their commanding NCO. Nevertheless, they also would have much preferred to die, go straight to hell and burn for all eternity than spend the remainder of their days working under Bradshaw in any sort of business.

The large, semi-conscious drunk on the pub floor moaned.

"Oh, get up man!" Bradshaw huffed indignantly. "You're making a fool of yourself!"

Beagle and Horsham glanced at one another: Enough said.

To his credit, the abusive drunk and victim of Bradshaw's wrath managed to climb to his feet and stagger from the premise.

The redcoats continued drinking their respective brews. Patrons of the bar occasionally threw nervous, sideways glances at these brightly attired individuals with the odd weapons. Thankfully, there were no further unsavoury incidents to mar their time off after gathering the greatly needed supplies. Beagle had consumed almost half of his beer when he set his mug down onto the table. He remained silent, staring at the half full, or possibly half empty tumbler, deep in consideration.

"Is there a problem, Private Beagle?" Bradshaw inquired.

"I was just thinking, Sergeant Major."

"I thought I warned you all about doing that."

Beagle and Horsham smiled. It was a rare occasion their NCO made a joke.

"What is it, son?" Bradshaw spoke up once more, a little more softly.

"I joined the army so I could earn enough money to feed my wife and daughter," Beagle patiently explained. "And now they think I'm dead... don't they, Sergeant Major? They think I died back on that stupid mountain in Africa. Those Zulus wiped out everybody else in the company and to all intents us as well. The only difference is my wife won't even have a body to bury." He fell silent once more before continuing, "She'll mourn me for a while, then one day I'll just be a part of her former life. And she'll meet some other man, marry him and my daughter will call him 'daddy'. It's just not right, if you know what I mean."

Bradshaw was also silent for a short while. "You're quite right, Private Beagle," he concluded, placing his drink on the table. "Your loved ones believe you are dead. It's the same situation for all of us here."

"My parents also think I'm dead back in Africa," Horsham declared, equally despondent. "At least I'm not leaving behind a wife and child. I never married."

Bradshaw smiled at this proclamation from the young soldier. "Really, Private Horsham," he commented, taking another gulp of his drink before placing it back on the table, "How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty? There's still plenty of time. In case you hadn't noticed, there are women on this world."

"Did you leave anyone behind, Sergeant Major?" Beagle inquired.

There was a pause at this particularly straightforward question. Both enlisted men remained seated waiting for a verbal blast at such an unseemly intrusion. Asking about your commanding officer's personal life was quite inappropriate in the British Army. There were quite possibly regulations in place against such behaviour.

"No," Bradshaw finally answered, after yet another sip at his beer. Some of the foam stuck to his whiskers but he did not appear to be conscious of the fact. "Thankfully, there's no one back in England who's going to mourn my disappearance." The NCO stared across the table at his soldiers. "My parents both died of TB when I was very young. Then the authorities put me into some brutal hellhole purporting to be an orphanage. I fled the place when I was about eleven years old and lived on the streets for a while. Once I turned fourteen, I lied about my age and joined the army." His words trailed away as he considered his past life, a life now far removed from his current existence. "There was honour, duty and purpose in the army. It's been my only home for more years than I care to remember." The elder member of the party looked across to his companions. He flashed them the remnants of a wry smile. "I must admit, I hadn't really counted on this sort of thing happening to me. They certainly wouldn't approve of this sort of carry on back in Army HQ in London."

"What are we going to do here?" Horsham asked politely.

"We're going to do everything in our power to survive, that's what we're going to do, Private Horsham. You might think all of this marching, maintaining military standards and the like is a load of cock-and-bull, but there is a serious purpose behind it all. If the unit falls apart now, we'll all end up little more than beggars on the streets. If we can stick together in some sort of cohesive order then we've got a real chance at making a proper life for ourselves in this rather odd new land."

Both Beagle and Horsham now found themselves quite at ease at the thought of spending large parts of their lives working for the sergeant major. Once they had finished their ale, the soldiers collected their supplies and departed from the tavern. The other members of the company would probably be anxiously waiting for their return and the provision of fresh food. After a while, stale biscuits, salty pork rashers and weevil-ridden oatmeal lost its allure.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Wandering down the laneway in a rather unsteady line, Sean Corrigin had paid his respects to a local drinking establishment. However, unlike the redcoats, he had not limited his intake to just one brew. In fact, he had lost count of the number of mugs of ale he had consumed. Loaded with sacks of supplies, a parcel of groceries and a small wooden box containing the peculiar item Connie York had requested, Sean made his way out onto the main street as the daylight gradually faded across the town.

As he wandered back to the stables, the little Irishman thought about Connie, and smiled to himself. "A fine looking piece of woman," Sean muttered. "Could be a bit bigger in the chest department, but you have to take the good with the bad." He had always kept his emotions towards the fairer sex carefully in check, but the dark-haired scientist had made quite an impression on him; he liked a woman with spirit and intelligence. At last he reached the stables where he found Connie and Dale Johnstone talking to the horse salesman with the Arabic sounding name. They were stationed around their newly purchased carriage, which was now hitched up to two brown horses.

"Those are two of the ugliest horses I have ever had the misfortune to set eyes on!" Sean blurted loudly, swaying a little, as he stood with his feet slightly apart to steady himself.

"You take that back!" Connie demanded, now out of her original jeans and jumper and wearing some type of colourful peasant dress. Noticing Sean eyeing her up and down, she remarked, "Like it? I picked it out myself."

Sean thought she looked like a peasant or a cute peasant or some such thing. "Fine, but in regards to the horses, with all due respect, dear girl," Sean continued sarcastically, "may I suggest you get your eyes checked before you make any further rash purchases."

Leaning against the wagon, Dale placed his hand over his mouth in an effort to stop himself from laughing.

Sean continued his verbal tirade about the two mares Connie had selected. "If you were to stick some horns on them, they would look like two big, brown cows!" He diverted his attention away from the scientist to the stable owner. "And another thing; why are all your horses brown? Different shades maybe, but brown's kind of boring, don't you think?"

"I was not aware they came in any other colours," the stable owner explained, his eyes filled with great interest at the odd remark.

"Where we come from there are lots of different colours, although none I ever saw were as ugly as those things."

"Actually, your companion made a good choice. These animals are large enough to pull the caravan with great ease, even with all three of you and your supplies on board."

"There'll only be the two of us on it," Connie announced, scowling at the inebriated member of their outfit. "Apparently, Sean's decided he's going to walk."

"Oh, don't be like that, girl! I was just fooling with you!" Sean stared at Connie as he considered his next words. "They honestly look like very sturdy breasts... I mean beasts!"

Connie was clearly furious at the drunk Irishman. Sean decided it was high time to change the subject. "Dale! I've got a little present for you!"

"Perhaps now isn't the best time for that, Sean," Connie suggested nervously.

Sean grinned. "Nonsense! I think it's perfect timing." He gently threw the wooden box across to Dale.

The biologist prised open the box and looked inside at his 'present'. "What the hell is this for?" he demanded, holding aloft a thick, dull grey habit, complete with a large hood. "Somehow, I don't think they celebrate Halloween here."

Connie's face blushed, just a touch. "I... I thought it might come in handy if we have to go through any more towns, Dale."

Her fellow scientist was far from impressed. "Perhaps Miss Connie would like it if I just got some whitewash and painted my nasty black-self all over?"

"Please don't be like that, Dale," she valiantly attempted to explain her actions. "It's just that the people in this town have been driving you crazy because obviously they've never seen anyone like you before. I thought wearing a disguise might be a better alternative than being stared at and prodded all the time."

Gazing in complete contempt at the monk habit clutched in his large hands, Dale carefully considered Connie's reasoning. The problem with Connie, and any decision she made, was the woman was unbelievably intelligent. She could talk a person into doing just about any damn silly thing and make it appear like the smartest act imaginable.

In the meantime, Sean had purged himself of the burden of the various goods he had picked up during his meanderings through the town. He stepped up to the harnessed horses for a much closer inspection. "My God! They're even uglier up close!"

"You're no second prize in a beauty contest yourself," Dale informed him, diverting his attention back to Connie. "Alright, I'll do it. But only under protest."

"Sounds fair to me." Connie conceded.

"And only when we're near any highly populated areas. I'm definitely not travelling around the open countryside looking like 'Rasputin The Mad Monk'!"

Connie was delighted by his acceptance of her admittedly unorthodox idea. All they had to do now was gather their supplies and meagre personal possessions and leave for places unknown.

Places unknown. She silently wondered about what sort of trouble they were getting themselves into in their directionless attempt to locate the other scientists and possibly even the laboratory, unaware that their efforts would eventually create revolution in one nation and push two other mighty powers into full-scale war.

***

As the sun vanished momentarily behind a dense cloud, a small child of eight standard Perencore seasons in age--about four Earth years--wandered aimlessly along the wide veranda of the house he had lived in for his entire, short life. The child gazed up at the cloud, following its passage across the sky. The sun reappeared, causing him to squint and look away. It was then he noticed three khaki-clothed figures cautiously walking up the wide track that led past a number of overgrown fields and ended directly in front of the homestead. Smiling lightly at such a highly interesting sight, the child continued to observe these strange men as they approached the house.

The child's mother and aunt burst out of the double storey timber building, causing the front door to swing in a wide arc then slam shut with a thunderous report. One of these women grabbed the child, much to his disapproval. She dragged him back inside their home, causing him to kick and scream at the top of his quite vocal lungs.

The other woman stood on the porch, an aged crossbow clutched in her hands. She had been highly concerned about this sort of incident occurring during the time the workers were out gathering the harvest. Remaining near the relative safety of the house, she studied the approaching figures. To her amazement, one of the green uniformed men rushed across to a nearby plant, deftly removed a couple of leaves then returned to the fold of his similarly attired companions. They appeared to be fascinated by the beroto leaves. Had they never seen something as common as a beroto plant before?

Behind her, the front door re-opened and her sister joined her, likewise holding a cocked and loaded crossbow. They hoped between the two of them they could fend off these odd strangers. Adding to their concern, they noticed one of the approaching men looked unlike anyone they had ever set eyes on.

When Lieutenant Gary Wyndham came close to the homestead, the tall, auburn-haired woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties, aimed her primitive weapon at him. This antagonistic display caused Privates Clarence Field and Joseph Henty to react instinctively, resulting in everybody aiming some sort of weapon at each other.

Wyndham realised he was standing in the middle of a possible disaster. Considering he was not in the mood for any violence, the officer decided to diffuse the standoff. They needed supplies and information, possibly even a map, not to become target practice for some of the local women.

"Stay where you are!" the tall woman called out, her mouthy slightly out of sync with her words.

The lieutenant noticed this oddity but kept it to himself. He had other more pressing problems to deal with right now. "We won't harm you, ma'am," Wyndham informed her, removing his hat and handing his M-16 across to Henty. He looked across to his escort on this rather unique patrol and nodded his head, causing the other soldiers to also lower their weapons.

The crossbow in the tall woman's hands lowered slightly. Something about the green-attired man's speech greatly intrigued her. Behind her, the slightly shorter woman of similar appearance, except her hair was a redder shade, tapped her on the shoulder and pointed at Private Field.

"I know," the taller woman whispered. She focused her attention back to the man who had first spoken to her. "Where are you from?" she demanded. "Are you Anhil?"

"Actually," Wyndham replied, taking a cautious step closer to the slightly elevated porch, "I'm from Missouri. And I have to admit I've really no idea what an 'Anhil' is."

"The Anhil are bandits," the tall woman informed him. "They dress oddly and occasionally attack farms like this to steal--or sometimes just for pleasure!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," the officer spoke up, "but if you're not careful, you could hurt someone with that thing."

To his relief, the woman standing before him finally lowered her crossbow. "Where is this 'Missouri' place you speak of?" she inquired.

"I'm afraid it's a long, long way from here," he explained. "You see, where we're from there's only one moon. As we've been seeing three of the things floating about in your night sky, I can only assume that for some reason, we are now on a different world."

"You are not from this world?" the tall woman gasped, staring down at the three new arrivals in shock.

"That's about right," Wyndham replied, smiling as he studied the surrounding farmhouse and lands. "Are you two the only ones around here, if you don't mind me asking."

"That is none of your business!" the shorter, red-haired woman snapped, her eyes flashing angrily. She was still aiming her crossbow at the lieutenant.

"We don't mean you any harm," Field added, the barrel of his rifle still pointed to the ground. "However, we've been walking a long time. Is there any chance of us getting something nice and cool to drink?"

Both women remained silent, staring at Field as if somehow amazed by not only his appearance, but also his uncoordinated speech.

"Hello!" he abruptly called to them, waving one hand to check they had understood.

The two farmwomen continued to stare at him.

Wyndham looked from the stunned locals to Field and back again.

"I have a question," he inquired of them. "Has either of you ladies ever seen a black man before now?"

Both women shook their heads simultaneously.

"Say what!" Field blurted indignantly.

Henty began to laugh.

"Shut your mouth, Joey!" the other enlisted man exclaimed, "Or I'll shut it for you!" He turned back to the bewildered women on the veranda. "What sort of uncool world is this? Hey everybody, welcome to the 'Planet of the Whitey'!"

"That's enough! Both of you!" Wyndham hissed, attempting to maintain a civil tone. He turned back to face the two civilians. "Perhaps introductions are in order. I'm Lieutenant Gary Wyndham of the United States Marine Corps. These are Private Joseph Henty and Private First-Class Clarence Field."

"I hate being called Clarence," Field muttered irritably under his breath, earning him a reproachful glare from his commanding officer.

"To be perfectly honest," Wyndham continued politely, "we are kind of lost and low on food and water. Any assistance you can give us would be gratefully accepted. We can pay you, assuming you take United States or Vietnamese currency..." he paused to consider his own words "...which somehow I doubt."

"I am Kellin Toor," the taller of the two women informed her guests. "And this is my sister, Ilit Vannur."

The sister nodded once to the assembled men, but remained silent. To their relief, she kept her crossbow aimed at the ground, as there was still a remote possibility the meeting could deteriorate into a bloodbath.

Suddenly, the front door swung wide and the small child reappeared on the veranda. Before either woman could react to his presence, he scrambled down the short flight of steps and charged across to the green uniformed men. The child closely inspected each of the soldiers before wandering up to Field. He grinned and held up both short arms.

"Please!"

Field smiled, slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up the infant, who proceeded to carefully inspect the soldier's face.

"Hey!" Henty laughed, "What's wrong with me?"

"I guess the kid's just like everybody else, Henty," Field told him. "He doesn't like dealing with assholes."

"That's a nice thing to say in front of a child," Henty retorted.

"Oh, he's way too young to be repeating anything he hears," Field smirked.

"Asshold!" the boy ever so slightly mispronounced his new favourite word.

"Shit!" grumbled Field.

"That will be quite enough, private," Wyndham ordered, turning his attention back to the taller of the two women, whose odd name he had already forgotten. "If you don't mind me asking, ma'am, whereabouts are we?"

To their collective displeasure, their new host told the soldiers everything they hoped they would not hear.

***

A slight breeze stirred the mighty trees surrounding the mansion, causing Victor Chan to halt his work and glance around. He concluded there was no such thing as being overly cautious on this unusual new world. So far, he had managed the seemingly impossible task of almost rewiring the entire electrical systems of the mansion and the laboratory.

A strange animal noise startled him as he presently wandered around the mansion's greatly depleted perimeter. The highly unusual cry sounded similar to a coyote's howl, only louder, deeper in tone, and far more menacing. The troubling sound had emanated not far from the mansion's structure. Placing the two rolls of insulated electrical wiring he was carrying into one hand, Victor reached into his belt with his free hand and removed the revolver he carried with him at all times. He nervously scanned the surrounding forest, concluding if some wild beast did attack him from out of the thick foliage, he would be exceedingly fortunate to get off more than one shot. Considering he had never used a handgun before, there was every doubt in his troubled mind whether a single shot would strike any intended target.

Deciding extreme caution was the only way to go, he made his way back towards the relative safety of the entrance to the lab.

The much feared animal attack did not occur as he would have expected; in a blind rush from out of the bushes, but rather at an agreeable saunter. Eyes wide in fear, Victor watched from his perch in the doorway of the lab as a huge biped creature stepped into the clearing. This 'being', for want of a better term, was humanoid in build, but exceedingly tall with green skin and naked, except for some tufts of coarse hair emanating from its round head. Its vaguely intelligent eyes gazed about the clearing and across to the mansion until it finally spied the trembling doctor.

The green-skinned creature ambled at a leisurely gait in his direction, a huge wooden club clutched firmly in one of its clawed hands. To Victor, this crude weapon looked as though it was nothing more than a large branch mercilessly torn from some unsuspecting tree. As the beast casually approached him, another noticeable characteristic struck the horrified scientist. It possessed the most enormous set of genitals that dangled freely from its crouch.

So that was where he aimed the gun.

His first, and as it turned out only shot went well wide of the mark, easily missing the intended target. Victor wondered for a brief second exactly how he had missed so large an object from such a short distance. Fortunately for him, the bullet did manage to rip its way through the creature's muscular right thigh. As blood began streaming from the entry wound, the beast let out an ear-shattering scream of agony. Tossing aside the massive club, the afflicted monstrosity turned and charged off in roughly the same direction from where it had first emerged. Trees, bushes and other undergrowth were mercilessly shoved aside or torn free from the ground in the creature's painful sprint from the mansion.

Unfortunately for the bewildered scientist, the discarded club flew directly at his slightly elevated position. The sizable length of timber struck the Minerva Project lab's doorway near his feet, causing him to lose balance and free-fall straight to the ground, dropping the handgun in the process. Victor now lay unconscious on the cold ground, the abandoned sidearm beside him.

After some minutes had elapsed, a hand reached down and picked up the weapon, holding it aloft for a hasty inspection. The gun was then held down in the motionless scientist's direction. Another shot rang out across the forest.

***

The bushes parted as the typically unwashed, unshaven face of an Anhil man peered down into the lush green valley. On this occasion, his attention was focused on the neatly kept homestead located at the centre of the valley. This was certainly going to be an easy target. The Anhil leader released his grasp of the bushes, which instantly fell back into place. He turned to face another shabbily dressed man of similar appearance. "Are you certain the men are far from here?" he demanded.

The other bandit nodded, his one good eye staring back. "The workers are tending the outlying areas for the upcoming harvest. No one is present in the house except the two women and the child."

"What is the child?"

"Male."

"Why always male?" the Anhil leader grumbled, his tone betraying his bitterness at this unfortunate piece of information. "A female child would have commanded a good fee." He turned to face the other members of this raiding party. "Remember what I said; I don't want the women badly injured or killed. As for the male child, maybe it can be ransomed back to the other members of his family, assuming there are any around here. Now, we need to leave this place before the men return from their chores."

At his command, the brightly dressed but grubby Anhil left the hillside to commence their hopefully successful assault on the homestead.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

THE AZZIL TERRITORIES  
THE CITY OF TERRIMORTER

The corridors were poorly illuminated, their damp stone interiors flecked by the light from a sparse number of burning torches and their noxious fumes mingled with the vile, dank stench of death. Deep beneath the fortress city, Ruler Jom Azzer followed an underling whose name, not surprisingly, completely escaped him. The two finely-dressed men walked at a brisk pace along a narrow passageway, neither looking to the right nor left, but staring directly ahead as if terrified of spying the ghosts of those unfortunate souls who had perished in misery in this dreadful place over the eons.

"Which room?" Jom Azzer demanded irritably. "I am becoming impatient with this endless traipsing around the dungeons! Anyone would think I had nothing better to do with my time than follow you beneath half of Terrimorter."

"It is just up ahead, my Ruler," the upper echelon servant replied in haste. The next few moments felt like an entire season for the servant as he shuffled along nervously in front of his Ruler. Finally, they came to a heavyset timber door flanked by two guards posted either side. The soldiers instantly recognised their superior and snapped to full-attention at his malevolent presence.

"Is it really necessary to have two guards watching over a man who is near death?" Jom Azzer demanded as they opened the dungeon door so he could enter its confines.

"I felt it best, my Ruler," the courtier hastily replied. "After all, this has been a remarkable occurrence."

The door shut behind them, enclosing both individuals in the cramped confines of a dungeon chamber. The cell held precious little in the way of human comforts. To the far end was a timber bed, a torch burned brightly on a nearby wall and there was the mandatory hole in the stone floor for a prisoner's excrement.

The irritated Ruler wasted no further time, marching boldly across to a shrouded figure on the narrow bunk. He stared down at the person beneath the rough, unwashed blanket. "Now," Jom Azzer demanded, "Tell me once more what happened in the village of Bangrith."

"Well, my Ruler, your taxation administrators were in that particular village proceeding with your wishes..."

"You mean rounding up the people?"

"As my Ruler says," the servant nodded. "Your administrators, accompanied by a full detachment of soldiers, were in Bangrith demonstrating to the ignorant villagers the type of punishment meted out to those who, for reasons beyond my humble understanding, refuse to pay their rightfully due taxes. From what I have been told from the handful of survivors from the combined company, this... 'creature' appeared from the nearby forest and began slicing your troops and administrators into little pieces." To emphasis his words, he reached down with a gloved hand and pulled back a section of the filthy blanket.

The face Jom Azzer gazed upon was quite unfamiliar to him.

The sixteenth century Samurai warrior remained motionless on his bed, his expressionless features facing upwards at the ceiling like a corpse awaiting an autopsy. However, this man was still alive--but only just. Every once in a while he sucked in precious air in short, barely audible gasps. A minor trickle of blood had run from his mouth, staining his foreign face.

"What sort of thing is this?" the Ruler of the Azzil Territories gasped in a rare display of fear.

He continued staring in disbelief at the man's odd face and even more unusual mode of attire. The clothes he was wearing appeared to be some sort of crude armour. The underling continued his second-hand account of the short, fierce battle at the village of Bangrith.

"My Ruler, this 'thing' apparently slaughtered about a dozen men before they realised what was happening to them," he politely explained, watching as Jom Azzer closely studied the intruder into the Territories. "In turn, they managed to get no less than six spears and crossbow bolts into him... I mean 'it', my Ruler. But whatever this thing is, it persisted in its attack. Naturally, while this was all happening, the villagers began rioting, killing any of your lawful representatives they could get their grubby hands on. By the time your soldiers finally put a stop to this abomination's rampage, it had slaughtered a good seventeen of your men and wounded most of the survivors. Almost as many of the villagers perished in the fight."

"Where are the surviving troops and administrators now?"

"The soldiers are in the barrack's infirmary and the taxation collectors are convalescing in the local hospital, my Ruler."

Continuing to stare down at the strange face, Jom Azzer spoke to the bureaucrat in a soft, almost cautious tone. "Good. I want every last member of the administration party and those troops taken into the courtyard and executed. I will not tolerate such failure by my forces. For their numbers to be decimated by just one man--that is simply a disgrace."

The official had been fully expecting a command such as this one, so the order came as no real surprise. "Yes, my Ruler."

"When this has been done," the Ruler continued, his tone never betraying his immense irritation, "I want a full battalion to travel directly to Bangrith and burn down every last building in the entire district. Tell the commander of the detachment, if so much as a garden shed remains standing, I will personally place his head on top of it. Also, they are to round up and hang every person they can find within a ten league radius of the town."

"Even the children, my Ruler?"

Jom Azzer's head swivelled so he now glared directly at the other man. The servant instantly diverted his own gaze. He certainly had no desire to be executed, along with everyone else involved in the debacle.

"You have my instructions. Now carry them out." The Ruler of the Azzil Territories turned once more to study the unique face of the injured prisoner. "And I want the Imperial palace's best healers to tend to this 'person'. I would like to speak to him at length about his involvement in this matter."

The servant bowed once more. "Yes, my Ruler," he responded. After pausing a moment, he added. "There was one other item to mention, my Ruler, with your kind permission..."

"What is it?"

"The weapon this thing used to slay your troops. We have it here."

Under Jom Azzer's intrigued gaze, the underling stepped across to a narrow shelf positioned on one wall. From it, he picked up a long, thin object crudely wrapped in black cloth. In an instant, the servant had unwrapped the item in question, which turned out to be a bloodied sword unlike anything the Ruler had ever seen. The sword was the length of a man's arm with a slightly curved blade and an unusually long ornamental handle.

Jom Azzer gazed down at the unusual face of the seriously wounded man before returning his gaze back to the intricate sword. "Give it to me!" he commanded, holding out one hand.

Although realising his Ruler would stain his hands with the partially congealed blood on the weapon, the official dared not disobey a direct order. Silently he stepped across to the slightly taller man and passed the weapon to him in the gentlest possible manner.

The Ruler held the Samurai sword in his right hand and started wielding its blade swiftly through the air. "Incredible!" he gasped, his eyes never leaving the swiftly moving blade. After playing about with the weapon in this manner for a short while, Jom Azzer handed the sword back to his minion. "Have it cleaned and placed in my personal armoury. And understand this: it is not to be damaged in any way. Now leave, I wish to be alone."

Bowing once more, the underling sheathed the weapon and fled the musty smelling room. Once the door was closed, Jom Azzer stepped quietly back to the bed to further study the Samurai's almost lifeless form. The unusual warrior's place of origin was beyond recall. The Ruler was familiar with most of the Territories' and Hamaforth Kingdoms and the people who inhabited these nations. None came close to matching the physical appearance of this being lying prone on the bed at his feet.

Looking down at the near dead figure in the dungeon, Jom Azzer considered the matter closely. The stranger's presence had succeeded in causing immense disharmony within the Azzil Territories in a remarkably short space of time and this raised any number of difficult questions in the Ruler's troubled mind. Word of the peasant revolt would spread throughout the population and eventually he would be forced to take particularly drastic measures to ensure peace and respect back amongst the lower levels of society. However, that was something he would deal with when, or even if, it occurred. Still contemplating the matter, the brooding Ruler moved slowly across to the chamber door, opened it and let himself out, leaving the badly injured Samurai warrior alone in his foreign cell.

***

Considering he did not trust his Anhil escorts further than he could spit into the wind, Major Enrich Voltaire was surprised at how he was treated by these oddly dressed people. The officer had terrified these miserable bandits to the point where all but their leader, Sinnit Sear, kept a respectable distance from his menacing presence. During his first night spent with the gang, the major had pretended to be asleep and overheard the group arguing in harsh, hushed tones about his future--or rather lack of one--by slicing his throat. Sinnit Sear had concluded their lively debate by grabbing the main proponent of the planned assassination and ramming a sharp knife through the left eye directly into the screaming man's brain.

Voltaire had to admit he was starting to develop a begrudging respect for the Anhil leader. His methods of dealing with insubordinates were quick, straightforward and beyond reproach in their effectiveness. The officer realised that with a little proper guidance, these bands of Anhil renegades, if merged together, could become quite a force to be reckoned with across the region, if not the entire planet.

Climbing to the peak of one of many large rock outcrops that were prevalent in this landscape, Voltaire wiped his neck and face with a red handkerchief. "How long now?" he demanded.

Sinnit Sear gazed up at him, his eyes hard, though containing some measure of concern. "We should be there by nightfall, Major Voltaire," the bandit answered.

"Thank God!" the stranger huffed, putting the cloth back into one pocket. "It's not the travelling I mind, but we have seen no sign of life for almost two days." Voltaire's nerves were slightly out of kilter by the distinct lack of animal or human life in the region, with only the odd boulders jutting up out of the ground to keep the constantly moving group company. Glancing around once more at his surroundings, Major Voltaire scrambled down and joined the rest of the procession towards their destination of Terrimorter.

He was about to become an indelible part of this land's history.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

THE HAMAFORTH KINGDOMS

When he finally managed to open his eyes, Victor Chan realised he felt warm, dry and reasonably comfortable. Victor was greatly surprised to find himself neatly tucked up in Simon Leveque's huge bed in the bisected bedroom. Also to his astonishment, there were a couple of candles lighting up the bedroom, their combined flickering light gently pushing back the dark veil of night. There was no reason to bother with candles, the physician surmised silently as he remained motionless in the warm bed; they could have simply just switched on a light. After all, he had just spent all day fixing up the mansion's electricity system.

They?

The doctor attempted to speak, but only managed to produce a couple of barely audible groans.

A face suddenly leaned over him, her friendly features and blonde hair awakening memories floating in the back of his confused, jumbled mind. He knew this person, but could not recall her name... "Lorraine!" he gasped excitedly, his conscious memory returning to him in a swift flood of recollection.

"Hi, Vic!" Lorraine Montague responded, smiling brightly. "We've been really worried about you. You've been out for simply hours. It's the middle of the night, you know."

"We?" he muttered, attempting to sit to an upright position. A wave of nausea and dizziness knocked him back onto the bed. "Where are Colin and Connie? I need to tell them something."

An odd and slightly pained expression overwhelmed Lorraine's features. "Ah yes," she finally replied, "we sort of have a problem."

"A problem?" the other scientist repeated, staring up at her. "That's an understatement. We're in one hell of a mess, Lorraine! We're on the wrong planet!"

"Well, I haven't been able to find anyone else and to be honest, I'm amazed we managed to even locate you." She paused, holding aloft the pistol. "By the way, where did you get this from?"

"Simon's sock drawer."

"Really? Colin told us all 'no guns'."

"Just as well Simon never listens to anyone... All things considered." Victor winced as he tried to sit up again, but admitted defeat and lay back down.

Another face, this one male, sporting dark blond hair and a stern expression was now staring down at Victor. "Unfortunately," the man explained, "we failed to find the beast that attempted to take your life. It... I mean 'he' managed to vanish somewhere into the deeper parts of the woods. However, it was a great victory on your part."

Victor looked across at Lorraine.

"This is Immir Hanis," she announced, her smile broadening at the thrill of introducing her new friend. "He's a member of The Order of the Royal something-or-other." She looked at the Rider. "Immir Hanis, this is Doctor Victor Chan, a friend of mine from our other world."

The Rider bowed slightly. "I am greatly pleased to meet you, Doctor Victor Chan. Lorraine tells me you are a great healer.'"

"Really? Hey, haven't we met somewhere before?" Victor asked, his head still aching.

"I do not believe so, Victor Chan," Immir Hanis replied.

"What did you want to say to Colin and Connie?" Lorraine inquired.

"Only that I've no idea how we got here." Victor paused. Something else was amiss. "Oh, and the lights are working now, so you can cut the candles before we all go up in flames."

Stepping across to the nearest light switch, Lorraine flicked it on. She squinted just a touch as the room was abruptly awash with a dazzling white light from an overhead fixture. "That's much better," she announced, looking up in appreciation at the light. Then she noticed something was missing. "Where did Immir Hanis go?"

"I believe he dove outside," Victor stated, grinning slightly. "For a big man, he's fast on his feet."

"Damn!" Lorraine grumbled. "I suppose I should have warned him about that."

Moving across to the open side of the bedroom, she stared down into the darkness, anxious to locate the missing Rider.

"Immir Hanis! Are you there?"

He appeared from behind a tree not far from the mansion, looking a touch sheepish about his sudden flight from the building.

"It's alright!" she called to him, "It's just an electric light!"

"I really wish you would give me some warning before performing acts of sorcery!" he called back indignantly, sheathing his sword. "I have strong nerves, but they have their limitations."

Victor stirred slightly in his temporary sick bed. "You mean he's never seen an electric light before?"

"I hate to tell you this, Victor," Lorraine informed him, "but the inhabitants of this world live in what you might call 'traditional' living conditions. Also, everyone on this planet appears to be Caucasian. You should have seen the trouble I had convincing them to bring you up here. They thought you were some sort of demon. Especially after you fought off that huge monster that was hanging around here earlier."

"They? You mean there's more than just him hanging about?"

"Yeah. There are two other Riders around here somewhere. They're all pretty friendly though. By the way; how did you find the lab so quickly?"

"Just lucky, I guess," Victor responded, his head still feeling a touch light. "I was wandering through the forest and there it was. How did you find Immir Hanis?"

"Oh, he helped me out of a tree. It's a long story."

"That's what you get for climbing trees at your age."

"Thanks for nothing, Vic!" Lorraine laughed. Her face becoming serious she asked, "Did you manage to get the Minerva Project back on line yet?"

"Just about everything else is up and running, but to be honest I haven't built up the courage to switch it back on. God only knows what could happen. I'm not even sure if there's enough power in the batteries to crank the stupid thing over."

While they discussed this matter, Immir Hanis climbed back up into the brightly illuminated room. His face was a touch flushed with embarrassment over the flight from his post when the electric light had been activated.

"Is there anything else I should be told?" the Rider inquired.

Lorraine shook her head and looked to her fellow team member. "What else have you been up to while I was away?"

"I've done a pretty thorough job of rewiring the mansion, or what's left of it. It's a case of if you can find it, then it probably works. Try the bathroom in your room, Lorraine. There should be all sorts of things in there you can play around with. By the way, that room's a pigsty. How about giving it a quick once over while you're in there?"

"A gentleman would have cleaned it for me."

"Sure, find me a bulldozer and I'll clean it for you."

Pretending to inspect the light display on the ceiling, Immir Hanis listened intently to the odd conversation between two people from another planet. By his judgment, the insults traded between them spoke of a deep friendship between the two, but there appeared to be no romantic involvement as far as he could tell. This pleased the Rider, even though he was still not overly comfortable about the man's odd appearance.

"Immir Hanis?"

He turned to look at Lorraine.

"Would you like the grand tour?"

He frowned at her perplexing question.

"Of the house," she explained quickly, "or what's left of it anyway."

"Certainly, Lorraine. We really should allow your friend to get some rest. After all, he has had an eventful day."

"That's putting it mildly, buddy," Victor muttered.

"Buddy?"

"Never mind. I'll see you both in the morning. Could someone please turn out the light?"

After switching out the bedroom light, Lorraine led the Rider into the adjoining hallway.

"And keep out of the Project lab!" Victor's voice called from the darkness. "If someone presses the wrong switch, we could all end up God-knows-where!"

"I think it's way too late to be worried about that!" Lorraine called back before gently closing the door.

Victor rolled over in the comfortable bed and closed his eyes. Apparently he was not only a reasonably talented electrician, but also some sort of mighty monster slayer. He was satisfied he had done enough today to earn a decent night's sleep.

***

Everything he saw within the walls of the bisected mansion greatly interested Immir Hanis, from other electric lights to hair driers and even hot running water from the taps. The items that fascinated him the most were the various glossy magazines he discovered scattered across Lorraine's bedroom floor with an almost artistic indifference. He stood in the midst of all of this clutter, admiring the mess.

"Your friend was correct about this room," the Rider remarked as he picked up a discarded magazine. "It is a mess. Children who live in the Kingdoms are severely punished for allowing their quarters to get into such a state of disarray."

"That doesn't surprise me at all," Lorraine ruefully admitted, a mild blush on her smiling face. "I was always in trouble at home from my mom over the junk in my bedroom."

"What is this?" Immir Hanis inquired, thumbing his way through some of the magazine's glossy pages. Occasionally, he stopped to pay closer attention to a certain photograph that caught his attention but was beyond his understanding.

"It's called a magazine."

"What is its function?"

"Depends on what you're looking at."

The Rider's eyes abruptly bulged in shock an instant before he unceremoniously threw the magazine clear across the room.

"What's wrong?" Lorraine asked, somewhat bewildered by his reaction.

"I saw a young lady with barely a stitch of clothing on her body!" he gasped. "There are laws in the Kingdoms against such things!"

"I thought you didn't have photos or magazines here?"

"We do not," he insisted. "However, if a woman--or a man for that instance was to parade around about in their undergarments, they would, no doubt, be incarcerated. To be honest, I am surprised you have such material in your quarters."

"Look!" she retorted, stepping over and snatching up the offending material. "This," she continued, sorting through the magazine's slightly dog-eared pages, "is nothing more than a lousy bra ad. Don't you have places here which sell these things?"

Immir Hanis found himself at odds over the conversation. He was not thrilled about debating the matter with Lorraine, but at the same time, he enjoyed the fact they were in the throes of their very first argument. The Rider secretly hoped there would be many more such arguments with the attractive blonde woman.

"Yes, naturally there are stores in most towns that sell such items. But these things are always kept behind closed doors and not put on public display."

"There's nothing wrong with bras!" she declared, exasperated by the whole debate. "They're just items of underwear. I've got one on right now. Look! I'll show you!"

The horrified Rider held up both hands as Lorraine started adjusting her dress. "No! That is certainly not necessary, Lorraine Montague. I will take your word on the matter." Immir Hanis silently cursed himself for his display of chivalry.

She turned and glared at him. "If you say so."

"I most certainly do, Lorraine."

She ceased adjusting her clothing and gazed about her room. "What else is there?" she asked rhetorically. There was an antique cuckoo clock on one wall, though this timepiece had also ceased functioning when the effects of the Minerva Project's activation had taken hold. Against another wall was a shelf full of books. As most of them were in the trashy, sex and sin genre, Lorraine wisely decided not to show these to Immir Hanis.

The stereo! The compact stereo system lay in the corner of her room. Selecting one song off the internal playlist, the scientist placed the miniaturised item into the player. In an instant she had activated the device, blasting out the noise of some fringe Canadian heavy metal band.

The sudden charge of sound visibly startled Immir Hanis, his right hand instinctively reaching for his sword. Then he saw that his companion was not at all threatened by the fearful din and released his grip on the weapon's handle. Still, he could not help but feel rather threatened and confused by what purported to be music.

"Great, aren't they?" Lorraine bellowed so that she could be heard over the music.

"I do beg your pardon?"

She lowered the volume of her stereo. "I said they're great."

"That fearful racket could drive away an invading army. I have never in my life heard such a dreadful desecration of music."

There was a knock at the door. The bemused Rider and Lorraine looked at one another. Immir Hanis stepped across and carefully opened the door to his hostess' bedroom.

Victor poked his head inside the room. He appeared to be less than pleased about something. "What in God's name is going on in here?" he demanded angrily. "I'm trying to get some shut-eye and you two have got a party going on in here." He glanced about the room. "And this place is still a complete mess! Why don't you clean it up?"

"Yes, dad," Lorraine replied, flashing him a grin.

Victor left, slamming the door to mark his departure. Back in the bedroom, Lorraine turned to Immir Hanis and stated the obvious. "I think we upset him."

He grinned back at her; "I am certain of it. Does that machine produce any sounds other than offensive ones, Lorraine?"

"Immir Hanis, you just have to have some appreciation for..." Her voice trailed off as she was struck by an idea. "Actually, that's an excellent idea! I'm glad you thought of it!"

"Me too," he responded, having absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

Switching off the stereo's music function, Lorraine adjusted the device to the radio setting. Somewhere on this planet--or at least in the immediate region--someone from Earth might be broadcasting a message on a frequency she could detect. For close on ten minutes, she slowly and cautiously altered the receptor to all possible channels.

The digital channel indicator fascinated the Rider as he closely observed the ever changing, but to him, meaningless symbols. As Lorraine fiddled with the small, strange-looking device, an occasional static squeal emitted from it, but nothing more.

Disappointed by her unsuccessful impromptu experiment, Lorraine switched off the stereo. "Oh, well," she sighed in a melancholic tone, "maybe tomorrow we'll find something of interest." A terrible roar and commotion from just beyond the mansion's boundaries interrupted her thoughts.

Drawing his sword, the alert Rider wrenched open the bedroom door and bolted towards the source of the shocking sound. Once at the torn edge of the building, Immir Hanis looked down to see his fellow Riders crouching beside a small fire they had constructed earlier in the cold night to ward away the chill air, as well as any unwanted guests lurking within the deep forest. Both Loterin and Ulac Zat were clutching their swords, intently studying the nearby trees for any signs of hostile life. The latter of the two peacekeepers had somehow injured his arm, which was bleeding quite profusely. Obviously some battle had just occurred.

"What is happening out there?" Immir Hanis demanded, scanning the area as best he could.

"The beast came back!" Loterin told him with desperation in his voice. "It almost grabbed Ulac Zat!"

"I was careless," the younger Rider admitted, shame faced. "I ventured too close to the forest."

"Perhaps you two should come inside?" Lorraine suggested, having now arrived at the scene.

"No," the Lead Rider instantly responded, shaking his head without looking in her direction. "Most of this building is open to the elements. There are no windows or doors to shut to prevent the beast from breaking inside and killing us at its leisure. It is better if we stay outside where we have plenty of open space to out-manoeuvre it."

In one leap, Immir Hanis landed on the ground and rolled once, finally coming back to his feet. Sword still in his grasp, he scanned the area once again for any sign of the impressively tall creature they had earlier seen attack Lorraine's friend.

"Nice jump," Loterin commended.

"The least I could do under the circumstances. After all, you never know when company might be dropping by again."

Victor's head poked out of the building. "Now what's going on?" he demanded, glaring down at the cloaked men assembled about the small fire.

Lorraine leaned over the building's broken side, staring across at him. "You're pet ogre came back."

"Oh, no, I hate that thing!" Victor paused to reflect on his close shave with death by ogre. "What do we do now?"

"We wait," Immir Hanis informed him without bothering to look up.

Silently, all five of them stayed put and waited. The only sounds to be heard were those created by the crackling fire or other mysterious noises coming from out of the dark forest. It was now a waiting game. They could only react to another fierce attack and hope they had the ability and means to defeat the beast, or at least send it away once and for all.

***

When the attack happened, morning's first light had not yet settled on the land to warm the air. The first thing anyone knew about the assault was when Private Clarence Field was roused from a light nap while on guard duty on the homestead's front veranda. A banshee-like scream alerted him to the disturbing fact he was no longer alone at the front of the house. Turning to his left, Field could clearly see an unshaven, wild-eyed man of about his own age charging madly along the wooden boards, a short sword held high in one hand. When the Anhil attacker was a mere two paces away from him, the private levelled his rifle and blasted the other man clear off the veranda. Another bandit attacked from the other side and received the same direct and lethal treatment.

Field stepped to the edge of the slightly raised platform and stared down at the two bodies. What the hell was going on around here?

From out of the surrounding vegetation, almost twenty brightly clothed men and women erupted in one mad wave of fury. Their furious screams engulfed the entire area as they pounded across the cold ground. This premeditated though clumsy assault on the building was now in full swing.

To Field, their battle cry sounded like a whole lot of pointless screaming. He switched his weapon onto automatic fire, lowered the barrel towards the fast-moving human wave and squeezed the trigger without really bothering to take aim. A blaze of fire burst from the M-16's barrel as a multitude of rounds tore through the ranks of the Anhil. Not bothering to consider their losses, the bandits continued on, causing the soldier to conclude his job was not going to be as easy as he first thought.

Hauled unceremoniously from his well-earned slumber, Lieutenant Gary Wyndham only just managed to climb into his pants and grab his Colt .45 and shirt before more of the attacking bandits reached the rear of the homestead. Scrambling down the stairs from his room into the kitchen, he was confronted by a strange man climbing through an open window. Knife in hand, the bandit landed heavily on the highly polished kitchen floor and instantly sprung back to his feet. "You are dead!" the Anhil man snarled, raising an unclean, but certainly sharp dagger.

Fearing the deranged psychopath could not be easily reasoned with and that the lives of his troops, the two women and child were at great risk, the lieutenant carefully levelled his sidearm at the man and shot him twice in the chest. The force of both shots sent the attacker staggering backwards where he collided with the rear door, shattering both glass and timber.

A second man promptly began hauling himself through yet another of the kitchen's open windows. This bandit was dealt with in the same manner by the unemotional officer. The man's lifeless corpse collapsed onto the main bench before dropping unceremoniously onto the bloody floor. Judging by the ear-splitting racket coming from the front of the house, the lieutenant surmised that Field was busy blazing away at anything that moved.

Three bandits kicked in another back door leading into the homestead. They blindly charged into the building, disregarding the thunderous sounds coming from the other side. They poured in a blood-crazed rush along the nearest hallway, desperate to locate and seize any possible hostages.

Lieutenant Wyndham fired a random shot at the moving rabble, but failed to hit anyone or slow their progress into the homestead.

"Private Henty!" he bellowed, the Colt .45 still clutched in one hand. "Where the hell are you?"

Almost as if in answer to this question, a multitude of automatic shots echoed noisily about the building from somewhere deeper inside the house. After a minute, Joseph Henty appeared, looking remarkably calm under the circumstances, a light trail of smoke wafting lazily from the barrel of his rifle. He casually rested his large bulk against the kitchen doorframe. "Did you call me, sir?"

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Entertaining guests, Lieutenant."

Someone charged past one of the kitchen windows. Judging by his mode of attire, this individual was also one of the attacking bandits.

Wyndham fired off one shot, but only succeeded in blasting out a pane of crude glass from the window frame. He turned to face the patiently waiting soldier. "I trust our 'guests' won't be giving us any further trouble?"

Henty shook his head as he spoke, "No, sir; none whatsoever."

The insane automatic gunfire coming from the front of the homestead had finally halted, which Wyndham knew was either very good or very bad news. He decided to go out to the front porch and find out for himself. Quickly donning his shirt and boots and placing a fresh ammunition clip into his handgun, he crept to the front door, his progress shadowed by Henty. On their way to the front section of the building, they encountered Kellin Toor and her sister, Ilit Vannur. Both of the terrified but resolute women were armed with loaded and cocked crossbows.

"Get back upstairs!" Wyndham hissed, pointing them in the right direction with his sidearm.

The latter vigorously shook her head. "No!"

"We stay!" Kellin Toor agreed with her sister.

"It's okay, Lieutenant!" Field's voice announced. "Everything's clear out here."

All four of them ventured out onto the front veranda. They discovered Field standing alone under the awning, his eyes scanning the area for any further signs of the raiding party. Scattered about the front yard were no less than five bullet-riddled corpses, their brightly coloured clothing now splattered and stained in fresh blood.

"The rest of them ran way, Lieutenant," Field reported, facing the officer.

"Very good, Private Field," Wyndham finally noted, holstering his .45. "Now, we need to secure the area. I don't want any more nasty surprises. One a day is quite enough. Field, you stay out here and keep an eye out for any more of these people. But check your targets; I'm sure the ladies wouldn't approve of or appreciate it if you accidentally slaughtered any of their hired hands. Private Henty, radio Corporal Stuart and have him bring in the chopper A.S.A.P. If these bandits make another attempt on the house, I want to give them a proper welcome."

"Yes, sir!" Henty replied an instant before dashing back into the homestead.

"And keep watch out back!" Wyndham called after the fleeing soldier.

"Can we do anything, Gary?" Ilit Vannur inquired in her usual serious manner.

"Two things," he answered. "We all need a good meal. Also, watch the child and keep an eye out from some of the upstairs windows. Let us know if our friends return looking for more trouble." He was beginning to take quite a liking to the short, red-haired woman. She was the sort of person who would never let anyone down in a tight situation and was willing to pull her weight when things got dangerous.

"I have another question," she advised him. "What is this 'chopper' thing you speak of?"

He could not suppress a wide grin. "You'll see."

***

Deeply agitated by the gunshot wound it had received the previous day, the ogre greatly misjudged the timing of its attack. Instead of ambushing its intended victims under the cover of darkness, it burst from the surrounding forest just after daybreak. Thankfully, the creature's limited intelligence precluded it from feeling anything more than anger and hunger, in no particular order. The beast had encountered a problem and it intended to eat this problem to make it go away.

Victor and Lorraine were fast asleep in their respective beds at this very early hour, but all three Riders were wide-awake and still expecting trouble. The very instant the tall beast appeared, they scattered in different directions. This act created further confusion in the beast's befuddled mind. To begin with, it stepped on the red-hot embers of their collapsed fire with one clawed foot. Releasing a deafening howl of pain, the horrific creature threw itself at the nearest man, who happened to be Ulac Zat.

The youngest and nimblest of The Order's trio quickly leapt to one side, lashing out with his sword in the process. The forged steel blade sliced through the beast's skin and muscle, causing it to shriek loudly again. The cloaked men danced about the cumbersome creature, their combined effort keeping their foe at bay and themselves well out of the way of its slashing, razor sharp claws.

Unfortunately for Ulac Zat, he was the first person the creature managed to strike during their fearsome brawl. With a glancing backhanded blow, it managed to knock him halfway across the clearing where he remained in a motionless state. His fellow Riders were busy fighting and incapable of lending him any assistance.

By this time, the commotion had ripped the two scientists from their slumber. Both of them watched the ongoing fight from the relative safety of the broken building. They remained affixed to the spot, observing as Immir Hanis and Loterin continued their repulsion of the screeching beast.

"Where's the gun?" Victor demanded.

Lorraine glanced about Leveque's old room. "I don't know," she admitted. "We weren't really paying any attention to it after Immir Hanis almost accidentally shot you yesterday."

The physician turned to stare at her. "He almost did what?"

Ignoring his outburst, she stepped across to the large, unmade bed and scanned the room. She needed to recall her movements after locating the mansion and Victor the other day. "Now I remember!" Dashing across to a dresser, she tore open the top drawer and stared inside. "Here it is!"

"Bring it over here, quickly!" Victor hissed.

By the time she handed the weapon across to him, Loterin had been knocked aside on the clearing and was clutching his left leg in obvious pain. Immir Hanis now valiantly fought single-handed with the much taller, more powerful and enraged creature. Both Rider and beast were splattered in bright red blood, though it was impossible to tell whether the blood was their own or their foe's.

"Do you actually know how to use that thing, Vic?" Lorraine demanded.

Victor was now crouched at the very edge of the building, both hands aiming the sidearm. His first shot struck the ground not far from the furious beast. The second shot hit an unsuspecting tree, while the next shot almost struck Immir Hanis in the head, causing him to instinctively duck as he felt some mysterious projectile fly past his ears.

"Answers that question," Lorraine murmured.

Much to everyone's surprise, instead of using this diversion to pursue its attack on the lone Rider, the creature abruptly turned away and charged at the high structure and the source of the disturbing noise. Naturally enough, the ogre associated these gunshots with the agonising pain it felt and intended to eat the thing responsible for its incredible suffering.

"Run!" Victor bellowed, as the enraged creature swiftly approached their somewhat exposed position.

They turned and fled without a moment's hesitation. Realising the revolver only contained a few more rounds at best, Victor decided to save these remaining shots until the situation was even more desperate than at present.

Trying to haul its huge bulk into the open section of the building, the beast let out yet another terrifying howl, both its muscular arms thrashing about for purchase on the broken structure. Fortunately for the scientists, the beast found it exceedingly difficult to cram its massive bulk into the open bedroom.

Lorraine had charged into the adjoining hallway, but Victor remained at the open doorway, the gun still held in both hands. Displaying great deliberation, he raised the firearm in the attacking creature's direction and waited for it to make a final pass at them. He realised even a poor marksman such as himself would have little trouble in hitting so large a target at such a short distance.

Another roar emitted from the beast's struggling body, only this time there was pain mixed with the sound of anger. The beast's evil eyes glared angrily at Victor before rolling back into its head. A spray of fresh blood burst from the beast's open mouth an instant before it toppled backwards, almost crushing Immir Hanis in the process.

Venturing back to the edge of the room, both scientists looked down to see a breathless Immir Hanis standing beside the creature's lifeless form, his sword now embedded up to the hilt in its motionless body. The other members of The Order hauled themselves wearily across the clearing to take a closer look at the vile corpse.

"That," Loterin exclaimed, a minor trickle of blood running from his nose, "is truly a great victory! Certainly much better than cutting the head off some oversized chicken! Immir Hanis, the people of the Kingdoms will sing your praises from one border to the next over this mighty deed."

Immir Hanis was indeed pleased about this statement from his senior Rider.

"I'll get the medical kit from the lab," Victor announced, "and I'll patch you people up. You all look like you could do with some attention."

"Are you okay, Immir Hanis?" Lorraine urgently inquired, as Victor made his way to the laboratory entrance.

"I am in good health, Lorraine," Immir Hanis replied, pleased at her attention.

With his gashed leg causing him great discomfort, Loterin hobbled across to make a closer inspection of the motionless beast. "I have never before seen or heard of anything quite like this in the Kingdoms," he announced.

"I am also at a loss to explain its presence," Ulac Zat added.

"It's not from Earth," Lorraine informed them.

"Still," Ulac Zat admitted, chuckling lightly despite his discomfort, "it was a shame to kill the creature. Anything so well-endowed deserved to live."

"I had better see to the horses," Immir Hanis suggested.

"A most worthy notion," Loterin agreed. "I sincerely trust Rell has not pulled up the tree he was tied to and run all the way back to town."

Immir Hanis was insulted by the unkind suggestion and made no attempt to hide his displeasure. "That tree is almost as tall as this building," Immir Hanis admonished his fellow member of The Order. "I seriously doubt any animal would be capable of uprooting such a sturdy item."

"Rell is such a coward I feel he could tear that broken house clear from the ground if he was attempting to escape some form of danger."

Disgusted by this derogatory attack on his trusty steed, Immir Hanis departed without another word. He did not feel the need to defend the virtues of his mount against such a character assassination.

He returned within the space of a minute, his face flushed with embarrassment and anger. "Rell has fled," he stated tersely between clenched teeth.

At this, the other Riders laughed so heartily that their injuries were momentarily forgotten. Even Lorraine was unable to suppress a laugh.

Holding a very well equipped medical kit, which was, in fact, a suitcase-sized bag, Victor appeared at the partially broken lab doorway. He was rather confused at the sight of two injured men laughing when only a short time earlier they had been in considerable physical pain. The Rider who was always making cow eyes at Lorraine appeared to be embarrassed about something.

"What's going on here?" he inquired, setting down his medical kit.

"Rell's run off again," Lorraine giggled. .

"Who the hell's Rell?" Victor demanded.

"Immir Hanis' horse."

"So what? It'll probably get hungry and come back later on. I can't see what all the fuss is about."

"I agree," Immir Hanis added.

"Who's first?" the physician asked. "I'll tend to you all in the lab, but I don't want anyone touching anything. Okay?"

None too eagerly they followed the doctor back to the Minerva Project room. Lorraine kept a careful watch outside in case the beast had any friends or relatives lurking around the region.

The Riders were amazed at what they discovered inside the large chamber. The medical practitioner quickly and professionally tended to their injuries. Within forty minutes, he had finished stitching and patching up all three battered and bruised men.

Loterin possessed a badly sprained ankle and slightly cut leg; the younger Rider, Ulac Zat had a mild concussion and Immir Hanis simply had some minor cuts and bruises from his encounter with the huge creature. The Rider was, in actuality, disappointed by his state of good health. A couple of nasty battle scars or even a permanent limp would have been much more becoming.

Life could be so cruel at times.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Glancing out of the passenger window of the moving car, Edith Bonaparte could clearly see her youngest son riding as a passenger on one of the Apporan's flying horses. Earlier the same day, she had seen her eldest son Joseph being transported in a similar manner. However, right at this moment, she could not see him from any vantage point as the car powered its way along a wide, overgrown track. Both of the children had taken to spending almost all of their time with members of the Appor tribe, flying above the countryside on their rather impressive white horses. Fortunately, neither boy had fallen during these fanciful flights.

Their destination was a particularly large lake that some of the Appor scouts had located only that morning. They all hoped the large body of fresh water would provide them with greatly needed food and drink, as their own supplies were beginning to run incredibly low. Some of the Appor actually flew quite close to the moving station wagon during their journey. They appeared to be as amazed by the horseless metal vehicle, as the Bonapartes were astounded by the flying animals. Often, one of the mounted Appor would swoop low over the car, causing Ernest and Edith no end of concern.

"I really wish they'd stop doing that," Ernest Bonaparte complained, instinctively ducking his head as yet another animal flew dangerously low past the windshield. "I'm going to have to have a serious word with Wan-Re-Fah."

"I've been saying that for the past thirty minutes, Ernest," his wife responded, staring up at her youngest child on his precarious perch.

Where was Joseph?

Breaching a growth of trees, the car came to a wide expanse of tranquil, deep blue water. All about the massive lake grew forests of trees similar to pine, which created a backdrop of bright green all around the lake's expansive perimeter. At various locations along the shoreline were long, narrow stretches of crude sand that had built up over the eons from debris swept up out of the water by a multitude of localised storms.

Some of the Appor had arrived at this destination just before the station wagon. These members of the tribe were now conducting an intense sweep of the region for any forms of hostile life.

"Isn't it lovely!" Edith cheerfully cried, delighted to have finally arrived at such a picturesque lake.

"Sure is," her husband agreed, parking their car underneath the widespread branches of an immense, seemingly ancient tree. "It'll be even lovelier if there's a mass of fish in that lake."

One of the majestic white horses came to a halt just in front of the now motionless vehicle. The slightly breathless animal remained still as its owner dismounted. The tribesman approached the occupants of this strange, metallic contraption.

Edith rolled down her window to greet the Apporan Horsemaster, Zer-Qil-Ard. He appeared to be equally as pleased as the Bonapartes about their newly located camping ground. "This place reminds me of my home," he cheerfully stated. "I grew up near a large lake similar to this one. There should be plenty of fish for us."

The High Councillor, Wan-Re-Fah approached the car, a contented expression affixed to his aged features. Despite his age, he moved with the ease of a man twenty years his junior. Stepping up to the vehicle, he looked inside and smiled at the Bonapartes. "This is a good place for our night camp," he informed them. "I will have some members of the tribe hunt the lake for fish for our next meal. Would either of you care to join us?"

Ernest was out of the car and running for the rear door of his station wagon.

His wife just shook her head at the elderly man. "No thank you, Wan-Re-Fah. I've never been big on fishing, but I think you've just made a friend for life," she commented, pointing to her husband.

Clutching a brace of fishing rods and his wicker fishing basket, Ernest reappeared at the front of the station wagon. Placing these precious items carefully beside the car, he went back to the trunk to retrieve his tackle box and bait.

The Apporan High Councillor ventured across to the fishing rods and cautiously inspected these unfamiliar devices. As his aged, but nimble fingers gently touched these objects for the first time, he wondered at the many wonderful though strange possessions these new people owned. Most of them generally defied Appor logic, although they all had some useful purpose.

"What is the function of these apparatus, Ernest?" Wan-Re-Fah inquired as soon as the other man had returned; yet another tackle box in hand.

"They're fishing rods," Ernest explained, placing the tackle box on the ground alongside his other paraphernalia. He frowned. "You mean you don't have fishing rods in your world?"

"No, we simply bait the waters and use spears to gather a bounty of fish for ourselves." The elderly man picked up one of the fishing rods. "If it pleases you, would you please show me how to use one of these devices, Ernest?"

"Now you're never going to get rid of him," Edith informed the High Councillor.

"I'd be delighted!" Ernest announced, more than happy to be the only experienced fisherman out of about a hundred and twenty people. "By the time I've finished showing you how to practice the great sport of fishing, you'll never go hungry!"

He cheerfully led the elder Apporan down to the water's edge, both of their hands loaded with fishing equipment.

Edith remained in the vehicle, her keen eyes trained down to the same narrow stretch of sand where both of her children were presently splashing about in the chilled waters. Thankfully, Joseph had reappeared as if by magic amongst the ever-increasing crowd of Appor. If there was one thing his mother was grateful for in these strange times, it was that there appeared to be no end of babysitters. At all times, both her boys were under the constant scrutiny of the tribe members.

A crowd started forming around her spouse as he began preparing his favourite fishing rod for casting out into the blue waters. Only Joseph and Ernest junior appeared completely disinterested in this process.

Edith also noticed a couple of the Appor hovering on their mounts just above the water's tranquil surface. One of them produced a bag made of an intricately weaved material from his saddlebag. From this, the Appor man retrieved a large handful of grain and began liberally spreading this bait across the water. When his task was completed, each of the Appor produced a short, thin spear constructed of a shiny material resembling plastic and patiently waited. The spears were, in fact, made from the femur bones of long dead horses. They were highly prized amongst the Appor people. To lose one was considered a massive disgrace.

Ernest cast in his first line.

"Is that all there is?" Wan-Re-Fah inquired, gazing quizzically into the waters.

"I don't see your lot abuzz with activity," Ernest retorted sourly to this apparent slight on his fishing skills. A man loses his sense of humour the instant his line hits the water.

Still sitting in the car, Edith straightened slightly as the Appor woman Sil-Ta-Dan pushed her way through the throng of bodies until she stood beside Ernest. He was still intent on his fishing. She remained standing in close proximity to the Earth man, her eyes never leaving him.

That was a concern. She appeared to have her eye on Ernest and was always hovering around him, albeit usually in the background. Secretly, Edith promised herself to keep an eye on the tall, attractive girl. While she considered the situation, both of her children charged up to the vehicle, each sporting a huge grin.

Ernest junior climbed into his mother's lap while Joseph climbed in behind the steering wheel. She instantly realised something was amiss; this was their usual method of asking for something out of the ordinary: Surround and conquer.

Joseph, being the eldest, was always in charge of the request department. "Can we go for a swim please, Mom?"

Edith did not have to strain her thought processes over this particular question. The weather was sunny, but it was chilly to the point the entire family were still rugged up in their fall clothing. There was the added fact none of the people present really knew what was lurking just under the surface of the picturesque lake. Also, the boys could swim only reasonably well with great emphasis on 'reasonably'. Their mother knew she had numerous undisputable reasons why her children should not be allowed to venture into the water. "Absolutely not," she instructed in her best 'I will be obeyed' voice.

While Edith drowned out the wailing protests of both her offspring, she gazed across to see the attractive Appor girl in the process of having a fishing lesson from Ernest on how to cast a line. Later, she would have serious words to her spouse about this little incident, although she fully expected him to rely on his time-honoured trick of feigning ignorance.

Edith continued to ignore her whining boys while closely observing the carry-on down by the lake. Suddenly, Ernest gave one almighty heave on the fishing rod--and actually managed to let go of it. The rod reacted to this abrupt treatment by flinging itself well out into the lake.

Edith realised that perhaps feigning ignorance was really no trick at all.

"Please, Mom!" Ernest junior pleaded in his most plaintive tone, as he was in charge of the pleading and grovelling department.

For some unknown reason, their tried and true methods of nagging, honed over years of practice failed to budge their mother. Generally, their two-pronged attacks worked like a charm. For some reason, as yet unknown to them, she was standing her ground with uncharacteristic vigour.

"No!" Edith repeated her earlier command, her eyes still on the group by the water.

"Come on!" Joseph wailed, joining in the performance. "Have a heart, Mom!"

"I said no!"

Sil-Ta-Dan was now swimming across to the accidentally discarded fishing rod half submerged in the lake. She retrieved the item and paddled expertly back to shore, presenting the rod to Ernest. The Appor girl's clothing was now clinging to her lithe figure, as she stood knee-deep in the water. Even a number of the Appor men were secretly admiring her soaking, shapely form.

"Why can't we go swimming, Mom?" Ernest junior whined, his voice rising an octave.

Edith turned to him, her eyes almost burning a hole through the plaintive child. "Because the water's too cold! That's why not!" she snapped.

"But that's..."

"The best reason you're going to hear all day!" she told him in no uncertain terms. "And if either of you say one more word about it, there's going to be _severe_ consequences! Is that clear?"

"Sure thing, Mom!" both boys chorused dejectedly. When they heard the words 'severe consequences', they knew they were beaten. What was her problem?

"There is one thing you can do for me," she piped up.

"What's that?" Joseph responded. Here was a chance for redemption.

"Go tell your father I'd like to know what seat in the car he'd like to sleep on tonight."

The eldest boy frowned, "Pardon?"

"Just do it for me, please."

He shrugged. "Sure thing, Mom."

Although their initial request had been turned down, the Bonaparte children figured with their child-like logic that she might change her mind if she was pleased by their deference to her instructions. They quickly scrambled out of the vehicle and raced down to their father who was in the process of chatting animatedly to the drenched Appor woman.

When Ernest saw the boys approach, he ceased speaking to Sil-Ta-Dan and leaned closer to the children, so he could easily hear what they had to say. He dropped his rod. Mouth agape, Ernest turned to stare up at the parked car and its sole occupant. The irate glare he received in return for his troubles froze his very soul. Much to everyone's dismay, he quickly gathered up his fishing equipment and wandered away from the group. There were more important things in life than fishing. Maintaining a grasp on one's marital safety was definitely one of them.

Obviously, Ernest junior and Joseph had adequately conveyed her message to their father. Hopefully, this pre-emptive strike on Edith's behalf would ensure there was no eye wandering on Ernest's part during their possibly extended stay with the Appor tribe. A problem sorted was no problem at all.

Having successfully completed their mission, the children raced back to the station wagon. Their mother smiled at them as they climbed back inside the vehicle. When all was said and done, they were quite intelligent children. Many other kids would have somehow botched the task, thus nullifying her message's meaning. However, her children had conveyed it perfectly. She was very pleased with her boys... but they still could not go swimming.

***

The Anhil marauders had regrouped far from the homestead and huddled together in abject fear and shock at what had happened. Their former leader had been killed in the first charge on the house and his second-in-charge was now in control of the group. He was a short, aggressive man who bullied his fellow bandit filth into obeying his lunatic orders. Just under twelve of the initial group remained alive and in reasonable health. They thronged around their new leader, listening intently to his ranting.

"Are we going to cower here like frightened children?" he roared, his small frame concealing a mighty voice.

Someone in the group spoke up: "It had occurred to us to do just that."

"Silence!" the leader bellowed, his voice blasting across the countryside. "I will not stand here and listen to such cowardly talk!" He paused to check his words were having the desired effect. "We will surround the farmhouse and make another attack on these farmers!"

"Farmers!" another man spoke up in disgust. "These 'farmers' had a black sorcerer on the front porch who slaughtered us just by pointing some sort of metal rod in our direction!"

"They have another powerful sorcerer in that house!" another bandit yelled, her anger clearly evident. "And I for one do not intend to make him any angrier. I say we leave this place and never come back!"

"Cowards!" the new leader screamed, his face turning puce. "I say that thing on the front porch is just a man. The only way to find out for certain is for someone to go down there and put a crossbow bolt through his shoulder blades."

"Be our guest!"

"I will do just that!" the leader hotly declared. "But I need some help with my plan."

"I knew this would involve us."

"Quiet!"

Their new group leader began telling his followers of his plan. The Anhil gathered closer around him while trying to avoid being drenched in fresh spittle. When he had fully divulged all the details of his idea, they realised his deranged mind had actually come up with something that could quite easily succeed.

***

After finishing his lunch, Gary Wyndham instructed one of the soldiers in his charge to contact the helicopter to check why it was taking so long to travel the relatively short distance to the homestead. He waited patiently while Joseph Henty called the remainder of the unit at the Iroquois via the two-way radio and spoke for a short time to Ricky Sorell. A message was then relayed directly back to the officer, who was now standing on the bloodstained front veranda of the house silently admiring the spread of green crops stretched out across the valley. He had always admired the sight of a field of fully matured crops back in his home state, which made him feel a bit homesick.

"What happened, private?"

"They had some sort of difficulties with the fuel pump, sir," Henty promptly reported.

"Apparently, Corporal Stuart believes there's a blockage," he added.

"Did he say how long it would take to fix?"

"They should be here in just over an hour, Lieutenant."

"Very good. Carry on with your duties."

Henty remained at attention.

"What is it?" Wyndham inquired.

"Just what are my duties here, sir?"

"Stay out here and keep watch. Where's Private Field?"

"Still asleep. He was up most of the night after the fight."

"That's just fine. He did a good job of fighting off those bandits, or Anhil, or whatever the hell they call them around here."

"Yes, sir."

"You did well too, private."

Henty smiled: "Thank you, Lieutenant."

The officer turned and stepped back towards the house only to be confronted by the sight of Ilit Vannur and her nephew moving towards the back door. Both were dressed in garments similar to Japanese kimonos and sported odd sandals on their feet. It was a particularly strange sight.

"If you don't mind me asking, ma'am," Wyndham commented, staring at them, "why are you dressed like that?"

"We are going to bathe in the watering hole," the redheaded woman informed him without smiling. She rarely smiled or displayed any outwards signs of humour.

"Excuse me for saying so, but is that wise under the circumstances?"

"I fail to see any problem, Gary Wyndham. The Anhil have been badly defeated and are probably still counting their lost and wounded. It should be safe. The water hole is not far from here. If there is any problem, we will return in haste."

"I still don't think it's a good idea," he insisted.

Finally, she smiled, though only very briefly. "Then it is best if you come along to protect us. And please, call me 'Ilit Vannur'. After all, it is my name."

Wyndham shrugged. "Why not." After collecting an extra ammunition clip for his Colt .45, he followed in the same direction as the two locals. A couple of minutes later, they reached a large dam huddled amongst a cluster of tall trees. The lieutenant had considered taking a dip himself, but thought otherwise at the sight of the pool of brown, muddy water. Positioning himself at the base of a large, shady tree, the officer shoved on his sunglasses and lit up one of his few remaining cigarettes.

Standing by the water's edge, Ilit Vannur removed her robe to reveal--everything.

The cigarette dropped from Wyndham's open mouth as he watched her dive into the water. "That's one hell of a fine-looking woman," he muttered to himself without fear of contradiction.

After spending some time splashing about with the child, Ilit Vannur swam close to where her protector sat under his tree. His face was miraculously expressionless. Years of service in the Marines had taught him the benefit of never revealing his emotions. "Don't you have some sort of swimwear, Ilit Vannur?" he inquired with uncharacteristic coyness.

The woman frowned, wiping some water from her face. "What is 'swimwear'?"

"Something we wear on my world while swimming."

Ilit Vannur frowned at his comment, both feet continuing to paddle the water in order to keep her afloat. "Why would anyone wear clothing while bathing?" she inquired, staring up at the uniformed man.

His answer was brief and to the point. "To stop being arrested on public beaches."

"It sounds like a strange custom to me," she responded. "But most of what you have told me about your 'Earth' world sounds strange."

"You should have seen half the shit we were doing in 'Nam," he grumbled beneath his breath. Leaning back against the tree's thick trunk, he pulled his hat down to cover his eyes from the morning's bright sunshine. "Wake me when you're finished," he advised his charges.

In less than a minute, mainly due to a lack of rest the previous night, the lieutenant fell fast asleep. One day, he hoped to return home to see his family once more, but for now, these people under his care were the nearest thing he had to a family.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

The first shot caused Gary Wyndham to draw his .45, but otherwise he remained completely still, his senses alert for any signs of nearby intruders. For chivalry's sake, he had been facing away from Ilit Vannur and her nephew as they dried themselves before pulling on their bathrobes. The gunshot had originated from somewhere close to the homestead. Wyndham's first instinct was to guard the woman and the child, but such a stance left him with an incredible dilemma. If another full-scale assault was under way on the farmhouse, then Private Field was probably asleep, leaving only Joey Henty to protect the house.

He turned to Ilit Vannur and her nephew who were now dressed and standing nearby. "Stay here. I'll go back to the house to see what's going on. And if anyone shows up, for Lord's sakes hide."

"I will not stay here and hide like a coward!" she protested.

"That's just great. Then you can come along with me and leave the child here to fend for himself; I hope he knows how to use a crossbow."

"Fine," Ilit Vannur huffed. "I will stay here and tend to him, but please be careful and good luck."

"Thanks. I've got a feeling I'm going to need it," he remarked an instant before sprinting away from the pond. When he reached the farmhouse, he saw to his amazement that Joseph Henty was shooting away into a meadow of fully-grown crop plants. Nearby, Kellin Toor and an equally unimpressed Clarence Field observed his actions from the safety of the homestead's front porch.

"Private Henty!" the lieutenant bellowed, glaring at the soldier while keeping an eye on the field, which was constantly swaying in no discernible direction due to a strong breeze. "What in God's name is going on here?"

Rather than respond to his question, Henty ignored his commanding officer. He fired a couple more rounds into the inoffensive crops, which continued dancing in the wind.

"Enough!" Wyndham roared, still scanning the immediate area for anything suspicious.

"Sir!" Henty finally called back to him. "There are more of those 'Anthill' people about! They're in the crops; I saw them moving about!"

The officer looked up to the veranda. "Private Field, go to the rear of the house and keep watch until I say otherwise. If you see something you don't like the look of, please feel free to kill it!"

"Yes, sir!" Field barked before dashing to the back of the house.

Henty shot into the crops once more.

"Did you see someone?"

"I think so, sir! It's hard to tell. They occasionally stick their ugly heads up and peek out. That's when I..."

Suddenly, they heard a brief whirling noise an instant before Wyndham felt a stinging sensation in the upper part of his left arm. Much to their dismay, a crossbow bolt was protruding halfway out of the officer's arm just above his elbow. "Dear God," he muttered, as blood began to flow from the injury.

This was his cue; Henty went berserk. A somewhat inhuman screech wrenched itself free from the enraged soldier's mouth. Displaying scant regard for his own safety, he boldly lunged headfirst straight into the crop field. Charging in whatever direction took his fancy, the private fired burst after burst from his automatic weapon in the vague hope of shooting whoever had injured his commanding officer.

"Henty! Get back here, you moron!"

Ignoring Wyndham's direct order, Henty continued firing. Shots could still be heard echoing about the field as Kellin Toor reached Wyndham to assist him with his injured limb. Ignoring her amateur medical administrations, the lieutenant stared into the overgrown field. "Private Henty!" he called. "I want you back here right now, mister!"

A scream of pain blasted out from the vegetation at the far end of the field. As this agonised voice did not sound like that of the wayward trooper, Wyndham figured Henty had actually managed to shoot someone other than himself. He only prayed the absconded soldier had not accidentally shot and killed one of the farmhands who were due to return any time now. By now, Wyndham's left arm was aching so mercilessly that he found it difficult to focus his eyes on the seemingly endless rows of plants. He realised his arm was going to give him even more grief when someone finally pulled the crossbow quiver from his wounded limb.

"We must get back inside the house," Kellin Toor stated, grabbing the officer by his unaffected arm and guiding him towards the front entrance.

"No!" he blurted, struggling against her efforts. "I left your sister and the boy down by the dam. Someone has to go and get them."

"I will arm myself and retrieve them shortly," she told him, continuing to move them both towards the safety of the building.

As they ventured towards the closed doorway, an Anhil man lunged over the far balcony, a sharp sword clutched in one hand. In an instant, he had managed to successfully cut off their only route of escape.

Wyndham slowly raised his Colt .45 and rather carelessly squeezed off a round, which missed the bandit completely and only managed to shatter one of the homestead's crude glass window panes. His next squeeze on the trigger only produced a couple of very modest sounding clicks as the gun dry-fired numerous times. To his disgust, Wyndham realised even through his pained mind he had forgotten the most basic rules concerning combat survival. In all the excitement since this business had started, he had lost count of the number of rounds fired from his weapon and had not bothered to reload. Now, both he and Kellin Toor would pay for his foolish mistake.

Raising the sword high overhead, the Anhil man charged the defenceless couple. They were now an easy target; just the way the Anhil leader liked it.

***

Hearing the shots and screams coming from the direction of her home, Ilit Vannur had become gravely concerned about the situation. Gathering up her nephew, she waited for a while beside the tree Gary Wyndham had used as a back support only a short time earlier. For reasons she could not explain, she found herself quite attracted to the tall, good-looking, and mannered man. Despite being from another world, something she now recognised as being true, he was a serious person but capable of great warmth and compassion. She now fervently hoped he was still in good health.

A minor commotion alerted her to the fact others were present on the opposite side of the pond. Turning around, she was shocked to find herself staring at no less than three Anhil bandits, who were likewise staring back at her. One man raised his crossbow, but was halted from firing by one of his companions.

"We need them alive! Get them!"

With the struggling child still in her arms, Ilit Vannur bolted at her best speed towards the house, the trio of bandits in close pursuit. Fortunately, the dam proved to be a reasonably effective obstacle, allowing the running woman a fair head start in this deadly foot race.

The child in her arms sensed something was greatly amiss and began crying. His struggling weight unfortunately slowed his aunt's progress to the point the Anhil were able to overtake her and block off her path from the homestead. The building loomed tantalisingly close just beyond the surrounding trees.

Swords and knives drawn, the bandits circled the exhausted woman to make certain she would not make another desperate lunge towards the farmhouse.

"Take me, but leave the boy!" Ilit Vannur pleaded, still clutching the child to her trembling body.

One Anhil man, the tallest of the trio grinned wickedly, his partially decayed teeth on display. Before he could utter a word, a droning, distant noise caught his attention. All of those present, with the notable exception of the crying child, turned towards the source of the strange sound. At the sight of the approaching flying beast, two of the Anhil departed with the speed and agility of a frightened gazelle. The last remaining bandit stared in awe at the approaching apparition, then turned to Ilit Vannur as if to ask her what was going on.

"I would run if I were you," Ilit Vannur growled, hoping this was the surprise Gary Wyndham had promised the other day, "It looks hungry to me."

The tall Anhil sheathed his rusty sword and charged away towards the nearest available shelter. Now it was the woman's turn to make haste. The little boy continued to tightly clutch at her with both hands as she sprinted up the winding path. By now, the steady drone had developed into an ear-shattering thunder that blasted at her aching eardrums.

Breaking through a line of trees and shrubs, she ran across the clearing that served as a back yard. The pursuing beast was not only roaring at the top of its lungs, but creating a miniature hurricane, blasting away every item not secured to the ground. The dark man called Field met her halfway across the yard, grinning broadly at her hectic arrival.

"Glad to see you made it!" he bellowed before performing an act that mortified Ilit Vannur. Holding his rifle with one hand, he gazed up at the hovering monster then smiled and waved at it. The terrifying apparition failed to return his odd gesture, but continued hovering above the besieged building.

"Kill it!" Ilit Vannur screamed, her red hair blasting wildly in all directions. "Before it kills us all!"

"It's okay!" Field responded, lowering his arm. "They're our guys. They're here to help us. Almost as if to emphasis his point, he waved some more at the flying monster then pointed towards the front of the homestead.

To the terrified woman's further amazement, the bellowing creature moved away, cruising lackadaisically over the roof of the homestead and vanishing from sight. She remained motionless, confused with fear, her tired arms refusing to relinquish their vice-like grip around her petrified nephew. Even though the flying creature had vanished from sight, she could still clearly hear the deafening noise it produced. How did these strange people get control over such a beast?

Private Field gently took hold of one of Ilit Vannur's arms and led her towards the rear entrance of her home. "It'll be okay," the amused private insisted, opening the door to allow her entrance into the house. "That thing you just saw isn't real."

She stared up at him, even more confused.

"Oh, I mean, of course it's real. It's a machine. The chopper has men inside it to help it fly." He could tell from her expression of bewilderment that clearly she did not comprehend his words. Field decided to try the simple approach as they all entered the kitchen. "Do you have wagons and carts here?"

Ilit Vannur nodded.

"Well, that big thing you saw, was a just a large metal cart that happens to fly."

"That is not possible!" she exclaimed, placing the sobbing child onto one of the kitchen chairs.

"Oh, yes it is. It's best if you come see for yourself." He paused, realising she was still a bit shaken by her recent ordeals. "That's if you're up to it?"

She silently nodded, allowing Field to escort both herself and her nephew towards the front door. A couple of shots sounded from beyond the doorway an instant before Gary Wyndham and Kellin Toor appeared through the open entrance. The officer's arm was drenched in fresh blood and his eyes appeared glazed over as he lapsed into a state of physical and mental shock with the pain and loss of blood from the crossbow injury beginning to take its toll on him. Ilit Vannur's elder sister assisted the injured man across the room, carefully depositing him onto a large sofa.

"What happened?" Field demanded, following them across the spacious room.

"I got shot with some sort of arrow," Wyndham reported.

"I managed to remove the bolt," Kellin Toor informed the others in the room. "The injury is not as bad as it appears. There is great blood loss, but no permanent damage should result. I will need the medical kit from the kitchen so that I can tend to it right now."

Having forgotten her initial shock over the unexpected appearance of the Iroquois, Ilit Vannur, looking particularly troubled, raced from the family room to retrieve the kit.

"She worries about him," her sister whispered to Field, still holding a makeshift bandage to the officer's wound.

"Yeah," Field responded, "I kind of noticed."

"What?" Wyndham muttered weakly, closing his tired eyes.

The enlisted man could not help, but grin. "I think Ilit Vannur wants to make babies with you, Lieutenant!"

Wyndham smiled vaguely. "That's nice."

"Yeah, he's really out of it," Field nodded.

Kellin Toor stood nearby, one hand over her mouth in shock at Field's comment. She turned to look at the grinning soldier. "What if he remembers what you just said?"

Field shrugged. "What's he going to do? Court-martial me? At best, he can just give me more shit... I mean early morning posts to watch."

Another two sharp reports sounded from outside, indicating the battle was still active between the unit and the Anhil marauders.

Field stepped across to the window, staring out between the slits in the shutters. "What are those fools doin' out there?"

By this stage, the helicopter was parked on the dirt trail, its rotary blades stationary while the turbo engine cooled after yet another flight. Private Ricky Sorell stood guard over the motionless vehicle, his M-16 firmly clutched in both hands. So far, there had been no sign of either Corporal Scott Stuart or Henty. Both of these soldiers had apparently vanished into the crop field in search of the bandits.

"Hey, Ricky!" Field called out between the shutter panes and the open window. "Watch out for yourself, man! There's some badass bandits running around out there! They already injured the Lieutenant! He'll be okay but still, be careful!"

Staring across to the homestead, Sorell nodded to indicate he had heard his comrade's warning. He raised his rifle to clearly show what would happen to anyone foolish enough to threaten the safety of either himself or the immobile aircraft.

For about fifteen anxious minutes, there was no sign of either the corporal or Henty, or for that matter any of the fleeing bandits. At last, the crop plants suddenly parted and both soldiers emerged into the front yard of the besieged homestead. The corporal was looking particularly peeved while Henty kept his gaze down at the ground. Something had obviously gone wrong during the ensuing battle.

"Everything okay?" Sorell inquired, as the other crew members wandered towards the Iroquois.

"Yeah, just great," Stuart retorted, his anger evident. "Henty decided to fire a couple of rounds at me. I suppose it's just as well he didn't have any goddamn grenades on him at the time."

"Sorry, Corporal," Henty muttered for the umpteenth time.

Sprinting across to his unit, Field joined the other soldiers, pleased to finally have some sort of backup in case the Anhil reformed and mounted yet another attack on the isolated farm. These bandits appeared to be far too stupid to know when to quit. Field glanced across the trail to see a horribly mutilated body lying on the ground. No matter how many times he saw a dead person, the sight still shocked him.

"What happened to him?" he asked.

"That idiot was about to shoot the Lieutenant and some woman," Stuart explained, glancing across at the blood soaked form. "Then he saw us in the huey and fired some sort of damn arrow at us. Naturally enough, we fired back."

"That's not what I'd call a fair fight," Field stated, noncommittally.

The corporal grinned. "No, it wasn't."

"How's the lieutenant doin'?" Sorell inquired. "He didn't seem too good when we saw him last."

"He'll be alright once he's patched up," Field replied, displaying as much hope as the situation would allow. The last thing they needed was some disaster to befall Lieutenant Wyndham. The corporal could take charge of the unit if needs be, but Wyndham seemed to have accepted their circumstances with relative calm and the men trusted his leadership.

While they stood about the landed aircraft, the soldiers were unaware of a new group carefully, but fearfully observing their every movement and gesture. The turmoil around the slightly damaged homestead was not over; it was merely a lull in activities.

The next morning, the helicopter crew tended to the machine's needs, as well as those of their wounded. Wyndham was the main concern for the people in the homestead. He had contracted an infection in his injured arm, causing him to run a troublesome fever. Ilit Vannur remained by his bed, seeing to his needs as best she could for most of the night's long, silent hours. By sunrise, he was conscious and even possessed a slight thirst, which was certainly a good sign.
CHAPTER THIRTY

The remnants of the redcoats' once impressive force had spent most of the prior day marching along a wide road they had discovered. The extra supplies and equipment they had earlier attained were greatly needed and appreciated, even if the additional weight to their respective packs was not. An hour before sunset, they had constructed a rudimentary camp beside yet another stream of clear, fresh water where the exhausted soldiers, Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw included, had bathed and washed their dusty uniforms. After a couple of days marching in the bright sunshine, they had all started to notice the distinct odour.

"No one gave you permission to stink!" the tall NCO had bellowed at the men under his charge. Almost as if to emphasise this point, he had promptly booted Private Jim Carlton into the broad, slow-running body of cold water. Much to his dismay, someone had then shoved him from behind into the stream where he landed right beside the other drenched soldier. There would be merry hell to pay for this devious act. The lead soldier promised to send the entire squad to military purgatory for their insolence--except for Private Carlton; after all, he had an airtight alibi.

***

At the partially transferred mansion, Victor Chan, Lorraine Montague and the injured Riders spent some days cooped up in the building while the latter three men recovered from the wounds gained during their struggle with the tall, green ogre. They performed their respective healing processes at a rate that astonished Victor. Obviously the clean, fresh air of this heavily forested country was agreeable for one's health.

Most of the Riders' spare time was spent tending to their horses or exploring the interior of the partial building stuck in the middle of the deep forest. The mansion contained an endless source of remarkable trinkets or unfathomable devices that amazed them, engaging their undivided attention for hours on end. There was no doubt in their minds they were involved in a noteworthy moment in history.

Immir Hanis was still not on speaking terms with his horse, Rell. On odd occasions, he saw fit to throw some hay or vegetable matter at the horse, which appeared quite unperturbed by his master's silent treatment. So long as the food kept coming at regular intervals, there was no problem as far as Rell was concerned.

Lorraine and Victor preoccupied themselves with the task of checking the laboratory's various functions and capacities. There was still no explanation as to why the Minerva Project had gone completely haywire and transferred them to this new world. They both knew one fact beyond all reasonable doubt: The project could not be reactivated while there was the slightest chance of a reoccurrence of this disaster.

***

That evening, the Appor tribe and the Bonaparte family feasted on expertly prepared meals of freshly caught and cleaned fish of varying shapes and sizes. Amongst the tribe, even the men assisted with the process of preparing the evening meal. This communal domesticity of the Apporan society impressed Edith. She could only hope their behaviour would rub off on her husband and sons. However, the children's constant expeditions on the flying horses were still a matter of great concern to her. She fully expected one of the tribe members to show up at the station wagon at any moment with the broken body of either Joseph or Ernest junior in his or her arms. It was a terrifying thought, keeping her awake most nights, while Ernest senior's supposedly 'gentle snoring' wafted through the cold, double tent they used as their night time habitat. She was also keeping an eye on the Appor girl, Sil-Ta-Dan, who still seemed to be constantly hanging around Ernest. One day they would exchange words about this matter.

***

Stepping out of the wagon into the cool morning air, Connie York shook her head, scattering a barrage of dark, soft hair in all directions. She glanced across at the couple of shrouded figures resting motionlessly beside the still glowing embers of last night's fire. It had been generous and gracious of Dale Johnstone and Sean Corrigin to allow her exclusive use of the wagon to sleep for the night, even if she had more or less given them no choice in the matter.

The former was a good friend whose behaviour towards her during their years spent on the Minerva Project had always been beyond reproach. Sean on the other hand, while he appeared honest and trustworthy, unnerved her by his constant stare. Often, she would abruptly turn to find him watching her, a mischievous glint in his eye.

As Connie leapt down from the wagon, one of the cloaked figures stirred, rolling over to look at her. It was Sean.

"Good morning, Connie," he announced, his voice slightly croaky from breathing in the cold night time air. He noticed she was wearing an outfit of dark green pants and a light green tunic. On her feet were moccasins made of a lightweight tan leather.

She noticed the half-asleep Irishman studying her.

"What do you think of the outfit, Sean?" she inquired, glancing down at herself. Without a proper mirror, it was difficult to assess one's appearance.

"Err...it's interesting," he observed, a wry smile on his lips.

"To be honest, I feel like Robin Hood."

"Well considering what's been going on, the gentleman in question's probably wandering around here somewhere," Sean joked.

A low-pitched chuckle emitted from the other blanket-shrouded figure. Sean enjoyed his own joke so much he promptly joined in with the laughter.

"Would you two like me to change?" Connie demanded, less than impressed at being the butt of their humour.

"Please don't," Sean pleaded, sitting upright. "I haven't found too much to laugh about since we arrived on this miserable planet."

"One more crack like that and you'll be cooking your own breakfast."

Dale sat bolt upright, his form still cloaked in layers of the thankfully warm blankets. "Breakfast?"

"What would you like to eat?" Connie asked, stretching to rid herself of some lingering muscle tension.

Stifling a wicked grin, Sean was sorely tempted to tell her exactly what he had in mind, but he stuck to a polite request for eggs and something that appeared to pass for bacon.

"Yeah," Dale agreed, through an almighty yawn, "that sounds fine to me."

As Connie prepared the morning's meal, the male members of this trio found themselves assigned to repairing the wagon's left rear wheel, as it had begun constantly emitting a low, rhythmic groan while they were in motion.

"Come and get it!" Connie called from behind the wagon a short time later.

They both turned to see Connie standing beside the fire with a number of pans positioned on a grill above the flickering flames. Her hands were placed on both hips as if daring them to ignore her first, and presumably only, summons to breakfast.

The first meal of the day was nothing spectacular, but the three travellers were so famished they devoured the food with great enthusiasm. Their constant travelling across the countryside and open-air existence was giving them healthy appetites.

After cleaning up the mess their night camp had created, they fed the horses then hitched the sturdy animals to the newly painted wagon. At last, they found themselves back on the road they had been following since leaving Enwardous the previous day.

***

Sometime later, they came across another weather beaten road marker with incomprehensible lettering etched in dull, red paint. Seated at the front of the wagon, Connie and Dale gazed at the road sign, bemused by their complete inability to decipher the mysterious hieroglyphics. Both travellers discussed getting hold of some local books at the first opportunity so they could attempt to learn to read the regional language. Like the other recent arrivals to this planet, the two scientists found it incomprehensible they could understand every syllable spoken by the people of this world, but could not fathom the written word.

Sticking his closely-shaven head out of the rear compartment, Sean glanced around to see the reason behind their sudden stop and noticed the road sign. "Okay," he grumbled, "you're the smart ones. What's it say?"

"Speed limit thirty-five miles per hour," Dale quipped.

"I hope that remark wasn't in relation to the poor horses?" Connie grumbled.

"Of course not, Connie," Dale replied with a straight face. "These things would be lucky to reach five miles per hour."

"Let's see you pull all three of us plus the wagon any faster."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Actually, Dale was amazed their two beasts of burden could even budge the combined weight of the sturdy wagon, its contents and the three passengers, let alone drag the travelling troupe up and down rocky, unpaved roads hour after hour. The horse team may not have resembled a couple of thoroughbreds, but they certainly had heart. Even more surprisingly, the horses appeared to enjoy their serious workload.

Withdrawing back into the cabin's snug confines, Sean stepped across to a set of wooden drawers located at the very rear of the wagon. He pulled open the bottom drawer to reveal a tangled mass of weapons he had placed there the other day. These killing devices ranged from automatic handguns to knives and even two fragmentation grenades. You never knew when a good grenade might come in handy. Removing a snub-nosed .38 revolver from his belt, he placed the loaded item back into the drawer with the rest of its deadly companions. Gazing once more at his collection of knives and guns, he slowly shut the drawer. He doubted if any of the local population possessed firearms, but there was the possibility some of them owned less modern forms of self-defence such as swords or crossbows. A person with an armed crossbow and an excellent aim could prove to be exceedingly troublesome. Sean assumed if they were to get into 'complications' with anyone, the mere report from one of his firearms would be enough to send the offender running for the hills.

***

Barely thirty minutes later, the wagon halted once more, causing Sean to gather up his pistol. On this occasion, he climbed up through the roof hatch to get a better view of the surrounding terrain. Scanning the immediate area, he quickly spied yet another signpost planted beside their chosen route.

"This one says 'cows cross here at night'!" he laughed, creating a chuckle amongst his fellow travellers. However, this particular marker was placed at a fork in the road. On closer inspection, they saw there were in fact two signs, each pointing in different directions.

"Well?" Connie inquired, her hands still clutching the teams' reins. "Which way do we go?"

"Let me try," Sean offered from his vantage point. He studied both signs at the same time, then announced, "That one," pointing towards the left branch of the road. "It has brighter letters on it."

Unable to think of an effective argument against such a scientific approach to their dilemma, Connie and Dale complied with his decision. They proceeded at a leisurely gait along the left trail, leading into what appeared to be yet another massive forest. The other road continued across mainly open countryside similar to the landscape they had been travelling through for the past day.

For the next two hours, they rode the slightly rocking wagon along their chosen path, flanked by masses of enormous, gnarled trees. These behemoths stood ominously alongside the narrow trail, as if they were waiting for an opportune moment to pounce upon the unsuspecting trio. A few birds nervously darted through the overhanging branches, but made precious little sound during their flight. It was as though they were in fear of the very trees they flew amongst and were under threat not to breach the eerie peace with chirp or song.

At one point, Connie thought she spotted a large, fur-covered creature standing to one side of a huge tree. When she mentioned this to her travelling companions, they failed to see any sign of a foreign animal, but from that moment on all three of them kept a close watch on the surrounding forest for any signs of danger.

***

The village they eventually came across concealed within the unfriendly forest was comprised almost entirely of low timber structures with thatch roofs, spread along the road at random distances and angles from one another. Most of these grim shacks had their windows firmly shuttered and many had a single column of grey smoke wafting out of a chimney protruding from each roof. Only one building differed in architecture and was almost three times the size of the next largest hut, with the front wall covered in lead-lined windows of varying colours and shapes. It was now late morning and a couple of poorly dressed peasants trudged slowly amongst the village's buildings. Surprisingly, they failed to take any notice whatsoever of the newly arrived wagon and horse team.

"Now what?" Dale inquired.

"We have a look around," Sean replied, appearing at the front of the stationary vehicle. "After all, we need directions."

"He's right," Connie admitted.

"That means I have to do the Friar Tuck routine again!" the biologist moaned. So far during their travels, he had been forced to don the habit no less than three times whenever they had been close to a town or any other outpost of civilisation.

"Afraid so," Connie conceded, a sympathetic smile flashing across her face. "Either that, or you can hide back there inside the cabin."

"I'd rather dress up again than stay cooped up out back. To be honest, riding around all day, sitting on my ass is beginning to get on my nerves."

"Be grateful we're not on horseback," Connie retorted. She turned to Sean, who was crouched beside her. "Whose turn is it to mind the wagon, Sean?"

Sean was horrified by her pointed question.

"Oh, no! Look, no one around here's going to steal anything. The citizens of this charming metropolis don't look the type to take another person's possessions without asking first."

"You're staying, Sean," Connie commanded, her tone leaving little doubt that she expected her wishes to be obeyed. "Come on, Dale. Let's see if any of these people can be of any help."

Leaving Sean with the wagon, the scientists approached the largest structure; it seemed the obvious place to start, as it looked like some sort of public building. The two newcomers failed to notice that the locals they had seen on first entering the settlement had now vanished from sight.

Dale Johnstone reached the large double doors first, turned a carved wooden handle and shoved it wide open. He politely gestured for his companion to enter first, which she did after thanking him. He followed her straight into the building without even bothering to check if Sean was monitoring their progress from the parked wagon.

The sturdy door slammed shut with a resounding thud that echoed across this seemingly unremarkable village. No one dwelling in any of the huts bothered to glance out of their windows to see what was going on; they already knew it was business as usual.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

A number of things flooded into Dale Johnstone's mind all at once, even though his eyes were shut and, to all intents and purposes, he was still unconscious.

The most remarkable sensation to come into his awareness was the searing pain emanating from the back of his head. Next was the disturbing realisation his arms and legs were tightly bound, causing all of his limbs to be completely immobile. Also, he was vaguely aware of a number of people milling about his limp form, staring at him in sheer amazement. All the while as he hovered on the edge of consciousness, a poorly pronounced line kept echoing through his confused mind.

"I need to be fed."

There it was again. Finally rousing himself into some semblance of action, his mind spontaneously cleared away the shroud of darkness, causing him to wake from his enforced slumber. To his complete astonishment, he found himself the main object of attention from an assembly of close to thirty poorly dressed people.

"I need to be fed."

The high-pitched voice kept repeating the same inane line over and over.

The answer came to Dale in an instant: It was a parrot. He attempted to check on the bindings that tied him to the chair. To his dismay, whoever had bound him to the uncomfortable item of furniture had done so in an extremely professional manner. He was not getting away from here in a hurry.

"Dale, are you alright?"

Dale knew instinctively the concerned voice belonged to Connie York. Turning his aching head slightly, which created a fresh wave of pain and nausea, he saw her seated nearby. To add to his building frustration and anger, he could see that she sported an unattractive, swollen lower lip and a mild cut just above her right eye. She was likewise crudely tied to a wooden chair. "I've got a shocking headache. I can feel that I'm bleeding down the back of my shirt. Also, I'm tied to a chair and have lost all feeling in my arms and legs. Otherwise, I'm just fine, Connie. How about you?"

"I've been better."

"Looks like they roughed you up a bit."

"Considering my behaviour after they hit you on the back of the head, they didn't really have much choice."

Altering his line of vision, Dale now saw the room they were held in was a large meeting hall of sorts. There was a slightly raised stage at one end of this room and a long serving bar at the other. In between the two was a collection of motley tables and chairs set across the floor in no discernible pattern. A number of windows with decorative cobwebs were set about the building, allowing a modicum of natural light to filter into the large room. This illumination was bolstered by a large fire crackling in a copper fireplace near the main bar and a collection of gaudy candelabras dangling freely from the high, flat ceiling. To the other side of the chamber directly opposite the main entrance was a second doorway and beside it was a large wire birdcage holding its captive, a large, green and blue plumed parrot.

The only villager with any apparent dress sense stepped forward from the gathered crowd. This man was tall, possibly in his late fifties in Earth years, possessed a crop of thick, grey hair and was reasonably handsome for his age, as far as Connie could tell in the dimly lit chamber.

"Quiet," the man sneered, his voice conveying enough menace to cause the two travellers to cease their conversation. "Is anyone else in your party?"

"You call this a party?" Dale retorted.

"Just answer him!" another member of the ensemble angrily snapped.

"Please do so," the tall man instructed. "I am not known for my patience."

"But I just bet you're a crack-up at a James Bond villain reunion."

The person obviously in charge of this assembly sighed, as if greatly disappointed by the other man's impertinent and rather peculiar response to his interrogation. Slowly he drew a long, thin-bladed knife from his belt, then, clutching the menacing weapon in one hand stepped across to Connie's chair. Grabbing her hair with his free hand, he placed the sharp edge of the blade against her face.

She froze, knowing one wrong move and she would be permanently scarred for life--or worse.

"If you do not answer me, I will start slicing pieces off your pretty friend. Is this clearly understood?"

"There's only Sean in the wagon," Dale admitted. He was quite disgusted at having to divulge such vital information.

"Only one man? Are you certain? Because if we find anyone else in the carriage, I will take a great deal of time in removing your friend's fingers and toes from her body."

"I promise," he replied. "There's only one other person in the wagon."

The tall man studied Dale for a long time. He remained silent and unmoving as he stared directly at the bound scientist. "I believe you," he finally announced. "By the way, where are you from?"

"Same place as her," he answered, bobbing his bleeding head towards Connie.

"There is an ambiguous answer if ever I heard one," the grey-haired villager responded, removing the dagger from the woman's perspiring face.

"Why are we tied up like this?" Connie inquired, attempting to draw their captors into some sort of civil conversation.

Her question was completely ignored by everyone in the large, crowded chamber. Either they were aware of her tactic or simply disinterested in anything their captives might have to say. The ringleader of the villagers now stepped across to one of the windows, pulled aside a heavy black cloth curtain and looked out across the settlement. He intently studied the motionless vehicle and its dual horse team.

"I do not see anyone moving about in that piece of garbage," the leader insisted.

One of the villagers, a woman of middle age turned to him, her features contorted with concern. "Should we go and take a look inside that thing?"

"Yes," the man in charge instructed, dropping aside the curtain. "But be careful. Someone from the last group almost escaped. The last thing we need around here is King Entell Thellon's troops swarming all over the village. They tend to frown upon our form of... enterprise."

"No one will escape us this time," yet another peasant remarked.

Some of the others present in the room silently nodded in uncoordinated agreement. The middle-aged woman beckoned to five of her cohorts, who obediently followed her out of the chamber through the rear entrance.

The village leader once more stepped up to Dale, leaning over to stare him straight in the eyes. "I asked you a question before," he stated, "and I did not approve of the answer you gave me."

"And who are you?" Dale politely inquired.

"My name is Okler Ver," the finely dressed man answered proudly.

"Okay, Okler." Dale responded.

"Okler Ver," the other man corrected him, frowning. "Both names are used in common address in the Kingdoms, except for higher members of society or the Dearnians. I thought you would have known that."

"It's different where I'm from."

"Obviously. And again, where are you from?"

"Another planet."

Okler Ver's eyes widened at this news. The stranger spoke with such forthright openness that the village elder did not doubt him for one instant. Also, there was the obvious matter of his skin tone. He had heard legends about such people once dwelling within Hamaforth society, but they were little more than folklore.

"Oddly enough," Okler Ver uttered, standing upright, "I am inclined to believe you are telling the truth."

While Dale and Okler Ver conversed, Connie realised the binds on her right wrist were not correctly tied. She started slowly wriggling her fingers and shifting her aching arm. There was a glimmer of hope in the back of her mind that if she could break free from these ties and undo Dale's ropes, they could somehow escape this mediaeval lunatic asylum.

"You're going to kill us, aren't you?" Dale demanded, changing the subject again.

"Yes. I am afraid we cannot afford to have any of you roaming about, telling people of our life in this village."

"I need to be fed," the parrot sounded off yet again.

It was hard to tell if this was just idle parrot chatter or the poor creature really was starving in its modest enclosure. Okler Ver abruptly turned towards the cage. Placing one hand into his coat pocket, he wandered across to the bird and produced a single chunk of what appeared to be dried meat. Displaying considerable care, the tall, grey-haired man placed the morsel directly into the waiting parrot's open beak.

"This is what you do, isn't it?" Connie inquired, moving her fingers and wrist a little more.

Okler Ver turned away from the bird to gaze on the tied woman. "You are quite correct," he replied, smiling pleasantly at his attractive hostage. "When I first came here, these poor people were in a state of constant starvation. They were little more than untended serfs with no means of providing for themselves after a couple of bitterly cold seasons. I taught them a new means of survival; a better way of living by any means necessary."

"By ambushing and murdering innocent people who are unlucky enough to pass through here?"

Okler Ver shrugged. "You call it murder; these unfortunate souls call it survival. The currency they raise through their endeavours here helps keep food in their children's mouths and clothe them through the colder times. Would either of you begrudge them a means to protect their children?"

"What you're doing is wrong," she countered. "And you're also corrupting the same children you're trying to save. They'll just grow up to be a new generation of killers. Did you ever consider that?"

The village leader smiled a little. "You know, I could watch you talk all day. It really is quite fascinating. We will have to talk some more about your place of origin." He paused, frowning slightly as though some dire thought had just entered his mind. "Where are the others?" Okler Ver demanded of the villagers standing closest to him. "They should have arrived back here with the other man from the wagon by now."

"Would you like me to check?" one of the more senior local men inquired reluctantly.

The tall villager leader's anger finally escaped the burden of feigned civility. "Yes! Go and check on their progress with the wagon! Now!" he snapped.

"Good help is so hard to find," Dale remarked sarcastically, despite the continuous throbbing in his head.

Okler Ver rolled his deep blue eyes.

Connie closely watched him as he once more fed a morsel to the impatient parrot. She considered that in another time or place he could have been a member of the aristocracy with his fine manners, polite speech patterns and eloquent dress sense. But here, he was little more than a violent despot in command of a large number of ignorant murderers, preying on innocent travellers to support their grotesque lifestyle.

The ropes on Connie's right wrist suddenly fell from her aching limb.

"Shit!" she involuntarily hissed. To her dismay, Okler Ver had also witnessed the ropes fall. She could clearly see him standing across the large room, his eyes and mouth wide in dismay.

"Kill her!" he screamed, aiming a thin finger in the bemused scientist's direction.

"Get me loose, Connie!" Dale roared, becoming instantly alert to the fact his friend was now in mortal danger.

Connie reached across with her freed limb and proceeded to untie the crude knots holding him to his seat. She realised that her endeavour was pointless; it was at best difficult, not to mention time consuming, and time was something she clearly did not have.

A number of the villagers stood and stared, mortified anyone would dare attempt to escape from them. Others came to their limited senses and drew a variety of weapons. They hurled themselves across the room, effortlessly knocking aside a variety of tables and chairs that blocked their blood crazed charge.

The horse team and wagon struck the front wall of the building with enough force to send the fragmented, dust-smeared glass of the shattered windows hurling in all directions. One of the animals stumbled on some object in its way and almost came to grief. At the last instant, the horse managed to balance itself, ending up almost halfway into the large, devastated chamber. The roof of the now motionless vehicle had torn a candelabra from the ceiling, sending its fragments plummeting across the hall. Thankfully, the candles failed to ignite and further endanger the two hostages. The front wall now looked as though it would collapse in on the besieged building at any instant.

Sean Corrigin remained seated at the forward section of the runaway carriage, his features drawn into a monstrous caricature of something that used to be human. This demonic, growling, murderous gargoyle scanned the room for victims of his unquenchable rage. The reins still clutched in one hand, he stood upright, his head nearly touching the high ceiling. Eyes wide and insane in unrelenting fury, he calmly pointed an M-10 machine pistol at the scrambling crowd around his perch. The weapon disgorged a stream of fire and hot lead that instantly blasted down four of the villagers standing closest to the stalled wagon. Another short blast from the machine gun tore down two more villagers in the process of climbing over the long, wooden bar at the far end of the room.

While this butchery continued, Connie, having discarded the rest of her binds, quickly grabbed hold of Dale, dragging him and his accompanying chair to a place of relative safety from the merciless gunfire. She shoved him into a corner of the room near the bloodied bar, before hauling a table across to act as some type of deterrent for the multitude of projectiles pouring through the area.

During the initial onslaught, Okler Ver had managed to throw himself behind another upturned table. He remained hidden behind his primitive barricade, unable to figure out how the other traveller could so quickly and mercilessly slaughter virtually everybody in the room. One spray of bullets sheered away a good portion of his shelter, showering the cowering man with fresh wood chips. He instantly decided to take his chances and bolt for the door not far from his current position.

"Sean! That's enough!" Connie's voice called out.

At this convenient and hopefully life-saving distraction, Okler Ver leapt from behind his shelter, sidestepped an appallingly mutilated corpse and shoved his way through the rear door. Once he was in the forest, there would be plenty of places to conceal himself from the lunatic who had so thoroughly ruined his entire operation. It would be many long days before his carefully conceived and run enterprise would be up and operating so smoothly again.

Seeing the man attempting to escape, Sean leapt down from the motionless carriage, automatic weapon in hand, and ran in pursuit. Along the way, he expertly slipped another ammunition clip into the weapon. This was the second one he had used during their particularly one-sided skirmish.

"Leave it, Sean! It's over!" Connie's shrill demand reached his ears, but he chose to ignore her.

The village ringleader was about halfway to the safety of the surrounding woods. He ran on, his flustered mind entertaining some thoughts on how he would quickly organise the survivors of this massacre to hunt these strangers, no matter how far they fled.

Trusting his aim would be as accurate as ever, Sean ceased running. He positioned himself at the open doorway, carefully pointing the M-10 at the insanely scrambling figure some distance from the building. This would be an easy shot for his often-practiced aim.

"No, Sean!" a familiar voice called to him from across the scene of the recent carnage. "I want you to stop right now!"

The first and only volley from the discharged weapon struck the fast-moving target, causing Okler Ver to cease his dash for the trees. He somehow managed to stagger another two paces before all life fled his body. The tall village leader collapsed in a heap on the track, his body still twitching spasmodically a couple of seconds later when Connie reached him. Finally all motion ceased.

"Was that really necessary, Sean?" she demanded angrily.

"I thought so, Connie," Sean replied, continuing to clutch the gun, just in case any remaining members of this charming little outpost decided to take offence at his actions.

"You could have just chased them away," she insisted.

"They would have come back: If not now, then later. Look, Connie, I don't like it when someone tries to sneak up on me and slit my damn throat. They tried to kill me for no good reason, so I figure all the rules about good manners and civil behaviour had gone out the window."

The parrot spoke up: "I need to be fed."

"If you want to do something useful, Connie," Sean instructed, wandering back to the shattered assembly hall. "Let that poor thing go. After all, there's no one left to feed it."

"Excuse me!" Dale called from across the bloody, body-littered room. "I still appeared to be tied up, and I really need to go outside so I can puke."

"I'll untie you in a second, Dale," Sean assured him, casting aside the machine pistol and drawing his Smith and Wesson .357 handgun from his heavy coat. "There's something I have to do first." Walking over to the still motionless cart, he aimed the large handgun towards both of the patiently waiting horses.

Both of these animals had been injured in their efforts to breach the front windows. Fortunately, their wounds amounted to a few minor cuts and abrasions. Sean's temper was a far greater threat to their immediate safety. He scowled at the apparently unconcerned animals. "And this is for dragging me through that bloody window, you jumped-up glue pots!"

"You do that and you get to pull the wagon," Connie warned him, standing at the doorway.

"Excuse me!" Dale called out once more.

"When we get to the next halfway decent town," the Irishman announced, "I say we ditch these two nags and get a proper team to pull the wagon. Ones that won't go berserk and drag us through buildings would be good."

"You talk about going berserk," Connie scoffed, reluctantly picking her way through the multitude of corpses.

Of all the locals present in the hall when Sean had opened fire, only a handful had miraculously escaped with their lives. A couple of the more critically wounded had made their way out of the building before succumbing to their horrific injuries. Hardly any of the floor remained free of fresh blood after the dreadful skirmish. Connie felt sick to her stomach as she gingerly stepped across to where Dale was still securely tied to his upturned chair.

"All I wanted to do was bring the wagon closer to this place and have a look at what was going on after those other morons tried to climb in and finish me off," Sean explained, apparently unperturbed by the carnage before him. "Once we went through the front window, well, things just sort of got out of hand."

"That's right, Sean!" Connie snarled, attempting to untie Dale's ropes. "Blame the goddamn horses! The horses didn't arm themselves with an automatic weapon then cut loose into the crowd! Just face it, you lost control."

"I need to be fed."

"I'm going to let that bird out before I lose control of my mind!" Sean blurted, though he was somewhat thankful for the distraction. He ambled across to the large wire cage and wrenched open the door. In return for his attempted favour, the parrot bit him on the hand.

In a flash, his handgun was pointing directly at the brightly plumed bird, which appeared to be completely unaware of the peril its life was now in.

"Go ahead, you glorified toilet brush!" Sean bellowed. "Do that again; I dare you!"

Connie's reaction was immediate. "Don't shoot the bird, Sean!"

Instead, he picked up the surprisingly heavy wire cage and drop-kicked it through the open doorway. The wire projectile bounced twice after the initial impact then came to rest beside an unpainted picket fence to one side of the yard. While he watched, the stunned parrot hauled itself free from the wreckage; staggered a couple of slightly drunken paces then flew up to the nearest branch of a handy tree.

"Rude bastard," Sean huffed.

"What was that all about?" Dale inquired, now in the process of attempting to move the team and wagon back outside the shattered building. They had to get well away from this village, before the survivors regrouped and returned for revenge. Unfortunately, their current mode of transport did not come equipped with a reverse gear.

"Nothing," the Irishman retorted, entering the bloodied room once more. "Just a little disagreement with some glorified feather duster."

"Who won?"

"The feather duster, naturally."

Connie glanced down at herself and saw with great revulsion she had been splattered with a fine spray of deep red blood.

"God!" she exclaimed. "Let's get out of here!"

"Ah, that's what I'm trying to do," Dale pointed out, still attempting to move the horses and wagon, "without any assistance from you two, I might add."

"Sorry, Dale," she apologised, stepping across to assist her fellow scientist. "I forgot all about you."

"I sort of figured."

Between the three of them, they managed to manoeuvre the team and vehicle out of the shattered structure. Sean took the reins, leading the animals and wagon across to a small tree. He tied the horses to it and began carefully inspecting them for serious injuries. To his surprise, they appeared to be none to the worse for wear after their little jaunt through the wall.

The others went inside the carriage where Connie tended to Dale's injuries. The blood on his head, thankfully, turned out to be only a small gash, which she expertly stitched after giving him some of their companion's alcohol for the pain.

When they finally ventured out of the cabin, both scientists were slightly perplexed to discover Sean missing. The horses had been cleaned and tended to as he had been instructed, but he had made matters worse by apparently wandering away from the area without so much as a word of explanation.

***

Connie and Dale climbed down from the wagon to search the proximity for any sign of the third member of their team.

"Sean!" Connie called, her voice ringing across the seemingly deserted village.

If anyone was still around, they were certainly not answering her call. Not surprised at all by this outcome, she continued looking around, even going so far as to venture into the nearby forest. To her disgust, she located the handful of locals Okler Ver had initially sent to kill Sean. They lay in an untidy pile of bloodied clothes and broken bodies under a tall, shady tree where he had dumped them after they were murdered.

Murder. Were Sean's actions during their hostage crisis really murder? The dark-haired scientist pondered this moral dilemma as she wandered back to the wagon to join up with Dale. When all was said and done, Sean had saved their lives from people who had openly admitted they were going to kill all three of them. Yes, Sean had committed an act of mass murder, but should she condemn him for his means of saving her life and that of Dale's, not to mention his own? It also occurred to her he had, undoubtedly, put an immediate halt to a practice that would have led to the ghastly deaths of many more people wandering through these parts.

While Connie and Dale checked on the wagon and their horse team, Sean finally put in an appearance. He stepped from out of the partially destroyed meeting hall into what purported to be the village's main road. "I found something that may interest you both," Sean announced.

"What?" Connie responded rather tersely.

"Follow me and you'll find out."

They trailed after the short Irishman, following him back into the carnage of the meeting hall, past the bloody corpses strewn about the floor. He led them through a narrow passageway that started from the far end of the large room. Once at the end of the corridor, they watched as Sean forcefully pushed against a timber pane that instantly sprang open. Moving past the entrance, the party found themselves inside a chamber that appeared to be a large cloakroom. This secretive room was lined with a multitude of hanging clothes, both male and female in design.

"And if you think you're impressed with this lot," Sean announced, "just wait!"

He stepped away from the others, bent over and lifted up a small section of floorboard. Tossing aside this panel, he motioned for his fellow travellers to inspect his recent discovery. To their amazement, the hidden floor cavity contained a veritable treasure trove of lockets, rings, brooches, ornamental chains and other items of gold and silver jewellery.

"You realise what this means, don't you?" Sean commented, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "These bastards have been robbing people who were unfortunate enough to be passing through this charming little grotto, slitting their throats and keeping the family valuables for themselves."

"The chief psycho of this mental asylum sort of mentioned this to us," Dale confirmed, staring down at the hoard, his feelings of revulsion obvious on his features.

"I think I'm going to be ill," Connie duly informed her companions.

"Join the club," Sean conceded. "But I'll tell you this; before we leave, I'm going to burn this place to the ground."

"Is that really necessary?" Dale inquired.

"Look at this! To my best estimate, there are the clothes and belongings of over two hundred people. And here's the worst part," he stared up at the taller man, "there's another hidden room not far from here; it's full of children's clothes. You're damn right it's necessary."

"We should get back to the wagon," Connie insisted, her features flushed. "I don't want to deal with this anymore."

"You do that," Sean instructed. "I'll do what needs to be done here and then I'll be along in a minute."

The two scientists nodded and left the building to its fate.

When Sean finally emerged from the shattered building, smoke was already pouring from almost every window and doorframe. A minute later, a great burst of flames erupted out of the large structure's roof, sending thick, greasy smoke spiralling skyward. Removing an object from out of the folds of his heavy coat, Sean stepped into the middle of the main road and then called out at the top of his lungs, "If you good people are considering regrouping and coming after us..." He fired a burst of automatic fire from the M-10 into virtually every building in sight, even the blazing town hall. "...Think again!"

"Did you have to do that, Sean?" Connie asked, now seated on the wagon.

"Yes. Trust me on this; when you live with constant violence, it becomes the only real language you understand. I had to make certain these morons don't get the wrong idea about looking for revenge for what we've done today. The last bloody thing we need is to be looking over our shoulder for the rest of our days."

As the wagon and its horses hauled clear of the small, despondent village, flames reached high into the sky as if a remembrance pyre for all the unfortunate people who had been brutally murdered in the name of profit. Not one of the three travellers dared so much as to glance back at the dreadful place, instead affixing their sights on the trail ahead.

Unfortunately, they would find no peace in any direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

THE AZZIL TERRITORIES

Standing beside the bank of the River Encasler, Major Enrich Voltaire gazed across the expanse of open grassland towards the fortress city of Terrimorter. He had personally seen many of the finest mansions and ancient castles Europe had to offer, but they failed to brace him for the sight before him. It was simply magnificent. A number of minutes passed by as he silently beheld this magnificent spectacle. "My God!" he finally gasped in wonder.

Around him, the Anhil marauders quickly and quietly packed up their camp. They had visited the city before and frankly, it held no excitement for them. Just fear. Most of the buildings within the massive city walls were not visible from the outside world. Some of the parapets and rooftops of the taller structures barely jutted beyond the battlements. The walls themselves were nothing short of immense and hollow in many areas to allow the city's defence forces to move around in relative safety. After all, a dead soldier was a particularly useless soldier.

Glassless windows dotted the upper levels of the inner walls to provide troops with useful positions from which to fire arrows and the like down at any attacking army; although, no one had been foolhardy enough to attempt such an open assault in almost two-hundred standard seasons. On that last occasion, the attack had resulted in complete disaster for the foreign army. Terrimorter the Invincible, as it was known.

Positioned at each corner of the city's impressive walls were tubular towers that were pocked with windows for defending archers. The only way in and out of these towers was by a number of narrow tunnels that ran under the ground from the main city. These tunnels could be collapsed in the unlikely event an invading force somehow overran any of the four outer structures. Considering the lowest window was quite a distance from the ground, no one believed such an event to be a realistic possibility. However, safeguards had been installed when designing the huge city's impressive defences.

Another important defence characteristic was that the city possessed only one main entrance and that access point was quite wide in order to allow any number of troops, citizens and travellers to enter or leave the city at any one time, but could quite readily be sealed via a pair of basic shutters of miraculous proportions. The gates themselves had been initially constructed of dense wood hauled in from another region of the Territories and were as sturdy as the stone walls they sat within. Once inside the massive outer wall, a visitor, welcome or not, was faced with an even more massive inner wall. They would then be forced by the city's intricate design to circumnavigate the city along a wide corridor that finally let them enter through yet another opening on almost the opposite side.

Like all cities, Terrimorter had its affluent areas and misbegotten sectors depending on the availability of money to the inhabitants of these neighbourhoods. The wealthier districts were located furthest away from the walls, close to the Imperial palace at the very heart of the massive metropolis. This region had developed over the eons, so the rich inhabitants did not have to suffer the sight of the huge stone walls lurking directly overhead or bother themselves with travelling merchants, entertainers and beggars freely wandering past their exotic homes.

The lesser neighbourhoods of the city were on the outskirts nearest the foreboding walls and comprised cramped, badly maintained houses with dirty windows and peeling paintwork. Here, the tiny houses were intermingled amongst seedy taverns, whorehouses, drug dens, gambling lairs, less than honest merchant outlets and appalling guesthouses. Street sizes varied according to the stature of the neighbourhood they traversed. The wealthier the sector, the wider, better maintained and greater illuminated were the roads. The rodent population was a good measure when assessing the worth of a district within Terrimorter. In the wealthier suburbs, rats were openly discouraged from making any sort of appearance; while in the poorer sectors, no one really cared about the abundant rat population. At least they performed a useful function in devouring much of the area's garbage, which would otherwise just rot in the streets and gutters.

While it was repulsive in some quarters, Terrimorter also contained areas of great beauty and majesty. The parklands around the Imperial palace were the envy of all other cities within the Territories and were frequented by many of its citizens. Also within the impressive walls were a variety of sporting arenas, entertainment venues with live plays and musical acts, as well as quite impressive displays of animal life at the city's zoological park. Ruler Jom Azzer's view was that if the local population were kept amused, they would have far less time on their hands to skulk around, plotting his demise.

In this respect he was quite correct.

***

Sometime after Enrich Voltaire and his Anhil cohorts had walked with greatly mixed emotions into the mighty city of Terrimorter, Ruler Jom Azzer and his spouse sat in the Great Imperial Chamber listening intently to an officer of moderate rank as he nervously completed his verbal report on the military campaign against a distant village. This had been the very same settlement where the unusual stranger currently recuperating in the palace infirmary had involved himself in matters of state. As a direct result of his interference, the entire community had rebelled against the Ruler's forces, creating untold bloodshed. The information on the retaliatory strike had only recently arrived at the Imperial palace via courier bird. The officer truly wished some other unfortunate soldier had been on duty at that station when the message arrived. At the very least, he was going to lose a hand or an eye for bringing such terrible tidings to Jom Azzer.

When he finally read the poorly scribbled message in a voice cracking with nerves, the officer fearfully waited for a reaction. He was greatly surprised and completely relieved when the Ruler burst into a bout of excessive laughter. A moment or three passed before Jom Azzer could regain his full composure. He was definitely not a person widely known for his sense of mirth and his fit of laughter took even his bride by complete surprise.

Ruler Jom Azzer, the Dread, removed his hand from across his broadly grinning mouth and gazed down at the somewhat confused officer. The other man's stare was directed steadily down at the floor near his feet. "They were all gone, you say?"

"Yes, my Ruler. Everybody had apparently fled the area. According to the report I received, your battalion scoured the entire region for a good ten leagues in all directions over some days and found not a trace of a single person. Not a peasant, woodsman, fur trapper--not even any poachers were to be found. The entire sector is presently bereft of human life. They even took most of their livestock with them."

"Even the poachers were gone?" Jom Azzer marvelled, highly amused by this swift deception.

"Yes, my Ruler. Everyone has left."

"Did my loyal troops manage to locate any buildings in the area? Or had these also run away to hide?"

"All dwellings within the sector were subsequently put to the torch," the nervous officer continued with the report. "The skies over the region will be dark with smoke for many days to come from all of the burning huts and houses. At least those who rebelled against your authority will be without a roof over their heads with the onset of the colder season, my Ruler."

"Very good," Jom Azzer remarked with a single curt nod of his head. "Send word immediately to my forces that the locals have been punished enough for their crimes. They are to be allowed to return to what remains of their villages and towns, until the next time my taxes are to be collected. If they rebel on that occasion, I will not be so magnanimous. The troops are to return to the barracks. And as this matter was not of their doing, they will not be punished."

"As my Ruler declares," the relieved and slightly perplexed officer announced. He waited for the Imperial couple's permission to leave, then fled the hall, as swiftly as proper decorum would allow.

The Chamberlain Rinin Juclar, a man slightly taller but younger than his Ruler, approached the Imperial couple, his eyes respectfully downcast.

"My Ruler," he spoke up in a full, clear voice, "I bring news of Sinnit Sear's arrival to glorious Terrimorter. He implores me to request an audience with you on a matter of the utmost urgency." The Chamberlain paused. "Personally, I wish he would have a good bath and delouse himself first."

"Rinin Juclar!" a voice cheerfully called across the podium. "Is that some form of hostility I hear in your usually dulcet tones?"

Chamberlain Rinin Juclar glanced towards the Empress without making actual eye contact. Neither of them particularly admired or liked each other. In all honesty, the Empress believed Rinin Juclar to be little more than a pompous fool and not at all fit to hold the third most important position within the Azzil Territories, while he believed the Empress Dearer Azzer had been hatched from a snake egg. Nevertheless, their mutual disdain for the filthy Anhil bandit leader overrode these sentiments.

"Show my good citizen, Sinnit Sear, into the Great Imperial Chamber," Jom Azzer graciously commanded, grateful for the fact the marauder's presence would keep his wife and the Chamberlain from each other's throats.

"Perhaps you could accommodate Sinnit Sear at your private residence if you are so troubled about his personal hygiene?" the Empress suggested charitably to the blushing Rinin Juclar.

So much for a truce between the two: The Imperial Chamberlain nodded, bowed courteously then departed.

"Really, Dearer Azzer," her husband mentioned in a hushed voice. "You should not goad him in such a fashion."

She turned to face him, a brief smile flashing across her attractive features. "Why not, my Ruler?"

"Because," Jom Azzer casually explained, making certain his comments could not be overheard by the large number of people present, "one day he might show up at King Entell Thellon's Court and without any prompting whatsoever, give away all sorts of our secrets."

"By now, I imagine his Majesty is so overcome with grief at the loss of his daughter Paura Thellon, he will not be in the mood to listen to state secrets."

"One can only hope this is true."

Rinin Juclar returned with the Anhil leader in tow. The Chamberlain cleared his throat to gain the full attention of those present around the Imperial podium. He only prayed this meeting was half as important as the filthy thief insisted. Otherwise, both of their heads might well end up on display at the city gates.

"Sinnit Sear wishes to converse with Jom Azzer, the Dread."

"Show him to me."

The bandit leader stepped closer to the thrones, displaying extreme caution in not looking at either person on the podium directly in the eye. He could certainly think of more pleasant ways to leave his life. "My Ruler," Sinnit Sear began, his voice echoing across the busy hall. "I bring great and wondrous news from my journey throughout your endless Territories..."

"Just get on with it, Sinnit Sear!" the Empress demanded. She may have harboured a dislike for the Chamberlain, but she intensely despised all Anhil.

"My Ruler, I appear to have located a man who makes the claim he does not come from our world."

Dearer Azzer's mouth dropped in shock at such an outrageous claim. She was well aware that strange tidings were afoot in the Territories, but this most recent claim was nothing short of outrageous. Not wishing to spoil the bandit's attempt to have himself executed on the spot for gross stupidity, she remained silent. Hopefully, she might even be allowed to suggest a means of the bandit leader's demise.

At this news, her spouse sat bolt upright in his overly decorative throne. He gazed down intently at his servant from the ranks of the Anhil, wondering if the man's sanity had finally deserted him. His mind then recalled his first sighting of the unusual prisoner currently recuperating in the infirmary underneath the Imperial palace.

Sinnit Sear took his cue from the silence and continued his tale: "This man I located has fantastic powers and was able to slay many of my group with an object that spits fire and roars thunder as if from the skies!"

"Where is this man now?" the Ruler eagerly inquired.

"Just beyond the Great Imperial Chamber, my Ruler."

Jom Azzer paused momentarily before providing an instruction: "Wait a moment or two, then allow the stranger entry."

"Yes, my Ruler."

The Anhil leader bowed deeply then fled, wondering why the Imperial monarch wished him to delay their meeting. Feeling none of this was his concern, he vanished from the hall, his exit observed by a multitude of shocked courtiers and dignitaries. All of these onlookers, naturally, assumed they would be witnessing one or two executions once their Ruler realised Sinnit Sear had completely lost his mind.

While he was absent, Jom Azzer motioned for some members of his trusted personal guard to ambush the new arrival as he entered the throne room. Two tall, grim-faced soldiers sprinted almost silently to the enormous double doors leading directly into the Imperial throne room. These uniformed men positioned themselves on either side of the entrance then patiently waited. Only a brief moment had passed before Sinnit Sear reappeared, head bowed in respect and fear. He was followed a few steps behind by a tall, thin, blond man dressed in unremarkable clothes.

A sharp broadsword unexpectedly appeared underneath the chin of the new arrival. The other guard hastily removed the Sten machine pistol from Enrich Voltaire's grasp. The guard with the raised sword gave him a hard shove, sending the unimpressed man stumbling across the polished marble floor.

The following act of violence stunned even Jom Azzer and his wife.

Swiftly regaining his footing in a manner similar to a big cat, Voltaire withdrew his Lugar pistol from its holster, aimed it at the unsuspecting bodyguards then expertly shot each of them twice. The multiple gunshots blasted across the crowded hall, terrifying those people presently trapped inside the huge chamber's four walls.

Both of these large men collapsed to the floor, all signs of life extinguished. While this was occurring, two other guards moved to apprehend and presumably execute the major on the spot. Their instincts to protect the Imperial couple overcame all initial fear of the recent arrival to the Court and the noisy, violent manner in which he had just dealt with the other members of their unit.

In rapid succession, Voltaire killed these two individuals as well. Standing at the centre of this unforeseen carnage, he looked calmly around, noticing with ease a large number of other soldiers advancing on his position. Although, they carried only primitive weapons such as lances and swords, these warriors vastly outnumbered his remaining rounds in the Lugar. If armed with the Sten, he would have cheerfully butchered every last person in the massive chamber, including the two fools up on the podium who were obviously some sort of dignitaries.

"That is enough!"

Every person present instantly turned to face Jom Azzer, who stood at the front of the Imperial podium while his wife remained patiently seated on her throne. They realised they both may die at the hands of this powerful stranger, but they would not beg for mercy like some common criminal in one of the local courts of law. Such a thing was beneath the dignity of either Imperial monarch.

Sensing this was an important time for all of them, Voltaire continued to clutch his sidearm, but bowed in a slight manner at the man he assumed was in charge of proceedings in this mediaeval place.

Jom Azzer nodded back; anybody capable of such swift and decisive violence without raising one iota of perspiration was someone he wanted in his service. Four of the best soldiers available for his personal guard presently lay in a bloody mess around the Great Imperial Chamber.

"I am Jom Azzer," he announced to the new arrival to his Court, "Ruler of all within the Azzil Territories. And I give you my Imperial oath you will not be harmed, so long as you put away your weapon."

Voltaire cast his gaze up and studied the slightly shorter man. "We will see," he murmured.

A gasp rose from out of the crowd, causing Jom Azzer to cast his gaze over their nervous, stirring mass. The conversation he wished to hold with the dangerous stranger was not open for public consumption, nor comment. Any words spoken here this important day could well be repeated in the throne room of Entell Thellon.

"Chamberlain," he commanded, "clear the hall at once."

Considering most of the dignitaries and palace staff present were more than happy to escape the scene of this recent carnage, they offered very little in the way of resistance when herded towards the nearest exit. In a remarkably short space of time only the Azzer couple, Rinin Juclar, Sinnit Sear and Voltaire remained in the chamber. Even the surviving guards had left the scene.

"I... I did not know he would do such a thing!" the mortified Anhil leader stammered in an obviously distressed state of mind.

"You brought him here!" Dearer Azzer accused him from her throne. Her fury was evident in her enraged tone of voice and malicious stare she cast towards the kneeling bandit. "This person could have assassinated our Ruler!"

"That is all right," Jom Azzer murmured, "I am pleased you still care about my health."

"I always have and always shall, my Ruler," replied the Empress, bowing her head.

The Ruler of the Territories turned to the newcomer in their midst. "What is your name?"

"I am Major Enrich Voltaire."

"He is looking at you, my Ruler," the Chamberlain announced, glaring angrily at the tall stranger.

"Yes, I am quite aware of that. Perhaps you would like to do something about it?"

"It... is not a part of my assigned duties, my Ruler."

"Lucky you," Voltaire countered sarcastically, bemused at the intrusion by the self-important sycophant.

"So, you are a military officer!" Jom Azzer declared with some enthusiasm.

"That is correct."

"My Ruler," Rinin Juclar corrected this unusual visitor. He was determined not to allow such a blatant breach of palace protocol go uncorrected. Obviously, the Ruler had plans for this violent stranger, otherwise special weapons or not, he would presently be on his way to the dungeons located deep underground.

"This is my spouse," Jom Azzer introduced her, "Empress Dearer Azzer; my only reason for continuing with this morbid life."

Voltaire bowed instinctively towards the tall, well-groomed woman. He had a feeling this cold-eyed bitch was the real power behind the Imperial throne.

"I'm honoured," the major announced, returning to his upright position.

Dearer Azzer nodded her head slightly in the new arrival's direction. To her, this man just looked like another common townsperson.

"I suppose you are tired from your journey, Major?" the Ruler inquired.

"As a matter of fact, yes. I'm exhausted."

"Then I will order a room and bed prepared for you as well as some fresh food. Tomorrow we will speak further on the matter of your place of origin."

"And a bath may be in order," Rinin Juclar rather impolitely added.

"That would be greatly appreciated," Voltaire responded, flashing an evil glare towards the Chamberlain.

Jom Azzer looked across to his Chamberlain. "Take our most honoured guest to the best accommodation we have."

"I will take him to the guest quarters at once, my Ruler," Rinin Juclar calmly stated, motioning for Voltaire to follow him. He wondered if this supposed military officer in the odd peasant clothing would be guarded tonight.

Voltaire was only too pleased to finally be out of the chamber. Personally, he believed them all to be a bunch of ignorant peasants and fools. Given half the chance, he would have cheerfully wiped out the entire crowd without a moment's hesitation. Before passing through the huge doorway, he bent over, snatched up his discarded Sten, then slung the deadly weapon over his shoulder.

Back in the Great Imperial Chamber, Dearer Azzer cast her gaze down at the still kneeling and somewhat agitated Anhil leader. She was going to enjoy watching his long, miserable death at the hands of the most expert palace torturer.

"Ah, yes," Jom Azzer murmured, gazing upon the trembling bandit. "You were responsible for bringing that man here, Sinnit Sear. That act should not go unpunished." Reaching into one of his formal jacket's deep pockets, the Ruler rummaged about, finally removing a small, leather satchel, which he casually tossed down to the now bewildered Anhil.

Instinctively, Sinnit Sear reached up with one hand, catching the package before it reached the polished--and now bloodied floor. He carefully inspected the pouch before opening up this unexpected gift. His eyes widened greedily before he upended the sack, spilling about half a dozen shiny silver coins into the palm of his other hand.

At that instant, the Empress rose furiously to her feet. "You are rewarding this miserable bandit?"

Jom Azzer turned to glare angrily at his wife, causing her to immediately modify the verbal retort on the tip of her lips. She breathed deeply for a moment before speaking once more in a benign tone, "May I take my leave, my Ruler?"

"No."

She remained standing on the Imperial podium, both hands clenched into small, tight fists of almost uncontrollable anger. Not only had the Anhil swine been rewarded for his blatant stupidity, instead of being executed, but now she had been humiliated before the very same man at the centre of the standoff between the Imperial couple.

"Sinnit Sear," the Ruler spoke slowly, "I believe you have done me a great service by bringing this Enrich Voltaire to my attention. Live well tonight in my name. Anything in the Imperial palace is yours."

"Yes, my Ruler!" the bandit blurted before bowing once.

"Now, leave us."

"Yes, leave!" Dearer Azzer snapped.

The Ruler turned to face her. "You may take your leave now."

The enraged Empress fled from the raised platform.

When she had vanished from the huge chamber, her husband shrugged to himself. Tonight would be a lonely affair, but at least he had maintained the proper level of respect between the two of them. Nothing was worse in his position than being given a display of disrespect by anyone. Ruler Jom Azzer felt it would have been a terrible shame if through some unfortunate misunderstanding between them, he would be forced by protocol to have her head displayed on the mighty gates of Terrimorter. Far more tragic events had occurred within the city's walls.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

THE HAMAFORTH KINGDOMS  
THE CITY OF VALDERHIEN

The first impression to drift into Colin Bourke's bewildered mind was the searing pain throbbing from what remained of his left hand. Wearily forcing open his eyes, he found himself in total darkness and flat on his back on a cold, unyielding surface. Slowly his eyesight became accustomed to the darkened room. A flickering light was forcing its way into the place he was imprisoned as he made out the shape of something on the cold stone floor next to his face. As his blurred vision focused, he realised he was staring into the face of a huge rat. It was by far the largest rodent Colin had ever seen--easily the size of a domestic cat. The creature was contentedly gnawing away on something that he fervently hoped had not previously belonged to him. The rodent did not appear in the least concerned by its cell partner's close proximity.

"One of us stinks," Colin muttered.

The rat ceased nibbling on its food source and stared at him nonplussed with its large, beady black eyes. Fed up with the disturbance during its mealtime, the rodent scuttled away from the source of the unpleasant odour.

Colin did not know how long he had been locked away in the cell, but he felt badly dehydrated, he stank of perspiration--and whatever it was he was lying in, he obviously had a badly festering hand and he felt as though his head had been used to batter down the door of a local brothel. His first attempt to sit up created a number of different sensations, all of them extremely painful. Finally, through sheer persistence, the beleaguered scientist managed to haul himself upright into a sitting position where he remained for approximately ten minutes until the giddiness swirling around inside his head gradually subsided.

By his best estimate, the cell he was incarcerated in was no more than three by four paces in width and length, although to his surprise the ceiling seemed to be a good height above him. The metal bars positioned across the front of the cell were a good distance apart and would have made a relatively ineffective barrier if not for large spikes located all along their slightly rusted length. Anyone attempting to squeeze between these bars would be sliced into bloody ribbons. Strangely enough, Colin found himself unable to locate any type of door to the cell.

Climbing to his feet, he deeply inhaled the stale air into his aching lungs a number of times to get his blood pumping. Next, he stepped across to the spiked cell bars. Peering out, all he could see from his vantage point was a narrow, cramped passageway illuminated by only a couple of flickering oil torches positioned on the stone walls.

"Hey!" Colin called, his voice cracking under the strain. He coughed a few times then continued in his attempt to gain some assistance. "Is anyone out there?"

Moving closer to the bars, he used the limited available light to inspect his injured left hand. It was in a terrible mess. The crossbow bolt had not been kind in clipping his hand. A large flap of skin had been partially torn away, leaving the damaged flesh underneath visible. Having swollen to almost twice their usual size, his fingers were impossible to move despite Colin's best efforts to wriggle these bloated digits. Milky white puss oozed freely from the suppurated wound, causing most of the stomach-churning stench that offended both his and the rat's senses. If he were able to locate a clean, sharp surface or implement he would have lanced the mess right there and then. Terms such as 'gangrene' and 'blood poisoning' kept coursing through his frightened mind.

"Hello! Is anyone there?"

No reply.

Colin realised just how thirsty and hungry he felt. When had he last eaten? Possibly a good four or five days ago. He honestly had no idea and now the hunger pains joined force with the throbbing of his infected hand to produce one almighty bout of agony pounding through his very being.

"Hey! How about a little room service here!"

Still no reply.

What was the world coming to when you could not get a little room service to your mediaeval-style dungeon? "What world though?" he murmured to himself.

The clattering, careless sounds of someone approaching from somewhere further along the stone corridor finally reached his ears. In fact, no less than four large individuals in blue uniforms appeared at the front of Colin's cell. One of these men was carrying a length of rusty chain and matching leg and wrist manacles. None of these individuals appeared pleased to be in their captive's presence. They glared into the cell at him with unrepentant disgust and anger.

"You're not putting those things on me!" Colin protested, realising he was in no fit condition to behave in anything other than a submissive manner.

The four men stared briefly at their prisoner as though momentarily startled by his raucous outburst before they quickly went about their business. One of the men stepped across to a metal lever located not far from the cell and pushed it down with all of his strength. His effort caused three of the spiked bars to slide up into the ceiling, opening the cell.

"So that's how you do it," Colin marvelled, gazing up to admire such an uncomplicated yet impressive piece of engineering.

Three of the jailers stepped inside the cell, grabbing hold of the occupant and placing the manacles on him before he had a chance to protest. Colin made what he felt was a mandatory attempt to fight off his keepers, but in his greatly weakened state this effort was at best laughable.

"Congratulations," one of the jailers finally spoke up, his mouth strangely out of sync with his words.

"On what?" Colin demanded.

"On being the first person to be publicly executed in the Royal palace in well over a hundred seasons."

"And how long's a season?" Colin asked, as the word "executed" sank coldly into his brain and froze his heart.

His question shocked the four men, causing them to pause briefly in their duties and stare at him incredulously. After regaining their senses, they unceremoniously hauled Colin Bourke from his filthy, rat-infested cell.

***

As she had done so for a number of days, her Highness, Paura Thellon lay silently on her large, luxurious bed, her eyes staring straight up at the distant ornate ceiling as though somehow hypnotised into a trance. Some of the Hamaforth Kingdoms' greatest physicians had attended her and most had correctly diagnosed she was suffering a severe state of shock. After all, the unfortunate girl had only recently witnessed the callous and brutal murders of her entire entourage, including some of her closest friends from the Royal Court. Generally, the doctors' combined medical opinions had been to keep the princess well fed, give her plenty of liquids and most importantly, keep her warm at all times. Under no circumstances was she to be allowed out of her room to wander the palace's draughty corridors.

This last recommendation had been by far the easiest to apply, as she had not budged from her bed for many days since returning from that fateful journey. Her bedroom faced one of the palace's many spacious courtyards, which included an incredible display of ornamental plants from all corners of the Kingdoms. This garden came with a variety of comfortable benches, birdcages and rock pools teaming with decorative and always hungry fish. The princess considered the area her private garden and was often found milling about on its many paths, admiring the spectacular botanical displays.

Strange sounds coming up from the courtyard and through the open windows reached in through the fog of her exhausted mind, causing the girl to stir from her self-imposed state of melancholy. The noises were those of clanking chains and other scuffling sounds, as if some unfortunate soul was being physically dragged through her garden towards the Royal Assembly Hall. This was less than pleasing.

Paura Thellon's mind lurched into some semblance of normality. How dare they! There were any number of passageways and halls that led to the main meeting chamber without violating the tranquility of her courtyard. Whoever was in charge of the prisoner detail was obviously new at the job, or hopelessly incompetent. This furious thought hauled the princess completely out of her near comatose state. Her staring eyes blinked a couple of times in rapid succession. It was time to get moving and put a halt to this unauthorised and greatly unappreciated procession through her courtyard. Slowly climbing from her bed, she paused a moment to catch her breath. She then fled her rumpled bed and wandered across to the partially opened windows located high above the courtyard.

What the princess saw horrified her. Racing across the spacious room, she snatched up a dark blue dressing gown, placing the item about her slender shoulders before putting on a pair of slippers; she only prayed she would be in time to put a halt to a great miscarriage of justice. Tearing open the large timber door, she was surprised to find herself staring at two blond, blue-eyed men in white robes. They could barely conceal their amazement at her Highness' rapid recovery from her ailment.

"Princess Paura!" the slightly elder of the two men spoke up. "We are truly grateful to see you in good health."

"Banisor!" she blurted to the bodyguard. "I have to see my father!"

"I am afraid King Entell Thellon gave strict instructions that under no circumstances were you to leave your room."

"But I need to speak to him!"

"I will send Bateller to talk with your Royal parents and inform them of the good news about your recovery. But until then, you must stay here."

"I have to get to the hall at once!"

Bateller, the other bodyguard, hastily fled the area, leaving the other two arguing about the princess' confinement to her quarters. As Bateller walked swiftly towards the Royal Assembly Hall located to the far side of the massive palace, he could clearly hear Princess Paura and Banisor shouting at one another. Sometimes being a lesser member of the Dearnian Royal guard had its benefits.

***

There were literally hundreds, possibly thousands of people staring at Colin as his captors dragged him along a narrow stretch of deep blue carpet that ran from one end of the immense chamber to the other. Every last person glared in his direction with one emotion clearly evident on their hardened features: Hatred.

Colin was fearful that at any instant one of the enraged onlookers would attack him and attempt to gouge out his eyes. The scientist knew he was in such poor condition there would be little chance of him defending himself.

"Hang him!"

There was an eager nodding of heads to this suggestion. Someone actually spat at him, although their reprisal earned the offending soul a disapproving glare from one of the soldiers who was hauling the prisoner through the massive hall.

Eventually, Colin's jailers deposited him in a heap at the base of a waist-high podium upon which sat a man of regal appearance, who the dishevelled scientist judged to be in his early forties. Alongside him seated on another strange, high-backed chair was a slightly plump, plain-looking woman. The woman appeared to be about mid-thirties in age. Colin thought that at some point in her life this woman would have probably been considered 'cute' and even 'pretty'. Right at this moment, however, she looked for the world as if she harboured an overwhelming desire to rush from her fancy chair and stab him in both eyes with some sharp object. The tall man with the long nose seated on the same platform glared down at him with unbridled disgust. Both of them were dressed in some form of formal regalia complete with long capes and head ornaments similar to crowns.

Picking himself upright, Colin looked about at the hostile crowd and was surprised to see the tall, blond haired, bearded man he had first encountered on the battlefield some days prior. He was still clutching the unusual staff Colin had used to skewer the thug who was about to murder the blonde girl. The odd thing about the stern faced man was the last time Colin had laid eyes on him; this person had been quite dead.

The only explanation he could rationalise in his fearful mind was that the robed man and the dead person were either closely related, or simply bore a striking physical similarity.

"Thellic," the seated man finally spoke up, gazing towards the tall, blond man. "I know you have only been in my service as Lord Protector for a couple of days, but it is customary to clean up a prisoner before he is brought to my attention. This prisoner looks and smells terrible."

"I am sorry, your Royal Majesty," Thellic apologised sincerely. "I have been inundated with my new duties, including making funeral arrangements for my brother, Ralamin. In future I will take greater care, Sire."

"Your brother was a great Protector of the family Thellon," the finely-dressed man on the podium stated, his grief evident in his tone of voice, "and a good friend to me. Please call me when his funeral service is due and I will personally attend, along with all the members of my family.

At this announcement, a wave of approving mutterings swept through the assembly.

Thellic straightened with pride at this distinction. "A great honour, your Royal Majesty. My family will be most grateful for your support in our time of mourning."

"All the Kingdoms mourn Ralamin's death," King Entell Thellon, the Third continued, his hard gaze directed towards the wretched individual at the base of the podium. "Take my word on this. You will suffer for the unwarranted atrocity inflicted upon my people."

"Just a goddamn minute!" Colin exclaimed, his anger overcoming all fear and pain. He attempted to climb back to his feet. "I didn't..."

In an instant, Thellic leant across and struck the prisoner across the back of his head, sending him plummeting back to the floor.

"You will not speak to his Majesty unless instructed to do so!" the new Lord Protector demanded, standing over the fallen man. "And then you will address King Entell Thellon by his..."

Colin's counter-attack occurred so swiftly, the taller and naturally, stronger man failed to have time to adequately defend himself. Both men overbalanced, crashing to the carpeted floor. A number of hands immediately tore the struggling men apart. Remarkably, Colin managed to break free from their grasp, swinging his binding chain as a ready-made weapon of sorts. About ten people, both men and women surrounded him, although he was grateful to discover none of these individuals possessed any weapons of their own. A sword would bring a swift end to his fight for freedom.

A young, blonde woman of almost Thellic's height and wearing a similar style of white outfit was the one who eventually managed to tackle the rebelling prisoner. She slammed Colin into the floor, knocking the air from his lungs. In his weakened state of mind and body, his resistance had lasted less than a minute. He remained prone on the carpeted floor, even after the irate blonde girl had hauled herself free from his rather fragrant presence.

"Hold him!" King Entell Thellon commanded, rising to his feet. "Such violent behaviour will not be tolerated in front of the Queen!"

Colin pointed up to the person everyone referred to as Thellic. "But it's alright for 'Evil Santa' here to kick the shit out of me!"

"You will be silent!"

The prisoner wearily climbed back to his knees. "As you are going to kill me anyway--go to hell!"

As furious as he was over the attempted assassination of his only daughter, the King could not help but secretly admire this mercenary's courage and resistance towards all of their efforts to subdue him. The slaughter in the vast plains of Vin Halle could not, and would not, go unpunished. Many fine men and women, including a Royal cousin had perished under the onslaught of an atypical, highly organised mass Anhil attack. It was his Majesty's belief the bandits had fully intended to slay his daughter for some privately arranged reward by the Kingdoms' enemies, or hold her for an impressive ransom.

While a number of people now held Colin on his knees, he heard a question come from the man on the podium. "Who is responsible for the atrocity against the princess' caravan in Vin Halle?"

"What?"

"I believe you heard me the first time," the King stated, his irritation barely concealed behind an ever-decreasing layer of civility. "If you divulge the names of those persons responsible for organising this dreadful massacre, I give you my word your execution will be mercifully swift and painless."

Colin looked up and grinned. "Well, ain't that big of you!"

Someone struck the prisoner across the side of his already aching head, knocking him back to the carpeted surface. Breathing deeply for a short while, he finally regained his senses and climbed back to his knees.

"The very next time you show even the most scant disrespect to his Majesty," Thellic warned, his face blushed with anger, "I will personally cut off both of your hands!"

"Please answer my question," the monarch calmly insisted.

"Look!" the prisoner hissed, "I don't know any princess. And I've never heard of this 'Vin Halle' place."

"Where do you originate from?" the Royal Protectorate demanded, now standing over the pitiful looking prison.

"New York City."

Thellic turned his attention away from the kneeling man and marched closer to the Royal podium. He struck the floor once with the blunt end of the Staff of Office, creating a thunderous report that echoed across the crowded Royal Assembly Hall. This behaviour drew the undivided attention of everyone assembled about the raised platform.

"Your Majesty, as Royal Protector, I formally request you allow me to mass an invading force this very day. We will travel immediately to this 'New York City' and burn it to the ground! All of its citizens will fall at our feet!"

Colin could not help himself and giggled aloud. The notion of this self-important thug and his crew turning up in New York and attempting to pillage the place was the most amusing thought he had held in many days. Perhaps they could begin their hastily-planned rampage at Broadway and take in a show first?

The tall, blonde man turned to face him. "For someone whose place of birth is about to be torn apart, you are taking this very well."

"When you find it, please let me know."

"You will be long dead by then."

"Before we launch a full-scale invasion," the woman on the podium finally spoke, "it may be an idea to discover if this ruffian is indeed telling the truth. This 'New York City' may be enemies of this man in a brilliantly conceived plan to throw our two Kingdoms together in war."

Thellic bowed towards the seated woman. "As usual, your Highness, you have seen beyond our limited understanding of the situation. I feel it is best to begin forceful questioning of this man at once."

Hearing the term "forceful questioning" the hairs on Colin's neck stood up. The imprisoned scientist had been wondering when these heathens would get around to torturing him: He only wished he had something useful to tell them.

"Colin Bourke," he simply announced to no one in particular.

They all turned to stare at the kneeling man.

"I do beg your pardon?" the King retorted incredulously.

"Colin Bourke. That's my name."

"How unfortunate for you," Thellic remarked.

"You should talk. At least my name doesn't sound like a brand of prophylactics."

"Enough of this!" King Entell Thellon blurted, instantly cutting short the pointless conversation between the two men. "Colin Bourke, you will be taken from here to one of the cells below the palace. There, you will be questioned at length over your obvious involvement in this sinister and bloodthirsty plot against not only the princess, but I believe the entire Royal Family of the Hamaforth Kingdoms. You will stay in the cells until a full and complete disclosure has been given as to the identities of those other individuals involved in this disgraceful manner. I have spoken and my word is the law!"

"Good for you!" Colin blurted, fully realising his time was up. He rose to his feet. If these lunatics were going to do something shocking to him then he wanted little more than to end his days standing upright. He had committed no offence and refused to die on his knees like a common criminal.

"You were warned!" the Lord Protector exclaimed in anger, moving at a menacing gait, his staff raised as though set to strike.

"I do not agree with any of this," Queen Sinar Thellon protested from her throne. "We have never in our rule of the Kingdoms allowed the torture of any person, be they a citizen or an enemy."

These words brought Thellic to a halt, as he was about to grab the arrogant prisoner. "These are unusual circumstances, your Highness," he announced, now latching onto the prisoner's right arm. "Respect sometimes has to be forcefully taught to one's enemies. If we allow this man to get off lightly, others will be eager to venture to our lands and attempt to finish what this creature started."

"Isn't anyone going to listen to me?" Colin angrily demanded, attempting to fight his way free of his tall jailer's firm grasp. "I know nothing about any plan to kill that girl! All I was doing was taking a walk, minding my own business, then I saw these goons trying to cut the poor thing's head off and I just tried to stop them."

"Enough of these lies!" Thellic roared, raising one arm to strike down this deranged murderer of innocent men and women.

Colin came to the conclusion his time was about to end in this odd world and its strange society. He was a victim of circumstances beyond his control and now he was going to die. But not before he suffered a just little bit more.

A strenuous commotion from the closed Royal Assembly Hall doors drew everyone's attention. All heads turned away from the drama unfolding before the Royal podium. The tall, wide doors burst open without the usual fanfare. Some of the Court officials and other dignitaries standing closest to this entrance stepped back, seemingly frightened by the vision that entered the massive chamber.

Princess Paura Thellon marched boldly along the strip of blue carpet, her eyes wide and ablaze in anger.

When the tall, blonde girl laid eyes on the pitiful sight that had once been her saviour, she was overcome by sympathy, then her anger returned to gather itself into uncontrollable fury.

Behind the enraged princess, her guard Banisor sheepishly followed, making certain his line of sight never made contact with Thellic. There would be troublesome tidings over his apparent inability to take care of and control one slip of a girl.

"What are you fools doing to him?" the princess demanded. She boldly stepped across to the throng of Dearnian guards surrounding this supposed assassin and began pushing them away from the half-starved man.

Colin turned to stare at this girl, who could not possibly have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He was certain he had seen her some place before. In an instant, Colin's mind recalled the terrible fight in the rolling plains where his troubles of being lost in a strange land had somehow become greatly compounded.

Her Highness was not finished abusing those she felt responsible for this gross miscarriage of justice. "You pack of incompetent, vulgar, stupid fools!" she continued her tirade against pretty much everyone within earshot. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves! I should send the lot of you to the dungeons for this outrage!"

"What is the meaning of this?" her father demanded, completely baffled by her behaviour towards a man accused of assisting in the brutal murders of most of her closest friends.

"Are you insane?" she demanded, focusing her fury towards her parents.

King Entell Thellon straightened in anger.

"No," he insisted, glaring down at his eldest child. "But I am still the King and will be shown the proper respect at all times--even by members of my own family."

The princess finally fell silent, staring up at her father. Palace protocol finally broke through the girl's rage. She straightened and performed the customary curtsy towards the reigning monarch of the Kingdoms.

"Your Majesty," she mouthed through gritted teeth, halfway between an honest expression of remorse and unyielding anger.

Her father nodded in her direction. "Much better," he informed her, "Your Highness."

An unfortunate side effect of this stand-off between the princess and King Entell Thellon was no one was paying attention to Colin and certainly no one was assisting him to remain upright. With no support and greatly weakened legs due to days of aimless wandering and borderline starvation, he promptly crumpled to his trembling knees.

"Can someone please help me?" he croaked.

The princess now aimed a finger towards the fallen man. "This man saved my life!" she announced as loudly as possible.

This declaration sent a shockwave reverberating through the entire chamber. An increasing bout of harsh whispers arose from the assembled crowd. Some deep mystery was unfolding and everyone present wished for nothing more than to be a part of this intriguing event.

King Entell Thellon felt a nauseous sensation rising in the pit of his stomach: What had he done? "Are you certain of this, Paura Thellon?" he demanded.

"I am hardly likely to make up such a story, your Majesty."

Banisor quietly stepped over to Colin's crumpled figure and helped him back to his feet. He held the ill-treated man aloft while the animated discussion between the members of the Royal Family continued.

"I did not know this man was a benefactor," Entell Thellon admitted, shamed by his actions towards the prisoner. "We all thought he was one of those responsible for the recent atrocity."

"Well, he was not!" the King's only daughter angrily insisted. "If not for his timely interruption, my head would be rolling around out on the hills of Vin Halle."

In that instant, it dawned on the reigning monarch: The attack on the princess' caravan was indeed a well-planned assassination attempt, not a hostage coup.

"The truth be known," she continued, "not only did this person save my life; he did so on two occasions. He even slew the thug about to behead me."

The princess continued her account about the attack and her reprieve, including Colin's fight with the marauders. All the while, something was greatly troubling Thellic, who stared down at his feet, his features flushed in embarrassment as his inner humiliation grew exponentially.

All those present about the Royal podium were hushed, marvelling at the strange man's courage. It was such a shame he had been imprisoned, beaten, half-starved and threatened with torture and execution.

"He saved my life!" Princess Paura insisted. "And you all treated him in such a disrespectful manner! It makes me feel thoroughly ashamed."

This last dramatic statement made nearly everyone in the hall cast their eyes down. No one wanted to look at the enraged girl or her appallingly treated saviour. There would be great scandal over today's most unsavoury events.

"There is another matter you should be aware of," her Highness continued. "This attack was organised by Lord Laninval. The fool who attempted to cut off my head informed me of this fact." She turned towards Colin. "And then this man ran the hooligan through with Ralamin's duty staff."

"What?" the King gasped in astonishment. He turned to exchange horrified looks with his wife. "I was under the impression this was an attack by the Anhil. Why would his Lordship involve himself in an attempt on my daughter's life?"

This question was not directed to any one in particular. Thellic saw fit to speak up at this point. He really did not wish to continue with this business, but felt it was a matter of duty to provide further facts about the atrocity committed in the region of Vin Halle. Personally, he would have preferred to drag the prisoner back down to the cells and never speak of the matter again. "Your Majesty," the Lord Protector spoke up, casting his gaze towards the stunned monarch, "we did locate the body of one of Lord Laninval's most trusted aides near the place where the princess' caravan had been ambushed. I was under the impression my brother had killed him as his duty staff was still nearby. Also, some of the other members of the raiding party have since admitted to being in the service of... " He knew his next words were going to cause a scene. "...Ruler Jom Azzer of the Azzil Territories."

Scandal and shame became indignation as the onlookers in the hall now began calling for open warfare against the people of the Territories in retaliation for the attack on the princess' caravan. Such outrage needed to be answered with nothing short of military intervention. The commotion continued until the King himself called for order in the room.

When silence fell once more in the chamber, Entell Thellon spoke to the tall, bearded man. "Why did you not tell me this before, Thellic? Surely a matter of such great importance deserves my closest attention?"

"I was not entirely certain, Sire," the head of the Dearnian guard admitted. "The investigation into the attack is continuing. I honestly believed this 'Colin Bourke' person to be an integral part of the plot and dared not give away my beliefs, lest they taint the investigation. With her Highness' personal testimony, we can now clear him of any involvement in the matter."

"I sincerely hope so," Paura Thellon added dryly.

Thellic continued, "We have been receiving reports from all corners of the Kingdoms concerning strange goings on: Intensified attacks by the Anhil that do not fit with their usual methods of striking lone travellers and wagons. Also, there are particularly odd reports of monsters and unusual people and objects being sighted. One report claimed, and I quote, 'A beast of enormous proportions' attacked a village just outside the Halish swamp. It breathed great bursts of fire as it destroyed buildings and slaughtered the inhabitants. When last sighted, this beast was flying towards the swamp, still breathing fire. I have sent troops to further investigate this matter, Sire. However," Thellic continued, "there is clearly a disturbing trend towards blatant, well-organised aggression by the Anhil to contend with. Their behaviour far surpassed simply robbing passing wanderers in isolated areas of the Kingdoms."

"Isn't it obvious?" Colin interjected, standing before the podium, albeit with a bit of assistance.

The princess turned to a nearby servant. "Please get him some food and fresh water."

The aging servant bowed his greying head and darted from the hall in the direction of the kitchens.

"Isn't what obvious?" Thellic demanded.

"These Anhil robbers; they're being organised by some outside influence--possibly an enemy of yours? Someone who stands to gain from disrupting your rule."

"He is quite possibly correct," Entell Thellon admitted, nodding his head. "And there is no doubt in my mind Lord Laninval is the one responsible."

He gazed down towards his daughter, who much to his amusement was still attired in her dressing gown and fluffy slippers. She meant so much to him, as did all of his children. It was an outrage to think one of the Kingdom's own Lords, the supposed guardians of the lands had boldly plotted to murder his daughter. She was little more than a child.

Stepping across to his throne, Entell Thellon, the Third drew an aged, unimpressive sword from a sheath located behind the Royal Seat of Power then walked back to the front of the podium. The assembled nobles, military officers, servants and dignitaries watched in stunned silence as their monarch pointed to the prisoner.

Colin had the sinking feeling he had worn out his welcome--again.

"Bring the prisoner to me," the monarch instructed. "He has interfered in matters not of his concern."

"Father... your Majesty!" Paura Thellon exclaimed, "What are you doing?"

Each grabbing hold of an arm, Thellic and Banisor dragged Colin across the floor and up onto the raised platform. They forced the greatly weakened man into a kneeling position directly before the solemn King, who held the aged sword aloft so all those in the Royal Assembly Hall could easily see the antique weapon.

Entell Thellon cast his hard gaze across the crowd. "By the right of Royal decree, I, King Entell Thellon the Third, find Lord Laninval and all those members of his family guilty of the heinous crime of High Treason against the Thellon Royal Family, the Hamaforth Kingdoms and all its people! As from this day, all of his lands, private holdings and titles are forfeit to the crown! Laninval is no more!"

While the bewildered onlookers mentally digested his decree, the monarch stepped menacingly closer to the man somehow at the centre of this drama.

"Colin Bourke," Entell Thellon continued, "at great risk to your own life you sought to save her Highness, the Princess Paura Thellon's life on not one, but two occasions. For your terrible treatment since then, I can only offer you a most abject apology. As a reward for your bravery, I can only offer you this..." He brought the flat edge of the sword's blade down gently to rest on Colin's upturned forehead. "Colin Bourke, in my name and on behalf of all the people of the Kingdoms, I bestow upon you the possessions and title formerly belonging to the Laninval family. You shall rule the north western realm of Porra on my behalf and maintain constant vigilance against those who seek to cause harm and disruption to the Hamaforth Kingdoms. I, King Entell Thellon, rightful monarch of Hamaforth and all of its adjoining nations, name you a Knight Protector of our Royal Court, Lord Colin Bourke."

Colin was dumfounded. After a little thought, he gulped and made a simple comment: "Thanks."

The King smiled and nodded. "You are most welcome, your Lordship. Arise, Lord Colin Bourke. It is considered unseemly for a titled knight to be on his knees."

"I... I honestly don't think I can!"

The two Dearnian guards at his side assisted Colin back to his unsteady feet. To the recently appointed knight's right side, Thellic did absolutely nothing to disguise the fact he was less than pleased about recent events. He believed this act had accomplished precious little to alleviate the embarrassment in regards to not only his brother's inability to protect the princess, but his own gross misjudgement of this Colin Bourke's involvement in the attack.

Banisor, on the other hand, was quite pleased about these events. Although his personal involvement had been kept to a minimum, he had just personally witnessed what he felt was a historic event--an achievement the Dearnian man had always hoped to fulfill while in service to the family Thellon. Bateller would be furious.

The reigning monarch turned to his wife and was delighted to witness an expression of complete and total astonishment on her face. She remained seated on her throne, eyes and mouth wide in undisguised shock. It was a rare occasion that he managed to surprise her. Even his own, very headstrong daughter stood near the podium, eyes wide, staring up at him.

"Is there anything we can take care of for you, Lord Bourke?" Entell Thellon inquired, still clutching the sword handed down through generations of his family.

"I just need something to eat and drink, thanks."

"That has been taken care of, father... I mean, your Majesty," the princess stated politely.

"And I think I need a bath," Colin added, his voice still shaky. His tongue felt dry and bloated to the point he now found it difficult to speak.

"I think we all agree on that point," the King noted.

Sinar Thellon suddenly lifted her head as though a far more interesting topic was at hand. "Oh, there goes the Porran Ambassador!"

Releasing their tenuous grasp on Colin, both Thellic and Banisor leapt with great dexterity from the podium and pounded along the hall, shoving aside any unfortunate soul in their way. They apprehended a short, grey haired, middle-aged man in the process of making his way through the open entrance. Each Dearnian guard latched onto one of the man's arms and proceeded to haul him kicking and screaming all the way back to the podium. One of the ambassador's more foolhardy personal guards attempted to intervene in this matter. He, in turn, was heavily tackled by the same tall, blonde woman, who had earlier wrestled Colin to the floor during the failed attempt to escape his captors. Other white robed people appeared from out of the crowd, gathered up the unconscious bodyguard and carried him away.

Colin had once again been left to his own devices. His greatly weakened legs were trembling under the strain of holding up his body. "Can somebody please help me?" he gasped, through swollen lips and tongue.

Paura Thellon rushed up, aiding the recently appointed knight in his feeble attempts not to crash back to the podium floor. The third in line to the crown of Hamaforth was not overly impressed by her saviour's smell.

The Dearnians hauled the fighting ambassador directly up to the impatiently waiting King. They deposited the terrified man directly at Entell Thellon's feet then stepped back a single pace. If this apparent traitor attempted to flee once more or attack the monarch, they would be more than ready.

The apprehended dignitary gazed up at the furious monarch. The kneeling man appeared to be considering his predicament. Apparently, he had decided to try to bluster his way out of this situation. "I must protest!" he blurted. "Under current agreements set up by your Royal father, Entell Thellon, the Second, all diplomats are automatically placed within Royal protection and cannot be detained, imprisoned or... executed!" His last words evaporated in a creaking squeal of fear.

"You are quite correct," the King admitted, stony-faced, "And if you were still Ambassador to Porra, you would be protected by that very ruling. But considering your tenure as ambassador evaporated the instant I dismissed Laninval, you are simply another citizen apparently guilty of a capital offence in the Kingdoms."

To one side of the podium, Colin was racked by a vicious coughing bout, much to the monarch's distress.

"Thellic, would you please see that his Lordship is taken care of. Place him in one of the upper guest quarters and have my personal physician tend to his needs. After all, it would be very unfortunate if the Kingdoms' most recently appointed knight was to succumb to illness on his first day of official duty."

"Yes, Sire," Thellic reluctantly replied.

The Lord Protectorate, Princess Paura and the tall Dearnian girl escorted Colin from the Royal Hall.

Entell Thellon stared down in disgust at the visibly shaking man at his feet who had until only moments ago been a high-ranking dignitary within Hamaforth Kingdom society. Now, he was little more than a common traitor accused of plotting and possibly aiding a disgraceful attempt to assassinate the King's only daughter.

Around this miserable wretch stood a multitude of the Kingdom's most affluent citizens, some of whom had only recently considered themselves a comrade to the former ambassador. All eyes closely watched the man as he waited with wilting nerves for the monarch to speak. The prisoner attempted to rise to his feet, only to be forced back to his knees by one of the nearby, highly feared Dearnian guards.

"Where is the Lord... I mean, former Lord Laninval hiding at this moment?" the King demanded. He only hoped the Laninval family were not bunkered down in their castle back in Porra's capital of Xerous. If this were the case, he would be faced with the dreadful decision to lead an invading army into the realm of Porra to forcefully capture and extradite them. Such a military undertaking would, conceivably, cost a great many lives on both sides. Any possible military option was to be avoided at all costs.

"I...I do not know, Sire," the recently deposed ambassador stammered, eyes downcast.

"I believe I did not ask what you do not know," the furious monarch forced the words out menacingly, fighting to maintain much needed decorum in front of so many of his subjects. "Now think, man!" Entell Thellon growled, his tone hinting a threat of immediate violence. "Where is Laninval most likely to be? Remember, your very life depends on your answer."

"I believe," the deposed ambassador began, his wide eyes never leaving the floor, "the Laninvals may be encamped about a league away from this city, your Majesty... along with about seven hundred of his personal guard."

This statement caused a collective gasp and much animated whispering amongst the assembled crowd.

"Silence!" the King commanded. There was an instant hush. "Laninval would have been wise to have brought more," the angry monarch countered. He cast his gaze across to the Dearnian man, Banisor. "Go and get Thellic. Tell him I have an important mission needing his most urgent attention."

The Dearnian guard bowed once then waited patiently for any further instructions.

"But first," Entell Thellon added, pointing towards the terrified former bureaucrat. "Take this traitor to a nice, snug cell while I decide his fate."

"At once, Sire," Banisor responded, latching onto the still kneeling man with one hand.

In fact, the ex-ambassador was no longer as concerned about his personal wellbeing as he had been a couple of moments ago. His not-so-straightforward betrayal of his former employer had earned him a reprieve of sorts from the King's wrath.

While Banisor escorted the former ambassador from the hall in front of its stunned occupants, the King scanned his gathered subjects. Many of these dignitaries were mortified by the events of this day's extraordinary assembly. Quite frankly, Entell Thellon was exhausted after this lengthy, peculiar and very disturbing turn of events.

"Clear the Royal Assembly Hall," he commanded, seating himself in his throne beside the bewildered Queen. Something about this Colin Bourke person bothered him. It was not only his unusual manner of speech, but also his general attitude. The former prisoner had fought back against his guards when most men would have cowered and begged for mercy as the former Porran Ambassador had done. This man was no mere street commoner; he was someone accustomed to a level of authority.

New York City. Where was this place? Entell Thellon was familiar with almost all of the major cities and towns within Hamaforth and its surrounding nations and as well as the outposts of civilisation in the Azzil Territories, but the monarch had never before heard of this settlement. The King harboured serious doubts about unceremoniously proclaiming Colin Bourke the new Lord of Porra. The man appeared to possess a strong character, even under the most strenuous duress, although this was certainly no guarantee he would conduct himself later on with the courage and good sense required by the Kingdoms' various Knight Protectors in keeping the peace within these borders. Considering most of Porra's boundaries bordered the Azzil Territories, it was imperative that stability be maintained at all times. If Porra instigated a revolution, Ruler Jom Azzer would have no hesitation in sending his troops swarming across the border. On the other hand, he would be unlikely to launch a full-scale invasion of the Kingdoms. Such a directive to his mighty armies would be tantamount to political suicide. He may, however, attempt to grab as much easy land from neighbouring Porra as possible within a short space of time.

The crowd were gradually ushered from the Royal Assembly Hall. They chatted and murmured amongst themselves, believing what they had just witnessed had been more entertaining and intriguing than a night at the local theatre. Once the hall was empty, Queen Sinar Thellon gently reached across, placing one hand onto her husband's arm. She could sense his trepidation about what had occurred and wished to remind him of her support. "Everything will be just fine," she smiled to him.

"I hope so, my dear," Entell Thellon replied, customarily dropping her title, as they were now alone on the Royal podium. "Everything between the nations is so finely balanced. All it would take to plunge us into war would be a single bad judgment by me."

"I think you overestimate..."

"My authority?"

"Not at all. You have the power to create a lengthy and bloody war. However, I doubt if those in charge of the other nations, even Jom Azzer, wish to become involved in such a conflict."

"I wish you would not mention that person in my presence, your Highness," the monarch retorted in a half joke, "it upsets my stomach."

"Quite understandable, your Majesty. If I may change the subject; why did you knight that Colin Bourke man?"

"To confound you, naturally. Why else, your Highness?"

"Well, you succeeded beyond your wildest expectations, your Royal Majesty."

The reigning monarch continued: "I was irritated that a stranger managed to thwart the evil plans of one of my more trusted Lords with relative ease. This Colin Bourke person deserves to be rewarded. After all, he single-handed saved our daughter's life from Laninval and Jom Azzer's henchmen."

The great double doors leading into the hall had now been closed by the attending Dearnian guard, leaving the Royal couple almost alone in the massive room. The Queen looked to her husband. "I have known you for the better part of my life, Entell Thellon, and if there is one characteristic in your nature above all others, it is that you are a political animal. Your father was always a man of great patience and knowledge. He led the Kingdoms away from many brutal traits. However, during his lengthy reign he was also led astray by lesser people around him. You have never made a tactical error in all your time on the throne. So, I repeat my initial question: Why did you knight some strange itinerant with a peculiar speech impediment, elevating him to one of the most important positions in all of the lands?"

Entell Thellon paused to consider his real motives for this action. Certainly, he had not lied to his wife about wishing to bestow great reward and honour onto the man who had so recently made such an impact on their lives. At last, he spoke the absolute truth: "I need to be in control of Porra. This was the easiest way I could think of to accomplish such a goal." As he expected, an expression of complete bemusement swept across his wife's features. He continued. "Basically, I will send Lord Bourke to Xerous with a fairly large military detachment of my choosing to guarantee his personal safety. In fact, Thellic will be in command of the entire country with his Lordship attending as merely a respectable figurehead. Obviously, if I just sent a contingent of troops with a detachment of Dearnians at their lead, all of Porra would go up in flames. That country now has a national hero as their ruling Lord Knight Protector."

Queen Sinar Thellon was astounded. "You thought up all of this during the assembly?"

The King shook his head. "Not quite. I have often pondered what would happen if one of the Lords of the Kingdoms did rebel against my command. This was an obvious solution to the problem."

"Then I truly believe you may need to get yourself a hobby," the Queen quipped, and paused once more as her keen mind came across another disturbing question regarding her husband's seemingly rash behaviour. "You do realise at some stage you will have to lecture Lord Bourke on the responsibilities and duties associated with his new rank? Clearly, the poor man has absolutely no idea of Court protocol. You can hardly dump him in that draughty castle in Xerous and expect him to rule in the correct fashion."

"When his Lordship is well and rested, I will personally coach him in all of the required skills necessary to rule Porra."

"That may take some time," the Queen remarked. "And I fear time is one thing we do not have. Once the news of Laninval's failure and resulting expulsion from power reaches Jom Azzer's attention, he will do everything possible to further disrupt life across the Kingdoms."

The King merely nodded in silent, stern agreement. He pondered this problem, his mind running through a number of solutions available to him that ranged from the drastic to the simply ludicrous.

"There is yet another problem with your plan that I can perceive," Sinar Thellon spoke up once again.

Her husband rolled his eyes in a dramatic fashion. "Really!" he bemoaned, shaking his head. "I should have married a stupid woman instead of you. One who would lovingly agree with every word from my mouth and not find fault in any of my ideas."

"The Lord Protector is hardly experienced in dealing with royalty and the upper-echelon of nobility. His brother, Ralamin was the one who dealt with the day-to-day interaction with us and the various Lords. Thellic remained in the background, helping matters where he could. No one would ever have believed he would be knighted himself in such a short time. It would be easy for him to make a terrible blunder in his newly bestowed duties and cause a bad situation to become far worse. Also, I have noticed Thellic is not particularly enamoured with our new Lord. It would be such a pity if Lord Bourke was found with his throat mysteriously slit from ear-to-ear, as has been known to happen before when a member of the Dearnian guard did not get along with their charge."

"Not in my Court!" Entell Thellon vehemently protested, shocked that his much-loved spouse could even suggest such a thing. "As I have ordered Thellic to guard Lord Bourke, he will if necessary, lay down his life in performing this sworn duty.

Queen Sinar Thellon shrugged. "We can only pray you are correct."

Their discussion continued, each putting forth their own opinions and beliefs. Both monarchs knew they would have to give Lord Bourke as much assistance as possible without undermining his authority or self-confidence. Despite their good intentions and resolve, they also knew there was little they could do for his Lordship until he fully healed from his wounds and malnourished state. He was going to need to be in the best physical condition to tackle his duties in the northern realm of Porra.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

They hauled him up a number of staircases, each of which appeared to be steeper with every passing step. His weight rested fully on the tall Dearnians either side of him, neither of whom appeared to be thrilled about their present duty of carting Lord Bourke up to his new quarters.

Lord Colin Bourke. How had that happened? "Shit!" he spluttered as his guards unfortunately bashed him into a stone pillar.

"My most humble apologies, my Lord," the tall, perpetually angry man called Thellic commented, his voice little more than a low grumble.

And what sort of name was 'Thellic'?

"If it happens once more, my Lord Protector," Princess Paura Thellon warned the Dearnian guards, as she followed behind, "I will personally see to it you are both posted to some tiny atoll in the Halish swamp for the remainder of your days. Is that understood?"

"Certainly, your Highness," Thellic responded, abashed by Court protocol to apologise to the headstrong girl who was barely beyond a child, even if she was of Royal blood.

Finally, after a long struggle with Lord Bourke's admittedly insignificant weight, they reached an airy, sunlit room the princess thoroughly approved of for her saviour's impending recuperation. The Dearnian guards lifted their charge onto a large, four-poster bed then waited to one side as Paura Thellon attempted to make him a bit more comfortable. It was the least she could do after his heroic stance of recent times.

Some short time later, a servant carrying a tray loaded with butter, fruit preserve, cheese, fresh bread rolls and a pitcher of fresh milk strode quietly into the chamber. "Banisor told me you were in the guest quarters," the serving girl stated, placing the shiny metal tray onto a small, handcrafted bedside table.

"Thank you," the princess remarked. "You may all leave now."

The serving girl bowed respectfully, as did the tall Dearnian girl, Zirinn, before both left the makeshift convalescence room. Thellic followed, his bow to the princess barely more than a nod in her direction as he wandered out without so much as a word.

Outraged by such inexcusably rude behaviour, the princess promised herself she would speak directly to her father about the Lord Protector's lack of manners. In fact, Thellic's manners were not so much lacking as completely absent. For someone who had been dwelling within the palace for many seasons, his behaviour was nothing short of intolerable. His elder brother, Ralamin, had been like a close friend to the girl and the other members of the Royal Family. She could hardly believe the two Dearnian men were related, even though they looked almost identical. She turned back towards the huge bed expecting to see Lord Bourke fast asleep in his filthy, stinking clothes. She was quite surprised to find him standing over the bedside table, shovelling food into his mouth and slurping milk straight from the pitcher as though he were in an eating contest.

"You will make yourself sick," she protested.

Colin turned to stare at her Highness. "If that happens, I'll just have to eat it again."

"How disgusting!" the princess exclaimed.

"You go without food for almost a week and see how you feel."

"A week?" she repeated, frowning in confusion. The princess allowed him to continue ramming food down his throat in peace and quiet. When it seemed as if his Lordship might try to eat the plate as well, she hastily interjected. "Thank you."

Colin turned to look at her again. Some crumbs had caught in his half-grown beard that had sprouted over the days he had been imprisoned. "Excuse me?" Colin murmured stifling a belch.

"Thank you for saving my life back in Vin Halle. I lost many of my friends there. I know without your timely assistance, I would be with them in the next life."

"Next life?" Colin looked around the room for something else to eat, as only one pitiful bread roll now remained to quell his almost unquenchable hunger and thirst.

The palace physician burst into the room without bothering to knock. He moved the almost empty plate and pitcher aside, placing his leather equipment bag on the nightstand. He turned to study his new patient.

Standing to one side, the princess silently watched the short, bald man as he prepared himself to examine the weather-beaten newcomer to the Royal Court. She despised the family doctor. He was arrogant and overly abrupt with everyone around him, including the Royal offspring. The Court physician only ever managed to locate his well-hidden manners when in the presence of the King or Queen.

The physician picked up the badly injured and infected hand of the shabbily dressed man. He made a series of weird, dissatisfied clucking sounds through his partially closed mouth. "You have not been keeping yourself in the best of health, have you?" he remonstrated his patient.

"Wow, how did you figure that out?" Colin retorted.

Princess Paura Thellon laughed out loud at this smart comment. At last someone was standing up to the horrid man. Her guffaws did not go unnoticed.

"Princess Paura Thellon, I am afraid you will have to leave the room," the physician announced in a disapproving manner. "It will take me some time to clean up this awful mess and I do not need any unnecessary distractions. Now, off you go!"

The third heir to the Hamaforth throne sulkily wandered from the room.

"And shut the door!" he called after her.

The heavy timber door was slammed shut with such force it seemed to shake the entire building.

"Such a headstrong child," the Court physician clucked, shaking his head. "I am afraid she needs a firmer hand than her Royal father offers."

Colin seized this timely opportunity. "I'll be certain to tell the King that you said so the next time I see him."

The physician went visibly pale. He looked at Colin and smiled. "I am certain there is no need for that. After all, his Royal Majesty is far too busy to be troubled by such trivial matters as his parenting skills."

Colin leaned closer towards the nervous physician and grinned. "Then we're not going to hurt each other, are we?"

"Certainly not," the shorter man replied quite amicably under the circumstances.

"Glad to hear it. You may continue."

The doctor opened his equipment bag and removed a number of sharp, dangerous-looking implements as well as a small ceramic jar with a clip-on lid. These items were neatly placed on the bedside table in order of requirement for the upcoming procedure.

"I will have to lance the wound," the doctor stated, nodding his head numerous times as though completely agreeing with his own diagnosis.

"Won't that hurt?'

"Most probably, if you were being tended to by a lesser medical practitioner. However, once I put Perinosa on the infected limb..."

"Perinosa?"

"Yes, Perinosa," the physician responded, holding aloft the jar. "Have you not heard of Perinosa?"

"Can't say that I have," Colin answered.

"We need to begin before the infection becomes too serious to be treated by any method other than amputation."

To Colin's surprise, his tending physician opened the jar he had just displayed and scooped out a fair-sized lump of so called 'Perinosa'. This substance turned out to be a clear, odourless gel that was carefully applied to Colin's badly inflamed hand. Instantly, the agonising pain in his injured hand subsided as though by magic. Relief at last!

Next, the wound was lanced and cautiously cleaned in a process best described as completely nauseating. Still, it caused the patient relatively little discomfort, so he was not terribly fussed. When fully satisfied the wound had been properly tended to, the physician sprinkled a brown powder resembling nutmeg over the entire hand then dried and bandaged it firmly.

"You must keep your hand warm and dry," the doctor instructed, having finally completed his procedure. "And by the gods, do not partake in any heavy labour. Also, do not impact the hand against any solid surface."

"You must be joking," Colin commented. "I'm not about to go and play a game of football."

"Foot-ball?"

"It's a game we play where I come from," Colin explained, not bothering to go into any further detail as he realised it would only lead to further confusion. He inspected his bandaged hand. "You did a nice job, doc."

The Court physician shrugged and commented indignantly. "Why naturally. His Majesty is hardly likely to appoint some overzealous butcher to his Royal Court."

***

Her Highness, Sinar Thellon moved along the corridor at a leisurely pace. Behind her strode two members of the Dearnian guard. Personally, the Queen was of the opinion that the blue-eyed, blond people, a youth and a girl should have still been at school as both were hardly older than her very own daughter. Finally reaching her destination Sinar Thellon halted, patiently waiting as one of the guards opened the door then stood well back.

Behind the occupants of the room, the door had gently swung open, allowing someone to enter the airy, sunlit chamber. Such an interruption was intolerable to the medical practitioner. Without turning to see who had entered, he snapped angrily at the intruder: "I said I did not want to be disturbed while I..." He spun around to find himself staring at Queen Sinar Thellon. "...Of course, I will make an exception in your case, your Highness," the mortified doctor added, bowing deeply, his face crimson red.

"I am so glad to hear this," the Queen responded, smiling graciously. If the mean-spirited little man had dared to finish his last sentence as he intended, she would have had him carted away and stuck in Lord Bourke's last abode. She stepped across to the newly appointed knight and leant over to inspect his bandaged hand. "How are you feeling, Lord Bourke?" she asked politely.

"You want the truth?" Colin replied.

"Perhaps not. You do not look like you have had the best of times recently." She turned to the still sheepish-looking physician. "If you have finished with his Lordship, you may leave."

Bowing once, the Court doctor packed up his medical equipment kit and fled the chamber.

"A truly gifted doctor," the Queen commented, after the door had been closed. "But otherwise, a deplorable little man. Personally, I cannot tolerate the very sight of him."

"I think your daughter feels the same way," Colin responded, flashing a weary smile. "Paura is your daughter, isn't she?"

A faint smile crossed her Highness' features. "Paura Thellon," she corrected. "Yes, she is my eldest child." Sinar Thellon paused, staring into this exceedingly unusual man's eyes. She could see an intelligence and compassion behind the current exhaustion he obviously felt after all of his trials these past few of days. "I... I just wanted to thank you personally for saving her life from those brutes." The monarch faltered before reaching across to latch onto Colin's good hand. "In the presence of others I must, at all times, show proper restraint in my emotions, but in private I tell you this: There would have been no end to my grief if some harm had befallen my daughter. Her Highness is often willful, headstrong and sometimes even rebellious, but I could not imagine my life without her in it. If there is anything within my powers I can do to repay you, it just needs to be said." Releasing the strange and rather pungent man's hand, she rummaged through a pocket of her ceremonial gown before producing a fine linen handkerchief. Using this small item of fine cloth, Sinar Thellon wiped tears from her reddened eyes.

Colin paused until his visitor had composed herself. "When the King, your husband, made me a Lord, was he really serious?"

"To be truthful, I was not entirely certain myself. However, his Majesty appears to be intent on you being the next Lord Knight of Porra."

"Where is Porra?" Colin inquired. "In fact, where am I right now?"

Queen Sinar was quite surprised by these questions. "You are in Valderhien," she answered. "The capital city of Hamaforth and indeed of all the Hamaforth Kingdoms. Porra is a nation located to the north-west of here. Where did you think you were?"

"I think," he responded, a touch sheepishly, "that I'm on the wrong planet. For a start, my world only has one moon."

She stared at him in a disconcerting manner before asking, "How can that be?"

He shrugged and provided her with the best answer he could think of. "I think it's got something to do with an experiment I was working on. All I can remember is seeing a blinding flash of light and the next thing I know I'm wandering around the biggest cow pasture of all time."

"That would be Vin Halle. A person could travel around that province forever and not come across another living soul." She paused once again to come to terms with this incredible story. "I must get word of this phenomenon to the King."

There was a gentle knock at the door.

"That will be the servants," Queen Sinar stated, glancing over her shoulder at the door. She looked earnestly at Colin and whispered in haste: "Mention nothing of what we have talked about to anyone, not even the princess. The servants will tend to your needs, which I trust includes a good bath."

"What do I do if someone starts asking questions?'

"Act as though your senses have failed you."

"You mean act as if I don't know what's going on?"

"Exactly!"

"That won't be hard."

The Queen straightened herself. "Come in!"

The only door to the sunlit room slowly opened, allowing three well-groomed men to enter. Each carried in their arms freshly laundered clothing of varying sizes as well as a couple of large, rough towels, soap, a bucket, a straight-edged razor and other bathing items. These things would all be needed in what was to follow.

"Are those for my benefit?" Sinar Thellon inquired, smiling wryly.

The servant in charge of cleaning detail bowed excessively in her direction before answering, "Why no, your Highness. At the King's request, Lord Colin Bourke needs to be cleaned up and made presentable for the Royal Court."

"Are they going to put me on trial?" he inquired, a touch alarmed at this last statement.

"Why no, your Lordship," the elderly servant answered, "we must all go down to the bathhouse in order to do a proper job."

"No way!" Colin announced. "I've been washing myself for years now. I'm too set in my ways to let other people give me a bath--especially other men."

"As you wish, my Lord."

"Might as well get it over and done with," Colin announced, snatching up the very last bread roll from the plate as he vacated his seat. The servants silently followed him through the open doorway in order to tend to any further needs this recent addition to Hamaforth nobility might need.

Queen Sinar Thellon followed the men from the room. Her calm demeanour disguised her inner turmoil. She was impatient to speak to her husband about the matters she had discussed with Colin Bourke. The King would no doubt be fascinated to hear what she had to tell him.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

The Royal palace bathhouse turned out to be a massive, tiled chamber with a greatly elevated ceiling decorated with oil lamps--and bearing a large collection of spacious ceramic tubs arranged about the spotlessly clean floor. Seated up to his shoulders in one of these formidable round baths, Colin Bourke carefully ran his fingers over his freshly shaven face. The servant had performed quite a competent job of removing the facial hair that had accumulated over the past number of days. His face now felt fresh and, thankfully, bore not a scratch. For the first time in his life, Colin had allowed another man to shave him, as he held grave doubts over his current ability to conduct even such a simple task without performing the act of self-decapitation.

Once Colin was relieved of his unwanted, scraggly beard, he dismissed the minor regiment of servants. They had initially been reluctant to leave, but finally departed to avoid a disagreeable confrontation with 'his Lordship' in the middle of the bathhouse. As soon as they had departed, he removed the partially rotting rags that had once been his clothes and climbed into the nearest full tub. Instantly, he began feeling better as the heated, salty water started taking full effect on his battered and abused body. He gazed down into the huge tub and noted with disdain that his bath water had turned an unsavoury murky grey colour. The tub looked like someone had washed a water buffalo in it.

Nibbling on his confiscated bread roll, Colin started contemplating his future. He knew his best chance of getting back to Earth was to locate the Minerva Project laboratory, assuming the building had come along for the ride. He was also desperately hoping he could locate any of his fellow scientists, assuming they were alive and on this weird planet. And what was this planet called? Colin made a mental note to inquire about his new world's name the next time he saw somebody who appeared halfway intelligent. Then he remembered the Queen had personally requested he keep all knowledge of his highly unorthodox arrival on this world to himself. He could hardly adhere to her request if he asked someone for the name of the planet he was presently upon. Colin wisely decided to keep his questions to himself until such time as he could discuss the matter with either monarch. The greatest single concern in his mind was not the location of the mansion, but this Porra nation he was now supposed to rule. Certainly, he had operated a large, multinational corporation for some years with only a few relatively minor hiccups along the way; how much more difficult could it be to run a presumably smallish country?

"Piece of cake," Colin mumbled to himself.

"There he is!" a small child's voice suddenly cried out.

Colin's head spun about and he found himself staring at Princess Paura Thellon and two younger boys as they wandered towards him, their faces shining with unabashed curiosity.

"That's far enough!" Colin called out.

"What is wrong, Lord Bourke?" Paura Thellon inquired, glancing around as though half expecting a rat to appear from underneath one of the tubs.

"I don't have a stitch of clothes on!"

"I fail to see the problem," the princess retorted, mildly amused by his antics. "We often have communal baths, as they do everywhere in the Kingdoms. You should not have anything I have not seen before--or at least I hope not. There are some fairly strange rumours going around the palace at this time. Some people say you are from the stars, sent here by the gods to protect us from our enemies."

"That was quick," Colin bemoaned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. It was just something I was talking to your mom about."

"'Her Highness'," Paura Thellon quickly corrected, flashing a smile. "My mother is 'your Highness' or 'Queen Sinar'. My father is 'your Royal Majesty' or 'King Entell Thellon'. And I am 'your Highness' or 'Princess Paura', although you really do not have to use our titles in private. None of the other Lords bother about such formalities."

"He speaks strangely," the eldest boy of about sixteen years of age boldly commented.

"Do not interrupt!" his elder sister scolded him. She faced Colin. "This is his Royal Highness, Prince Entell Thellon, someday to be King Entell Thellon, the Fourth. The other one is my younger brother, the Prince Zarr."

The curly-haired child of about four Earth years smiled and waved to the stranger in the bath.

"Hi there, Zarr," Colin responded, waving back. He wondered when Kermit and Miss Piggy were going to put in an appearance. His life had become a bizarre pantomime occupied by these ridiculous characters with himself as the star player, as well as the only audience member.

Stepping closer to the high walled bath, the princess leaned over to inspect the water. She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"It is putrid!"

"So was I not so long ago," Colin smiled, thankful for the coverage of dirty water protecting his modesty.

The usually reserved Prince Entell Thellon chuckled lightly at the man's comment. Although they had only just been officially introduced, he decided he may well like the new Lord of Porra, this mysterious stranger who had battled assassins to single-handedly rescue his sister. Yes, she was impertinent and downright bossy at times, but the prince also realised his life would be boring without his elder sibling around to constantly put him in his place. He was also greatly pleased his Royal father had knighted this smiling, humorous man, replacing the repugnant Lord Laninval.

While Colin and the royal offspring chatted amongst themselves, the Lord Protector, Thellic marched into the bathhouse, his dangerous staff clutched in one hand.

"I see 'Captain Chuckles' is with us again," Colin whispered dryly to the children, glancing across to where the tall, bearded man stood.

The children all laughed as politely as possible.

"Lord Colin Bourke, His Majesty, Entell Thellon, the Third wishes an audience with you at once, as soon as you are properly attired. The meeting will take place in his Majesty's private quarters."

"Well," Colin grumbled, as the Lord Protector departed with little more than a dirty look directed towards the newly appointed knight, "it looks like I'm out of here. You all have to leave now. I'm afraid I don't care much for communal bathing--and certainly not public dressing."

The royal heirs to the throne left via the same exit Thellic had used, allowing Colin to climb out of the warm, though incredibly dirty water, then dry and dress himself in new clothes. His original clothes were probably being incinerated somewhere within the seemingly boundless palace. Even his much beloved jacket had been reduced to little more than a loosely bound collection of leather strips.

While he was not overly concerned by his sudden summons to the King, Colin Bourke had a nagging feeling the unexpected gathering was in direct relation to his recent discussion with the Queen. Placing a comfortable pair of moccasin-like shoes onto his feet, he straightened his new outfit then walked from the bathhouse leaving behind the gently rising steam vapour from the filled tubs.

***

The personal bedchamber of his Royal Majesty, Entell Thellon and Queen Sinar Thellon was a massive, high-walled chamber covered in the rarest of tapestries, paintings and ceremonial ceramics. An enormous four-poster bed was positioned at one end of the room, while the remaining floor space was occupied by numerous items of obviously expensive furniture. Unlike most of the other private quarters within the palace, this area was covered in a thick carpet. Large lead-lined glass windows allowed ample sunlight to illuminate the room no matter the time of day.

The Lord Protector, Thellic ushered Colin into the spacious room where they found the couple seated on separate lounges. Both members of royalty rose to their feet. Despite being the monarchs of these expansive lands, they appeared nervous about their meeting with his Lordship, Colin Bourke. They were struggling to comprehend the unusual tidings of the past day.

"Your Royal Majesty, your Royal Highness, I wish to announce the presence of Lord Colin Bourke!" the tall Dearnian boldly announced.

Sinar Thellon winced slightly. "There is no need to shout, Thellic," she instructed. "We can see his Lordship for ourselves."

"Yes, Queen Sinar," the Lord Protector replied gracefully, his steely blue eyes hard as always. He turned to Colin. "Bow."

"What?"

"You are in the presence of the King and Queen. Bow."

Colin shrugged. "If you insist." He attempted to perform a deep bow before the Royal couple, but only managed to perform a clumsy nod of his head.

Thellic glared at Colin.

"Sorry, it's been a long day," Colin sighed.

Entell Thellon added earnestly: "His Lordship is correct. He has had a long and extremely exhausting day, and I am certain being locked up in one of the palace cells failed to benefit his state of health."

This remark was directed at Thellic, who blushed a touch.

"It wasn't really his fault," Colin piped up chivalrously. "I probably would have done the same thing under the circumstances. Better safe than sorry and all that."

Thellic found himself torn between feeling grateful his Lordship had defended him and outraged that his personal business and professional attitude had been interfered with by a stranger to the Royal Court.

The monarch nodded silently then addressed the Lord Protector. "My thanks for your services, Thellic. I accept that it was not your fault about the confusion following the vile slaughter over in Vin Halle. Anyone could have made the same mistake. If I have given any indication to the contrary, then I apologise. Now without wishing to appear rude, I have to discuss matters of state with his Lordship so with my permission, you may leave."

This statement by the monarch amazed the Lord Protector. It was only on extremely rare occasions a member of royalty apologised to someone of lesser standing in the community and in this community, everyone within the Kingdoms' boundaries was of a lesser standing than the King.

The Dearnian man bowed. "I am thankful to be in your service, your Majesty."

"That is nice," the Queen remarked, smiling politely.

Glancing fleetingly at her, Thellic had no idea what to make of her comment, but he dismissed his concerns, excused himself and left the room.

"Poor Thellic," she added, once the head of the guards was well out of earshot. "He is only new to his current duties here and has to function under the memory of his elder brother." She paused to reflect despondently on their recent bereavement. "We will miss Ralamin; he was a close friend to us all."

His mind lurching suddenly back to the battle scene, Colin found himself swamped by images of dead men, women, and even the individual who had been Thellic's brother. They all stared at him through eyes that no longer saw the world around them. Something about this grim, horrific memory was important, but what was it? "He must have killed close to thirty of them."

The royal couple turned to stare at Colin.

"I beg your pardon?" asked the bemused King.

"The man I took the fancy spear from," Colin continued with some urgency as the memories came flooding back, "That was Thellic's brother?"

"Yes, that sounds correct," Entell Thellon conceded. "Only the appointed Lord Protector to the throne is permitted under any circumstances to carry the official Staff of Office."

"Well, I saw about thirty or so dead guys around him. He must have killed most of them as the other bodies were a long way from that part of the field."

The reigning monarch remained almost statue still as he contemplated these words.

"Obviously, we are not entirely certain what actually took place. There was only one survivor from the caravan--my daughter, and she has been unwell since returning from that disaster. I have been waiting to speak to her about that shocking business."

"She seemed okay to me when she charged into that big hall where you had me chained up."

Entell Thellon's eyes widened a touch on the vivid memory of his only daughter creating havoc during the assembly. "She has always been a headstrong child," he noted.

"I told you so," the Queen murmured.

"Some members of the palace staff and military have insinuated Ralamin failed in his duties to protect the caravan, but I see this is clearly not the case. A posthumous award for bravery is due to our late Lord Protector."

"Someone should tell Thellic," she insisted, casting an accusing stare towards her forgetful spouse. "I am certain this situation has caused him no end of distress."

"I have a better idea. I will order Thellic to lead the attack on Laninval's position this afternoon. That should please him no end," the King suggested.

Colin decided to speak up at this point of the conversation. "Excuse me for changing the subject, but what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Ah, I am coming to that," Entell Thellon replied, aiming a finger towards a shrouded tray positioned on top of a nearby dresser drawer. "Her Royal Highness informs me that apparently you are from the stars. I am curious about that statement."

"I believe I'm from another planet altogether, unless somehow my world grew an additional two moons overnight."

The monarch was astonished by the statement. "Your world only has one moon?" he gasped.

"The last time I was there it did. Also, have you noticed the way I speak?"

King Entell Thellon nodded. "It has come to my attention that your words are strange and do not match the movement of your mouth, but only very slightly."

Suddenly, a long, wide yawn involuntarily escaped Colin's mouth.

"You must be very tired," Queen Sinar remarked.

"We will not keep you too much longer," the reigning monarch told his guest, stepping across to the covered tray. "I must be honest with you, your Lordship, if not for your highly unusual clothing and these particularly odd devices, I would have found your claim of being an off-world man completely unbelievable, but everything about you seems to confirm you are telling the truth." He paused. "One more thing. I was wondering if you could please explain to us the functions of these various devices my people gathered from your person when you were detained."

"Sure," Colin answered, knowing he could not say otherwise.

Stepping across to the covered metallic tray, Colin lifted the thin veil of fabric and stared down at his personal items he had been hauling around in his pockets for the past miserable week. He picked up the cigarette lighter and inspected this item for any damage. Satisfied it was still in reasonable working order, he promptly ignited the device. A small blue gas fuelled flame sprung up from the lighter. It was working just fine.

"By the gods!" the King gasped, stepping closer to the extraordinary object.

The Queen left her seat and walked across the room to closely watch Lord Bourke play with this mysterious, quite wondrous little machine. The tiny golden object that instantly produced fire was one of the most remarkable items she had ever seen.

"A cigarette lighter," Colin offered to his audience, having seen how fascinated they were by this simple item. "This thing, honestly, saved my life on a couple of occasions, otherwise I would have been stuck out in the middle of Vin Halle with no way of staying warm."

After depositing the lighter into one of his pockets, he inspected his battered wallet and its contents, then the small calculator. As the latter object was solar powered and had been kept under cover for so long it was not functioning properly, its numeric display barely visible. Stepping across to one of the large windows, he held the exceedingly thin device up to the incoming sunlight for a minute in a gesture that completely bewildered the other people in the room. He inspected the calculator and was pleased to find it now functioning.

"This is a pocket calculator," Colin informed the royal couple. He handed the item across to the monarch.

"I see nothing remarkable about this object."

"Press one or more of the buttons. Numbers should appear on the screen."

"Screen?"

Entell Thellon delicately pushed a few of the buttons located on the calculator's face and was surprised when a couple of digits appeared as if by magic on the small screen.

"What are these?" he inquired.

"Numbers," Colin answered, frowning slightly. Now what was going on?

"These are no numerals that I know of. To be honest, I do not recognise their form at all."

"May I?" Colin asked, holding out his hand.

At that instant, a light, barely audible knock sounded from the other side of the door.

"We are not to be disturbed!" the King called out as his most recently appointed knight inspected the calculator.

"It's working just fine," Colin stated, puzzled by the other man's inability to identify simple numbers.

Another knock echoed gently through the closed door.

"I command you to go away!" Entell Thellon ordered, his voice losing its usual placid tone. His rebuke was met with yet another gentle knock.

"This person is in for a great deal of trouble!" the King snapped angrily, marching across to the closed door. "The palace had better be on fire!"

His Majesty was surprised the door did not come free from its hinges considering the effort he put into throwing it open.

"Daddy!"

Entell Thellon peered down and was pleased to discover the offender was none other than his youngest child, who stood to one side of the open doorway smiling up at him. "Do you know the penalty for willfully disobeying the direct command of your King, Prince Zarr?"

Zarr Thellon wisely shook his head.

"Fortunate for you. Are you coming inside, your Highness, or do you intend to spend the rest of the day standing in that draughty corridor?"

Pushing his way past his father, Prince Zarr wandered across to his mother and the interesting, kind stranger, both of whom were poring over one of his parents' books. The latter appeared to be completely perplexed by some aspect of the thick book. He was also clutching an extremely interesting-looking item in his uninjured hand. Naturally, the young prince relieved him of this burden, located a place on the carpet in the warm sunshine, and sat down. His delicate fingers accidentally struck some of the buttons of the device, creating a fascinating pattern in luminous figures. He laughed wildly at this display. It was the best plaything he had ever seen in his short, toy-filled life.

"I just don't understand it," Colin remarked, shaking his head as he inspected the writing within the book's pages. "I can understand every word you people say to me, but apparently I can't read the written word here!"

"Indeed an unusual phenomena," the Queen insisted.

"Please, may I keep this?" the prince politely inquired, still seated on the carpet and holding aloft the calculator.

"Sure," Colin absently replied without even bothering to divert his line of sight away from the book's pages. The indecipherable writing had greatly upset and distracted him. Colin was not the type of man to be easily surprised--a good characteristic all things considered.

Meanwhile, Prince Zarr was beside himself with delight. His brother and sister would go insane with jealousy when they discovered he had secured such a precious gift for his own personal use. Also, neither could relieve him of this toy, as his father would see to it the item was promptly returned. After all, in his mind, Zarr Thellon knew beyond a doubt that he was his parents' favourite child; they would do just about anything to keep him happy.

"Are you certain, your Lordship?" the King unexpectedly weighed in on the topic of the marvellous device. "Surely you wish to retain such a precious object?"

Zarr Thellon abruptly felt his hold on this wondrous gift becoming tenuous. He gazed up at his father, eyes and mouth wide in disbelief. The young child silently hoped his own father would not undo his good work in procuring the miraculous item.

Colin turned away from the book and looked down to the boy, who instinctively responded to this attention by displaying his best doe-eyed, pleading expression. The newly appointed Lord of Porra shook his head. "It's not really important. The little guy... I mean the prince may as well keep it."

Colin had won a friend for life in that instant.

The King nodded. "If you say so, Lord Bourke."

Next, Colin picked up his miniaturised entertainment unit, which he casually inspected before testing the item to see if it was intact. Satisfied all was in order, he delicately switched the item on, instantly filling the room with a kind of raucous music unheard before on this world until that very instant.

The three monarchs startled, and turned to stare across at the small device in the strange man's hand.

"What sort of witchcraft is this?" Entell Thellon demanded in shock.

"I thought you'd get a kick out of this," Colin remarked absentmindedly. He selected another tune on the tiny device, as he realised the King and Queen were not quite ready for heavy metal numbers. "Brace yourself."

The monarchs nodded apprehensively. They were not entirely sure why they needed to brace themselves, assuming another shock was in the offing. The blast of the next piece of music caused them to visibly startle once more. After the initial shock, the monarchs remained motionless as they listened to the dramatically different sound of classical music.

Entell Thellon's initial concern gradually transformed into rapture, as he listened intently to the music coming through the tiny contraption. "What sort of thing is this?" the King inquired, while the Queen continued listening to the music.

"Beethoven," Colin answered, yawning once more. This long day was becoming even longer.

"Do you only have the one 'Beethoven' thing with you?"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry," Colin responded, realising he had completely misunderstood the question. "Beethoven was the name of the man who wrote the music. The thing playing the music is a miniaturised entertainment player. The company I own makes them. We were going to mass-produce them. This one never stops working because it runs on solar power. It also plays movies, but I won't trouble you with those right now."

He wisely decided against displaying to the royal couple the movie projecting capability of the small device. They had already been confronted with more than enough bizarre information that day. Sometime later, he might show them how to display motion pictures on the wall.

"So the sun causes it to continue functioning?" the King surmised.

"That's right. You can keep that one for yourself, it's really just a toy for adults." Colin fell silent, his mind wandering back to his life before this strange place. "I had lots of things like it back home."

King Entell was highly impressed. "My thanks for your generosity."

Noticing his parents were greatly taken by yet another of the new Lord's personal possessions, Prince Zarr, still clutching his latest acquisition, climbed to his feet and wandered across to his mother. He playfully pulled at her gown a couple of times to attract her attention so he might have an opportunity to inspect the object himself.

Zarr Thellon frowned as he listened intently to the tones emitting from the device while clutching it in his tiny fingers. Apparently, he was not as taken by this music as his parents had been. True, the minuscule item was quite interesting--he had never known of anything so small to create such a racket. However, the child much preferred his own toy with its fancy lights that moved in an amusing manner whenever he pressed the buttons. Prince Zarr gave the musical device back to his mother and continued playing with his solar powered calculator.

"I think I'm going to need reading lessons," Colin commented, his freshly shaven features displaying anxiety over suddenly becoming illiterate.

King Entell solemnly nodded. "I wholeheartedly agree, Lord Bourke. Illiteracy is commonplace amongst the peasants living in the outer districts, but almost unheard of amongst the nobility. You will be placed at a great disadvantage if you are unable to comprehend even the most simple documents you are signing while performing your assigned duties as caretaker of Porra." He paused to reflect on this dilemma. "Also, it may be best if we do not mention this apparent drawback. I am certain some people would attempt to use it to their favour before we have a chance to properly correct the problem."

Colin yawned once more. "I'm sorry, but I really have to get to sleep," he announced.

The monarch nodded. "I can see that. One more thing; I feel you should make no mention of your origins. Some people who live within the Kingdoms are highly superstitious and may easily find it difficult to tolerate your presence and authority if they believe you are of alien origin."

Alien origin? This remark made the new Lord feel like some little, green man from a science fiction movie.

"Whatever you say, your Majesty."

"You are learning, Lord Bourke," Entell Thellon commented, pleased by this latest development. His eyes averted to Sinar Thellon, who was still intently listening to the music. "I believe I may have lost my wife."

"If you hit the small red light on the side, it goes off," Colin instructed.

Stepping up to the Queen, King Entell placed his right index finger on the red glowing light on the player she still clutched in her hand. The music instantly stopped, causing his wife to look bitterly disappointed.

"Was there really any need for that?" she demanded.

The King faced Colin. "Thank you. A useful piece of information."

"You're welcome."

"And now I will take my family for our customary walk through the gardens and leave you to return to your room. Hopefully, you can get some much needed sleep and forget all about recent unpleasant events."

The Royal Family and their guest wandered from the bedroom. Colin felt as if he were on the verge of collapsing right there in the draughty hallway. While the Dearnian guard called Banisor escorted him to his temporary sleeping quarters, Colin Bourke's mind attempted to keep up with the day's drastic events. In the space of one day, he had gone from being a starved prisoner locked in a filthy, rat infested cage and very nearly executed, to some sort of substantial member of the nobility. Tomorrow, once he had sufficiently rested, he would attempt to piece together his new life.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Despite being out of sorts, Colin Bourke had begun to recuperate and was feeling a little more relaxed after several hours of greatly needed sleep. Moving about the guest bedroom, he realised his headache had finally dissipated, his vision had cleared and his injured hand now only produced a dull, throbbing ache. Thankfully the terrible smell had gone, which relieved his mind of angst about a possible gangrene infection. Stepping over to the small fire crackling in the fireplace, he turned his back to the dancing flames and felt its pleasant warmth creep up his legs and spine through his dressing robe. Colin's mind was now clear of most of his pain and hunger, and he finally had a chance to scan the room he had been consigned to and properly admire the decor. The room was cosy with thick rugs on the floor and the walls were decorated with a variety of intricate tapestries and exotic paintings that reminded him of the luxurious decor he had seen in the King and Queen's room.

King and Queen? Colin shook his head in disbelief. If someone back on Earth had predicted the events of the past couple of days, he would have recommended they seek serious psychiatric counselling. Now he was up to his ears in royalty, gory battles, and assassination plots. Even more ludicrous was that he was now directly involved in these outlandish machinations, and had somehow become a member of the nobility.

Lord Bourke. Officially; 'his Lordship, Colin Bourke, Lord of the North-Western Realm of Porra' It was all quite ridiculous, but it was happening--to him.

Leaving the fireplace, he wandered across to inspect the view from his two bedroom windows. One window merely looked onto other windows in the Royal palace. The other afforded him a view of a great section of the sprawling city of Valderhien. Colin had looked out of numerous windows he had passed while traversing the palace, but he had never really bothered to observe the city due to his mental fatigue and general ill health. He stared out across the city of Valderhien.

"Oh, my God!" The expanse of streets and buildings stretching out before him was unlike any metropolis he had ever seen in his widespread travels on Earth. Most of the city's structures were constructed out of stone of varying colours that appeared to shine in the warm morning sunlight. Many of these buildings were cylindrical in shape and ranged in height between two to five storeys. Crowds of fashionably dressed people milled through the generally wide, neat streets, halting occasionally to peruse sidewalk stalls or shops, or chat with one another. To Colin's acute, but untrained eye, these locals appeared to be easygoing and friendly. Then he recalled that he had only recently experienced the more hostile side of their personalities.

To his surprise, Colin could clearly see from his high vantage point the blue outline of a mighty lake on the far side of this magnificent city. Opening the window, he leaned out just a touch to take in this spectacular view without the hindrance of the panes of glass. Moving away from the open window, Colin was halfway across his room when a wide yawn forced itself from his mouth. "Time for some more shut eye," he mumbled.

Walking to the huge four-poster bed, he pulled back the rumpled sheets and prepared to climb back into bed, which was still warm. A loud, impatient knock sounded at the bedroom door.

On opening the door, it was no great surprise to Colin to find he was staring at Princess Paura Thellon, along with the mandatory grim-faced Dearnian guard. The girl appeared to be somewhat disturbed about something. Colin guessed what the problem was before she had a chance to open her mouth.

"Look, I don't think I have anything left to give you," he informed the princess, much to her disappointment.

"May I come in?" she asked.

He moved back a couple of paces allowing her Highness to step into his quarters. The tall blonde girl who had wrestled him to the ground in the Royal Assembly Hall the previous day remained standing in the adjoining passageway. She cleared her throat and took a tentative step forward.

"Oh, Zirinn must accompany me," the princess stated. "It would seem inappropriate for me to be alone with you in your stateroom."

"Zirinn, won't you come in?" Colin insisted, holding the door a touch wider with his functional hand. "Is there anyone else around I should invite in? We could have a party."

The Dearnian girl frowned at the odd comment. "I believe Banisor is close at hand. I could request his presence, Lord Bourke."

"Zirinn," Paura Thellon chuckled, "Lord Bourke is jesting with us. There is certainly no need for any further company." She fell silent, her eyes eagerly scanning the room. "Is there not one item I may souvenir from your possessions, your Lordship? My brother will make my life intolerable if he has a wonderful gift and I do not."

"Unfortunately, your family's pretty much cleaned me out," Colin sighed and gently closed the heavy door. He spied the tall, Dearnian girl staring at him across the room and winked at her. "You see," he continued, "I wasn't really expecting to be away from home for quite so long, so I didn't bring all that much with me. Just a few bits and pieces, most of which your family now has in their possession."

Paura Thellon was clearly disappointed at this news, a fact that did not concern Colin one little bit. She stepped across the room to the dresser drawer where some loose change and his old wallet lay. Her nimble young fingers snapped up the collection of odd coins. She looked at the new Lord of Porra. "What sort of medallions are these, your Lordship?"

"Actually, that's just some loose change. They aren't really valuable at all."

"Value is not the point, Lord Bourke, respect is. As far as I am concerned, this 'loose change' is of incalculable value and will gain much admiration throughout the Royal Court."

"Then they're yours!"

"Oh, thank you! Your boundless generosity is greatly appreciated."

"My 'boundless' generosity is worth exactly a dollar and seventy-five cents, so there's really no need to make a big deal out of it."

The princess opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of a distant, though exceedingly loud bell. Still clutching the highly-prized dollar seventy-five, she and the Dearnian girl remained silent until the raucous ringing finally ceased. Zirinn stepped across to the door and opened it.

"What the hell was that all about?" Colin exclaimed.

"The bell signals an audience with my father... I mean his Royal Majesty. All members of the Royal Court must attend," the princess explained, moving to the open door, "Immediately."

Colin's head sagged. "I assume that also includes me?"

Paura Thellon grinned mischievously. "I am afraid so, your Lordship."

"Do I have time to change?"

"It would be wise to change your attire. Dressing robes are generally frowned upon in the Royal Assembly Hall. I will get Banisor to bring you a new wardrobe--something a bit more fitting for an assembly with the King." Turning away from him, she left the room, closely followed by Zirinn.

Staggering back to the huge bed, Colin slumped onto the heavily padded mattress. There would be no more sleep for at least the remainder of the morning.

***

It was no great surprise to Colin that he was one of the last people to enter the huge stone Royal Assembly Hall, which he estimated held well over a thousand people. Escorted by the tall, traditionally blond Dearnian man called Banisor, his Lordship ambled along the long stretch of deep blue carpet until he stood before Entell Thellon, the Third and his wife, Queen Sinar Thellon, both of whom were seated on the podium on their standard thrones. Both members of Hamaforth Royalty appeared to be quite pleased at the arrival of the newest member of the nobility.

"I trust you slept well, Lord Bourke?" the King politely inquired.

"Yeah," he responded, "just fine thanks, your Majesty."

"Bow!" Banisor hissed from his position to the left side.

"What?"

"Bow."

Colin attempted to bow, a cumbersome-looking manoeuvre at best. A nervous muttering swept through the crowd while to one side of the podium, Princess Paura Thellon and Zarr Thellon desperately suppressed their giggles. Only Prince Entell Thellon managed to remain stony-faced.

"Sorry, your Kingness," Colin apologised, straightening up. "I think I need more practice. I'm also still a little light headed, I'm afraid."

The King pretended to cough so he could cover his mouth with one hand in an attempt to hide a grin. Despite the new knight's less than exemplary demeanour, Entell Thellon found himself admiring the man's gusto and zest for everything he did. Before him, stood someone who utilised his life and all the time in it, to better himself.

"How is your hand faring?" the monarch asked.

"Just fine. It only hurts if I swing on it."

A roar of laughter mixed with hushed comments of disapproval rose from the assembly at the recently Lord's strange remark.

"I am pleased to hear you are faring well, Lord Bourke," Entell Thellon announced in a voice loud enough to be easily heard at the distant end of the massive chamber. He rose to his feet, causing the minor commotion within the hall to subside. "However, a more serious matter causes this gathering to be in effect!" He paused to add an even greater sense of occasion to these proceedings. "Allow the Royal Protector entry into the hall!"

The great doors to the Royal Hall were once more opened, revealing a tired, though exceedingly pleased-looking Thellic. In one large hand, he clutched the Staff of Office, while his other hand was holding a crude cloth sack that appeared to be mildly stained with dried blood. Thellic was also slightly splattered in the foul substance, but did not appear to be personally troubled by his dishevelled appearance. Not a word came from his typically unsmiling mouth as he strode along the carpet runner towards the podium. Once standing before the waiting King and Queen, the leader of the Dearnian contingent to the Royal Palace halted, struck the unprotected part of the highly polished floor with the end of his staff, bowed to the royal couple, and remained silent.

"What news do you carry, my Lord Protector?" the monarch demanded in a loud voice. The King lived for this sort of pomp and drama.

Keen to hear the news the Dearnian carried, the well-dressed crowd drew in closer to the podium end of the hall. After the disturbing attack on the rolling plains of Vin Halle, all members of the nobility, bureaucracy and public believed those fiends responsible needed to be swiftly brought to justice. Most of the people present believed justice lay at the razor-sharp end of Thellic's staff.

"Sire," the tall blond man finally spoke, "I bring some much-needed good news." He paused. "And some most unfortunate tidings."

"Get on with it," Colin muttered, earning himself a reproachful stare from the nearby Lord Protector.

Thellic continued with his recount: "At sunset, I personally commanded a force of two thousand strong..."

"I thought you only had a thousand troops at your disposal?" Queen Sinar interjected from her throne, frowning curiously.

"There was initially a full battalion from the city garrison, your Highness. But somehow, our plan to attack Laninval's force managed to reach the local populace and, well, the numbers continued to swell. Rather than expelling energy and time to repel these self-conscripted townspeople and peasants, it was decided to allow them to join us. Considering they were untrained troops, these people fought extremely courageously. Your Royal forces; along with the angry commoners, easily overwhelmed Laninval's contingent some two leagues from the city limits. We crushed them like the insects they were, your Majesty." He halted in his prepared speech. "Unfortunately, in all of the resulting confusion, Laninval managed to escape."

A gasp of horror echoed throughout the stone hall. This was simply inexcusable. The primary reason behind last night's offensive had been to kill or capture the recently deposed Lord of Porra. The Lord Protector had failed in his utmost duty and many within the hall this morning now expected him to resign his post as a consequence.

"We did manage to capture a small number of his hired thugs during the battle," Thellic concluded. "At this very moment, they are being questioned in the palace cells."

"Will any of them survive their 'questioning'?" the King asked.

Thellic thought about this for a moment, then frowned and shook his head. "Highly unlikely, your Majesty. They appear to have a tendency to perish quite soon after providing our guards with the required information."

"How unfortunate for them," Entell Thellon commented. He could feel his wife's eyes boring into the side of his head as he spoke on this unseemly topic. Later, there would be words between them about this business. She was a gentle soul and was clearly unimpressed by such activities.

"I did, however, procure a gift for her Highness, the Princess Paura," the Dearnian man announced. "It represents a personal apology from my family over the failures that occurred while in her service over days gone by."

The King sighed. "When will you accept that your brother, Ralamin performed to the best of his ability under the circumstances, Thellic? According to Lord Bourke, Ralamin accounted for many of the traitors and thugs who attacked my daughter's caravan. He deserves some respectful thoughts from you, his very own kin."

The princess decided she had heard enough of these proceedings and boldly interrupted the conversation. "Where is my gift, Lord Thellic?" she greedily inquired, all observance of protocol completely forgotten.

Thellic held up the bloodstained bag.

Her Highness raced across the base of the podium, eyes wide in anticipation of some treasure the Lord Protector had seen fit to bestow upon her. Obviously, whatever item occupied the unhealthy-looking sack was some treasure removed from Laninval's personal hoard. Relieving the much taller man of the bound object, she opened the sack, peered deep inside its depths then looked back up to Thellic and gave a strange little laugh. "I feel hardly worthy of such a noble and important gift, my Lord Protector!"

"I feel you deserve such a prize after the trauma you suffered at Laninval's hands. Please accept this pitiful offering and I trust you will treasure it always."

Reaching in with her left hand, Princess Paura fumbled around inside the bag then smiled as she latched onto the item in question. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Court!" the sweet-faced girl brazenly announced. "It is my immense pleasure to introduce to you all her Ladyship, the former Lady Laninval!" Her arm shot out of the sack, bringing with it what appeared to be a severed head sporting long brown hair and a pair of dead eyes that stared across the flabbergasted throng of people.

"By all the good gods!" the Queen blurted angrily, deserting her throne. "Put that thing down, Paura Thellon!"

The reactions amongst the watching crowd were varied. Some screamed, some fainted or miraculously performed both acts at the same time. Others cheered and applauded, stamping their feet on the hard floor in a raucous show of approval of Lady Laninval's deserved demise.

Colin stood near this bizarre spectacle, gazing across at the severed head on open display. His stomach lurched. His health was still not up to taking such a terrible shock to his system. He honestly wondered what sort of people he had become involved with in this perplexing country and its often crude, violent society.

Still holding the head aloft, the princess turned the dead woman's head around to face her. She peered at it and frowned as she examined her prize more closely.

"Lady Laninval looks surprised," the girl commented.

"Believe me," Thellic answered, "she was--right before I cut off her head."

"Paura Thellon!" the Queen scolded her daughter again. "Put it down this instant! That thing was repulsive when it was still attached to Lady Laninval. It is even more disgusting now!"

The recently removed head of former Lady Laninval remained the centre of attention in the hall. Prince Zarr was attempting to gaze up the severed neck to see the inside workings of a head.

Fortunately, his mother brought a swift halt to this behaviour. "Prince Zarr Thellon!" she bellowed with an authority that even caused the King to stop in his tracks. "Stand back from that disgraceful thing at once!"

Sulkily, the youngest member of the Thellon family stepped away from the macabre display. His mother could be such a spoilsport at times.

Prince Entell remained standing near the podium, his eyes transfixed by what was left of Lady Laninval. The truth was he had never liked the Laninvals, even before their forces had attempted to assassinate his sister and attack the palace.

"Princess Paura," the reigning monarch remarked. "I do believe it is time to put Lady Laninval back in her sack."

In response to this command, Paura Thellon dangled the head a little higher, attempting to get one last measure of shock from the crowd. Rarely did she have their complete and undivided attention. "Would anyone care for a quick kiss before I cover up her Ladyship?"

"Enough!" her father roared, angry at her jest. "Sometimes, your Highness, you go too far. Now do as you are told!"

She turned and smiled up at the enraged monarch. "Yes, your Majesty." With a little assistance from Zirinn, the princess placed the late Lady Laninval's head back into its bag. She had no idea what useful purpose the unsightly object would serve now that the initial shock value had all but dissipated. It could hardly be placed on the shelves in her bedroom along with her other prized possessions. It would stand out rather hideously amongst all of her jewellery, hairbrushes and gold and silver sculptures. However cherished it was as a token, it would have to be disposed of--and rather quickly, before the ugly thing began to stink out the entire Royal Palace. Princess Paura Thellon handed the bag and its nauseating contents to the tall Dearnian woman. "Please do me the greatest service and dispose of this miserable wretch, Zirinn."

The Dearnian guard politely removed the sack while business continued as usual amongst the members of the Court. Although the discussions were beyond Colin's understanding, he was able to figure out that clearly things were not running all that smoothly within the Kingdoms. Raids by the bandits referred to as 'Anhil', were on the increase, with these marauders ransacking large caravans instead of their usual prey of lone, unarmed travellers. Entell Thellon feared Lord Bourke might indeed be correct in his assumption these thieves and killers were being organised by some outside source. More intriguing reports, both verbal and written, had been filtering into the palace over the past few days about mysterious beings and strange, deadly beasts. These had been listed and were now read aloud by the King to his subjects. Reputedly, a monster with multiple heads shaped like a large snake had run amok in one of the smaller cities within the boundaries of the nation of San, a realm stretching along the eastern seaboard of the Kingdoms. In the farthest reaches of Phornimiren Hamaforth to the south, disturbing reports had been received about some creature prowling the endless forests, smashing its way into people's houses and literally tearing them apart. So far, there had been no survivors of these outrageous attacks to identify the cause of this wanton destruction.

At this stage, Entell Thellon ceased reading the report to the gathered crowd. His hands were shaking in a mixture of disgust and anger. The monarch looked to his newest knight, who was likewise sickened by the incidents the King had recounted.

"Lord Bourke, have you any knowledge of what sort of malevolent force could possibly wrought such evil on my subjects?" his Majesty asked.

Pale with shock, Colin shook his head answered, "There's nothing I know of that could do such a thing."

"I want something done about this," the enraged King continued, his voice strained. "I will not stand innocent families being butchered in their homes in my Kingdoms! This evil must halt. I give my word on it!"

"Your Majesty," Thellic inquired, "who sent this report?"

"One of the district's Riders."

The Lord Protector nodded. "Then we must assume the report is accurate. May I be so bold as to suggest you send a detachment over there at once to search for the cause of this grief and destroy it?"

"By all means, Thellic. In fact, I insist you take charge of the matter. Send troops from the nearest garrison to hunt this thing. If they do not immediately kill it, then at least their presence may keep the creature to ground, saving people's lives in the process. Also, it may be wise to inform Lord Perorn of our plans. We would not want him to think all of Phornimiren was being invaded."

"My understanding on the matter is that his Lordship is the one likely to be doing the invading, Sire," Thellic huffed in indignation.

"That will be quite enough, my Lord Protector," the reigning monarch warned, raising an eyebrow at the unseemly comment. "Lord Perorn is one of my closet allies."

"With the utmost respect, your Majesty," the tall Dearnian observed, "so was Lord Laninval of Porra, until his recent deceit."

"Point taken, Thellic," King Entell Thellon sighed, before pausing to continue reading through other reports. "Further reports have come in about more unknown people who are apparently... not from the Kingdoms. These reports are coming from all corners of the continent, from the mightiest cities to the most isolated farming communities and homesteads." The monarch paused to take breath then continued. "These..." he searched for a rightful term, "...'Beyonders', appear to be causing little harm to my subjects, but reports are sketchy at best. Someone will have to be assigned to try to take a census of these newcomers and determine if they do indeed pose a threat to Hamaforth and her aligned nations. Lord Bourke, you may be able to assist in this matter?"

"If I can, your Majesty."

One 'Beyonder' sighting particularly interested Colin as the King continued reading through his significant bundle of messages, all the while closely watched by the highly interested crowd. The Lead Rider of one town had reported meeting three strange people while in the course of performing his duties. They comprised of "a tall, striking-looking woman with dark hair, a short man with the ability to bring forth the thunder and most notably, a tall man with 'coal coloured skin'." This last part of the report sent a shockwave through the assembled dignitaries.

"Perhaps we have finally located someone from Valouras. I was under the impression it was a mythical country," Entell Thellon commented.

"Where did these people show up?" Colin queried, stepping closer to the podium. Dare he hope some of the other scientists from the doomed Minerva Project had actually survived and likewise been safely transferred to this world?

"The town of Enwardous is a fair distance from here in Dearnia, your Lordship," the King informed him, intrigued by the knight's heightened level of excitement. "The journey is a great many days' ride. Why do you ask?"

"Two of those people you mentioned sound like friends of mine. Mind you, I'm at a loss about the short man. What happened to them? Are they still in the town?"

"Apparently, they purchased a wagon and horses and left some days ago. If you so wish, I can dispatch an apprehension command to that region so these people will be detained and brought back to Valderhien. However, the area in question near Dearnia is enormous, with vast tracts of heavy forest and endless plains."

"I'd be grateful for any help, your Majesty."

"Then it shall be done. Thellic, please see to it the local offices of the Riders are notified as early as possible to keep a watch for these... What did I call them earlier? Ah, yes! Tell the Riders to watch out for these 'Beyonders'. But make certain they are not harmed in any way. If they are indeed Lord Bourke's friends, they must be secured."

The Royal Protector nodded once and flashed Colin a foul look of ill will. This did not please his Lordship in the slightest. Apparently, Thellic still held him somehow responsible for the disaster at Vin Halle and the humiliating events afterwards and was not about to let bygones be bygones.

Standing to one side of the podium, Colin had listened to the reports read out by the King with a feeling of dread. He had a disturbing inkling that the Minerva Project may be responsible for some or all of these mysterious events and appearances occurring throughout the Kingdoms.

Having finished reading the reports, the monarch concluded the assembly and formally dismissed everyone except Colin and Thellic. The two men waited to one side of the hall until the crowd had filed out of the area.

"My Lord Protector," Entell Thellon began in earnest, "I wish to further discuss the matter of the assassination attempt on my daughter's life. In the meantime, I feel his Lordship should experience first-hand the lifestyles of our local population. I would appreciate it if you could arrange a guard duty to escort Lord Bourke around Valderhien for the remainder of the day."

"Yes, Sire," Thellic agreed, his reluctance hidden behind Court protocol. Personally, he felt he had much better duties to occupy his time than organising a glorified sightseeing expedition for this odd man who had ingratiated himself into the royal household.

"Is this arrangement agreeable with you?" the monarch inquired of Colin.

"Not a problem."

"Sire," Thellic added, under his breath.

"Sire," Colin added.

"May I please accompany the party?" the princess requested.

King Entell solemnly shook his head. "It is far too dangerous, Paura Thellon. Already there has been one terrible attempt on your life. I would hate anything to happen to you, especially right here in Valderhien."

"Your Majesty's concern over the welfare of his nation's capital is admirable," Princess Paura hissed, glaring at her father.

"That will be quite enough, your Highness!" the Queen reprimanded the girl, her steely expression instantly silencing her daughter. "You know what your father meant! Any further attempt on your life would be intolerable. He has more than enough to deal with on the day-to-day running of the Kingdoms without having to constantly supervise your activities."

Duly scolded and feeling somewhat ashamed of herself over her petulant behaviour, the girl lowered her head. "Please accept my apologies, your Majesty."

"Apology accepted," her father announced. "We almost lost you once--we cannot bear the thought of you being out of our lives."

The girl smiled up at her father.

"In fact," the King continued, "I would remind everyone present that the princess had an escort of almost fifty palace soldiers and Dearnian guards and yet barely escaped with her life." Entell Thellon faced Colin. "And once again, your Lordship, I thank you for saving my daughter's life."

Colin simply nodded politely.

"From this time on," the monarch declared, "no member of the immediate Royal Family, myself included, shall venture from the safety of the palace unless absolutely necessary. And should it be essential to leave the palace, it will be under the guard of no less than a full company of troops from the local garrison. This is my decree and it shall be adhered too!"

This command outraged both his daughter and eldest son. Their father had virtually turned them into prisoners in their own home: An exceedingly large and luxurious prison, but a prison nevertheless.

While they protested vigorously to their father, little Prince Zarr, oblivious to this latest development, produced a brown paper bag from one of his pockets. He opened it and removed a boiled sweet. The young prince held the hard, red and white striped candy between his chubby little thumb and forefinger, carefully inspecting the item. Prince Zarr detested the red and white striped candies. He decided something needed to be done to dispose of the revolting object, so the second in line to the throne of the Hamaforth Kingdoms handed it to Lord Bourke. Colin gratefully accepted the item, placing it in his mouth. It tasted terrible.

Prince Zarr retrieved a green candy next and placed it into his mouth.

Noticing something was amiss, King Entell ceased his animated discussion with his two older children. He turned around to discover Prince Zarr and Lord Bourke apparently eating behind his back. This highly annoyed him. "Food is not to be consumed in the Royal Assembly Hall, unless by Royal decree on special occasions!" the monarch lectured, as if reading straight from a rule book.

"And that includes you, your Highness!" he informed his youngest son before returning his full attention back to the other offspring.

Zarr Thellon stuck his tongue out behind his father's back.

"I saw that!"
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

His Majesty Entell Thellon, the Third and the Lord Protector, Thellic discussed the matter of the assassination attempt on Princess Paura Thellon with the utmost urgency. They also deliberated how they would deal with the ex-Porran Ambassador, who had obviously been up to his eyes in the vicious plot. Meanwhile, a number of Dearnian guards escorted his Lordship, Colin Bourke from the Royal Palace into the bustling streets of Valderhien.

Dressed in a deep grey suit with a black stripe running diagonally across the shirt, Colin felt absolutely ridiculous. He wondered why the local inhabitants of this metropolis appeared to pay scant attention to his bodyguards, or for that matter, to him. Surprisingly, the handful of people who did acknowledge his presence bowed dutifully to Colin in an obligatory, unsmiling manner, then went about their business.

"They don't like me, do they?" Colin asked Banisor.

"Not at all," the Dearnian responded, his eyes alert for any sign of trouble. "By your mode of dress, you are identified as a member of Porran nobility. After what happened recently, the people of Valderhien resent nobility from Porra, as Princess Paura Thellon is fondly thought of throughout the city, as are all members of the Royal Family."

"That's just goddamn wonderful!" Colin hissed, his eyes scanning the street for any sign of hostility. "So I could be killed for being something I'm not!"

"That is why we are here, my Lord," Banisor remarked. "No member of Hamaforth Royalty has ever perished while under Dearnian guard. The Dearnians have been the official Royal bodyguards for over five hundred seasons. I believe that is the real reason behind Thellic's intense dislike of you."

"So you noticed that too?"

"Yes, Lord Bourke. I believe almost everyone in the palace is well aware of the Lord Protector's ill-feelings towards you. It seems he believes his elder brother, Ralamin, failed in his sworn duty and ultimately disgraced his entire family. Thellic thinks your opportune arrival on the scene was little more than dumb luck. Your presence within the palace is a constant reminder of his brother's failure."

"So he really does hate me," Colin grumbled.

"No," Banisor insisted as they continued walking along the crowded streets. "His feelings are of dislike. If he truly despised you, you would be dead by now. Thellic would have seen to it in person, your Lordship."

"Look, Banisor, you really can call me Colin. I don't like all this 'Lord Bourke' and 'your Lordship' bullshit."

The tall Dearnian shook his head. "It would be more than my life is worth if Thellic ever discovered such informality between a member of the nobility and his guards."

Colin shook his head. "I'll tell you this, Banisor. In my country, we haven't had any lords or kings for... a long, long time."

Apparently this was not a wise comment to make, as the entire entourage suddenly halted. They all turned to stare at Colin as though he had just uttered something not only remarkably stupid, but quite offensive. No one about him actually said so, but he could tell he had put many noses firmly out of place.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I do beg your pardon, my Lord," Banisor retorted quizzically. "But did you just say your country is without any form of royalty?"

"That's right."

His confirmation sent waves of confusion throughout the detachment. The Dearnian guards exchanged bewildered expressions.

Banisor pondered this last remark. "Then how does your country--what is its title?"

"The United States of America."

"Then if I may be so bold, how does the United States of America rule itself? Are the peasants in charge, your Lordship?"

The remark brought forth a smattering of chuckles and humorous remarks from the guards.

"Basically, yes. It's called a government."

"We also have a government to control the day-to-day running of Hamaforth's political and financial affairs. On anything important, King Entell Thellon's advice is called for. I must be honest, your Lordship, I simply do not see how the commoners can successfully run an entire nation. Is there not anarchy in your country?"

Colin shrugged. "Sometimes, yes. But that's the price you pay for democracy. From what I've seen so far, you've got your own form of anarchy, even under the rule of a King."

Some of the Dearnians present gasped in outrage over this observation by their charge. Banisor was also disturbed by the implications behind the statement. His usually pale features flushed noticeably.

"I would be extremely cautious, Lord Bourke," he warned without threat or resentment. "What you have just said could be construed as treason. You are new to our ways, so you require a great deal of education on our traditions and beliefs. I do not have first-hand experience of your country, but you should realise; things are different here."

Of course, Banisor was stating the obvious. Colin had already seen this for himself since being freed from the dungeons in the palace. The past couple of days had been nothing short of astonishing.

Colin was about to launch into an impromptu and particularly condensed history lesson of America, but at that instant he happened to glance down the wide, cobbled street and spotted something that instantly dismissed all prior thoughts. Instead, he bolted headlong down the street without a second thought for his own safety.

The startled Dearnian guards ran after him, their passage creating a great disturbance amongst the locals who were unceremoniously shoved aside as the armed men charged along the busy thoroughfare. Many harsh voices called out amongst the angered townspeople, although none were enraged--or foolish enough to openly challenge the Dearnians. The mystique around these characteristically tall, blond people from the north-eastern province was enough to calm even the most infuriated member of the local community.

A short distance ahead of them, Colin darted in and out of the milling crowd, his feet finding it difficult to gain steady purchase on the smooth, cobbled road in the soft leather shoes he wore. Stopping to leap once into the air, he again spied the objects of his attention in the distance. "Hey, wait!" Unfortunately, his voice was almost completely drowned out by the multitude of noise coming from the activity going on around him.

"Stop!" Banisor called out, as he started to gain ground on the wayward Knight of Porra.

Finally, Colin's luck completely deserted him when his right foot slipped in a small puddle of something he did not particularly wish to inspect at close quarters. He tumbled heavily to the ground, grazing one leg and his right elbow. Momentarily stunned, he gasped for air and hauled himself upright. At the same instant, a number of hands grabbed hold of him, causing Colin a second or two of anxiety. Fortunately, it was his exceedingly angry bodyguards, who now circled him in an attempt to thwart any further efforts to flee the area.

"Lord Bourke!" Banisor exclaimed. "You must never do that again! These are dangerous times and there are any number of people whose most fervent wish is for you to end up with a dagger right between your shoulder blades. You were not assigned an escort merely for show. We are present to keep you alive and well."

"But there're some people I need to talk too!"

"No, your Lordship. I am personally responsible for your safety and we are going directly back to the Royal Palace. Your actions have placed us in great danger."

The townsfolk within earshot of this disagreement ceased what they were doing and started gathering around the arguing men. The other Dearnian guards watched the issue with an increasing measure of apprehension. The situation was starting to become rather tense. There were eight Dearnians, but this was no match against approximately fifty or so townspeople, many of whom probably carried some type of concealed weapon.

Other members of the crowd began drawing closer towards the new Lord of Porra, all seemingly intent on greeting his Lordship. At first, his bodyguard detachment attempted to perform some sort of crowd control, but realised they were vastly outnumbered. Nothing short of unseemly violence would deter the apparently good natured well-wishers from their mission.

"We must leave, Lord Bourke," Banisor urged.

"You're just jealous!" Colin laughed from deep within the sea of moving bodies.

"I am so glad you are enjoying yourself, my Lord. But all it takes is one person with a sharp knife to ruin your day. Now we must depart."

"On one condition."

"What is that, Lord Bourke?"

"I don't want to go back to the palace."

"After this commotion, we have no choice in the matter."

"Come on! Let's look around a bit more."

Banisor groaned inwardly and commanded the milling crowd to move away. "As you wish, Lord Bourke. Only I warn you now; one more mad dash through the streets and I will personally haul you back to the palace in chains. You do remember those chains, your Lordship?"

Colin nodded solemnly. "Yes, I remember the stupid chains. Trust me; there won't be any need for them."

"Then we shall leave this place."

After bidding farewell to his 'admirers', Colin continued to make his way along the streets of Valderhien with his guards close by. This outing was far, far better than being locked up in one of the palace dungeons.

"I still have a lot to learn," Colin commented rather sheepishly.

"It will come to you in good time, Lord Bourke."

"Banisor," Colin repeated, a touch frustrated, "as I said, you don't have to call me 'your Lordship'. Just 'Colin' or even 'Bourke' will do."

"With all due respect, Lord Bourke, protocol is installed in our society for a reason."

"What might that be?"

"To keep our society together. These are dangerous times for all the nations of the Kingdoms. If we do not maintain control over those persons living within our boundaries, then how can we expect our enemies to keep a respectful distance? With anarchy comes war."

"No," Colin replied, "I don't buy it."

Banisor frowned. "Buy it?"

"It's just a saying. What I mean is, my country never had royalty for most of its recorded history."

"So you have said, my Lord."

"And we were never invaded by our enemies. I agree, you have to make sure there is a certain order or everything will go all to hell."

"Lord Bourke," Banisor stated, directing his steely blue gaze into his charge's eyes, "perhaps the system you had on your old home worked for those souls living there. But this is the Hamaforth Kingdoms. Our system has worked for many hundreds of seasons."

Colin shrugged. "Whatever you say. Look, I haven't spent enough time around your society to figure out just what's going on." He paused. "This 'Porra' place; what's it like?"

"To be honest, Lord Bourke, I have never had the need to visit that particular realm. From what I have heard, it is a harsh, inhospitable region full of Anhil bandits, and local gangs almost run the capital, Xerous City. It has long been suspected Laninval was receiving reparations from local criminal elements in exchange for not taking positive actions against their illegal activities. Also, all accounts indicate Xerous is a most unattractive city--so unattractive that Laninval's ancestors long ago saw fit to locate the family castle some distance away."

"The family castle?"

"Yes, my Lord. Again, reports indicate the building is a nasty construction, matching the unsightliness of the surrounding area. However, the castle was built at a time of open warfare between the Kingdoms and the Azzil Territories; so it is said to be a sturdy structure, and being located away from the city proper does have its advantages. If an invading army were to attack, it would have to break its forces into two units, one to attack the city and a second division to lay siege to the castle. The city is also fortified, so I imagine that would not be an easy task."

The group halted at the top of a small hill, allowing them an unrestricted view of the lakeside district where the numerous houses increased in opulence in accordance to their proximity to the body of clear, blue water. On the lake, a number of craft of varying designs and sizes manoeuvred about the slightly choppy waters. An assortment of seabirds that were unfamiliar to Colin flocked around the shoreline, scavenging for scraps of discarded food and dead fish. Their mingled cries reached the group, who watched in silence, their clothing gently billowing in the cool breeze blowing off the huge lake.

"Nice place," Colin commented, scanning the wide, clean streets and surrounding buildings and homes.

"Certainly," Banisor agreed, nodding slightly. "Generally the upper-echelon bureaucrats, minor members of the nobility class and successful business people live here. You have my word on this, Lord Bourke, not all neighbourhoods here are as prosperous as this one. There are some districts in Valderhien you would never wish to roam around late at night by yourself."

"I'll take your word on it."

"Please do. As you are no doubt aware, this can be a harsh country. Always take great care, no matter your location at the time."

"What else is there to look at while we're here?" Colin inquired, as he mentally filed away the Dearnian man's warning. He realised his survival depended on taking heed of the advice of those around him.

They spent the rest of the day roaming about the generally picturesque city, casually inspecting the local scenery. Valderhien, like most major cities on Earth, contained its fair share of museums, art galleries, sporting venues, markets and even a sizeable zoo, where Lord Bourke discovered no end of unusual and sometimes quite bizarre species of bird and animal life. While talking to various members of his official escort, he discovered a wealth of information concerning a variety of aspects of life in the Hamaforth Kingdoms and other nations on the continent. Each realm worshipped a different religious deity, most of which were derived from an astrological body.

Being a card-carrying atheist, Colin believed these religious aspects were nothing more than simple-minded gibberish. Thankfully, he failed to mention this to his guards, all of whom were armed with swords. All in all, it was quite an interesting day as Colin gleaned a great deal of information about life in his new home while members of his escort likewise picked up traits about his former world.

When the bright Perencore sun was finally hovering low over the horizon, Colin Bourke decided he was ready to head back towards the Royal Palace. Besides, his feet were aching from hours of walking from one side of the mighty city to the other.

***

The main gates to the Royal Palace were high, brilliantly decorated structures tended to by some of the Kingdoms' most sought after painters and sculptors, all of whom worked tirelessly to perpetrate a work fit for their monarch. Each artist commissioned on this project over the seasons, had used the opportunity for blatant self-promotion, in order to gain the finest reputation and satisfy their egos and sense of self-worth. Certainly, the main gates were undeniably a wondrous spectacle that attracted sightseers from all parts of the lands.

The neatly uniformed soldiers snapped to full attention when the group of tired travellers reached the main entrance. They took no notice of the spectacle that was the Royal Palace's main gates.

"Is that for your benefit or mine?" Colin inquired as they wearily wandered past the straight-backed men and women.

"The Dearnian do not possess military ranking, Lord Bourke," his bodyguard, Banisor answered, "so their deference is directed solely at your presence."

Colin glanced about the mighty hall of the edifice as they entered. "Just how big is this palace?"

"It is the single largest building in all of the Hamaforth Kingdoms. It was only about one-third of its current size when first constructed an aeon ago, but with periodic increases in the size of the bureaucracy and military presence, it was necessary to increase the Royal palace's accommodation. You do realise the palace is a fully functioning fortress?"

This fact shocked Colin. "No, I didn't. It just looks like a very large, fancily decorated building."

"I would not let the King or Queen hear that comment, my Lord. They are quite proud of their palace."

"What about all these large windows about the place? No one's going to climb up a high wall if they can just jump in through a handy window."

"There are metal shutters which can be quickly closed in front of all of the glass panes. Once closed, they are virtually impossible to remove from the outside. Also, all of the internal windows and doors can be secured, so if an invading army was to scale the external walls they could quite easily find themselves trapped in one of the complex's many courtyards, facing the imposing task of breaking through yet more barricades."

The group walked at their leisure past a row of portraits, almost all of whom were unfamiliar to Colin. The last couple of paintings he recognised as being members of the current Royal Family. He abruptly halted to study a group painting of the Thellon family, which included a much younger version of his Highness, Prince Zarr.

"As you may have gathered, your Lordship," Banisor explained. "These paintings depict past and present members of Hamaforth royalty." He paused to reflect on the portrait Colin was staring at right now. "We had a terrible time keeping Prince Zarr still for so long. All he wanted to do was make vile noises, even worse smells and run around the hallways."

"Do you have a family, Banisor?"

The Dearnian guard dropped his usual calm, somewhat cold demeanour and smiled. "Yes, indeed I do. I have a wife, three young sons and a daughter. They are back in Fellan Port, the city of my birth."

"I'm surprised you didn't bring them here with you."

"I wished to do so," Banisor answered. "But it is customary amongst my people to assist in the family business, so they dutifully stayed behind. When I have concluded my sworn duties here, I will reunite with them. Occasionally, we are given leave to visit our family and friends in Dearnia."

While the two men chatted, another Dearnian guard who had not accompanied the recent tour of Valderhien, raced up and without bothering to excuse himself, started questioning Banisor.

"Have you seen Thellic?" he inquired urgently.

"You do realise it is customary to wait until you are given permission by his Lordship before speaking, Junicca?" Banisor curtly reminded the younger man.

Junicca instantly fell silent and stared at Colin, who wondered what the blond youth was staring at.

"Oh--that's me!" Colin blurted. He smiled at the youthful Dearnian. "Go ahead, speak."

"My thanks, Lord Bourke," the younger man huffed, breathless from his exertion of charging through the palace. "There is some trouble down in the prisoner holding cells! I need to urgently inform the Lord Protector of this problem!"

The other Dearnian guards gathered closer.

"What sort of trouble, Junicca?" Banisor demanded.

"Some of the cell guards just informed me they discovered the remains of two of their number who were in charge of guarding the former Porran Ambassador."

"Is the Ambassador dead?"

"I sincerely pray so, Banisor. Otherwise he would be in a great deal of pain with a crossbow bolt protruding through the back of his skull."

Banisor began firing orders to his fellow guards: "Two of you escort his Lordship back to his quarters and stay with him until either Thellic or I instruct you otherwise. Bateller, you go directly to the palace garrison and inform the commanding officer that we have at least one assassin in the palace--possibly a full assassination squad. He is to seal off the entire complex at once. Under no circumstances is anyone to get in or out of the palace for the remainder of the day."

"He will not like that at all," Bateller scoffed, smiling with a touch of satisfaction.

"If the officer of the watch gives you any trouble over these orders, you have my permission to change his thinking with the sharp end of your sword."

The other man's eyes lit up: "As you command!"

He turned and bolted away, his footsteps echoing loudly to mark his passage through the corridors.

"There goes someone who loves his work," Colin commented.

"Please accept my apologies, Lord Bourke," Banisor remarked. "I am afraid your tour of the Royal Palace will have to be cut short."

"Don't worry about it, Banisor."

"Thellic could be either in his private chambers or his official office in the bureaucratic wing. He must be informed of these events at once."

Two of the Dearnian guards volunteered for the detail to locate Thellic and fled in different directions.

"Junicca, where are the members of the Royal Family currently located?" Banisor asked.

"The King and Queen are in his Majesty's office under heavy guard. Princess Paura was last seen in the stables where I sent a detachment of soldiers to mind her wellbeing." He faltered. "But I have been unable to locate either prince heirs to the throne."

Colin sighed. "Obviously someone's going to have to track down the princes before something else goes wrong around here."

"It shall be done, your Lordship," Banisor announced. He turned to the few remaining Dearnian men and women. "I want a search of the palace completed in a very short order. Every single room and chamber of the entire building is to be inspected. Anyone not in uniform and unfamiliar to you is to be detained for questioning. Go!"

Instantly the group scattered to all parts of the Royal palace, halting only long enough to issue hasty commands to anyone who could assist in the search for the two Thellon heirs.

The Dearnian guard called Boriculin, the only dark-haired Dearnian amongst the detachment in the palace, placed one hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. "We must go immediately to your chambers, Lord Bourke."

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Lead the way," Colin Bourke asserted.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

The Lord Protector of the Thellon Royal Family sat at his desk completing yet another official form that his recently deceased brother had mysteriously seen fit to secrete in a drawer and completely ignore. A loud, somewhat aggressive knock at the closed door to his office brought Thellic back to the present time and place.

"Enter!"

Another similar sounding knock was the only response.

"You may come in!"

Yet another knock sounded throughout the spacious, though paper-filled, office.

"Would you care for me to open the door for you?" Thellic demanded irritably, placing his quill onto the ink well on his desk.

Rising from his chair, the chief of the Dearnian guard detail promptly made his way to the closed door and hauled it open. Thellic found himself staring at a shorter, slightly overweight man attired in an untidy uniform of the local garrison. The soldier stared at him through slightly bloodshot eyes, a disdainful expression on his unshaven features.

The Lord Protector chose to ignore the man's contemptuous look as it was widely known neither the city nor palace garrison soldiers approved of, or enjoyed the Dearnian presence within the community. However, he chose not to ignore the disgraceful condition of the soldier's uniform.

"May I inquire as to why your uniform is in such a shocking state?"

The chubby trooper vainly attempted to straighten his clothing, which was apparently two sizes too small for his frame.

"Answer me!"

"There has been a problem down in the dungeons," the soldier responded, apparently deciding to ignore Thellic's question. "The Porran Ambassador is dead in his cell. Apparently, an assassination unit infiltrated the palace, but we managed to eliminate them."

"Are the Royal Family safe?" Thellic demanded, no longer concerned over the soldier's uniform.

"They are all accounted for, my Lord Thellic. Tragically, Lord Bourke was killed in a minor skirmish."

Thellic nodded, feigning sadness. "Truly a great shame. I trust the gods will not send his spirit to a particularly grim afterlife."

"A most charitable thought," the untidy trooper uttered. "Also, the King wishes to speak to you at once. So if you would be good enough to follow me to the throne room..."

"Lead on," Thellic responded. He turned to retrieve his sword that was hanging beside his Staff of Office in the far corner.

"I believe his Majesty is waiting," the soldier stated, his tone impatient and menacing. "It would not do to keep him waiting any longer."

"I always take my sword with me into battle," countered Thellic.

The other man frowned, his bulk blocking the doorway, "Battle?" he asked. "We are just going to the throne room."

"The Royal Assembly Hall," Thellic calmly corrected, his deep blue eyes levelling up to glare at this intruder. "That was your second mistake. Would you care to try for a third?"

The attack came so unexpectedly, the Lord Protector did not have time to arm himself.

Three men not in uniform rushed into the room and together, with the supposed soldier, charged at Thellic, who raced back across his office. Realising he required some time to collect his sword or staff, he grabbed hold of a glass display cabinet and flung this item of solid furniture in his attacker's general direction. His defence worked to some degree by causing momentary confusion amongst their number. Unfortunately, one of the assassins managed to manoeuvre around the smashed cabinet, placing himself between the taller man and his weapons. This also effectively trapped the Dearnian man between all four intruders. Although quite competent at unarmed combat, Thellic quickly realised defending himself against no less than four armed, professional killers was a near impossible task.

The man who had initially stalled Thellic from reaching his sword lunged forward, almost succeeding in catching him off guard. Thellic casually stepped back a single step, latched on to his assailant's right arm and gave one almighty heave, launching the killer clear across the large desk. The remaining three thugs circled their target, brandishing a variety of swords and knives in an obvious attempt to intimidate their victim. The fourth assassin scrambled to his feet after his unexpected flight and joined in.

Bracing himself, the appointed Protector of the Thellon family waited for their next onslaught.

***

The first sign something was greatly amiss was when clouds of thick smoke began billowing along the passageway in a repressive grey mass. The three men stopped, their senses assailed by the repugnant stench even though their eyes had yet to be afflicted by the noxious fumes.

"Now what do we do?" Colin Bourke demanded, watching the grey cloud billowing towards them. Any moment, they would be completely lost in the increasingly thick haze.

"We will complete our assignment as directed," advised Boriculin, one of Colin's bodyguards. "First, we have to escort you safely away from this part of the palace and back to your quarters."

Colin followed closely behind Boriculin and the other guard, Hock, as they ran along various passageways and up a number of staircases. Finally, they found their way to the guest quarters where Colin was currently accommodated. The two Dearnian men cautiously opened the thick-set door and ventured inside the room, where they conducted a thorough search. Once they were certain the chamber was safe, they beckoned Colin inside.

"We are going to assist in quelling the fire, my Lord," Boriculin stated, his tone urgent. "Please lock and bolt the door until we return. And no matter what occurs; do not open the door to anyone whose voice you do not recognise. Those people you already know are the only ones you can trust. We should be back shortly."

"I'm not worried about prowlers," Colin commented, as the two guards moved towards the exit, "but what happens if that fire gets out of control?"

"Take my word on this, your Lordship," Boriculin answered. "The blaze will not reach this wing of the building as the entire palace is constructed of stone and mortar."

"Then what's burning right now?"

"I do not know the answer to this question: Perhaps some furniture and decorative rugs. Remember, lock the door behind us and please stay here for safety's sake."

Stepping across the room, Colin bolted and locked the thick door. He slowly moved back to gaze through one of the chamber's lead-lined windows. The remarkable view was now tainted by tentacles of thick, greasy smoke. By opening the window and leaning out just a bit, he could see the royal wing where the Thellon family resided. Through one of this wing's windows, Colin could just make out the slightly blurred forms of a number of people milling strangely about that part of the palace.

"Shit!" Colin gasped, hauling himself back into his room. Studying his surroundings, he located a number of ancient swords hanging on a far wall along with a red and white shield. Grabbing hold of a likely-looking weapon, he wrestled the decoration down from the wall. Weapon now in hand, his Lordship dashed across to the door. Once it was open, he charged out into the adjoining corridor. Colin Bourke hoped he would not be too late.

***

The killer dressed as a soldier lunged forward, his weapon missing Thellic by the barest of margins. As a reward for his failed stab at the taller man, he was kneed in the belly and shoved roughly across into the waiting arms of one of his fellow assassins. Another mercenary stepped a touch closer to his intended victim, brandishing his blade in a threatening fashion. Thellic knew he could only defend himself in this way for so long until one or more members of the assassination squad finally managed to send a blade deep into his body.

Having managed to reorganise themselves, the killers formed a tight semi-circle about their target, cornering the Lord Protector in a manner that would see him succumb to their next attack.

The office door swung open allowing the Dearnian girl, Zirinn, to wander inside, her hands clutching yet more dreaded paperwork. "My Lord Thellic, I do apologise but..." She glanced up to stare at the five men deep in the throes of a conflict. Deciding the incomplete forms were of precious little use, the girl instantly discarded them, hauled her sword free from its sheath and advanced on the circled men with little regard for her own safety.

This new addition to the mêlée caused the killers to falter as they considered their next course of action.

Seeing his opportunity, Thellic latched hold of one killer's arm, deftly avoiding a sharp edge and sent the man sprawling into one of his own comrades. Both men crashed onto the floor where they struggled to return to the ensuing fight.

Meanwhile, Zirinn was battling with the other two thugs, who were standing either side of the tall girl in an attempt catch her off guard and land a killing strike with their weapons. Fending away one man, she quickly turned, lashing across at her other foe with her left leg. This manoeuvre kicked the man square in the chest, sending him reeling backwards. Once more, she faced the other assailant, their swords meeting mid-air in a clatter of loud, metallic reports.

Thellic had managed to gather up his own weapon and was advancing on the two men who had only just picked themselves up off the floor. They were now in two minds as to whether they should continue the assault or simply run for their lives. The latter option placed them in the unenviable position of having to fight their way past their companions who were busy battling the lunatic blonde girl who clearly knew what she was doing.

The braver soul charged Thellic and was promptly skewered for his trouble. The disguised soldier lost his courage, giving Thellic a chance to charge past his dishevelled desk to the open doorway. He also managed to perforate one of the killers Zirinn was playing with at the time.

"He was mine!" she protested.

"Can you take care of these last two?" he called to his fellow Dearnian, choosing to ignore her remark.

"Of course!" Zirinn called back, expertly fending away yet another attack on her person.

Still holding aloft his bloodied sword, the Lord Protector hastily departed from the carnage that had once been his office. He aimed his flight directly towards the royal quarters located on the upper level, his ears still catching the metallic rings as Zirinn continued her fight with the surviving killers. He hoped she would take at least one of these hired goons alive to be questioned at length at a time of his choosing. However, as she was young and enthusiastic about her duties within the palace, he concluded she would most likely slaughter the remaining men in a most efficient manner. Reaching a flight of stairs, he pounded up them and could only hope he would be in time to circumvent any difficulties the Royal Family might be experiencing.

***

The future successor to the throne of the Hamaforth Kingdoms, Royal Prince Entell Thellon found himself in all sorts of trouble. Another four members of the assassination squad were presently converging on him, swords drawn, their eyes wide and fervent to undertake yet another killing--and a particularly easy one at that. In a similar manner to the invasion of Thellic's office, this pack of thugs had opted for a simple approach. Firstly, they had disposed of the Dearnian guard and four soldiers posted outside his personal quarters. Then, one of them had politely knocked on the prince's chamber door.

Not realising anything was amiss, Prince Entell simply unlocked and opened the door, allowing the four mercenaries to file into his bedroom. Unfortunately for his Highness, there were no handy weapons dangling from any of his walls. It had always been considered by most of the palace staff that he, along with every other member of the Thellon family, was safe in this sector of the building. Realising he was in no small measure of trouble, the young prince picked up the only item he could think of to defend himself; a nearby chair. He swung this item freely at his assailants in a valiant attempt to keep them at a respectable distance. Backing away from the encroaching cut-throats, he found himself pressed up against his large, four-poster bed located at the far end of the room. Deciding to use the bed to his advantage, he swung the chair once more at the killers, then leapt up onto this item of furniture.

When the bedroom door burst open, Prince Entell felt an almost overwhelming wave of relief at the prospect of greatly needed assistance in his dire stand-off. His premature feelings of relief soon deserted him when he realised his rescuer was none other than the odd-named Colin Bourke, who currently held a sword in his one good hand. His doubts about the new Lord's abilities with a blade weapon gave him little hope of leaving his room alive. Much to his disgust, these doubts seemed justified when the recently appointed knight took a couple of steps towards the waiting thugs and promptly threw his weapon in their direction. This action momentarily scattered the attackers as the discarded sword clattered across the floor before coming to rest near the bed and the extremely unimpressed youth.

Still holding aloft his makeshift cudgel, Prince Entell remained on his untidy bed glaring at Lord Bourke, who now stood in the middle of the sizeable bedroom equally defenceless against the group of merciless, hired killers.

Deciding the tall man posed more of a threat to their imminent safety than some skinny boy, the thugs advanced on Colin, leaving their backs exposed to the highly bemused prince. This turned out to be a collectively fatal mistake on their part.

Colin may have possessed absolutely no knowledge of the correct use of a blade weapon, but Prince Entell had been provided with fencing lessons by some of the Kingdoms' finest fencing masters since he could stand upright long enough to hold a sword. One of the assassins surprised everyone, himself included, by letting forth a horrendous scream of pain an instant before he collapsed on the floor. The remaining killers turned to find their intended target, a mere boy, standing with a bloodied sword clutched in his hand. Dismissing the foreign man's presence, the remaining unit advanced towards the armed youth, who braced himself in the correct pose to ward away their initial attack.

Something slammed into the killer who was to the prince's left side as Colin crash-tackled the thug in a vain attempt to even up the odds. Colin had played some football in his youth at college, so he possessed a rudimentary idea as to how best knock a man off his feet and keep him on the ground. Of course, he had never experienced any of his opposition bringing a sword onto the field of play, so this was an entirely new occurrence for him.

The remaining two members of the assassination squad commenced fighting with the youth and were quite perplexed at his level of expertise with a sword. No matter how they thrust their deadly weapons in his direction, the rather unimpressed-looking adolescent expertly parried their attack away from his person. Both men had the distinct impression they had somehow become involved in a fencing lesson, with this skinny boy playing the role of instructor.

Thellic burst into the room, quickly sidestepping Lord Bourke and his human tackling bag and pounced on the two somewhat confused thugs who were fighting with the prince. After their initial meetings, Colin had incorrectly assumed the Lord Protector was just another self-important middleman whose only real function within the palace was to make life difficult for everyone under him. His opinion was drastically altered by the aggressive and completely ruthless manner in which Thellic tore through the remnants of the assassination squad. By the time the tall Dearnian man had finished punishing the thugs for their dalliances inside the royal quarters, they were little more than two mutilated corpses lying on the bloodied floor.

Colin was horrified by this spectacle as he finally wrestled his quarry into a submissive posture. He noticed Prince Entell was standing to one side, watching in mild appreciation of what appeared to be a self-defence exercise.

After wiping his weapon clean on one of the motionless bodies, Thellic stepped across to the two grappling men on the floor and deftly placed the tip of his sword gently against the last surviving thug's exposed throat. His action caused the ruffian to cease struggling beneath Colin's weight.

"I would advise you not to move," he sneered at the frustrated killer. He looked across to the prince, who was still holding the weapon Colin had discarded. "Are you in good health, your Royal Highness?"

"Yes. Thank you, Thellic. Your timing was impeccable."

"I would have been here sooner except there was some trouble in my office. Now if you would excuse me, I must locate the other members of your family." He looked at Colin, who was in the process of hauling himself upright. "Lord Bourke, please be so kind as to relieve his Highness of that weapon and then see to it that if this fool moves a fraction, you kill him on the spot."

"The King and Queen are okay," Colin announced, taking the prince's sword and holding the business end against the motionless intruder's throat. "And Paura's also alright."

"The Princess Paura," her brother absently corrected.

"Whatever," Colin sighed.

"I was given the same information, your Lordship," Thellic quickly admitted, "by the people who attempted to murder me. They also informed me that you were dead."

Colin frowned, clearly troubled by this information. "Why would they say something like that?"

"Who can fathom the workings of such minds? Perhaps it is a message to your good self by whoever sent these killers."

Judging by the commotion coming from down the corridor, a large number of people were approaching the prince's personal chamber at a considerable pace. Thellic, Colin and the prince braced themselves for further fighting while the subdued killer continued cowering on the floor. To their relief, no less than a dozen regular troops from the palace garrison appeared at the doorway with Banisor at their lead.

The Dearnian guard halted to take in the scene while those soldiers under his command immediately swarmed on the captured assassin. They manacled the struggling man and none too gently hauled his battered form out of the bedroom.

"Banisor," the Lord Protector inquired, sword still in hand, "I was wondering where Lord Bourke would be right this moment?"

The other Dearnian man blinked a couple of times before answering. He knew where this seemingly odd question was heading and did not like the destination one little bit. He took a deep breath. "His Lordship is right in this room, Thellic."

Thellic gazed about the room, his eyes falling on Colin. "Why, I do believe you are correct!" the lead Dearnian guard stated in mock surprise. "His Lordship is standing right before me, along with his Royal Highness, Prince Entell Thellon."

Prince Entell wondered about the point of this conversation.

"It just occurred to me that at no stage of today's charming proceedings did I issue an order stating that his Lordship should be given a weapon and then allowed to wander the corridors of the Royal palace like one of the cleaning staff." The smile vanished from Thellic's bearded features. "So, Banisor, would you care to enlighten me as to how Lord Bourke came to be involved in a fight in the middle of the prince's room when he should have been securely stowed in his own chambers?"

"Look!" Colin started to protest, as Banisor's predicament was his fault, "It was..."

"With the utmost respect, your Lordship," Thellic tersely cut the other man's sentence in half, "this matter is really none of your business, so I would appreciate it if you would allow me the courtesy of doing my work."

Colin's mouth closed while oddly enough, the young prince's mouth dropped wide open.

"My utmost apologies, Lord Thellic," Banisor began explaining himself. Rarely did any of the Dearnian guards refer to their leader by his ceremonial title. "I left instructions with some of the other guards to take his Lordship to his state room when the disturbances first began. My strict instructions were that Lord Bourke should remain in his quarters no matter what occurred. Before this happened, I took it upon myself to dispatch the remainder of the squad to check on the welfare of the Royal Family." He paused before continuing. "Obviously, I erred in this regard. My one and only goal should have been the safety and wellbeing of Lord Bourke and to allow others to perform their duties in regards to the Royal Thellon Family."

"It surprises me, Banisor," Thellic calmly announced, "that you can so quickly pick up on your mistakes and yet you still committed them in the first place. We will speak on this business further. Now please station yourself on guard outside this room. And, I cannot emphasis this instruction enough: Do not move from your post!"

Banisor silently stepped from the room to position himself outside the door.

Thellic now turned to Colin and Prince Entell. They also remained silent, not wishing to further upset the Lord Protector, who had so far failed to raise his voice to them, but looked as if he was after any excuse to do so.

"If you will excuse me, I must leave to attend to other duties elsewhere," he dutifully informed them. He bowed once to the prince before fleeing the chamber.

"You know he reminds me so much of my mother," Colin remarked, once he was absolutely certain the other man was well out of earshot.

"How so, your Lordship?" the young Prince inquired.

Colin shook his head. "Never mind. It's not important."

Now that Thellic had left, the prince broached another serious matter regarding the recent bloodbath. "Lord Bourke?"

"What?"

"Your Highness," the prince corrected pedantically.

"Sorry. What, your Highness?" Colin repeated compliantly.

"Do you have swords and other such weapons in the place where you are from?"

"Yes, sort of. Why?"

"I was just wondering why you chose to use your sword as a spear and hurl it halfway across the room?"

Colin shrugged. "It worked didn't it?"

"I suppose so. Although, I cannot get over the belief it was more good fortune than the result of a well-executed plan on your part. Have you ever used a sword before today?"

"To be honest, this was the first time. I'm not really into armed combat."

"I believe you." Prince Entell replied thoughtfully. "We will have to do something positive to prepare you for life in the Kingdoms. At some time, your life may well depend on your proficiency with a sword. We will arrange for you to undertake fencing lessons at the first available opportunity."

"Is that before or after I learn to read?"

On hearing this comment, the prince did something he rarely indulged in; he burst out laughing. "Yes! I have heard of this! Even Prince Zarr can read to some extent."

"I hope he's okay," Colin remarked, suddenly thinking of the little boy.

"He is doing well," a stern voice informed them from the entrance.

Colin and Prince Entell looked across to the doorway of the bloodied room to find themselves staring at King Entell Thellon and a detachment of weary troops standing in the doorway.

"We found his Highness asleep beneath his bed," Entell Thellon, the Third informed them, smiling. "Prince Zarr does that occasionally."

"What's happened here today?" Colin asked, indicating not only the battered soldiers, but also the hacked corpses scattered across the floor about his feet.

"At this time I am not entirely certain," the monarch told him. "It appears a number of assassination squads were somehow smuggled into the palace under the guise of being work crews to perform routine repairs. They were obviously given instructions to murder all members of my family, along with various dignitaries, including yourself. I believe one of these units made the fatal mistake of attempting to target Thellic. May the gods beat them on their heads for all eternity for such a gross act of stupidity."

"Father!" Prince Entell exclaimed at his macabre display of humour.

A grin briefly touched the King's lips before fading to a more serious expression.

"Thankfully the situation is now under control. We managed to capture some of these murderers, although a few of them are a touch worse for wear. What happened here? I bumped into Thellic, though naturally enough he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. He only had time to inform me there had been some minor skirmish in here."

"Lord Bourke saved my life," the prince announced.

"I am impressed, your Lordship. You appear to have made a career out of saving members of my family. And just how did you accomplish this task?"

"I threw a sword at them," Colin replied, pointing towards the slaughtered men. To his shock, Colin found he was not overwhelmed by the sight of the recently deceased men and the tremendous volume of spilt blood.

"I was wondering about them," the King stated, raising one eyebrow. "For the life of me I cannot figure out just how you managed to perform such a feat by simply throwing a sword at these ruffians?"

"To be honest," Colin explained, "I didn't kill them. Your son stabbed one and Thellic polished off the rest. I think he was pretty mad at them at the time."

"Yes, he would be. The Royal Protector has no sense of humour when it comes to this sort of thing." He focused his attention to his eldest son. "You killed one of these men?"

"Yes, father... I mean, your Majesty."

"I am glad to see the self-defence lessons paid off handsomely. However, take a second look at your victim before he is hauled away. A living, breathing man is now just a dead thing to be mourned by his family."

"He deserved it!" the irate prince protested.

"Perhaps he did," King Entell evenly responded. "But even the lowest form of life deserves some measure of respect and some show of dignity in death."

"Then we should find their families and return them for a proper burial," the youth stated, finally discarding his bloodstained sword.

"That is the least we can do for them."

At this point, Colin spoke up: "What about the bastard who sent them?"

The King's eyes and mouth hardened. "There are exceptions to every rule, Lord Bourke. There are only a handful of individuals who would have the resources and boldness required to launch such a raid. When I discover the exact identity of that person, they will find out that humanity from others is a very fickle thing." He halted his diatribe to take stock of their present situation. "I will leave some soldiers here to clean up this room and guard you both. Please do not leave the area until we are absolutely certain the palace is secured."

Colin nodded. "Sure thing... your Majesty.

King Entell Thellon halted briefly on his way out of the room.

"Sure thing," he repeated, grinning a touch. He found the comment strangely amusing, despite the present dire circumstances. Once the King had departed, some of the remaining troops began cleaning up the shocking mess scattered about the prince's bedroom floor.

Colin and Prince Entell Thellon stood to one side and closely observed the cleaning process in silence.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Shortly after the sun vanished beyond the horizon of Valderhien, the Royal palace was once again declared safe. The remaining members of the assassination squad had been either eliminated or rounded up and incarcerated. The casualty list for these bloody raids on the official royal residence was tallied at seventeen soldiers, three house staff and one Dearnian guard dead, and thirty-eight people wounded. The deceased Dearnian had been on guard duty outside Prince Entell Thellon's room. King Entell Thellon quickly realised the guard's death was going to create problems. The Dearnians tended to have exceptionally lengthy memories when it came to exacting vengeance on those who had wronged their people. The only fortunate aspect of the failed assault was that no member of the Royal Family had been harmed, and four of the hired killers had been taken alive. One was the man Colin Bourke had captured and, quite surprisingly, another had been spared by the Dearnian girl, Zirinn. Dearnians generally chopped their opponents into little pieces, which naturally made interrogation difficult. Bearing this in mind, Zirinn had shown great restraint by merely rendering him unconscious with a blow to the head.

***

King Entell Thellon called an assembly concerning the day's tragic attacks in one of the building's more private meeting rooms. He did not wish to be bothered with the usual throng of bureaucrats, officers and courtiers. A small group of elite personnel within the Royal Palace were escorted to a plain room containing nothing more than a long, narrow table and a collection of high-backed chairs. Once this group was assembled, their escort of Dearnian guards and uniformed soldiers silently departed, closing and locking the only entrance.

Colin Bourke and the other members attending the meeting picked a chair at random and seated themselves. They contemplated the serious nature of this assembly as the reigning monarch of the Hamaforth Kingdoms rarely held private discussions on matters of state; he preferred to be more open and in touch with the general views of his subjects.

The King and Queen seated themselves at opposite ends of the table as dictated by long-standing custom. Also present were Thellic, Colin, Banisor, General Arrish Marn, who was the senior army commander, Colonel Ferran Cintras, his immediate subordinate and two-middle aged men who turned out to be ambassadors from the nations of Phornimiren and Halish. Neither of these countries was considered of any real significance, as one was little more than a huge forest and the other a large swamp. The other officials at the table were lesser nobles from either side of the reigning Thellon family.

Thellic, Banisor, the General and the Phornimiren Ambassador were on one side of the table while Colin, the colonel and the Halish Ambassador were on the other. Thellic secretly harboured the view the Phornimiren Ambassador was a whining, spoilt toad of a man used to getting his own way merely because he was a blood relative of that fool, Lord Perorn. It could only get worse if Lord Perorn's son eventually became ambassador, as he was an even bigger imbecile than his father.

Entell Thellon, the Third began speaking to his assembled guests. "Let me begin by stating that all matters discussed here must be held in the utmost secrecy. As of late there have been numerous serious breaches in palace security."

A number of faces flushed red around the table.

"On the good side, the person I believe is greatly responsible for these atrocities has now been removed from his base of power and is presently a hunted man. His vile wife is dead and his treacherous troops likewise killed or scattered in all directions." The monarch paused to allow those around him to take in these most important details. "I have therefore made the decision to immediately send Lord Bourke directly to Xerous, where he will take command in my name and hopefully bring some measure of order and stability to that realm. I order you, Thellic, plus a number of Dearnian guards and a sizable detachment of my most trusted palace troops under the command of Colonel Ferran Cintras to accompany him on this vital mission to assure its success."

"No!" the Lord Protector blurted, rising out of his chair in an uncharacteristic display of insolence. The chair toppled to the floor behind him. "I will not do it!"

Expecting fury at this insubordination, King Entell Thellon surprised everyone present by grinning slightly. "Thellic, I hate to be the one to remind you," his Majesty continued, "but you are duty-bound to obey all orders I give you under... any conceivable circumstances." He looked across to his spouse seated at the far end of the table. "Is that not correct, your Highness?"

Queen Sinar nodded, smiling brightly. "Your Royal Majesty, I do believe you are quite correct on this matter."

Thellic glanced nervously about the room, incapable of avoiding a collection of stunned expressions on the faces of everyone present. The royal couple appeared to be quite amused by his uncharacteristically irrational behaviour.

"I... I do most humbly request forgiveness for my ill-mannered outburst, your Majesty," Thellic weakly muttered, as he remained standing. "As you appear to be displeased with my services, I will withdraw myself from all Protector duties and return immediately to Dearnia."

"Nonsense, Lord Thellic," the King replied, not bothering to consider his resignation. He left his place at the table, stepped around to the Lord Protector's upturned chair and replaced it behind the blond man. Once he had wandered back to his own chair, he sat down and continued. "The fact is, Thellic, I have been quite impressed by the way you have discharged your duties in the short time you have held the honoured rank of Lord Protector. If this were not so, I would not be sending you to accompany his Lordship to Porra. In fact, I would most probably be going there myself and leaving General Arrish Marn in command here. Porra is my main concern at the moment." He paused to gather his thoughts on the subject. "If Jom Azzer hears of Laninval's expulsion, he could very well mount immediate military intervention, sending troops pouring into the country. And once he overruns Porra, the remainder of the Kingdoms could fall in possibly less than three seasons."

Stunned by this information, Thellic slumped back into his chair. "How can this be, Sire? Are not our combined forces enough to handle whatever Ruler Jom Azzer throws at us?"

"To a point, Thellic. Whether you realise it or not, Porra was always the key to our defences. He could not mount an invasion without first taking Xerous. And Xerous has always been far too difficult to defeat."

Colin interjected at this point in the conversation. "I'm afraid you've lost me here," he spoke up in a clear voice so that everyone in the room could hear. "I thought Xerous was just one city. How can one city be so important in the great scheme of things?"

Normally, the King did not tolerate interruptions. On this occasion, however, he could not help but show off his advanced knowledge of military manoeuvrings. "If the castle at Xerous is fully operational, the local garrison can send troops out to attack the flanks of any invading army. An army cannot put its collective resources to the job at hand if their numbers are constantly being decimated from the rear and sides by any armed force which then turns and flees back to the fortifications of the castle and city."

"What makes you think I can help with any of this?"

"The good people of Porra just need someone to lead them. They obediently followed Laninval because they were terrified of him. I hope they will follow you because of the more admirable personality traits in your character, Lord Bourke." The monarch glanced from one face to another as he announced his intentions towards the threat from the Azzil Territories. "In order to give us some more time to settle these difficulties in the west, I will make peace overtures to Ruler Jom Azzer. I pray this throws him off balance for long enough to allow Lord Bourke and his detachment to regain control of Xerous and in doing so, all of the nation of Porra." King Entell faced Colin. "An impeccable source has informed me that your skills with a sword need some fine tuning."

"That's putting it mildly," Colin scoffed.

"Your Majesty," Entell Thellon corrected him.

"Sorry, your Majesty," Colin apologised in a contrite fashion. "I keep forgetting these things."

"Understandable. It is not every day a person finds themselves removed from the safety and comfort of their home and placed in another, altogether different situation--not to mention a dangerous one."

"That reminds me! I have a favour to ask, your Majesty."

"You have already saved the lives of two of my children, Lord Bourke. No request you can make is beyond my power to see it accomplished."

"I was looking around the city today and saw some more people I think are from my... er... world." He glanced about the room and wondered how many of those people present knew of his origins. "Is it possible to have someone try to find them?"

General Arrish Marn, Colonel Ferran Cintras and all of the other guests were silent, their features drained of colour as they stared dumbfounded at the new Lord of Porra. They had heard rumours to the effect that his Lordship was certainly not from the Kingdoms, or anywhere close to them. It appeared these rumours were nowhere near close to the full, unbelievable extent of the truth.

Colin silently appraised the reactions of the people about him. "It looks like I let the cat out of the bag," he muttered almost inaudibly.

"Cat?" Queen Sinar inquired.

"It's an old saying, your Highness."

Realising many people in the room were shocked to hear the truth about the new Lord's origins, the King commented quickly; "Once again, I would remind you all of the need for complete and total secrecy in this matter. If the truth of his Lordship's unique origins were to become common knowledge, we could have a full-scale uprising across Porra. Lord Bourke, I will dispatch troops after these individuals, your fellow 'Earthlings'?"

"That's correct."

"I prefer my name for your people--'Beyonders'," Entell Thellon commented, flashing a light smile. "Can you describe these people for me?"

"They were all on horseback. Some were wearing grey uniforms and another on a palomino was in a green uniform," Colin informed him.

"What is a 'palomino', Lord Bourke?" the monarch inquired curiously.

"It's a species of horse with light coloured coat and darker mane, your Majesty."

The King sat bolt upright. His mouth appeared to mutter something inaudible. The other people present were again staring at Colin in disbelief.

"Where was this horse?" the King eagerly demanded, having regained his voice.

"I'm not exactly sure. Banisor was with me at the time."

"Sire, I did not see the animal his Lordship speaks of," Banisor commented. "Although, he did become highly agitated around the Lothure district market place. In fact, Lord Bourke became so excited, he fled from his escort squad before we could do anything to prevent his departure."

This was not going to end well.

Thellic slowly turned his head to glare at his underling.

"The Lothure district is almost directly in the city's centre. They could have travelled from there to any place within the city." King Entell turned to his newest Lord. "Are you certain of the animal's colouring?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Why?"

"All horses within the Kingdoms and to the best of my knowledge, all of the continent are shades of brown. A horse with a light coloured coat would make a prized addition to my stables. I already have an exceptional equine collection--one of the best in all the lands."

"I'll take your word for it," Colin remarked. He had never really been a horse person.

"Was the animal in question a stallion or a mare?"

Colin shrugged. "I didn't get close enough to check it out. But you still haven't heard the best bit. If these people I saw today are the genuine article, then they're about a hundred and seventy years, or well over three hundred of your seasons from my past on Earth."

Not surprisingly, this revelation was met with dead silence.
CHAPTER FORTY

THE AZZIL TERRITORIES  
THE CITY OF TERRIMORTER

It was still some time before sunrise would chase away the darkness from the fortress city of Terrimorter. A large group of individuals had gathered in the Great Imperial Chamber of Ruler Jom Azzer's official residence in the centre of the massive metropolis. Amongst those present was the Chamberlain, Rinin Juclar, a collection of Imperial Court underlings, military advisers and officers, and a stern-faced man with short blond hair who was presently attired in an ensemble of deep blue and green clothing.

Major Enrich Voltaire stood to one side of this assembly watching with mild interest as Jom Azzer and his spouse, the Empress Dearer Azzer entered the huge chamber. Instantly, all eyes were cast down, except for Voltaire's intense blue eyes, which continued to stare at the elegant couple. Despite their calm demeanour, he could clearly see these two monarchs were in a highly agitated state.

Voltaire did not particularly care about them. To him it was like observing a group of malicious children showing the utmost malevolence against one another in a continuously fluctuating game. And all of this was on the pretext of removing some members of royalty from their position of power in a place called the Hamaforth Kingdoms. To his mind, it was infantile and pathetic. There appeared to be no real purpose to their puny plans other than to join these Kingdoms to their own nation. Conquest was an objective he could readily understand. However, these fools were trying to attain their goals through Machiavellian means and subterfuge. One did not conquer an enemy by undermining their society. Victory was achieved by amassing mighty armies and an overwhelming air superiority, and smashing them through the enemy's lines of defence. Voltaire continued observing Jom Azzer and his pompous wife as they climbed up on to the podium.

"You may find this strange," Ruler Jom Azzer announced angrily from his high placed perch, "but when I give an order I expect it to be successfully carried out, even at great personal sacrifice to the individual responsible for its completion."

The Major nodded in silent agreement with these thoughts. A spark of begrudging respect flickered deep inside his putrid soul. This Jom Azzer did show some promise--he was completely devoid of compassion or remorse, and he used sociopathic means to crush those around him without a second's thought if displeased.

The Ruler continued: "This is the second occasion that a plan has failed, again at the cost of my most highly trained assassins. Such men do not appear out of thin air, they have to be trained and conditioned to perform their tasks to the best of their ability and usually in the most trying of circumstances."

An aged, highly decorated military officer now stepped forward, conscious of the fact not to make eye contact with his Ruler. He moved his wide girth close to the Imperial podium. In all honesty, he would have preferred to be just about any other place in the land than addressing his psychopathic Ruler.

"My Ruler!" he announced in a fashion that indicated he considered himself to be of the utmost importance. "The plan may have worked. I feel we should give our squads further time before condemning the operation as a failure."

"Their final duty after the killings was to send word of their success to our nearest outpost at the border," Jom Azzer reminded the officer. "If they had succeeded, we would have heard about it well before this time. The complete lack of any information coming from Valderhien over the past couple of days is a sure sign they failed. And while we are on the subject, Commander, I am not condemning them, they were merely hired killers. Others are responsible for this debacle."

At this accusation, the officer's eyes widened in horror and his slightly wrinkled features lost all colour. "They must not have followed their instructions..."

"Your instructions," Jom Azzer hastily added.

"As you say, my Ruler. My instructions as set out in the assassination plan."

"Between this failure and the debacle at Vin Halle, the army must be wondering if I am truly fit to rule over them."

"Perhaps you should set an example for them, as a demonstration of your inability to tolerate failure, my Ruler," Dearer Azzer purred from her throne.

Voltaire smiled thinly. He also held some begrudging admiration for the Empress. She was ruthless to the point of exuberance.

The Ruler turned to his wife. "Yes, you have a point, my Empress. One failure is bad enough. Two in such a short time is simply embarrassing."

"We surely cannot be held accountable for the unexpected interference of outsiders, my Ruler!" the terrified officer blurted.

"Do not tell your Ruler what he can and cannot do!" the Empress snarled.

"My most humble apologies, Ruler Jom Azzer. I never sought to issue orders to your Imperial self. It is merely that the best plans can go astray if acted upon by someone beyond the jurisdiction of our criteria. This Colin Bourke we heard of..."

"Do not speak to me about this man!" the enraged Ruler exclaimed, all pretence of a calm demeanour vanishing in an instant. "I can only hope one of the squads managed to deal with him for his interference in Vin Halle and if not, then one day I will personally chastise him. If it had not been for his unsolicited attention, Laninval's forces would have taken the Royal palace and my own armies would be converging on the Hamaforth Kingdoms right at this moment." The Ruler now stood up and in a loud voice demanded: "Has any information reached the Imperial palace about the fate of that fool, Laninval?"

"No, Ruler Jom Azzer," another officer called out nervously, ignoring his yearning for self-preservation. "The last news we had from our spy networks in the Kingdoms was that Lord Laninval had fled Valderhien and was in the process of escaping the Kingdoms altogether. Unfortunately, his wife the Lady Laninval perished in the battle near the city between their forces and those led by the most recent Lord Protector, Thellic. Apparently, this man is Ralamin's brother and is little more than a humourless thug. Also, information came to hand that even the local citizenry joined in the fight."

Jom Azzer appeared to find this news of some interest and gathered his composure. "Really?"

The officer nodded, not looking up as he made his report. "Also, we heard news that Thellic presented Lady Laninval's head to the Princes Paura Thellon by way of an apology in the Royal Hall in front of all of their guests."

Jom Azzer appeared to be strangely pleased by this last piece of information.

Scratching his bearded face, the Ruler of the Territories pondered his next move for a moment or two. When he finally spoke, his words came as no small surprise to most of his senior officers, all of whom considered themselves as good as dead over their abysmal failures in the Hamaforth Kingdoms.

"Commander, I wish you to locate Lord Laninval and bring him to me the very instant he falls into your hands. In the meantime, I intend to further irritate his Majesty in a manner that will finally gain his undivided attention."

"As you command, my Ruler," the officer automatically responded.

"I have one further question, Commander," Jom Azzer continued.

"How may I assist you, my Ruler?"

Jom Azzer seated himself. "Who exactly was responsible for assembling, training and instructing the assassination squads?"

"I believe it was the head of your Internal Intelligence Service, my Ruler. He took a personal interest in the plan."

"I see... Kill him!"

So startled was the commander he remained affixed to the spot, but managed to restrain himself from staring up at his ultimate superior. "Kill the head of the Internal Intelligence Service, my Ruler?"

Jom Azzer frowned. "Do I need to repeat myself, Commander?"

"It shall be done at once, my Ruler." The officer stepped back the mandatory pace, turned and moved back to his former position within the crowd of appalled onlookers. He was having trouble coming to terms with Jom Azzer's last order. The designated head of the Internal Intelligence Service was one of the most powerful men in all of the Azzil Territories. The only people wielding more power than this man were the Ruler, his wife and the Chamberlain.

A brief moment passed as those present at this assembly took in the ramifications of Jom Azzer's last order. In that instant, a nondescript-looking man burst through the gathered crowd, emitting a scream of fury and vengeance. Hauling a serrated dagger from his belt, he charged across to the Imperial podium, aiming his attack directly at the unsuspecting Ruler and his Empress. They remained seated in shock at this blatant and quite unexpected attack.

Much bloodshed could have been avoided if his attempt on Ruler Jom Azzer's life had been successful, but halfway up the podium stairs a deafening roar burst out across the immense chamber. The assassin faltered in his advance towards the Imperial couple, one hand clutching at a pool of red on his tunic. He miraculously managed to stagger onto the raised platform and advance another two steps. A second shot knocked the man straight off the podium, causing him to foul the floor of the hall with his own blood.

With his pistol still in hand, Voltaire casually wandered across to the corpse, nudging its bloodied form with his right foot. Not surprisingly, the assassin failed to display any signs of life. The major turned to face the horrified throng of onlookers. "Would anyone care to take up where this fool left off?"

Naturally, there were no affirmative responses to his question.

Empress Dearer Azzer was now on her feet, outraged that such a transparent attempt on their lives could have occurred right in the Great Imperial Chamber. After charging down the podium stairs, she shoved her way past the major, then stepped across to the motionless corpse before swinging a hefty kick into his ribs.

"Who is this man?" she bellowed, her eyes flashing in a mixture of loathing and fear. She directed her hateful gaze towards the nearest officer. "Who is he?"

Stepping reluctantly across to the body, the uniformed man gazed down to stare at the corpse's colourless, expressionless features. "I believe he is; I mean was second-in-charge to the Internal Intelligence Service commander, my Empress. In fact, he was also his personal bodyguard."

"Apparently, he disapproved of my directive to terminate his employer," Jom Azzer murmured, flashing a wry smile.

"Does this fool have a family?" Dearer Azzer loudly demanded.

"I doubt it, Empress," the officer nervously responded. "It is customary for the Internal Intelligence Service only to employ people not encumbered by such things as family. I have heard of some individuals actually murdering their relatives so they could gain employment within the service."

"What about the head of the security service? Does he have any family?"

The officer nodded. "I believe so. A wife and two children."

"Major Enrich Voltaire," Ruler Jom Azzer spoke up at this point, silencing all other voices. "You appear to be a most useful sort of person to have around in a crisis. I would appreciate it if you would take charge of my Internal Intelligence Service as there will soon be an opening in the executive ranks."

The major simply nodded.

"Your first duty, naturally, will be to arrest the former head of the intelligence department and his family and deal with them in a manner befitting his failure while in my service."

"I am certain I can arrange for punitive measures that will meet with your approval. Firstly, they must be located and arrested. Where would I find this man?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Jom Azzer stated. He turned to face the commander of the local garrison. "Would you be privy to this information, Commander?"

"Yes, my Ruler," the commander nervously admitted. "They should be located in the western sector of the city where many of the upper echelon of the Intelligence Service reside. I will dispatch a detachment of troops there immediately."

The Ruler smiled. "You do that, Commander. But please be careful. I would so hate it if you failed in this task. Good personnel are difficult to replace."

"It shall be done as you have instructed, my Ruler," the ashen-faced commander replied.

After being granted permission to leave by both of the Ruler and Empress, the commander quickly and quietly retreated from the area, followed by a small group of lesser officers. The huge double doors were closed behind them, leaving Jom Azzer and Voltaire to continue their conversation.

"Did you have anything in mind as a suitable punishment for this traitor, Major Voltaire?" the Ruler inquired, picking up the dagger the killer had dropped right after being shot. "After all, I cannot have this sort of incident popping up like some new national pastime. Examples have to be set."

"Naturally," the other man agreed. "These Hamaforth Kingdoms that you speak of: If I were to give you the key to complete control over them, would you be willing to give me something in return?"

"Enrich Voltaire!" Jom Azzer smiled, his interest piqued, "if you were to present me with the secret to domination over that region, I would give you absolutely anything you request. But your designs would have to be met with complete success." The Ruler looked at the fair-haired man. "What is it that you want?"

"To rule the Hamaforth Kingdoms."

"What?" Dearer Azzer blurted, outraged by his demand.

"In your name, naturally," Voltaire continued, ignoring the exclamation from the enraged Empress.

Never taking his eyes away from the new head of his much feared Internal Intelligence Service, Jom Azzer handed the recently discarded knife to a nameless servant. "Get rid of this thing."

The elderly servant nodded once, waited to be granted his leave, then fled the chamber with the weapon clutched in both hands.

"And what do you intend to do with Hamaforth and her aligned realms once you are in control?" Jom Azzer demanded, "Assuming I do grant your request."

"Whatever you want me to do, of course."

It was a remarkably easy plan, all things considered. Once he was in power, Voltaire intended to comply with any request this half-wit Ruler and his cold-eyed harpy of a wife made of him. This would continue until he had built up a large enough army of his own. Once this was achieved, he would send his forces massing back across into the Azzil Territories. He could hardly wait to see the expressions on their stupid faces when they discovered an invading force right on their doorstep.

"I will consider what you have said, Enrich Voltaire," the Ruler announced, stepping back to his throne, "but obviously I will want to be informed of the full plan and kept in touch with the various stages of its progress." He seated himself once more and stared coldly down at the intriguing new arrival to the Imperial Court. "There must be no more failures, Major. Great ventures come with tremendous risks. What you are undertaking in my name comes at peril to your own life. If you succeed in bringing the Kingdoms under my control, there will be great rewards for everybody. Failure will bring about your death; make no mistake."

"Believe me," Voltaire responded, "those around me in my previous life failed in their sworn duties. I have had enough of the stench of failure and empty excuses."

"Very good," Jom Azzer remarked, gazing into the other man's clear blue eyes. There was hatred and yet great resolve in them. This individual would commit himself to his word or die trying. The Ruler turned to those still present in the assembly chamber. "You may all leave our presence now. I wish to discuss matters with the Empress."

Everyone, including Voltaire, slowly filed from the immense hall, leaving behind a handful of the Azzer's most trusted soldiers to guard the main entrance.

"Surely you do not trust that man?" Dearer Azzer demanded, turning to face her husband, who was obviously deep in thought.

Jom Azzer turned to look at her. "Please, Dearer Azzer, do you think I have completely lost my mind? I told Enrich Voltaire his wish was granted only so he would commit himself to us. Whether he is successful or not, he will be disposed of when I decide the time is right. Never forget, besides knowing things beyond our capability, he is still an extremely dangerous man. You saw how easily he dealt with that assassin," the Ruler announced, indicating the bloodied corpse still decorating the floor. "If we turn against him at the wrong time, both our lives could be forfeited."

"Then kill him now!" she heatedly insisted.

The Ruler slowly shook his head in response to her plea. It was not often he denied his spouse any request, but this occasion was an exception. "He can and will be of great assistance to us in the near future, my Empress. With his willing support we will conquer the Hamaforth Kingdoms, absorb their citizens into our society and exterminate the entire Thellon family." He smiled across to his wife. "All up, it should make for an interesting time."

Once Jom Azzer had concluded this little interaction with his beloved wife, he wandered down to the motionless corpse. Gazing down at the man, the Ruler could not help but wonder if he was in a better position as Imperial monarch having lost his loyal security commander. Deciding he did not really care one way or another, he left the hall accompanied by his faithful spouse. Indeed, interesting times were ahead.

***

Major Enrich Voltaire stepped into his spacious quarters located within the confines of the Imperial palace. He had only just returned from having personally supervised the incarceration of the former head of the Internal Intelligence Service, along with every member of the man's immediate family. Removing a pair of soft black leather gloves from his hands, Voltaire casually tossed them onto a nearby dresser drawer located beside the room's only window. He turned to a man who was standing near the doorway. His plans very much hinged on the Anhil leader's willingness to co-operate. If this man refused to agree with Voltaire's idea, he would have no other option but to do away with the bandit and search for someone else who was willing to be of assistance. The major was under no illusion about his position in regards to gaining control over the nation of Hamaforth, its affiliated countries and finally, the entire Azzil Territories. Put simply, he knew nothing about these places except the little information made available since his mysterious arrival to these lands. He was still at a complete loss as to how he managed to be on another planet. This problem would have to be looked into at another time: First things first.

Sinnit Sear remained uncharacteristically silent as he stood near the open doorway to Voltaire's bedroom. Since entering these quarters, he had never taken his eyes off the tall, blond man. He had been around enough rough, merciless characters in his life to know an exceedingly dangerous person when he saw one. "You wished to speak to me?" he inquired, displaying a false air of confidence to hide his mounting feelings of trepidation.

Voltaire nodded. "I certainly didn't invite you for your charming personality." He aimed a thin finger directly to one of the chairs in the spacious room. "Take a seat, Sinnit Sear. There's something important I wish to discuss with you."

The bandit leader felt an even greater sense of apprehension at these words. His only wish was that any further plans the major had would include himself and the other Anhil. He ventured across the room to the chair in question before placing himself on its expensive cushion.

"How do you feel about Jom Azzer and his charming wife?" the major inquired, stepping across to a position where he could clearly witness every facial expression on his guest's features.

Sinnit Sear remained silent. The look of blatant disgust said it all.

Good. This was a perfect start.

Sinnit Sear squirmed in his seat and looked over his shoulder before saying in a hushed tone, "They... rule the Azzil Territories as best as can be expected under the circumstances."

"But you feel things could be different?"

A wave of dread swept across the bandit's face. He visibly startled the question. "Please, Enrich Voltaire!" Sinnit Sear pleaded, his face flushed. "Do not even say such a thing in the privacy of your own quarters! There are hidden tunnels and chambers all throughout the Imperial palace to conceal spies. We would both be executed on the spot if Ruler Jom Azzer was informed of your last words!"

Voltaire leaned forward, his menacing presence instantly silencing the other man's terrified protests. The first item on the major's agenda was to be certain this ruffian was more fearful of him than of Jom Azzer or his deranged Empress.

"Come now," Voltaire remarked, "you have personally seen what I am capable of when angered. Do you think I would allow that fool and his bitch of a wife to harm either myself or anyone under my protection?" Seeing this partially true statement greatly interested his guest, Voltaire continued: "This so called 'Ruler' is more interested in making grand appearances in front of the local population than displaying any true control over these lands. He intends to overrun these 'Hamaforth Kingdoms', but he has no real idea how to complete this goal. Already his people have failed on two separate occasions to undermine the Kingdoms' Royal Family. This fool Azzer concerns himself more with blaming others for his failures and general incompetence, when he should be readying his armies to cross the border and complete a full-scale invasion of the enemy's country."

The Anhil leader nodded his head in silent agreement. Maybe Voltaire was the true inspiration they had been desperately searching for over the past hundred or so seasons.

"I will be perfectly honest with you, Sinnit Sear," Voltaire continued, "As you are no doubt aware, I have just been placed in a position of great power and authority. A position from where I can see to it that correct actions are taken to ensure dominion over the Hamaforth Kingdoms. If you assist me in the successful completion of these plans, you will never again have to concern yourself over your authority in the Territories. At your word, I will make you my lieutenant."

"And if I refuse?"

"I will accuse you of treason in front of the Azzers."

"Do not concern yourself, Enrich Voltaire," the bandit assured him, "both I and my followers are now at your command. We will follow you to the death."

The bandit's oath was most likely untrue, but the major had no way of knowing for certain. Voltaire smiled at his new lieutenant in as pleasant a manner as he could muster with his diseased mind. He looked rather like a tall reptile. The first step in his overall plan had just come into being.

Sinnit Sear closely observed his new comrade and leader, feeling for all the world, as though he had just joined league with a leering, blond demon.

The pieces of this dreadful plan continued to fall neatly into place.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE

THE HAMAFORTH KINGDOMS  
THE NATION OF DEARNIA

After days of travelling, they still had yet to emerge from the mighty forest through which their horse-drawn wagon pondered along the only road. At the back of their minds were the terrible, bloody events that had occurred at the secluded village now a great distance behind them. Connie York and Dale Johnstone barely spoke a word to the third member of their small entourage during their seemingly aimless journey through the seemingly endless mass of tall trees. If Sean Corrigin addressed them, they would reply using as few words as possible.

Dale was not as distant with the little Irishman, even allowing the odd brief conversation to pass between them. However, Connie kept to herself and did not bother to exchange words with anyone, Dale included. It was as if the scientist had lapsed into some strange form of melancholy after the dreadful massacre inside the village hall. At night, they steered the wagon well away from the road so that their campfire would not attract unwelcome attention. They were not particularly concerned by the complete absence of any civilisation since they had left the previous village; they had plenty of food and water stored in their wagon and figured the road would eventually lead to...somewhere.

***

When civilisation did finally make a welcome appearance, it was in the form of a large tavern and an adjoining goods store positioned just off the winding, tree-lined dirt road. On this occasion, Sean ordered his companions to remain hidden while he completed a thorough reconnaissance of the area.

"What if someone starts nosing around the wagon while you're gone?" Dale asked.

"There are guns in that drawer," Sean informed him while preparing himself for the task at hand.

"But I don't like guns!" the taller man protested from his front seat of the wagon.

Sean shook his head sadly. "Then may I suggest if someone starts causing you any grief you tell them a dirty joke and run away while they fall over laughing."

The short Irishman vanished into the forest undergrowth near the wagon and emerged almost an hour later in exactly the same spot near the roadside. Brushing himself clean of an assortment of leaves and twigs, he wandered back across to where his companions remained seated at the front of the vehicle. Grinning, Sean informed his partners of an important fact: "The innkeeper's invited us to stay the night at his fine establishment and partake of a drink or two."

To their surprise, the roadside inn turned out to be a warm, comfortable place complete with neat, adequate rooms and large double beds. These rooms were all located on the upper level of the building while the goods store and actual tavern were on the ground floor. The tavern itself was divided into a number of sections, which included an entrance hall, the main taproom and a private bar for the exclusive use of overnight guests. There was also a very modest barn located at the rear of the building for the guests' horses to be corralled during their stay.

The innkeeper, a constantly smiling, rotund man of indiscernible age provided the new guests with any information they required, although he noticeably failed to mention the village they had fled many days earlier. After they had finished a delicious meal in the dining room, the three travellers retired to the small private bar to sample the tavern's best liquors. The chubby innkeeper served them drinks while his wife and an assistant quickly and efficiently cleared the dining room of all evidence of the recent banquet.

The three guests sat at a long, wooden bar that had been meticulously polished to the point it almost sparkled. To their further surprise, the drinks turned out to be quite respectable and not the usual filth-laced, watered down ale that was to be found in other drinking establishments they had experienced so far on this planet.

"I could handle living here," Connie commented, sipping one of the local wines after the innkeeper had departed to assist in cleaning the dining area.

"I'll drink to that," Dale replied, seated to her right.

"Please include me," Sean added, seated to Connie's left. He was pleased that during the course of their fine meal, she had finally initiated a conversation with him. "Perhaps we should make the owner an offer. We probably have enough of their money to interest him."

"Honestly, Sean," Dale replied, "we don't. Buying the horses and wagon and supplies used up most of our finances, so I seriously doubt if we've got anywhere near enough left to buy the place." He grinned, "But it would be nice."

"Yes, it would," Connie agreed. "We could spend the rest of our lives here in comfort never knowing if there's a way back to Earth."

"You were the one who suggested it," Dale protested, slightly taken aback by the seriousness of her concern.

"It was just a passing comment. Would either of you really want to spend the rest of your lives stuck here in the middle of the forest serving good food to people who probably don't know how to appreciate it?" She asked.

"Now that you put it that way, I suppose not."

"Then we'll stay here a couple of days, pay the nice man for the use of his pub and leave."

"Yes, sir!"

They stopped talking when the innkeeper suddenly rushed back into the bar. He appeared to be genuinely concerned about something. "I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but there is some sort of commotion going on in the stables. One of you may wish to go back there and check if your horses are all right."

"I'll go," Sean offered, alighting from his bar stool. "Back in a minute."

Dale waited until the other man had left the room. "Still worried about him, Connie?"

She finished her wine and nodded. "Anyone who wanders around with a number of guns in his pockets deserves to be worried about." She looked across at the owner of the tavern, who was now in the process of polishing some glassware and had his back turned to her. She noisily cleared her throat, instantly drawing his attention.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Could I have another one of these drinks, please?"

"Certainly, ma'am."

Connie realised while she watched the rotund man pour her another glass of wine that she was drinking more than her system could usually deal with on most days. She figured her behaviour was little more than self-abuse and she would most likely be the proud owner of a pretty large hangover in the morning. In less than a minute, another glass of red wine was in front of her.

"Thank you," she politely muttered, then waited until the innkeeper was out of earshot before she spoke to her fellow scientist. "At least we can be thankful Sean's on our side. I'd hate to be in a position where I'd really pissed him off." She sipped at her wine. "So what do we do about him?"

"At this stage..." Dale looked thoughtful for a moment, "...nothing. So far, he's been quite helpful and more importantly, he's saved our lives a couple of times. To be straight with you, I'd sort of miss the stunted, loud-mouthed lunatic if he left us now."

Their conversation was interrupted when they heard a minor commotion emanating from the public bar as though a large number of people had just entered the premises. A door slammed shut then a number of voices, including an exceedingly loud one could easily be heard over the commotion. The innkeeper departed the private bar, vanishing from sight.

"I wonder what's going on out there?" Dale commented, somewhat alarmed.

Leaving her drink at the bar, Connie left her seat and wandered towards the closed doorway. "Let's go and check it out for ourselves."

"Connie, get back here and mind your own damn business!"

She turned to him and grinned. "No way! A girl's got to have a little excitement!" Placing one hand against the swinging door, she pushed hard and vanished into the other bar.

Snatching up his drink, Dale gave chase, seriously hoping they were not wandering straight into some sort of deadly trouble.

***

In fact, what Dale discovered on entering the public bar was a group of men all wearing slightly soiled red uniforms of sorts, complete with black trousers and each holding an ancient rifle. These new arrivals remained silent, staring at him and Connie with some apprehension. The eldest member of the group stepped across to them, his sergeant's stripes clearly visible on his red tunic.

"Good evening, young lady," he addressed Connie.

"Hi, there," she responded cautiously.

Were these people on their way to a fancy dress ball?

"Please let me introduce myself," the tall, whiskered man continued. "I'm Sergeant Major Walter Bradshaw of her Majesty's South African Corps. I was wondering if you might be at liberty to divulge some information as we appear to be dreadfully lost."

"What makes you think I can help you, Sergeant Bradshaw?" Connie replied.

"That's Sergeant Major," he politely corrected her. "I notice you have a colonial accent, which would indicate you're not from around these parts."

"Well, I'm Connie York," the stunned scientist informed the tall NCO, "and believe me, you're all more than a little lost."

Some of the other redcoats started moving closer to hear what was being said. Others remained seated at various booths about the public bar, glaring at Dale. Their behaviour gave the scientist some measure of concern. He silently wondered if these soldiers posed any sort of physical threat to either Connie or himself.

"Was your presence requested, Private Carlton?" the sergeant major abruptly demanded, without bothering to turn and face the nearest enlisted man.

"No, Sergeant Major," Jim Carlton answered.

"Then make your miserable self scarce! On the double!"

Connie thought both of her eardrums would burst. The sergeant major certainly had an impressive voice.

Bradshaw turned to study Dale, his face not registering any real emotions over the other man's presence. "And is this Negro gentleman your servant, Miss York?" he inquired politely enough, though both scientists could have been knocked over with a feather.

Connie stared up at Bradshaw, her green eyes wide in bewilderment. Finally, she attempted to answer his question. "I... um... err... no..."

At this point, Dale decided to take charge of the discussion before the English soldier put his other proverbial foot in his mouth. He reached across to shake Bradshaw's right hand and introduced himself. "I'm Dale Johnstone. I'm a scientist and have a PhD in biology so it's 'Doctor Johnstone'. And while we're on the subject, I'm nobody's servant, although if I'm staying at my mother's place, she gets me to wash the dishes and do other odd jobs around the place. Also, the word 'negro' is considered racially offensive; has been since about the sixties. Most people from my neck of the woods use the term 'African American'."

Bradshaw stared at him, flabbergasted. "Have you ever been to Africa, Doctor Johnstone?"

Dale was silent for a moment. "Well, no. Not really."

"I have and believe me, it was not an amusing experience." He paused again. "When you said the 'sixties', did you mean the eighteen sixties?"

"No, the nineteen sixties, of course!"

This fact sank into Bradshaw's mind almost at once. Silently, he turned to gaze at the troops under his command, most of whom were seated but still closely observing the discussion. One wrong word or gesture could easily kick morale and discipline out of the front door of this picturesque drinking venue. He turned back to the two Americans, who were still patiently waiting for him to say something to add to their limited knowledge of what had transpired after the activation of the Minerva Project.

"Perhaps we should discuss this matter some place a little more secluded," the sergeant major suggested. "I wouldn't want to unduly upset the lads now."

"There's a room we can use just over here," Connie announced, indicating the private bar. "I'm going to ask you a strange sort of question," she continued, following Dale and the other man into the private bar.

"Considering our current circumstances, I can't really say I'll be all that surprised by any question, Miss York," Bradshaw admitted.

"Please, call me 'Connie'," she instructed. "My question is, what year were you last on Earth?"

The sergeant major looked at her suspiciously as they sat in a booth opposite the private bar. He sat on one side, his large frame taking up a good portion of the bench seat. The two scientists placed themselves on the other side of the table.

"Eighteen seventy-nine," he finally answered.

The two scientists were momentarily shocked, their stunned expressions greatly troubling the frowning NCO.

"It's worse than I thought," Connie remarked to her team member.

Dale nodded. "I was hoping the effects of the Minerva Project weren't going to be as far-reaching," he ruefully admitted. "Shit! I wonder how far back it went. We could end up bumping into a Neanderthal man or a dinosaur for God's sakes! Who knows what's running around out there!"

"I just hope the thing's still not activated," she murmured, exposing her worst fear.

"Could you please include me in this conversation," Bradshaw demanded, his tone serious and stern.

"Sorry," Dale apologised. "We didn't mean to be rude. But you being here is just a symptom of a much larger problem."

"I'm afraid I'm still very much at a loss. One minute, the lads and myself were up to our eyeballs in disgruntled, spear-wielding natives and the next we're wandering about a large forest, staring up at no less than three moons in the night sky. And believe me, that's not the sort of thing that escapes one's attention."

"Should we tell him?" Dale asked Connie.

"Might as well," she replied with a mild shrug. "He's just as involved as the rest of us."

"It's like this," the other scientist took up the story. "Connie, myself and a couple of our friends were involved in an experiment--which kind of went wrong."

"That's putting it mildly," Connie interjected.

"Would you like to explain this?" Dale demanded.

"Not on a good day," she responded, grinning at him. "Keep going."

"Where was I? Oh, right. The experiment was to... control time."

Bradshaw was astonished by this revelation. "Did you say 'control time'?"

"I'm afraid so. The idea was to slow it by just two hundred thousandths of a second in a controlled magnetic field in our laboratory. Apparently, something went seriously wrong."

"Apparently," the sergeant major conceded, not looking at all amused.

"Anyway, we're now stuck on another planet. We don't know how it happened or why, and there's quite possibly no way for any of us to get home." Dale paused. "We were sort of hoping we were the only ones affected by this--us and Sean, that is."

"Sean?"

"He's someone we bumped into a short while ago," Connie added.

"Sean's from a time about forty years from our past," Dale stated. "It now looks like any number of people from Earth are here. God only knows how many."

"Are you going to tell your soldiers?" Connie inquired of the tall Englishman.

Bradshaw shook his head adamantly. "This is something they don't need to know right now. I may decide to inform them later on. Maybe once they have adjusted a bit more to their surroundings..."

"Have you run into anyone else from Earth?" Dale asked hastily.

"No, not until now. But we haven't been here for very long--only about four weeks or so by my reckoning." He paused, staring down at his large hands as they rested on the table top. "Where do we go from here? There are certainly no contingencies in the British Army Operations Manual for this sort of occurrence."

The others at the table glanced at each other.

"We were wondering that ourselves," Connie reluctantly admitted. "Our main aim is to locate the lab where this all happened to see if we can repair it and reverse the damage. But it's like looking for the proverbial 'needle in a haystack'; and we don't even know where the haystack is!"

Their discussion was interrupted when a raucous commotion erupted in the main drinking bar. The first sound they heard was the noise of something crashing into the floor followed by angry, raised voices bellowing accusations at one another. Apparently, some sort of disagreement had broken out in the main bar.

Bradshaw looked to the scientists and rolled his eyes. "Please excuse me," he intoned, "it appears the lads are getting a touch restless. I just have to sort them out."

Hurrying to his feet, the tall NCO walked briskly from the private bar, followed at a safe distance by Dale and Connie. To their surprise--and Bradshaw's fury--they discovered a handful of redcoat soldiers openly involved in a brawl. Two of the soldiers were blasting accusations at each other while other members of the squad held them at bay for fear of the fight escalating into an all-out fist fest.

"What is going on here?" the sergeant major bellowed with enough force to cause all the civilians in the bar, including the Americans, to visibly startle. Most of the soldiers in the large room were taken aback by the NCO's surprise reappearance and instantly came to full-attention.

"Privates Deering and Jones! Front and centre! And I mean right this bloody second!"

Two of the troopers positioned themselves so they stood straight backed directly before the enraged sergeant major. He closely inspected a number of spilt ale mugs and a broken chair scattered across the floor. He studied Private Deering first and then turned his attention to the other enlisted man. "No, not you, Jones! The other Private Jones! The one who helped make this mess!"

Another of the soldiers appeared before his commanding officer, much to the relief of the other Private Jones, who promptly stood well out of the firing line. "Well?" Bradshaw roared, red faced.

"Well," Leonard Deering reported. "I just picked up a tray of drinks when this clod..."

"It wasn't my fault!" the other Private Jones angrily protested.

"Shut your mouth!" Bradshaw bellowed, instantly silencing the soldier.

"He tried to grab his mug before any of the others and fair skittled me in the process," Deering stated, doing his level best to portray himself as the victim in the recent disturbance. "And then _he_ starts verbally abusing _me_!"

"Well, someone is going to have to clean up this mess!" the sergeant major demanded. "Who will it be?"

"I will do it," the innkeeper calmly announced from behind the main bar as he polished a drinking glass.

Connie laughed.

Bradshaw turned to gaze at the nonplussed innkeeper, the expression on his features clearly indicating his less than impressed thoughts on the matter. "Please, sir," he insisted, "I'm trying to install some measure of discipline here."

"Suit yourself," the rotund man replied and continued with his chores.

"Well, look at this!" an unexpected voice sounded from clear across the room. "The circus is in town and the clowns are all dressed in red!"

Everyone present in the main bar turned to stare at the person who had made the flippant remark. It just happened to be a short, close-shaven man standing at the rear entrance, sporting a somewhat malevolent grin on his face. "So," he continued, "can you clowns do any tricks for us? Maybe you'd like to invade this country. After all, it really doesn't bloody belong to you!"

At least three of the soldiers started walking across to the grinning Irishman. He did not appear to be concerned in the slightest about the fact he was completely outnumbered.

When Jim Carlton's right hand began snaking towards his rifle, Sean decided to take notice. "Believe me, son, do that and you'll be dead long before you figure out which end of that interesting antique to point at me."

Carlton turned to look at his NCO who gazed back and gave his head a stern shake. Their predicament was very uncertain and any unwarranted bloodshed had to be avoided at all costs. The soldier silently withdrew his hand.

"A wise decision," Sean informed him.

"Sean," Connie interjected, having decided it was high time she intervened in this volatile stand-off, "maybe we should go back into the other bar and let these gentlemen finish their drinks."

Connie realised her mistake at once.

"If you can point out some gentlemen to me within spitting distance then perhaps I might just be obliged to do that, Connie."

"Now you go too far, son," Bradshaw remarked, his eyes no longer calm, but a controlled version of irate.

Much as he enjoyed the company of the Americans, Sean was not about to put up with the likes of a pompous British NCO: If not for the presence of his friends in the public bar, he may well have tackled the situation with a much more 'direct' approach. "You listen to me, you stuck-up lackey," he told the sergeant major while stepping much closer to him, "the last time anyone called me 'son' who wasn't my pa, I shot the gentleman in both kneecaps for his trouble."

"I'm certain you did son," Bradshaw retorted without pause.

When Sean's left hand began rummaging about his heavy coat, Connie decided the time was right to take some positive action. Latching onto his right arm, she started physically hauling the short, somewhat agitated Irishman into the nearby private bar. Hopefully, her companion would take a couple of deep breaths, have a quick drink and forget all about his issues with the pub's other guests.

Sean aimed an accusing finger towards Bradshaw as he vanished into the other drinking area. "But they started this! Those miserable, tomato-looking British cu...!"

Thankfully for all concerned the door swung shut at that instant, cutting off a number of other particularly derogatory remarks coming from Sean's mouth. Sometimes, his temper really did get the better of his judgment.

***

While Connie was dealing with the irate Irishman, Dale was in the process of placating the enraged soldiers in the public drinking room. He fully realised the situation could explode at any tick of the clock. Not only was Bradshaw angry but the men under his command were furious. They looked ready to launch an assault on the private bar to deal personally with Sean. If this occurred, the entire situation would quickly turn into complete carnage.

"We should talk some more, Sergeant Major," Dale suggested in as calm a manner as possible in this tense situation.

"Certainly, Doctor Johnstone."

"Please, call me 'Dale'."

"As you wish, Dale," Bradshaw responded, his temper fading after the encounter with the particularly smart-mouthed little man. "What did you wish to talk about?"

"How you all managed to get here," the scientist replied, fishing around in his pockets for some loose change. "But first, let me buy you and your men another round."

Bradshaw nodded. "Fair enough, Dale. Although, I have to warn you if that big-mouthed, miserable little Irishman comes back in here causing trouble, I will have no choice but to let the lads sort him out. I have no time for that sort of behaviour."

"If you do that," Dale warned him, "there's no doubt in my mind that Sean will cut most of them in half in a matter of seconds."

"How is that possible?"

"You have to realise, he's from your future and has much better weapons at his disposal. Look, not more than a couple of days ago I personally saw him depopulate an entire village we were passing through in the space of about a minute, without batting an eyelid." Dale paused for a moment to reflect on the recent massacre. "Mind you," he added, "they were trying to kill Connie and me and had been murdering innocent passers-by for a long time before we came along, so they had it coming."

"Perhaps I should reconsider our position on the matter."

"Good decision. Now how about those drinks?" While Dale ordered and paid for the redcoats' mugs of dark brown ale, the scientist closely watched as Bradshaw sternly instructed his troops to avoid any encounter with Sean at all costs. At first, some of the uniformed men attempted to argue the point with him, but succumbed to his wishes, as per standard procedure, after he reaffirmed his orders at an exceedingly high decibel range.

The soldiers were given their drinks, which, not surprisingly, they accepted without argument. They ventured back into the various cubicles about the large room to enjoy their beverages. The NCO and Dale stepped over to a small table positioned across the room where they could discuss matters in private.

"Do you want a drink?" Dale asked, as they seated themselves.

"No thank you, Dale. I will have one after the troops retire for the night. After all, one must keep up appearances. Now, what did you want to know about us being on this rather odd little world?"

"Basically, I'd like to know what happened to you. And please don't leave out any details."

"Well, as I mentioned before, we were engaged in action in the African Natal province fighting the rebellious Zulus. You're not of Zulu stock are you? I wouldn't want to cause any offence."

Dale shook his head. "I couldn't really tell you, but if you don't wish to offend me then maybe the term 'stock' also needs to be dropped from your vocabulary."

"Well, we were on the mountain of Isandlwana being attacked by Zulus." The NCO shook his head as he remembered this dreaded event. "There were literally thousands of them. To give it to you simply as possible, the entire regiment was pretty much wiped out. Myself and these few men you see here were fighting them as best we could when all of a sudden, this strange fog bank appeared further up the mountainside."

"What was so strange about it?"

"This fog was... glowing. I figured the Zulus might not take kindly to it, so I ordered the surviving lads to hide inside the thing. Next thing I knew, we were wandering around this godforsaken place, staring up at no less than three moons coming over the horizon. Not a particularly pleasant shock to the system, I can tell you."

"I know," Dale rather absently muttered as he digested the soldier's account.

The redcoats' experience in their transference to Perencore had been almost identical to what Sean had described, only without the angry Zulus. All of them had used the strange fog to hide from people pursuing them.

"So far, we have just been marching around trying to locate someone who has a clue as to what is going on," Bradshaw continued. "Bumping into yourself and Miss York was a stroke of good fortune. At least I now have some idea what caused us to be here. Did you happen to see the strange fog just before you came across?"

"No," Dale admitted, "but we were in the centre of it. There was a glowing light in the lab, but that could have been an equipment malfunction. Unfortunately, I can't offer any good news. Connie and I are still looking for the lab in case it came across with the rest of us."

"So you said before. Have you any idea where it might be located?"

"No." The word had an undeniable ring of finality about it. Dale continued, "Even if we do locate the mansion with the laboratory inside, there's no certainty we can reverse the process. I think you had better prepare yourself for the fact we all could be spending the rest of our lives here."

"I see," Bradshaw murmured, his face wilting slightly under the weight of this information.

"Also, as we said before, the process might not have halted. So don't be surprised if you find yourself bumping into all sorts of strange people out there."

"Well, we've already encountered all manner of bizarre creatures roaming about the countryside."

The scientist sat upright. "I beg your pardon?"

"There was some sabre-toothed tiger thing we shot a while back."

"What!"

"Damn beast tried to eat one of my men. Well, we couldn't put up with that sort of nonsense now, could we?"

"What happened to it?"

"What usually happens when you shoot something--it died. Its pelt brought a handsome price at one of the towns we passed through," the sergeant major stated proudly. "Also, one of the troops reported that he saw some big thing flying in the distance, although, no one else from the squad saw it."

Dale became exceedingly interested in this part of the conversation. "Did he say what it looked like?"

"It was apparently too far away to form an accurate description, but according to the soldier in question this flying 'thing' was enormous, whatever it was. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering, is all."

Both men paused to gather their respective thoughts. At that moment, someone amongst the troops in the bar must have told a particularly crude joke as the entire ensemble burst into raucous bouts of loud laughter that bounced about the main barroom.

The sergeant major spun around in his seat to face them. "Will you lot be quiet! Doctor Johnstone and I are trying to discuss matters of great importance, so keep your dirty repartee to yourselves!"

The troopers instantly fell silent, sipping their greatly appreciated ales and occasionally sniggering amongst themselves.

Bradshaw turned back to the other person at the table. "My apologies. They really should know better."

Dale shrugged. "Don't worry about it. They probably need to let off some steam."

Choosing to ignore the last comment, Bradshaw again paused, waiting for the right time to ask his next question. Across the taproom, the innkeeper wandered over to the other redcoats, picked up the empty beer mugs and spoke to them collectively in a respectfully hushed tone. The soldiers nodded eagerly in unison at this question.

"You have all had quite enough for one night!" Bradshaw called out without bothering to turn and cast his iron hard gaze at them. "Now go out and set up the night camp."

Reluctantly, the squad members gathered up their rifles and equipment and slowly filed out of the main entrance of the inn and into the chilled night air.

Bradshaw decided to press ahead with other topics. "Between my time and yours; what has happened to the Empire?"

"What Empire?" Dale asked. History was really out of his field of expertise.

"The British Empire."

"Oh. Well, it's not really an empire anymore."

The NCO was clearly crestfallen at this piece of news.

The scientist continued. "I think it's the head of a Commonwealth, or something like that. I hate to tell you this, but a lot's happened since you were last there." Dale paused to mentally gather some information. "Let me see... there's been two World Wars, a major Depression, a lot of other smaller wars, then terrorist acts..."

"World Wars?"

"Yes. You know: one in, all in."

"Who... I mean, which countries were involved in these World Wars? Who were England's allies?"

"Let's see... the US, France, Russia."

Bradshaw frowned. "We usually fight all of those countries. Who on Earth were the enemy?"

"Mainly Germany and Japan... and a couple of other nations."

"That would be right!" Bradshaw huffed in anger. "The Huns always were a bunch of bloody troublemakers. I don't know about the Japanese though. It seems an odd sort of thing for them to do." His face was set in a serious expression. "Who won?"

"We did," Dale answered, wondering where this conversation was heading. "Both times."

"Good show! Twice you say?"

"Yes, twice," Dale confirmed, but his expression was impassive. "But as a result of these two wars, close to eighty million people lost their lives."

The sergeant major's face was pale and the elderly soldier looked as though he had been dealt a deadly sting by some giant, yet invisible insect. A good minute passed as Bradshaw attempted to absorb these staggering facts. He wondered whether Dale might have inadvertently exaggerated the number of casualties.

"How many did you say?"

"I'm not certain of the exact numbers; history was never my strong suit. But I know that almost two entire generations of people were wiped out as a result of these wars."

"I think I could use that drink now."

While they waited for the innkeeper to bring them each a drink, Dale continued to fill Bradshaw in on some background information about Earth's twentieth century history. However, he displayed the utmost caution not to divulge any particular historical accounts or names, as he realised that if Bradshaw and the other soldiers were returned to own their time, they could try to alter history--and to what effect?

The innkeeper placed a full mug of ale before each of the men then casually left them alone.

The sergeant major lifted the large container up to his mouth and nervously gulped down a few mouthfuls of the dark brown beer. Right now, all he really wished to do was get blind drunk and forget about this news. But he knew such an act was not an option; there were far too many issues to contend with on this new world.

"Is there nothing more you can tell me?" Bradshaw inquired, placing the partially emptied mug onto the table in front of him.

"No," Dale confirmed, "I think we're all here for the duration."

Both men fell silent for a while. Bradshaw sipped at his drink while Dale ignored his brew, gazing inside his own mind to wonder how the Minerva Project could have gone so horrendously wrong and created such a massive distortion of time and place. He did not even know this planet's location in regards to Earth's position or the timeframe. They could quite literally be anywhere at any time.

"You do realise we are going to have to part company tomorrow, Dale," the redcoat mentioned.

Dale looked across the small table. "Sean, you mean."

"Is that the little lunatic's name?"

"Yes. He's okay, so long as you're on his side."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be the case. Sooner or later, there would be trouble, and a great deal of it I fear. I have to protect the men under my command. Nothing is more important to me."

"Where will you go?" Dale asked.

"The same place as you--out there somewhere. We'll keep on searching this world, until we find something or someone to assist us in getting home. Naturally, if I find this 'Minerva Project' of yours, I'll do my level best to contact you about its location."

"Thanks," Dale replied, finally sipping his beer. "Any help you can give us is greatly appreciated."

Bradshaw was reminded of some long lost fact from the archives of his memory. "Wasn't Minerva some Roman mythological god?"

"Yes. I believe Minerva was the goddess of wisdom and the sciences. I think that's why Colin Bourke, our fearless leader, chose the name. It must have sounded appropriate to him."

"If my memory's correct," the sergeant major piped up, "Minerva was also the goddess of war. Apparently that one slipped past your friend."

"It must have. Oh, that small village I mentioned earlier. It's a couple of day's travel away from here on the road coming from the east. Avoid it at all costs. As I said before, our companion pretty much depopulated the place, but there could still be a couple of irate peasants keen on revenge."

"I will remember this. Now, if you will be kind enough to excuse me, I have to see that the troops are behaving themselves. Someone's bound to get the bright idea to sneak back in here tonight and pay that nasty little Irishman a visit."

"A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," the scientist commented with a light grin.

"I believe it's more a case of 'boys will be boys'. Anyway, if I'm in plain sight they're a lot less likely to cause any further fuss."

Rising to his full impressive height, Walter Bradshaw shook hands with Dale Johnstone then silently left the public bar, gently closing the front door in his wake.

These two men would meet again at a different time, in a different place, when the entire continent was in turmoil and violence on an unparalleled scale ruled their way of life.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO

THE HAMAFORTH /PORRA BORDER

With his rifle slung snugly over his shoulder, Private Ricky Sorell wandered along the front path of the homestead. The moons and stars that night showered him and the surrounding countryside with a gentle blue light, creating a surreal glowing landscape. Unfortunately, Sorell failed to appreciate such a wonder of nature as he had once again been placed on night watch--and as far as he was concerned, night watch was a bitch, out to ruin his life. Since the initial Anhil attack some days ago, they had not seen or heard another bandit in the immediate vicinity. No matter the reason, the no-show of the Anhil was just fine as far as Sorell was concerned. He had personally witnessed way too many altercations during his time in Vietnam to yearn for any more violence in his life.

On the unfortunate side, the homestead's occupants, Kellin Toor and Ilit Vannur had become increasingly concerned about the disappearance of their farm workers. The workers should have shown up at least four days ago, and there was now the nagging fear the men may have been ambushed by survivors of the original Anhil raiding party as they made their way back to the farmhouse.

The lieutenant's arm was healing well and he informed the women at the farm there would be a serious search and possibly rescue operation mounted to locate the farmhands at first light tomorrow.

Sorell glanced at his battered wristwatch. The damn thing was still not working, no matter how much he tried to fix it. A soft noise drew his attention, causing Sorell to spin around, rifle at the ready. He immediately recognised that the approaching man was Private Joey Henty. Sorell promptly lowered his weapon, his features contorted in disgust at his peer's thoughtless approach.

"Oh, man! You almost got yourself blown all to hell! You should give a trigger-happy grunt like me a little more warning before you come snooping about in the dark! Hell of a way to die if you get shot by one of your own people!"

"Sorry Ricky," Henty apologised. "I just wanted to find out if you'd seen anything yet?"

"If I'd seen someone lurking around and not giving me proper warning I'd have blown away the clumsy mother by now!" Sorrel declared angrily. "Anyways, what are you doin' here? You're supposed to have your sorry ass watching the other trail. If the lieutenant catches you, he'll chew out both our asses. Now get back where you belong!"

"But it's boring."

"Damn right it's boring. Otherwise, grunts like us would be lining up for miles to pull guard duty. Now move!"

At the farmhouse, which was not all that far away, a top floor window creaked in protest as it was shoved open and a head poked out into the cold night air. Lieutenant Gary Wyndham rubbed both eyes with his hands. He was less than impressed to discover both his posted guards chatting to one another in front of the homestead as if they were conducting a knitting circle.

"Private Henty! I could have sworn I posted you at the rear of the house. Why aren't you there?"

"Sorry, sir!" Henty called up. "I was just checking on Private Sorell! I'll get back there right away!"

"That's right!" Sorell laughed, his voice not quite loud enough to reach the nearby officer, "Get to the back of the farm, boy!"

Henty traipsed unhappily back to the rear of the large building. In fact, Henty was not at all concerned about taking guard duty by himself, but he was indeed bored. He wandered past the motionless Iroquois, which earlier on they had all manhandled to one side of the clearing, so the aircraft would not offer additional cover to any attacking forces. Private Henty was completely unawares his progress was being closely monitored by a pair of eyes, bloodshot, angry and inhuman, hidden well out of sight in the undergrowth that lined the clearing about the homestead.

Sorell was likewise being observed from the relative safety of the nearby foliage as he paced about the trail. When the soldier moved, so did his observer, who was ensuring utmost caution not to make his presence known by producing any unnecessary sound. For the time being the surveyors studied their intended victims, waiting for a careless move that would leave the green uniformed men open to a successful attack.

***

A gentle knock emanated from Gary Wyndham's bedroom door, causing him to startle slightly. Quickly throwing on his pants and shirt, he padded barefoot across the cold, bare timber floor and opened the door. He was somewhat surprised to see Ilit Vannur standing in the hallway, a heavy cloak pulled tightly about her form.

"What is wrong?" she demanded in a soft, but strangely harsh whisper. "I heard voices outside."

"Just a lull in discipline, Ilit Vannur," the officer replied vaguely, causing her to frown. "The men on guard duty were talking to each other, rather than paying attention to the job at hand. I had to remind them to get back to their duties."

As he was talking, Wyndham noticed something interesting about the petite woman; she smelt nice. And the closer he moved towards her, the nicer the fragrance.

"Are you going to leave them outside all night?" she inquired, noticing the man standing before her was losing his pants. She wondered exactly how far down they would travel before he did something to correct the problem. Assuming it was a problem.

"No, ma'am," Wyndham replied, wondering why she was gazing furtively at his crotch. God, she smells good, he thought. And she has great eyes. "Err... they'll be relieved from their post in about an hour," he added.

She frowned. "An hour?"

"It's a measure of time from my home."

She wondered if his pants would continue their losing battle against gravity if she encouraged him to follow her around the room. Gently pushing past him, she entered his bedroom and stepped across to the window.

"Still, it is a nice night outside," Ilit Vannur commented, staring through the slightly frosted pane of glass.

"Very nice," Wyndham agreed, "unless you're stuck on guard duty. Then it's just another night of marching around in the cold."

Ilit Vannur stepped away from the window and fixed her gaze on Wyndham's handsome eyes.

He wondered how far the meeting between them might go and if the walls to his room were soundproof. He figured as the whole structure was timber, any loud noises would probably echo throughout the entire farmhouse.

"Do you have a partner in your home land, Gary Wyndham?" the woman asked.

"Who gives a shit," the officer murmured.

"Pardon?"

"I mean, no, I don't," he answered truthfully. Then he shrugged. "Well, I did, but she sent me a letter telling me she was going out with my best buddy back in the States." He paused momentarily. "I really shouldn't be telling you any of this," the lieutenant added ruefully, "but hell, they deserve each other."

Ilit Vannur stepped closer to the tall man, staring up into his eyes. "There is something I wish to say to you."

He stepped closer to her. The situation was showing all the signs of becoming exceedingly interesting. Her cape had altered its position slightly, allowing him to see that she was wearing something underneath the shroud of thick cloth.

"What is it?" he inquired.

Right at that moment, much to their mutual frustration and shock, the area around the farmhouse erupted into a chaotic free-for-all.

***

Something moving near Lieutenant Gary Wyndham's window caught Ricky Sorell's attention as he wandered about the front of the homestead. The soldier immediately halted and peered up at the window, watching intently in case the apparition should reappear. Figuring it was just the lieutenant checking on him again, he turned and continued walking the perimeter of the front yard. Maybe it was just his imagination working overtime.

Without warning, the cold, hard blade of a knife rested gently against the side of his exposed throat, causing the soldier to cease all movement.

"Do not move," a low male voice instructed.

"I ain't even breathing," Sorell whispered to his captor, his M-16 still uselessly slung over his shoulder.

"Where are your companions?"

"In the house," the soldier informed whoever this other person was, failing to mention Joey Henty's presence at the rear of the building.

The knife pressed closer to Sorell's exposed throat. "Are you certain?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Call them out."

"Say what? Look, it's the middle of the damn night..."

The knife blade pressed deeper against his skin, providing him with a stinging cut near the base of his neck that began to bleed at once.

"Do as you are told!" the voice growled, angry at the delay.

Using the opportunity to achieve a little distance from his assailant, Sorell grabbed at his minor injury and stepped about half a pace away from the thug.

It was precisely at this instant both men heard a fear-filled scream closely followed by a long, loud blast of automatic gunfire. In a single, swift motion, Sorell grabbed his rifle and used the weapon as a club. He sent the rifle butt crashing into the other man's mid-section, causing him to discard the knife and collapse in a heap on the cold ground. Before the private could bring his weapon into a proper firing position, another figure burst from the nearby bushes, axe in hand and charged at him. Sorell swung the rifle once more, cracking the man across the chin. This intruder toppled, unconscious to the roadside, right beside his knife-wielding companion.

Another burst of gunfire echoed up and down the valley, followed by a strange, garbled sound that at a distance sounded like Henty screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs. His rifle now correctly positioned in both hands, Ricky Sorell chose to ignore the motionless men on the ground. He bolted towards the rear of the homestead. It sounded to him as if Henty was being gruesomely murdered back there.

***

Lieutenant Wyndham, sidearm in hand almost collided with Corporal Scott Stuart, who appeared to be still half-asleep. They stood in the hallway of the upper floor as gunshots reverberated from the rear of the building.

"What's going on, Lieutenant?" Stuart asked, his eyes glazed from his rudely interrupted slumber.

"I'll tell you as soon as I know myself," Wyndham stated before dashing past the NCO, who followed him along the hallway.

They arrived at the rear of the house at about the same time as Ricky Sorell, who was panting slightly from the exertion of his short dash around the building. Clarence Field burst from the rear doorway about half a minute later, rifle also in hand. He expected to find some sort of conflict in progress and was bewildered to discover the commotion was just Henty going ballistic.

All four soldiers stood near the back veranda of the homestead watching in amazement as Joseph Henty, face pale and eyes bulging, stood not far away, firing rounds wildly into the nearby foliage.

"You think you're so goddamn tough, don't you, shithead!" Another long burst of automatic fire lit up the area. "Eat shit and die right goddamn now!" Henty once again blazed away at the apparently offensive undergrowth.

"Private Henty!" Wyndham bellowed, deciding these frivolities had gone on for quite long enough. "What the hell are you doing?"

Apparently, the commanding officer of the unit was not getting through to his subordinate as Henty once more fired on the hapless undergrowth.

"Eyes, man! Those eyes! Well, screw you and your mother! And the horse the bitch rode in on!" More gunfire. "You want a piece of me! Do you? You hairy-assed piece of shit!" Another long blast of automatic fire tore through the countryside. "Well you can't have me! So there!"

"Lieutenant," Sorell interjected, his voice raised to overcome the bouts of insane gunfire, "there are a couple of those Anhil fools out front. They tried to jump me, but I got the better of them."

Wyndham forgot all about Henty's insane behaviour and turned to face the private. "What's going on, Private Sorell?"

Sorell shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, sir. But there are two hoodlums out front that tried to pull some moves on me. Now they're both kissing the ground."

"Go guard them until I can get there. We may have to throw a net over Henty."

"Yes, sir!" Sorell turned and ran back double-time to the front of the house.

Wyndham looked at Stuart. "Can you do something about this please, Corporal? Sooner or later, he's going to hit one of us and I doubt if any local medical facility is equipped to deal with a serious gunshot wound."

"Yes, sir."

By this stage, every person inside the homestead, including the child, had gathered about the rear veranda, watching the bizarre behaviour of the apparently deranged soldier, who seemed oblivious to any authority. Henty continued ranting and shooting into the dark night.

He ceased only when Stuart placed the business end of his own rifle against Henty's temple. "You keep up that sort of behaviour, private and I'll personally shoot you like a rabid dog. Put the weapon down, mister! Now!"

Finally, common sense seeped into Henty's bewildered mind and he ceased his aggressive behaviour. He did not appear to be at all amused by his superior's actions. "You didn't see what's out there, Corporal!"

"Whatever it is, it can't be half as dangerous as you."

"He is quite correct in his statement," an unfamiliar voice came from behind a nearby clump of bushes.

The man who stepped from behind this camouflage was approximately the same height as Wyndham, but slightly older with shoulder length dark-blond hair.

At first sight of the new arrival, Kellin Toor gasped in shock and delight, then threw herself across the clearing towards the unknown man. Wrapping him in her arms, she kissed him passionately, a display that he gratefully returned.

Wyndham leaned closer to Ilit Vannur. "You didn't tell me she had a brother."

She stifled a laugh with one hand and commented, "No, this is Hinro Toor, her husband," she explained, still grinning at Wyndham's peculiar idea of humour. "Hinro Toor! We thought you had been taken by the Anhil!"

The displays of affection finally abated, allowing the man to reply to his sister-in-law. "I was never in any danger, Ilit Vannur," he answered, clutching his wife's hand. "Besides, there are not enough Anhil left alive in this sector to trouble a blind beggar, far less the three of us."

"Three?" Wyndham commented quizzically.

"Myself, my brother, Wendra Toor and our hired hand, Unron."

"They wouldn't be hiding around the front of the farm, would they?" the slightly abashed officer inquired.

The other man frowned. "Why, yes."

"I think there could be some trouble around there," Wyndham stated somewhat sheepishly.

"I doubt it," Hinro Toor stated. "They were both left with the strictest instructions to observe the dark man, but under no circumstances to approach him. I felt it best to learn more about all of you before making our presence known." He turned to face his spouse. "That is why we are so late."

She reached across to grab his other hand. "I understand, but I must tell you, these people are friends of ours. They helped protect us from the Anhil."

"I hate to break this charming scene up, people," Wyndham interjected, "but I think your brother and the other one may have ignored your orders."

"They would not do such a thing," Hinro Toor replied, aghast at such a notion. "But, before we discuss any other matter further, I must warn you there is a beast lurking somewhere close by in the forest. We have also been observing this creature, as it has been stalking the homestead for a number of days. Your man actually managed to frighten it away just now." He turned to Henty and nodded. "Truly a brave act."

"You're welcome," Henty responded, flashing a quick grin. He was still visibly shaken by his recent encounter with the creature. "You should have seen it!" the soldier exclaimed to no one in particular. "It was huge! Seven, no, eight feet tall! And hairy. Huge and hairy! And big fangs and really weird eyes."

"All right, private," Wyndham responded. "That will do."

"I think it was a werewolf!"

"That's enough, Henty!"

"After what happened to the Chief, nothing would surprise me!"

"Private!" Wyndham yelled, barely managing to suppress a grin. "Calm down and help us escort the ladies and the child back inside the house."

"We must take care of this monstrosity tonight," Hinro Toor announced.

"First light would be better," Corporal Stuart countered, not particularly wishing to roam about the countryside in the middle of the night on some half-baked safari, hunting down the Werewolf of London, or whatever the hell the thing was lurking in the darkness.

"From what I have seen, this creature only emerges at night. If we allow it to continue its nocturnal prowling, it will just be a matter of time before one of us becomes a tasty meal."

"Now there's a pleasant thought," Field remarked.

"Honestly," Hinro Toor explained, "it should be a relatively easy task to track down the beast. In this particular part of the valley, it will be virtually cornered between the open area of the road, the hills and the lake. All we need do is form a hunting line to trap and dispose of the creature."

"We should get the ladies and the boy inside," Wyndham repeated.

Hinro Toor nodded. "Agreed. Perhaps the one you call 'Henty' could be so kind as to escort them back to the house and stand guard. It would be tragic if this monstrosity were to circle our hunting party and return."

Henty looked at his commanding officer, who merely nodded his head. Reloading another ammunition clip into his rifle, he walked beside the family as they moved back to the house.

"Now move!" came Sorell's voice from the side of the farmhouse.

Everyone turned and found themselves confronted by the sight of Ricky Sorell pushing two young, sorry-looking men along the poorly illuminated trail. Both individuals had their hands raised high in the air, although they appeared to be at a loss as to why they had to perform such a task, other than the fact the angry dark man had threatened them with physical violence if they did not comply with his instructions.

Closing his eyes briefly, Hinro Toor sighed sadly. "How did this happen?" he inquired.

"These stupid sonsabitches tried to jump me a second time!" Sorell declared hotly. "I ought to blow their dumb, white asses right outta existence!"

"That will be enough, Private Sorell," Wyndham instructed, his hand still resting on his holstered sidearm. Despite the presence of so many armed men, he still treated their situation with some trepidation and always kept one eye closely on the darkened forest. There were monsters out there.

"Wendra Toor, I told you not to approach this man, merely to watch him," Hinro Toor scolded his brother. "I do not say these things to amuse myself or simply hear my own voice."

"We thought we could ambush him. Our plan did not work out all that well though."

"Be grateful you're still alive and breathing!" Sorell blurted, although he had lowered his weapon by this stage. "If I was in a bad mood, you'd all be dead motherfu..."

"Private!" exclaimed his superior officer. Wyndham focused his attention on the head of the farming family. "He is right. They should both be grateful to be alive."

The tall farmer turned to Sorell. "My thanks for sparing their lives. I am grateful."

"Well, yeah, don't trouble yourself about it," Sorell muttered.

Ilit Vannur reappeared clutching a couple of crossbows and a parcel of bolts. She was now dressed in a heavy mauve dress and thick boots. No one was particularly thrilled to see her outside again.

"I thought you were back in the house," the lieutenant remarked to the red-headed woman.

"I was," she explained, placing the weapons and ammunition on the ground at her feet, "but I have returned to provide you with some suitable armaments: Unless most of you intend to hunt this monster with nothing more than knives and ill intentions? Personally, I do not believe this would be wise considering the wicked description of the beast. I swear I will not be able to sleep until I know it lays buried deep in the ground."

"Thank you, Ilit Vannur," her brother-in-law replied. "You may go back to the house now." He bent over, picking up one of the weapons and a number of bolts. He stood up and inspected his crossbow of choice for any possible flaws. Much to his bemusement, Ilit Vannur was still present. "You are still here," he remarked without actually making eye contact.

"I will assist you in the hunt," she declared.

At this point, Wyndham joined in. "No way! We've got enough problems without worrying about you."

"Your role," Hinro Toor began, as he manually cocked his crossbow and loaded the weapon, "is to stay here with Kellin Toor and the child to see no harm befalls them."

"Joseph Henty is with them. He has already chased away the creature once and is more than capable of protecting them." Ilit Vannur allowed her words to sink in. "You will need every able body available in this hunt."

"Go back to the house!" Hinro Toor snapped, displaying the first signs of losing his temper.

While the disagreement continued, Stuart and Field had positioned themselves so if any uninvited guests appeared from out of the surrounding forest to see what the unholy noise was about, they could greet it with a particularly deadly crossfire.

"I am not going to cower like a frightened child inside the house!" Ilit Vannur countered. "I find it strange that you allow me to guard our home at times when you are working on the property, but at the first sign of danger you think I should hide under the nearest bed! When you men have gone to work, your wife and I face all types of personal danger. Why should that situation change just because you are now here with us?"

Her brother-in-law realised he was fighting a losing battle. "All right, you may assist us in the hunt," he finally relented, "but you are to remain close by one of the armed men at all times."

Ilit Vannur had already decided to stay particularly close to a certain member of the hunting expedition, but she failed to mention this to her brother-in-law.

"Are you crazy?" Wyndham demanded, unable to believe the other man had given up so easily. "I say she stays right here!"

Ilit Vannur grabbed hold of the officer's left elbow, dragging him away from the group. "Do not do this to me, Gary Wyndham."

"Do what? Save your life! Look, whatever's out there scared the hell out of an armed, combat-trained soldier. In all honesty, I don't think a woman should be roaming around in that forest at night, looking for some wolf monster armed only with a glorified bow and arrow."

"Bows and arrows are for children!" Ilit Vannur retorted. "I still do not see what concern this is of yours."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt. That's all."

Her expression softened at his words. "If you do care about me, then you will allow me to protect my family," she gently informed him.

"All right, I give in" he relented, "but I do so under protest. Oh, and you're to stick close to me. I don't want you getting eaten by some ugly monster."

"As you wish, Gary Wyndham." Ilit Vannur retorted calmly.

Wyndham led her back to the nearby group, some of whom were closely inspecting Sorell's rifle. Hinro Toor stood to one side of the hastily organised weapons inspection watching his sister-in-law and Wyndham, wondering what was going on between them. He noticed how they gazed into each other's eyes, moved their hands towards one another and stood close together.

"If 'wolfy' gets in front of my best buddy here," Sorell stated with great determination, holding aloft his M-16, "he's going to get turned into wolf stew real quick. I say we get after his hairy ass right now!"

"I heard that," Field responded, his eyes never leaving the darkened forest.

"All right," Wyndham instructed, his voice commanding their undivided attention. "We have a job to do, so let's get going. I want a skirmish line formed with one of us positioned every ten metres."

"Metres?" the farmhand, Unron inquired.

"That's about one large pace. There will be one of my men on either side of the farmers to maximise our weapons strength. No offence, but I personally feel these crossbow contraptions could pose a problem in the reloading department. This way we won't have people firing arrows into this thing, getting it good and mad without some real firepower at hand to bring it down."

The farmers and Ilit Vannur remained around the lieutenant listening intently. Truthfully, they did not always comprehend what he was saying, but they figured most of what he said made sense and trusted his expertise.

Wyndham continued: "I'm telling everyone right now that if one of my men gives you an order, you follow it to the letter. Let's not have any unnecessary deaths out there, okay?"

"I believe he is enjoying this," Wendra Toor remarked to Corporal Stuart.

The corporal nodded silently in agreement. The lieutenant was a cool and calm enough sort of person when in a good mood, but if angered he could rain all sorts of grief down on the head of whoever was responsible for upsetting him.

After once more checking their respective weapons, the group formed a line along the dirt trail while Unron ran back to the farmhouse to retrieve a number of torches for the hunters. Using the available natural light was perfectly acceptable while standing grouped in a clearing but obviously, they would require some assistance rummaging about in the forest with the nearest help a fair distance away. The soldiers could have opted to use their battery powered torches, but Wyndham decided the fire from the more traditional lights would be an added weapon against the creature if the situation became desperate. Once these torches had been handed out and ignited, the skirmish line finally moved cautiously into the undergrowth in search of their deadly prey.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Lieutenant Gary Wyndham ensured the cautiously advancing hunting line was spaced so that one of his men was placed between each of the locals. He took the far left and to his right were Ilit Vannur, Clary Field, Unron, Ricky Sorell, Hinro Toor, Corporal Scott Stuart, and Wendra Toor. Their fiery torches threw constantly flickering light across the forest, making the journey somewhat hazardous due to the significant number of fallen branches, grass tussocks and other natural debris that littered the area. This difficulty in moving freely across the hunting zone caused Wyndham to regret he had not brought along a couple of their military-issue torches to better illuminate their progress.

"Hey!" Clarence Field called out from somewhere along the poorly lit line. "You people should clean up these woods! It's a mess out here! A person could break their neck!"

"That's enough, Field!" Wyndham called back. "We don't want to give this thing advanced warning we are on its tail."

"Why not?" Field angrily muttered, his eyes focused on the terrain up ahead.

"I said that's enough, private!" the officer's unimpressed voice carried through the mass of tall trees.

"Yes, sir!"

A low-pitched howl sounded eerily in the distance. Their line halted. To any person, they were experiencing the nagging sensation they may have made a serious error in judgment attempting to hunt the mysterious creature so late at night.

"Jesus wept!" Scott Stuart exclaimed.

Turning to his left, Field could just make out Unron's terrified face partially revealed by the torch he carried in one hand. The man's mouth was wide open in shock and both his hands were visibly shaking in fear. Unron noticed the soldier staring across at him.

"Personally, I am beginning to think this whole thing's a very bad idea," Field commented in a hushed tone.

Unron merely nodded his head in agreement.

After pausing to catch their breath and calm their nerves, the line of hunters continued to plough through the forest. No more than five minutes had passed before a sharp cry of pain reported through the woods. A shadowy figure darted past Field, causing him to startle. His reaction was to squeeze off a couple of rounds at the mysterious figure, missing it by no great distance.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire! And I mean everyone!" Wyndham's bellowed from his position.

"What in God's name is going on?" Field demanded, still holding aloft the burning torch. It was only because he had been using one hand to hold the torch that his initial burst of fire had missed its intended target.

The lieutenant charged past Field's position, pausing just long enough to call out, "Stay here! And don't let anything else get past, 'cause it won't be one of us!" He plunged back into the grim night, only his torch flame marking his way.

"Now there's a cheery thought," Field grumbled.

The farm owner, Hinro Toor was lying in a natural cavity in the ground, clutching one leg and appearing to be exceedingly unimpressed with his situation. Above him stood a number of members of the hunting party, holding their burning torches high to combine the fire light. Not far from this scene, Stuart and Wendra Toor had maintained their part of the initial formation. The lights from their torches were just visible from the rim of the hole in the ground.

Hinro Toor shook his head as he verbally castigated himself: "I do not believe I did that!"

"These things happen," Gary Wyndham stated. If one of the men under his command had committed such a bungling act, he would have had them on guard duty until they were old and grey. "How's the leg?"

"My leg is in good condition," the farmer answered, "but I believe my ankle is broken."

"That might be a problem," the officer stated the obvious. "Again, accidents happen." If one of his men had fallen into a hole while on duty--and actually broken something, he would have placed them on guard duty until well after they had died of old age.

"Indeed," the injured man responded, wincing once more in extreme pain. "It will be a painful process to reset the bone. And the nearest physician is located in a village some leagues from here."

"Don't worry," Wyndham responded, "we've got a pretty good medical kit in the chopper--that's the machine that's parked at the farmhouse. We can patch you up without too much discomfort." He turned to the other soldier. "Private Sorell."

"Yes, sir?" the enlisted man instantly replied without once taking his eyes away from the surrounding vegetation and anything it might be harbouring.

"Whose turn is it to play doctor?"

"I believe Corporal Stuart's up for his turn as unit medic."

Their conversation did not fill Hinro Toor with much confidence in their medical abilities. If his wife, Kellin Toor, set the leg then at least he might be able to keep the limb in question.

In the meantime, Wyndham was mulling over his last decision. "No," he finally declared. "Someone else had better do it. The corporal's all thumbs when it comes to this sort of thing." He turned to Sorell. "Do you want to give it a try, private?"

"Hell no, sir! The last time I tried any of that shit, my patient up and hit me! I had to shoot him in the other leg just to get away!"

Poking his head just above the rim of the indentation he had stumbled into, Hinro Toor stared up at the dark soldier in abject horror. "Perhaps my wife would be the best one to perform the procedure," he helpfully suggested, wincing in pain.

"Nah!" Wyndham responded, flashing a grin, "I'll have a go at it. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"

"Have you ever set a broken ankle before now?" Hinro Toor asked.

"Not really. But there's a first time for everything." The lieutenant turned to face Ilit Vannur. "What were you thinking, charging off like that through the bush? Field almost blew your head off!"

"I did not know there was any danger," she retorted, her eyes flashing dangerously in the firelight.

"Next time you stay where you are! And that includes everybody!"

"Ilit Vannur!" her brother-in-law called plaintively from his hapless position. "Would you like to try and set my ankle? I promise I will not make too much noise!"

She glared down at him, her expression lacking one iota of pity. "Do not be such a baby! Anyone would think you had never broken a bone before now!"

"Honestly," Wyndham announced with a mild laugh. "I'm not such a bad hand in the first-aid department. Don't worry, I'll have that ankle mended before you know it. The only problem is we have to get you back to the house first."

"Just leave me here, please," Hinro Toor suggested. "I will be safe. The creature cannot get through the line, or at least I hope not. Besides, I have my crossbow for protection."

The officer considered Hinro Toor's offer quite seriously. Any other option left him greatly depleted in manpower for the upcoming hunt. It would easily take at least two other men to haul the large farmer back to the homestead. He now wished Joseph Henty had not been left behind to guard the woman and child. "Okay, we'll leave you here until we get back, then we'll haul you to the farmhouse. However, I think we'll give you a little more protection than just one shot from that crossbow. Ever used a grenade before?"

The injured man shook his head, not that he had any notion what the other man was talking about. Climbing into the hole next to Hinro Toor, Wyndham displayed the small, round device to the farmer, who peered at it with no real interest. "This is your average, good old-fashioned hand grenade, Hinro Toor. Basically, it's a very small, but very effective shrapnel bomb. Do you do know what that is?" the officer inquired, placing the device into the other man's slightly shaking hands.

The other man shook his head but he could guess what the word 'bomb' entailed. Holding the weapon delicately, his forehead was beaded with perspiration despite the cold night air.

"Well, you use it by pulling out the pin at the top, which releases the trigger mechanism. Then you throw it as far as possible towards your enemy. If it's working, it should explode with a bang far louder than our rifles."

Deciding to test this theory, Hinro Toor made the usually deadly mistake of removing the pin and continuing to hold the tiny weapon. "How long before..."

"Christ!" Wyndham blurted, snatching up the weapon and in a single, swift motion, sending it hurtling into the darkened forest. "Fire in the hole!"

Sorell threw himself onto the ground without a moment's thought, arms braced around his helmeted head. He had no particular desire to receive any more shrapnel wounds after being injured in both legs while on patrol when he first started his tour of Vietnam.

Meanwhile, Ilit Vannur was wondering why Gary Wyndham had yelled something about fire being in the hole where he and her brother-in-law were, when plainly there was no fire to be seen. She reasoned perhaps he intended to start a fire to keep Hinro Toor warm on this chilly night. Her thoughts were interrupted when a large hand reached up, grabbed her by one leg and unceremoniously dragged the highly bemused girl face-first into the pit with the two men. She found this action most disagreeable and vowed to lecture Wyndham at great length on his ungentlemanly behaviour.

Under normal circumstances, the detonation of an armed grenade is quite a noteworthy explosion. In a dark, deathly silent forest, the detonation sounded as though the top had blown clean off an enraged volcano. Pieces of trees and bushes, along with no small amount of dirt rained down on their heads. When the shower of partially burnt, smashed vegetation had finally ceased, Wyndham and the others gazed out over the edge of the cavity that had sheltered them from the blast.

The officer felt Hinro Toor tap his shoulder. "What?" he murmured.

"You were quite correct," the farmer confirmed.

"That was very dangerous!" Wyndham chastised the injured man as charitably as possible. He climbed free of the hole before assisting Ilit Vannur to clamber out. "Not the smartest thing I've ever seen a grown man do."

"I think he is angry with me," Hinro Toor muttered to his sister-in-law.

An object suddenly landed in the hole right beside the injured man. He looked down to discover yet another hand grenade resting nearby, the pin thankfully still in place. The farmer gingerly picked up this device before placing it in a jacket pocket.

"Try not to blow yourself up tonight," Wyndham suggested helpfully.

Hinro Toor patted his bulging jacket pocket. "My thanks, Gary Wyndham. I will do as you say."

"Just call me 'Gary'. We'll pick you up on the way back, right after we put a couple of holes in that thing running around out there."

"What if you are not successful?"

"Then I guess you'll be meeting our friend a little later on tonight."

The other man's features paled visibly in the faint, uneven light. "Please be careful. And I do not mean that just for my own sake."

Once more Wyndham smiled. "Don't worry. We've got this thing outnumbered and outgunned; it's as good as dead." The officer turned to his companions. "Come on, let's reform this line and get moving. Otherwise, the beast will die of old age waiting for us."

By bracing himself on his good leg, Hinro Toor managed to prop himself up high enough to observe their departure. "Good luck!" he called over the edge of the hole, praying there would be no further calamities. Lying back down, he wondered how long the hunt for the creature would take and if they would indeed be successful in destroying the beast. He also wondered why these new people spoke so strangely; their words were seemingly out of touch with their mouths. He surmised that he did not really care--at least they were on his side.

***

The further the skirmish line moved away from the trail, the steeper and more rugged the terrain became. No more than fifteen minutes after leaving Hinro Toor, the remaining members of the hunting party found themselves participating in what felt like a sadistic obstacle course. Unexpected inclines, unseen holes, fallen trees, stumps and low-hung foliage all made matters worse. Since they had left Hinro Toor, the party had heard two distinctive animalistic howls from a distance the soldiers judged to be about one kilometre ahead of their present position. For another ten minutes, they scrambled at an unexceptional pace across the rough floor of the woods.

It was at about this time that Ricky Sorell accidentally set fire to the overhead branches of a nearby tree with his torch. The blaze soon developed into a soaring inferno. The only fortunate aspect of his mishap was the tree in question was isolated from the remainder of the forest. Watching great spouts of fire roaring into the night sky, Sorell stood well back, his mouth agape in bewilderment. Much to his horror, the burning tree was lighting up the area like a napalm strike. "Goddamn!" he gasped, gazing upwards.

Also awed by this sight the farmhand, Unron stepped slowly into the illuminated clearing. He looked from the tree to Sorell and back to the tree once more. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"It caught on fire, man."

"I can see that. Do you want to kill us all and burn down the entire forest?"

"I guess not. It was an accident. I just got too close to the sonofabitch and up she went." The private turned to Unron. "Should we put it out?"

The farmhand turned to stare at him. "With what?"

Sorell turned his attention back to the steadily incinerating tree. He grinned. "Shit! You've got me! I didn't come prepared for no hundred-foot high Barbecue."

When the beast attacked, it did so with blinding speed, catching both distracted men well off-guard. The creature had been planning to strike the nearest man, the tall biped animal with dark skin. Sorell's clumsiness inadvertently saved his own life. At the sight of the fearful flames, it panicked and charged into both men, knocking them to the ground.

The soldier managed to fire off his weapon, spraying up dirt and grass and further adding to the general scene of confusion.

Unron was not so fortunate since the beast managed to tear a nasty gash along his right arm in its haste to flee the area. Screaming in pain and clutching his badly injured arm, the farmhand rolled about the ground, doing himself and his afflicted limb precious little good.

Leaping into the brightly illuminated clearing, Corporal Stuart started shooting at the fleeing target, the reports of his discharging weapon echoing across the entire valley. Figuring his efforts were in vain after a moment or two, he ceased firing and gazed down at the injured man near his feet. The corporal realised urgent medical assistance was required. He faced Sorell. "See to this man, private. And for God's sakes, be careful with that weapon!" Checking his own rifle, the NCO started after their prey. "And tell the others I've gone after that hairy prick; so make sure they don't shoot me!"

To be certain he had these orders clear in his mind, Sorell repeated his corporal's instructions to the letter: "Be careful with my rifle and you're a hairy prick!" He called after the fleeing soldier: "Okay, Corporal! I'll be sure to tell the others that when they get here!"

No sooner had Stuart vanished after their quarry than Gary Wyndham arrived. The enormous tree engulfed in flames surprised him. He stood motionless for a moment or two staring up into the flaming pyre.

"I was wondering where all that light was coming from," the officer muttered, continuing to stare up at the tall inferno. He turned around to see the injured farm hand lying on the ground splattered in blood. "What happened here, Private Sorell?"

"That goddamn werewolf thing almost chowed down on the both of us, sir!" the enlisted man reported. "It cut up our man Unron pretty good." He turned and pointed towards the burning tree. "But first, it set fire to that tree!"

"Where did it go?"

Sorell pointed in the general direction of the creature's escape. "That way, Lieutenant. Corporal Stuart went after him just before you got here."

"Shit!" Wyndham cursed. "That's going back towards where we left Hinro Toor! And the homestead's next in line if it gets past him." He faced the other soldier. "Stay with him and see if you can do something about his wound. If Field shows up, get him to follow me. I might need a bit of additional firepower out there."

"Will do, sir."

Wyndham followed in the direction of his second-in-charge, all the while wondering how their target could have possibly set fire to a full-sized tree. Harbouring serious doubts about Sorell's account of the event, the officer continued sprinting through the woods, making certain his torch did not start any of its own fires. Despite the fact that neither the farm owner nor the family back in the house was his responsibility, Wyndham felt caution became a secondary importance in his haste to locate and finally expunge the terrible beast that had already injured one member of the hunting expedition.

A distant gunshot halted his speedy progress.

Holding his torch skyward, Wyndham impatiently waited for another shot to sound off to more accurately pinpoint its origin. A second shot and a loud animalistic yelp of pain breached the temporary silence, which in that instant told the officer the disruption had emanated some distance straight ahead. Wyndham extinguished his torch by smothering its fiery, oil soaked end in some sandy dirt, then continued along his present course. There was simply no point in alerting the beast to his close proximity. He likewise hoped he would not run straight into the rampaging demon in the dark before he had a chance to send a couple of rounds in its direction.

What the lieutenant did manage to achieve was to run at near full-speed directly into Stuart, who for some unknown reason was standing right in the middle of the path. He was standing stock still, gazing off in another direction as if hypnotised.

Both men almost shot each other.

"Christ, Corporal!" Wyndham exclaimed. "You scared the living shit out of me!'

"I know the feeling," the soldier answered, voice shaking in fear.

"What happened?"

"That thing almost got me, Lieutenant. It jumped out from behind a damn bush and tried to rip my head off! That bastard could teach the VC a thing or two about setting up an ambush."

"You can tell me all about it later. Where did it go?"

"Back towards the road, Lieutenant. But it left just before you got here."

"This is starting to become the story of my life," Wyndham complained. The officer started running along the path, the natural light from the night sky now his only illumination.

Having managed to relocate and reignite his torch, Stuart followed a short distance behind, all the while hoping his commanding officer did not literally run into anything unfortunate and hungry.

A roaring explosion occurred only further on from their current position. This detonation caused the men to halt once more to get their bearings in these unfamiliar surroundings.

Wyndham continued his headlong dash towards the possible source of these disturbances. Scott Stuart, however, was caught off guard by the commotion and remained motionless again for about thirty seconds.

When the lieutenant approached the approximate area where he had earlier left Hinro Toor in his trench, he ceased running. He scanned the region as best he could for any tell-tale signs that the beast was about, but found it near impossible to detect any movement. He stepped forward a few paces and tumbled directly into the ditch he had been searching for in the past couple of minutes. Both men in the hole scrambled about in an attempt to disentangle themselves from one another.

Hinro Toor now feared he was suffering not only a broken ankle but quite possibly a fractured skull. Pressing a hand against his temple, the less than impressed farmer looked to Wyndham who was attempting to locate his rifle.

"Where's your light?" the lieutenant demanded. "I need to find my rifle."

"I heard the thing approaching and thought it best to quell the fire or risk discovery by the beast."

Wyndham's fingers fortunately ran across the barrel of his M-16 lying in the dirt. "Thank God!" he muttered, sighing in relief.

"I believe I may have severely injured the creature when I threw the 'grenade' weapon at it just now," Hinro Toor declared proudly.

"Wounded doesn't do us any good, Hinro Toor. We need to give this thing a good, solid dose of 'dead'. Where did it go after you fragged it?"

"I do not know what 'fragged' means, but it ran away before I could get a good account of the direction."

The officer was appalled by his recollection.

"You threw an armed grenade at something you couldn't see? What if it had been one of us?"

"Then that person deserved to die for being so stupid as to make terrible animal noises in the dark while we are hunting that monster."

"Fair enough," Wyndham conceded. He really could not fault the man's logic.

In a split second, a massive paw covered in a mass of stinking, tangled fur reached down into the low ditch. It grabbed hold of Wyndham by one shoulder and sent him hurtling up into the dark, cold night air. He was extraordinarily fortunate that a large, leafy bush cushioned his fall back to the ground. This softening of his fall did little to lessen the pain of multiple puncture wounds about his right shoulder. Blood began flowing from a variety of superficial wounds as the lieutenant scrambled to his feet in an attempt to meet the predator in an upright position and defend himself from any further physical harm.

Unfortunately, he came to the realisation his rifle was now well and truly lost, having been thrown clear of his grasp during his unscheduled flight. Still staggering ungainly on both feet, he fumbled with the holster of his Colt .45 as the beast advanced towards him, growling malevolently, its left side mangled and dripping copious quantities of thick, fresh blood. Apparently, Hinro Toor's untested skill with a grenade had proved to be more accurate than anyone had dared hope for, especially under such trying circumstances.

The farmer was propped up on the rim of the ditch, a crossbow clutched in one slightly shaking hand. Fear and pain were propelling adrenaline through his system at an astonishing rate, giving him a natural rush. He aimed his primitive weapon at the moving creature, pulled the trigger and watched in horror as his one and only shot sent the bolt through his target's right thigh, which only served to further infuriate the creature. Yelping like a scalded dog, the beast forgot all about the current foe and focused its unrelenting fury on the human lying half out of the shallow hole. In a terrifying burst of inhuman speed, it blasted across the clearing, ignoring its impressive collection of injuries.

Ilit Vannur calmly stepped out of the surrounding forest, aimed and fired a bolt clean through the creature's right eye, killing it instantly.

At that moment, Stuart sprang into the clearing, likewise aiming his weapon at the monster. On seeing that the thing was clearly finished, he lowered his rifle. The corporal looked across to where the red-headed woman stood, still clutching her crossbow, displaying no emotion.

Stuart nodded a touch. "Nice shooting."

She smiled. "Thank you."

Keeping his automatic pistol trained directly on the motionless form near the hole, Wyndham stepped cautiously across to its final resting place and gave the beast a good swift kick.

"I believe it is dead, Gary," Ilit Vannur stated wryly.

"Just making certain. I've seen a few 'dead' things get up and cause all sorts of havoc when they had no right to do so." He looked across and smiled in appreciation. "Thanks for that, Ilit Vannur. I thought Hinro Toor and I were both about to be a midnight snack. I have to be perfectly honest with you, I'm surprised you people let that thing roam around here for so long. If it had been near my home, I would have hunted the hairy bastard down ages ago."

Finally managing to climb out of the hole, Hinro Toor limped painfully across to inspect the corpse of the deceased predator. "We have never had anything like this monster around here before," he explained. "As far as I know, there has never been anything like it in all of the Kingdoms. To be honest, I believe this aberration to have originated from the same place as you, wherever that might be."

"How did you figure out we're not from around here?" Stuart inquired, as he noticed Field enter the clearing.

"I have seen your flying machine, the fire-breathing weapons and the dark men. None are from the Kingdoms, nor even the Azzil Territories, so I took the liberty of assuming you somehow arrived from another continent far from here."

"If you must know, we're from another planet," Wyndham announced. He knew this was a risky statement but if he was going to earn their trust, he needed to be trusting of them.

"Planet?" the farmer muttered in wide-eyed reverence. "Um... then I trust my wife and her sister have made you all feel at home?"

"They've both been extremely helpful," the officer informed him. "They gave us a place to stay and sleep when they weren't obliged to do anything of the sort."

Wyndham gingerly touched his injured shoulder. The damage was relatively minor, but he knew the injuries would require some stitching and would also be quite sore and tender for days to come. With his gashed shoulder, Hinro Toor's injured ankle and Unron's ripped arm, they were going to all be in for a long, painful night repairing the damage inflicted on their hunting expedition.

The remainder of the party finally appeared about ten minutes later. The farmhand's injured arm was now wrapped in a rudimentary bandage, which still allowed some blood to seep through. Not surprisingly, they were all relieved to discover the wolf-like creature was no longer amongst the living. Everyone seemed quite amused that Ilit Vannur had been the one to kill the monster.

When the hunting expedition finally staggered back to the homestead, they were greeted with a mixture of astonished looks and a barrage of questions over the night's exciting events. Everyone was eternally grateful about the beast's fate, especially Henty, who for once had miraculously managed to pull a sweet assignment. He had spent the better part of the night simply sitting about the house talking to Kellin Toor and drinking some concoction that tasted like coffee with a touch of mint flavouring.

As Wyndham had expected, the remainder of the night turned into a scene straight from an emergency room of any big city hospital. There were blood and bandages scattered throughout the kitchen and adjoining bathroom. Fortunately, between the squads' medical kit from the Iroquois and the medicines kept in the homestead, the treatment of their injuries was a relatively painless affair. The lieutenant's arm did start acting up on him, sending fresh waves of pain coursing up and down the recently injured limb. A little more morphine from the medical kit helped put an end to his minor suffering. Once they had all been treated, the injured members of the expedition were sent upstairs where they could acquire some greatly needed rest after their ordeal.

Those not injured in the hunt for the creature were placed on rotating three-hour guard shifts by Scott Stuart, who assigned himself on first watch. However, these precautions were thankfully not required as the rest of the night and following day proved to be something of a blessed anticlimax.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

THE CITY OF VALDERHIEN

Captain Carl Buchanan, Corporal Rodney Meredin and his handful of Confederate troopers were blissfully unaware of the manhunt presently being carried out for them across Valderhien on the orders of no less than Entell Thellon, the Third. They presently sat in one corner of a modest dining establishment in an insalubrious corner of the city. Their stomachs were quite content having finished off a mediocre sort of meal. The meat served to the soldiers was of a texture and flavour unlike anything they had eaten back on Earth. None of the men were particularly fussed to know its origins. After all, meat was meat to them. Along with some palatable wine and a pocketful of the local currency, they had not known a better time since the beginning of the Civil war.

"So far, we've done reasonably well for ourselves," Carl Buchanan announced, placing a glass of white wine on the table before him. "Wouldn't you say so, Corporal?"

Seated across the table, Meredin sipped a large glass containing red wine. "I'd say so," he agreed.

"This is only because we've stayed together."

"And because we've got guns and the locals don't," Private Harry Barren added, causing a wave of nodding heads. When the old fool was right, he was certainly right.

"My point exactly," Buchanan confirmed, grateful for the unexpected support. "Individually, it's every man for himself--with one gun and limited ammunition. Together, we're a force to be reckoned with on this new world."

"Can't we talk about something else?" Bernard Talbot pleaded, his youthful, whisker-free face contorted in anguish. "Please!"

"It has to be done," the captain informed the young soldier. "We can just go our separate ways, or we can stick together and try to make a decent living here. How many of you would like to be rich, or at least fairly well off?"

This line of questioning firmly grabbed their attention. The soldiers fell silent, gazing directly at the green uniformed officer whose hands moved animatedly as if to emphasise the importance of his words. "How many of you would like to own a big, fancy house and marry a good woman?"

"I already have a wife," Richard Maret protested, his briefly raised voice drawing the attention of an elderly couple at a nearby table.

"Not here you don't," Meredin hissed.

The statement made Buchanan realise he was finally getting through to the other uniformed men. He decided to press his advantage. "To be completely straight with you all, I can't really see us getting out of this one. If you've got loved ones back in the US then you'd better prepare yourself to say goodbye. The thing we have to worry about now is survival. We've come from a war zone, so we all know how to act with disciplined caution and take care of ourselves in a fight. None of us really knows what's out there. So far we've only been here for a couple of weeks and we've already been in one good battle."

"And whose fault was that?" Meredin grumbled.

"And we kicked their primitive, sword-wielding butts!" Barren cackled, much to the general approval of everyone gathered about the table.

Even Buchanan was beginning to take a liking to the old man's humorous, if rather crude bravado.

"But would one or two of us alone have been able to do that?" the officer inquired. "Personally, I don't think so. Again, I say we stick together to form a sort of private security company. There should be plenty of work available here. After all, this is a big city."

"And a mighty weird one," Meredin remarked, with no small measure of distaste. "Did you see some of the looks we were getting riding through the streets earlier on? And what about that fool trying to buy my horse? I had to slap him just to make him go away. A man just doesn't up and sell his favourite horse. Not for any damn price."

William Hill, who had been consuming his fair share of wine with his meal, now leaned forward and whispered: "Have any of you noticed that the horses around these parts are all brown?" His voice was slightly slurred from the wine. "Slightly different shades of brown, but brown all the same. It ain't natural." Drunk or not, he had a point.

"That could also be to our advantage," Buchanan suggested.

They all hushed up as a patron, who was obviously not too particular about minding his own business, wandered close to their table. The short, middle-aged man with a portly belly and a bulbous nose paused and hovered close by. The uniformed men at the table eyed him suspiciously as he pretended to be fascinated by an awful painting hanging precariously on a nearby wall

"If you like that piece of shit so much," Meredin blurted angrily at the busybody, "why don't you buy the damn thing! I'm sure the fool who put it there would be more than happy to get rid of it!"

The eavesdropping 'art lover's' mouth dropped open. He halted momentarily before making his way back to the other side of the dining room.

"Can't tolerate people listening in on me like that!" the corporal grumbled.

"How could our horses be an advantage, Captain?" Maret curiously inquired. "After all, a horse is just a horse."

"Imagine what someone around here would pay to introduce a new species of horse? We could make a ton of money off that alone. Also, if we offer some type of security service such as protecting the merchant caravans, we could end up with a sizeable fortune on our hands."

By this stage, the soldiers were all far too busy and excited by the talk of fortunes to notice the 'art lover' sneak another furtive glance in their direction and talk briefly to the man behind the main serving counter before departing the premises.

The soldiers continued talking amongst themselves for a while longer until Buchanan felt he had persuaded all of the Confederates to see his side of their situation. Only Meredin continued to offer up any resistance, but the captain believed he could eventually talk some sense into the NCO's head as well.

For the time being, Buchanan felt they all needed a good rest in their rooms at the hostel across the street, which had been paid for in advance. The rooms of the hostel were sparsely furnished and decorated, but contained the one item the soldiers desperately needed; a good, solid bed with freshly laundered sheets and absolutely no bugs of any description. They had paid the owner for their accommodation and took up almost the entire upper floor. The money was handed across to a broad-faced woman who bore a close resemblance to the man in charge of the stables at the rear of the building. Oddly enough, they later discovered these two people were, in actuality, married.

"Now there's a match made in a circus sideshow," Barren had commented at the time.

Now that they had all bathed, well fed and their thirsts quenched, the soldiers wandered back to their sleeping quarters via a flight of steep, precarious stairs inside the hostel.

"Should we place a guard?" Meredin asked.

The captain was particularly pleased to have been involved in the planning of the evening's activities. Slowly but surely, the men were beginning to take him into their confidence. He shook his head. "No need. I'm sure this place is safe enough. It's a bit rough around the edges, but no one here's going to interfere in anyone else's business."

A couple of the grey-uniformed men nodded in agreement. They remained silent as they trudged up the stairs bathed in the last glimmer of sunlight coming through the nearby windows. Eventually, they parted company on the first floor, each entering their own rooms for some well-earned, much needed sleep. Tomorrow morning, they would have plenty of time to discuss any matters of importance in their new home.

Buchanan bade goodnight to Meredin before vacating the long, bare hallway to enter his own room. Not surprisingly, all the men of the Confederate unit and their Union accomplice were fast asleep in record time; as only the extremely weary are capable of doing.

***

Whether fate had a particularly bizarre sense of humour or quite possibly a nasty disposition that night, both groups arrived at the hostel at almost precisely the same time that evening, except from opposite directions. Fortunately, the ensuing battle erupted inside the double storey building and not outside in the street. Otherwise, numerous passers-by and members of the public may have become involved in the bloodshed that followed. In fact, the resulting 'brawl' would become the talk of the town; as such calamitous violence rarely occurred within the city perimeter, particularly as Valderhien was under the watchful eyes of not only the local military, but also the Royal palace garrison and numerous members of The Order of the Royal Decree.

The smaller of the two groups rode straight down the middle of the cobbled road, their number comprising of the young Dearnian guard, Junicca, three members of The Order and a platoon of palace regulars. Thellic had only recently received intelligence that a group of strangely uniformed men had been observed riding a variety of horses of unknown breeds. As these were most likely the men Lord Colin Bourke had been desperately searching for the other day, Thellic was obliged under Royal instruction to dispatch a squad to apprehend these unusual persons of interest and bring them back to the palace. Thellic had decided to send a representative force after these outsiders, hoping to avoid any undue violence or injury should they resist.

The group that arrived the other side of the boarding house were nothing more than a mixed bag of degenerates, including murderers, thieves, vandals and an assortment of pickpockets keen to unburden the unwary of their valuables. A handful of Anhil had also tagged along to make certain someone ended up with their throat cut. This group was almost double the size of the King's detail, though in an open fight, the soldiers and Riders would easily cut such untrained ruffians to pieces without fear or favour.

Junicca pounded on the door of the main entrance until someone answered his demand. The other members of the detachment remained in two orderly lines in the badly littered street. They all expected this assignment to be completed with a minimum of fuss. After all, what could possibly go wrong simply apprehending a handful of strangers?

A bleary-eyed man of middle age and thinning hair opened the double doors, his mind fuzzy from his disturbed sleep. The hostel owner rubbed both eyes and glared at the man who had woken him. "What is going on here?" he demanded. If these fools woke his wife from her slumber, the gods themselves would run and hide from her fearsome wrath.

"We come under the instruction and protection of his Majesty King Entell Thellon, the Third!" Junicca announced.

"So what?" the hostel owner snapped.

Normally, he would never have dared challenge a King's representative in such a manner, but being half-asleep and his head throbbing nastily from having earlier raided the liquor cabinet while his good wife bathed her less than admirable form, he temporarily forgot his place in the pecking order of Hamaforth society.

Junicca and the Riders decided to remind him. They grabbed hold of his rather tacky nightshirt and dragged him screaming into the cold, misty street. They roughed up the hostel owner to a point they judged sufficient, then left him to reflect on his foolishness in the nearest gutter.

Drawing their swords and crossbows, the King's troop now cautiously entered the establishment, their eyes carefully probing the shadows for any signs of impending danger. At Junicca's instruction, the soldiers and Riders, both men and women, spread throughout the ground floor of the building, searching it room by room. It would surely be only a matter of time before they came across the objects of their mission.

***

Meanwhile, a collection of approximately thirty-eight men and women were huddled together in the hostel's stables, their greedy eyes focused on the object of their raid. The intended targets were not the strangely attired men in the rooms upstairs, but the peculiar horses they had brazenly paraded straight through the middle of the city under the gaze of all and sundry. For breeding purposes alone, these incredible animals would be worth a sizable fortune. Or so every racketeer in the city believed.

One man of solid build, with only one eye and a foul disposition, reached out slowly until the very tip of his right index finger gently touched Jupiter's muzzle. In response to this odd treatment by yet another unfamiliar person, the palomino shied away from the outstretched, pungent hand until figuring in his mind the stranger meant him no harm. In fact, all of the people gathered in the stables appeared to be extremely friendly, touching all of the other horses in a very respectful manner.

"Now I know why we were sent here," the one-eyed thug gasped in astonishment.

"We still have work to do," another thief uttered, though he too was in complete awe of these highly unusual animals. "The owners of these animals are long overdue to have their throats slit."

There was a general muttering of agreement to his words amongst the thieves. Producing a variety of weapons, most of the gang silently left the stables at the rear of the hostel and headed directly towards the back entrance of the building. Although cautious in their approach, none of these mercenaries were overly concerned for their personal safety. If any of the owners or other occupants tried to intervene in the raid then no one in this sector of the city would really be bothered about rushing to their aid. This assignment would be quick, quiet and relatively simple.

But what was about to occur became known throughout the city of Valderhien as; 'The Battle of The Ploughman's Hostel'.

***

Carl Buchanan had been dreaming contentedly of his life back on Earth before it had been interrupted by the insanity of war. His dream then developed into a more perplexing recollection of recent events that relegated the Civil War to a poor second place. As his dreams became increasingly disturbed, he was unceremoniously hauled out of his warm, reasonably comfortable bed and dropped onto the bare floorboards. His eyes opening wide in shock, the captain gazed around the room realising he could see virtually nothing in the confounded darkness. A hand was presently held firmly over his mouth while someone else scrambled about the floor, his or possibly her feet producing an audible clatter.

"Quiet!" hissed a voice he instantly recognised as belonging to Meredin. "We've got company and they ain't selling brushes door-to-door!"

The hand was immediately removed from his mouth.

"What the hell's going on?" Buchanan whispered.

"There's a fair sized..." The corporal abruptly turned to the shadowy figure gazing out of the window through the curtains. "Will, go get the others. And for Christ-sakes, don't make too much noise about it!"

The man who Buchanan deduced was William Hill stepped out of his room while making precious little sound.

"I went to the bathroom about two minutes ago," Meredin hastily explained, "and saw these no-good bastards breakin' into the barn. So I had a look out front and there's even more of them there. That makes about a two dozen or so out front and Lord knows how many out back: About fifty or so all up. I think it's high time we left."

"You know something, Corporal," Buchanan commented as he climbed to his feet. "I never realised you could count so high. That's really quite an achievement for a southern boy."

Meredin hissed, "That's just great! Now of all times you go get a sense of humour. Well, I'll tell you this much, if those people get in here, you'll need more than a sense of humour to deal with them. You'd better get dressed, unless of course you'd like to fight your way out of here in your damn undergarments."

"I don't think that would be appropriate," Buchanan conceded.

While the captain hurriedly changed into his uniform, Meredin exited into the hallway and went to ensure the other members of the unit were awake, dressed and prepared for a possible violent confrontation. Privates Hill and Richard Maret met him in the poorly lit hallway, where they waited to be joined by the remaining members of their unit.

"Can you see anything out there?" Maret inquired of Hill, who had gently pushed aside the curtains draped across a nearby window.

The result of his attempt to spy on the people surrounding the hostel came as something of a surprise to everyone in the passageway. A tall man with a three-day growth and an odd cap that made him look like a landlocked pirate, dove through the open window, landing directly on the Confederate soldier. Both men instantly began rolling about the floor, desperately flaying away at one another with a serious of furious punches.

Watching these two grown men attempting to get the upper hand in the fisticuffs, Maret and Meredin remained silent, observing with a feigned disinterest.

"Shouldn't we do something?" Maret finally asked his superior.

"I suppose so," the corporal muttered. "You want to go over and give him a tap on the head?"

Private Maret shrugged. "Might as well. Got nothing better to do with my time."

The ruffian was just about ready to run Hill through with a long bladed knife when he suddenly went limp, collapsing on top of the stunned soldier. The bruised private scrambled from underneath the unconscious man, kicking him once in the ribs as a parting gesture. The Confederate trooper detested hand-to-hand fighting.

"What the hell took you so damn long, Richard?"

"We were tossing a coin to see who had..." Maret shoved Hill to one side as a crossbow bolt blasted in through the open window. Quickly glancing outside, he could clearly see in the moonlight a collection of desperate-looking types scaling up the walls of the building using the drainpipes as climbing apparatus. "I think we've got ourselves some trouble."

Almost as if to confirm his point, the sounds of a scuffle reached their ears. Obviously, this most recent disturbance was coming from the lower lever of the hostel. Some people downstairs were indulging in one hell of an all-in-brawl by the sounds emanating from below.

"Looks like they ran into the woman who owns this glorified flop house," Meredin blurted, grinning widely at his oddly timed joke.

When a short, plump man appeared at the top of the stairs, a sword held high over his head, the corporal simply drew his revolver and shot the thug on the spot. This was certainly no time to display any out of place mercy. To his surprise and increasing displeasure, three more gang members appeared from downstairs. These bandits simply leapt over the bloodied, motionless body and rushed straight at Meredin and the other unusually dressed men, who they noticed did not appear to be properly armed.

Fed up of fighting in a dark passageway, one of the troopers turned up a nearby oil lamp to fully illuminate the area.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Maret blurted.

One of the advancing bandits caught a shot from Meredin's pistol directly in the face, causing his companions no end of surprise. The next shot was aimless and punched a hole through the nearest wall, throwing up a small cloud of dust and shattered mortar. Using this minor distraction to his advantage, Meredin clubbed the next bandit in line across the head with his freshly discharged pistol. Unfortunately, this resulted in him being off balance when the last remaining member of the band lunged at him with a short sword. The blade sliced neatly through the side of his uniform shirt and the skin underneath. Emitting a short yelp of pain, Meredin jumped to one side, giving Hill an easy shot. The Carbine rifle fired at such close range succeeded in knocking the last remaining man clean off his feet.

A door suddenly opened to reveal a fully dressed Buchanan. He was quite shocked to see the dreadful state of the hallway, now splattered in blood and decorated with the bodies of the recently departed.

"I'm so glad you could make it!" Meredin huffed, one hand clutching his bloodstained shirt.

"How do we get out of here?" Buchanan asked, ignoring the corporal's sarcasm and drawing his own pistol.

"I'd say that window's our best bet," Meredin answered. "Sounds like there's a full-scale riot happening downstairs." He looked across to Hill. "Will, go see what's keeping the others so damn long!"

Hill walked over to one of the closed doors and pounded loudly on its hard timber surface. There was no answer. He could clearly hear some sort of commotion coming from the other side of the locked door. With the assistance of his right boot, the door flew open, allowing him to view the brawl in progress as Harry Barren fought off two gaudily attired men. The fight had degenerated to the point the combatants were throwing any object they could lay their hands on at one another

"Can't you see I'm busy in here!" Barren roared, picking up a small side table and hurling it clear across the room, causing his attackers to duck for cover.

"Corporal, we've got a problem in here!" Hill announced, as yet another scruffy man climbed in through the bedroom window, a serrated knife held grimly between his half-rotten teeth.

"We've got problems no matter which way you look!" Meredin yelled back. He fired another shot down the crowded passageway towards yet another group of invading criminals who had just come into view from the staircase. Fortunately, the thunderous roar of the pistol was enough to send them scattering for cover, but not before one of the men at the forward position fell to the floor, screaming and clutching a large, profusely bleeding hole in his stomach.

Loading his own handgun, Buchanan stepped into Harry's room where the brawl was continuing at a merry clip with a chair and a half-full chamber pot as weapons. He fired one shot at the nearest intruder, felling the bandit in an instant. Taking this as a sure signal to leave, the remaining thug, now drenched in urine leapt straight out of the window. His attempt to escape the brawl would have been a touch more successful had he not become impaled on an old, dilapidated picket fence situated just below the window.

"It's getting sort of dangerous around here," Barren commented. He proceeded to remove his rifle from the only clothes cupboard in the small room.

"Oh, you've noticed," Buchanan retorted, the stink of freshly ignited cordite and urine still stinging his nostrils.

Meredin glanced into the bedroom and was relieved to discover his comrades were in good health. "Are you two just going to stand..."

His sentence was cut short as another bandit crashed into him, sending both men spiralling along the hallway. As this fight commenced, Hill and Maret fought off another intruder who possessed a knife so large it would have easily been classified as a sword. Unfortunately, their breach-loading, single-shot rifles proved to be extremely difficult to use in such close-quarters combat.

Another door swung open as Bernard Talbot joined in the activities. Despite being a sound sleeper, he had easily overheard the commotion and naturally assumed a fight was in full swing. Luck was with the other soldiers as he shot the knife wielding bandit in the back.

Buchanan ran over to where the corporal and his intruder were fighting. He clubbed the unfamiliar thug across the back of the head, causing him to instantly go limp. The captain stared down at the unconscious bandit as Meredin rolled from underneath the immobile form.

"That was a woman!" Buchanan blurted, grateful he had not undertaken a deadlier method of saving Meredin from his encounter.

"You know a woman when you see one?" the corporal blurted, scrambling to his feet. "Quite an achievement for a northern boy!"

"Personally," Barren responded, huffing from his recent exertions, "I think we should stop talking and get the hell outta here! And I mean right now while we've still got a chance."

"The old man's right," Meredin agreed.

"They're still climbing up the wall!" Hill announced, staring out of the broken window. "Except now they've gone and got themselves a ladder."

"That does it," the Confederate NCO stated, checking his pistol while he spoke. "Now it looks like we have to fight our way right through the middle of this shithole. Okay, everyone, listen up!" He looked around to his men gathered in the bloodied hallway. "These sonsabitches won't be expecting a front-on-fight, so that's our best shot at getting out of here. Everyone got it?"

"We heard you the first time you yelled," Barren quipped. "If we'd stayed at that bordello up the street like I wanted, the only thing we'd be fighting off right now would be a big bunch of whores!"

"Yeah, hindsight's a wonderful thing, Harry," Meredin called back. "I really wish I had it. Now let's get moving while we still can."

Turning from the scene of the recent bloodshed, the captain and the Confederate soldiers moved as quickly as caution would allow. Both Buchanan and Meredin led the way as their pistols were far more effective than rifles in this type of skirmish. They reached the top of the stairs just as a youth in an odd white robe and another person donned in a blue cape appeared, their hands clutching bloodied swords. Both of these individuals appeared to be ready to give them any measure of trouble.

At the sight of the oddly dressed group, Junicca fully realised these men were the object of this night's quest. He put up his free hand, a gesture aimed to indicate he meant them no harm. These people were to be honoured guests at the Royal palace and...

The Dearnian guard never managed to get a word out as a green-uniformed man launched a booted foot directly into his face. The force of the violent impact sent the Dearnian flying backwards directly into the Rider, sending them both off balance. In a mad display of flaying of arms, legs and swords, they tumbled down the stairs, managing to break the Rider's left arm in two places.

An Anhil bandit seized this opportunity, lunging at the fallen pair, his own weapon raised high overhead. He halted above the stricken people, his evil intentions completely obvious. Before he could land his first deadly strike, a deafening blast sounded from the stairs. The Anhil man lurched sideways before toppling to the floor where he remained completely inert.

"Just who's on whose side around here?" Meredin demanded in confusion while continuing to aim his sidearm at the fallen bandit.

Once the unit had safely reached the ground floor, they could clearly see the full extent of the skirmish where men and women were fighting a grim battle to the death with any weapon that came to hand. The dead and injured currently littered the hostel's lobby floor. More fallen were located in the dining room and in every passageway, a few even spilling outside onto the street. Fortune smiled upon the escaping men as no one appeared to have enough spare time on their hands to pay them any undue attention. Meredin led the group out of the front entrance and into the street. From this point on, the way was completely clear for them to escape the violence in the besieged building.

They scrambled along the road until reaching the lane leading to the rear of the hostel. The dark laneway provided the six men with grateful camouflage from any prying eyes of nosey neighbours. Finally reaching the back quarters of their recently deserted accommodation, the group discovered, much to their relief that only a handful of men were guarding this escape route. A short, violent fight ensued as the soldiers attempted to battle their way into the stables to retrieve their mounts. Against an approximately equal number of men, Rodney Meredin and his companions were more than a match with their weapon superiority and battle-hardened combat skills.

Seeing a sturdy ladder still propped against the wall, Hill charged over, shoving the item with both hands. The ladder quickly tumbled away from the wall, carrying with it one unfortunate lout who had not yet made his way inside the hostel.

Two bandits now emerged from the stables, both armed with their favoured long-bladed daggers. Both met their deaths as Meredin and Buchanan shot them at almost point blank range. The two corpses lay motionless on the cold ground, their unseeing eyes staring accusingly towards their killers.

"You want to know something, Captain?" the corporal snapped, still firmly clutching his weapon. "In the short time we've been here, I've killed more men than I did during a couple of years in that godforsaken war back home!"

"I know the feeling."

They burst into the stables to discover even more thugs stationed around their horses. These surly individuals appeared somewhat apprehensive about this unexpected encounter.

"Where are they all coming from? They must be breeding in here!" Barren exclaimed.

Meredin ignored the remark, choosing instead to fire two shots straight up into the stable ceiling. The thunderous reports scared the life out of the bandits and likewise startled most of the dozing horses.

"Get the hell out of here!" the corporal bellowed. He released yet another shot to punctuate his command. "Right now, you damn fools!"

Without hesitation, the thugs fled, leaving behind the valuable horses.

"That's more like it," Meredin commented.

The soldiers rapidly saddled their animals. Life in this part of their new world was starting to become troublesome. It was time to leave Valderhien.

"We didn't pack any supplies," Talbot stated, climbing into his saddle.

"We'll get something on the way out of this lousy city," Meredin instructed, likewise climbing onto his mount. "Even if we have to break into a store somewhere. I just know this much; I want to get as far away from this place as humanly possible by sun-up. I don't know what we did to deserve this mess, but it can't be good. Anyone wanting to stick around to find out what's goin' on is more than welcome."

The general consensus of opinion was that they would all join him in a mad dash for the city gates. Escaping these roving packs of lunatics, strangely enough, was the event that endurably joined Buchanan with the Confederate soldiers in an unspoken, but solid pact. From this moment on, these men would stick together no matter what the circumstances.

A number of the gang members burst out of the hostel's rear exit as six horses and their owners all charged headlong from the stables. The multitude of galloping hooves created a mild dust storm in the rear courtyard. Before the startled men could organise themselves, their targets in this misbegotten raid had charged along the narrow alley and escaped.

***

Soon after the soldiers had fled the district, an infantry patrol alerted by all of the commotion appeared at the hostel, swords and spears at the ready for any signs of trouble. They easily managed to locate serious signs of a disturbance that had spilled out into the streets. The gang members soon found themselves greatly outnumbered and instantly focused their attention on fleeing for their lives. Of the original group of thugs, only eight managed to escape. They performed this miraculous feat by blindly running in all directions and eventually becoming lost in the seemingly endless maze of the back streets in Valderhien. A handful of the gang were captured by the first and second groups of city troops. The bodies of the remaining criminals littered the floors of the hostel, the streets and the rear yard near the stables in a gruesome display of carnage.

Amongst the King's forces, only three soldiers had perished. Four were seriously injured, but would probably survive after medical assistance. One Rider was still nursing his broken arm, all the while angrily insisting the Dearnian guard, Junicca, was somehow responsible for his plight. While the surviving criminals were being rounded up, Junicca approached the patrol's commanding officer. The man, a captain in rank, was a surprisingly chubby individual whose uniform did not appear to fit properly no matter how much he adjusted his items of clothing.

"Did you happen to see a number of strangely attired men on horseback leaving the district not so long ago?" Junicca demanded.

"See them!" the officer blurted. "They just about ran down the entire patrol! It only happened a short time ago. To be honest, I could have sworn something was wrong about their horses, although in this poor light, who could tell?"

"Which way were they heading?"

The officer was quite surprised by the Dearnian man's urgency in the matter. "Towards the main gates," he finally answered.

"These men on horseback must be stopped!" Junicca urged. "Can you stay here and help sort out this mess while I see about having the city sealed before they escape?"

"Certainly, I can stay here. But with respect, you do not have the authority to have the city gates closed, opened, or any other such thing."

"We will see about that."
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

In the bedroom above the store in an old stone building on the outskirts of Valderhien, a familiar scene began to play out as it often did in cities across Earth as well as Perencore.

A plump, middle-aged woman elbowed her hapless spouse in the ribs. "Thudrin Orth! I think someone is downstairs!"

Her skinny, bearded husband rolled over to gaze menacingly at her through liquor-reddened, half-open eyes. Why could she never allow him to sleep in peace? "It is the same thing every time I arrive home a little late!" he huffed indignantly, his voice creaky through the volume of alcohol he had consumed at the local inn this very night. "Is it your way of punishing me for daring to have a drink with my friends? Why do you not just beat me senseless with a large stick like most wives? At least then I could get some sleep!"

"I heard it again!" she hollered, her hands quickly covering her open mouth.

"I did not hear a thing," her husband retorted. When a mild clattering noise reached his ears, it gave him cause to suspect, that for once, his wife was correct. Someone was in the building, presumably robbing their precious store of its valuable contents.

"You are right!" he gasped, amazed at the audacity of someone to actually manage to get inside the building. He had paid a considerable amount of money to have virtually break-in proof shutters installed across the windows and doors.

"What are you going to do?" his plump wife demanded, huddled amongst the apparent protectiveness of the blankets.

"Me?" he gasped. "You should go! After all, you heard the noise first. And anyway, you are much scarier than I."

"What!"

"All right. I will go and check on the store. Where did I put my crossbow?"

"I last saw it in the linen cupboard."

"What is it doing in there?"

"I put it in there for safe keeping."

Not game enough to inquire why his dear wife had seen fit to put a deadly weapon in with the bed linen and towels, the skinny merchant sighed deeply and climbed from the bed. He made his way to the cupboard in question, where he easily detected the slightly dust covered weapon perched on top of a shelf amongst towels and pillowcases. But where were the bolts? He rummaged about some more and found these projectiles hidden amongst some sheets. Another clumsy sound echoed from downstairs.

His hands trembling slightly, the merchant drew back the crossbow string, loaded in a single bolt and cocked the firing mechanism. He prayed there would not be more than one thief in the store. The last thing he needed was to wander in on a thieves' convention with only a single-shot crossbow as his defence.

His heart racing madly, Thudrin Orth located a small lamp in the hallway, turned up its flame a fraction and started down the staircase. Having reached the bottom of the treacherous stairs without causing so much as a squeak, he clearly overheard the burglars' conversation as they ransacked his business. Pausing momentarily in the darkness after shutting off the lamp, the merchant realised he was barely able to decipher their discussion.

"For God's sakes, Private Talbot! We haven't got all night!"

"Sorry, Corporal. I'll be done in just a minute."

"Where's Buchanan?"

"Don't rightfully know. He was by the counter last time I saw him."

"I doubt that; it's only a small shop. Someone make sure we've got something to cook all this stuff in! No point in finding out we've got no pots or pans when we're finally out of this godforsaken city."

"I'm out here in the storeroom. Do we need blankets?"

"Sure do, unless you like sleeping on cold, hard ground every night."

"Do we need oatmeal?"

"You try to bring oatmeal and I'll shoot you on the spot!"

"There's no need for that, Corporal. There's some sort of cold room in here. Do we need meat?"

There was general agreement to this idea.

Thudrin Orth finally plucked up the courage to step out into the main store, the fully cocked and loaded crossbow clutched in both hands. One of the burglars must have ignited the overhead lamp as the shop was fully illuminated. To his astonishment, he found himself staring at a number of men of varying ages standing about his store. All of these individuals were outfitted in unfamiliar grey uniforms. They were in the process of helping themselves to whatever goods they could place their greedy hands on. Oddly enough, these brazen burglars had not bothered about the cash drawer under the main counter, or the safe located behind a shelving unit. These all important financial items appeared to remain undisturbed.

"Do not move!" the terrified storekeeper blurted.

In the space of two or three seconds, all of the burglars responded to the warning by pointing strange timber and metal objects in his direction. A tall man in a green suit appeared from out of the rear storeroom with a small metal device clutched firmly in one hand, which he duly aimed at the trembling merchant.

"Excuse me, sir," the green uniformed man spoke up. "We don't mean you any harm. We'll pay for our supplies then leave, but not if you shoot that thing at us."

"Supplies?" Thudrin Orth repeated. If these strange men were just late customers then this night would turn out all right.

"Why not just plug him and be done with it?" the eldest member of the apparently benevolent raiding party demanded.

"No!" the green man instantly responded.

He slowly and cautiously placed his free hand into a uniform pocket and retrieved a single silver coin. Displaying equal caution, he placed the item onto the glass top of the store's main counter. "Will that be enough to cover our purchases?"

Silver!

Thudrin Orth moved across to where the bright, shiny coin now lay on the counter beside a display of dried meat pieces. He picked up the silver piece with his free hand to inspect this prize. He placed the still loaded crossbow down onto the counter. "Please accept my most humble apologies, gentlemen," he implored the group of soldiers. "I did not realise business would be this good tonight, otherwise I would not have closed up the store quite so early. There is, as you have already discovered, a meat locker in the rear storeroom. Help yourself. Is there anything else you gentlemen were after?"

They finally lowered their rifles and pistols.

"Have you got anything decent to drink?" the older man cheerfully inquired.

"Christ, Harry!" Rodney Meredin huffed in sheer exasperation. "Can't you think of anything else?"

"No," Harry Barren responded, "...unless there are any women about?"

The shopkeeper was sorely tempted to mention his darling wife upstairs, but decided against such a move. "There are a variety of fruit juices and drinking water on the shelf just behind you," Thudrin Orth stated, pointing a long, bony finger towards the shelf in question. He wondered why these customers spoke in such a disjointed manner. However, he did not mention this, in case the men took offence and reneged on their payment of the silver coin.

Without warning, a large group of horsemen galloped past the shuttered store front at a brisk pace. This commotion appeared to alarm the establishment's customers as they turned to aim their weird sticks towards the briefly busy street. They remained still and silent until they were certain the racing horse riders were well and truly gone.

At this point, the storekeeper noticed the lock on one of his valuable shutters had been breached. "Someone will have to pay for the broken lock on that shutter to be repaired," he calmly pointed out to his guests.

The man they referred to as 'Corporal Meredin' picked a couple of coins from out of one of his coat pockets then placed them onto the counter top. Unfortunately, these coins all turned out to be copper, but there was easily enough money to cover any repair bill to the broken latch and shutter.

In the meantime, Barren had lowered his rifle and was inspecting the strangely labelled bottles on the shelf the storekeeper had mentioned. He was not at all pleased by this bounty of refreshing juices and distilled drinking water.

"I was thinking of something a little stronger," he noted disdainfully, "if you know what I mean."

"There is an excellent range of local wines in the cabinet near your friend there," Thudrin Orth responded, pointing towards a cabinet near Richard Maret.

Opening two carved timber doors of a nearby cabinet, Maret discovered approximately five-dozen labelled bottles neatly stacked inside some sort of wine rack.

The soldier gently removed one of the dark glass bottles and was less than impressed to discover he could not understand any of the writing on the label. Since entering the city, they had been completely unable to decipher any words written in the local dialect, even though they were quite capable of understanding every word spoken by the people.

Barren joined Maret at the wine cabinet; he was also dumbfounded by the mysterious labels, but all things considered was willing to ignore such a minor inconvenience. So long as the liquid inside the collection of bottles was acceptable to drink.

"What's this stuff taste like?" the elder trooper demanded, waving one of the bottles about.

"They are all of reasonable quality," the store owner answered. He wandered across to take a closer look at the specimen held by the soldier. "Except that one. It would kill a stray dog."

Private Barren moved to replace the bottle then paused. "Ah, to hell with it!" he commented, retaining possession of the glass container. "After the first three bottles, they all taste the same!"

Meredin chuckled at his remark as he loaded some tobacco into a small leather pouch. They had been squandering their cigarettes since being paid to escort the caravan into the city. Since they were about to put as much distance between themselves and this picturesque metropolis as possible over the next couple of days, he decided they should stock up on some of life's simpler luxuries. After tonight's little misadventures, they would possibly have to avoid any larger cities they came across for quite a while.

Stepping back behind the main counter of his store, Thudrin Orth collected the coins, slipping these prized objects into a handy pocket. Tonight's unusual shopping spree by these strange customers would put him in good favour financially for quite some time. The store had just brought in more in one night than almost an entire season of business.

Emerging from the rear storeroom, Carl Buchanan was carrying a couple of large sections of fresh meat covered in damp cloths to protect them from the elements. Even in this state, these perishable foodstuffs would have to be consumed within a couple of days of their departure from Valderhien.

His arms also loaded with food items, William Hill emerged from the storeroom. He carefully deposited these items onto the counter so the old storekeeper could wrap the fruit and vegetables in some paper, which would hopefully keep these perishable items reasonably fresh for some days.

"Let's get the hell out of here," the corporal instructed, "before those other fools ride back here and catch us. Also, someone grab some canned goods and jars so we have something to eat once the meat runs out."

"Will our horses be able to carry all this stuff?" Bernard Talbot asked as he started gathering up a collection of tins and glass jars.

"I hope so. Otherwise we'll be eating them for fresh meat."

Each of the soldiers carried as much as they could carry in both arms and staggered from the store. On their way out, they each thanked the elderly merchant.

***

They made their way down an alley to the back of the store where their mounts had been tied up. In a matter of minutes, they had managed to load up their saddlebags to the point of bursting and climbed up onto their unimpressed horses. Once back on the open, seemingly deserted streets, they rode headlong towards the main entrance gate to the great city, charging at top pace directly past a handful of surprised soldiers and gate sentries.

High up in the nearest watchtower, the Dearnian guard, Junicca observed their escape, his face flushing furiously in the torchlight. There was going to be no end of trouble over this incident-packed night. King Entell Thellon would be angry with him, Thellic would be angry with him, Lord Bourke would be angry with him. He was even angry with himself. Perhaps this was fate's way of telling him to find a new occupation. "By the gods, this has been a bad night," he muttered before quietly climbing down from the stone tower.

Once away from the clutches of the city, the small group of horsemen, their forms now barely visible in the weak moonlight, rode into the dark countryside vowing never to return to the city of Valderhien. Or so they thought.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX

THE NATION OF PHORNIMIREN  
THE LAKES DISTRICT

The lake's surface sparkled under the gentle glow of Perencore's moons as two white horses flew at a leisurely pace just above the surface of the cold, clear water. One mount, with the encouragement of the woman on its back, tilted both huge wings and lifted higher into the night sky. In a single swift motion, the horse darted over the head of the other animal's passenger and took up a new position on the opposite side. Increasing their speed, the animals began racing with passionate energy across the large lake, well away from the place the tribe had been camped for many days.

Approaching the lake's shoreline, the steeds slowed their pace until they were hovering above a small beach below. Finally, both animals came to a complete halt, their hooves digging into the soft brown sand.

One of the women slid from her ride, her feet landing softly in the recently disturbed sand. With one hand resting on the hilt of a small spear strapped to her waist, she glanced around at the surrounding forest of huge, impressive trees and was pleased to see there were no signs of anyone else in the area. Earlier reports by other scouting parties had indicated some other beings had been seen scrambling amongst the dense undergrowth. Ever since this previous sighting, the Appor leader Wan-Re-Fah had assigned a couple of tribe members to constantly patrol the rim of the great lake to make certain they were not being observed by hostile forces.

Tonight it was Sil-Ta-Dan's turn to monitor this side of the vast body of fresh water. She looked back across the lake and could see the tribe's multitude of steadily flickering campfires set earlier that evening for cooking, light and warmth. Some small bird or animal suddenly darted by her head, distracting her attention.

"What was that, Sil-Ta-Dan?" her companion on this venture inquired nervously.

"I have no idea, Hil-Re-Zin. Why? Are you in need of another meal?" Sil-Ta-Dan joked to her friend.

Even in the dim light, she could see her companion shudder at the thought of devouring some small, flying creature of the night. "We should build a fire. Then if you catch it, you can cook it first."

The other, slightly younger woman alighted from her own mount. "Is it really necessary for you to jest in such a fashion, Sil-Ta-Dan?" she demanded, her dark eyes reflecting the moonlight in an eerie manner.

"A sense of humour is a wonderful gift, Hil-Re-Zin. You should try it some time."

"If you wish to talk about something amusing, shall we discuss your feelings towards Ernest Bonaparte?"

"Ernest?"

"Yes, Ernest. The entire tribe is talking about how you openly yearn for him."

"I do not! I simply find him... interesting," Sil-Ta-Dan retorted indignantly, prowling about the area to locate some dry wood for a fire.

"That is a new term for it," the other woman insisted. "His mate, the woman, Edith; she is aware of your feelings, you know. She watches you as closely as you watch Ernest. I am sure she harbours no good feelings towards you."

Her arms now loaded with dry twigs and branches, Sil-Ta-Dan stared at the other guard on duty, clearly bemused by the statement. "Are you going to assist me in collecting firewood, or are you attempting to scare away as many local animals as possible with that loud voice you possess?"

Hil-Re-Zin glanced about the sandy ground at her feet and bent over, picking up a single, dead twig. She held her prize up for the other Apporan to inspect. "As you can see, I am collecting wood."

"Sarcasm is no adequate replacement for humour, Hil-Re-Zin. And in reply to your earlier comment, Edith Bonaparte and I get along quite well. However, this will not continue if she hears frivolous and false reports about her mate and me. I trust I have made myself perfectly clear?"

"Oh, completely clear, Sil-Ta-Dan. I see it clearly; the entire tribe sees it clearly."

Kneeling down on the small, narrow beach, Sil-Ta-Dan placed her bundle of dry timber in a small pile. Satisfied this kindling was more than enough to start a fire, she stood up and brushed some sand particles from her dark clothing.

While the two women bantered good-naturedly amongst themselves, their mounts, wings folded as protection against the night's chill, wandered across to a small hillock and began dining on the fresh grass growing in the area. Using the age old and greatly practiced method of igniting a fire with a flint, the women soon had a small blaze burning on the beach, its warmth and light a comfort to them both.

Without warning, the horses were abruptly spooked. One horse actually took flight, bringing it close to the water's edge. The other animal trotted to its companion's side. Both horse's wings were spread in case escape by flight was quickly required.

Instantly recognising this as a sign of possible danger in the area, both dark-haired women snatched up their shortened spears, their undivided attention focused on the night time forest and its accompanying clamour of unrecognisable sounds. Strangely enough, these nocturnal noises had ceased, leaving the area eerily silent.

"Can you see anything?" Hil-Re-Zin demanded in a hushed tone.

Sil-Ta-Dan nodded slightly. "There was someone moving about in the bushes; I could not see them clearly."

"Someone?"

"Well, it was walking on two legs. I hope it is a 'someone'. If not, we could be in serious trouble."

"Should we leave to report this encounter to the High Councillor?"

"Certainly not. We were sent here to protect the main camp from any possible attack, and that is exactly what we will do."

Hil-Re-Zin turned to face her. "We are on the opposite side of the lake. Even the most fleet of foot would take the better part of a night and a day to reach them."

"Lower your voice."

"I say we return to camp, get assistance and mount a major attack on whoever or whatever lurks in this forest."

"Perhaps you are correct," Sil-Ta-Dan admitted, lowering the point of her spear, though her dark, keen eyes never strayed from the woods. "We will stay long enough to find out if this person or thing poses a threat. If so, we will return to the others."

Almost as if in direct response to her suggestion, a single, small biped stepped out of the darkened forest and onto the beach. Standing upright, it was just over waist height to the women. It remained motionless for a moment or two, staring intently at the two Appor women with huge, black, dead-looking eyes. The creature's skin was pasty white in tone, almost to the point of being translucent, while the fingers of both hands were extremely long and thin, possessing razor sharp nails. The only coverage this thing wore was a thin layer of light brown hair, which was putrid and caked in dirt and grime.

"Handsome man," Hil-Re-Zin quipped under her breath, her features revealing the shock she felt on first witnessing the short man-like creature.

Sil-Ta-Dan remained strangely silent. Her thoughts had swept back to her childhood, recalling her mother telling stories of beings with this appearance. "Wenris-Wer," she finally uttered in disbelief.

This could not be possible. Wenris-Wer were mythological creatures from their home world of Gobber-Den-Ittar. They were not real back then and could not be real here on this chilled night. But what was real anymore?

"I did not hear what you said," Hil-Re-Zin whispered, staring across at her friend.

There was no such thing as Wenris-Wer. They were something the tribal elders spoke about in falsely hushed voices to frighten misbehaving children. They said these creatures were dangerous to all life forms, constantly ravenous, enthusiastic for the next kill and the taste of fresh blood. They had a lethal tendency to travel in large packs and swarm over any and all forms of life they encountered... but they were a figment of the imagination.

A second Wenris-Wer appeared on the beach about three short paces from the first one. Then another. It was as though they were materialising from the faint mist just beyond the forest's reach.

"I must admit," Hil-Re-Zin stated, "this is beginning to worry me."

"We should leave immediately," Sil-Ta-Dan instructed, much to the younger woman's immense relief. "Have you ever heard of Wenris-Wer?"

"Yes, but that was a fable made up to frighten us into obeying our elders when we were children."

By now, about fifteen of the creatures had gathered at the wood's edge, their hungry, flat, emotionless eyes surveying the two women.

"Do those look like figments of your imagination?" Sil-Ta-Dan asked.

"No, I must admit they look very real."

The increasing number of creatures was now close to thirty.

"Get the horses," Sil-Ta-Dan instructed through gritted teeth.

"I live to obey," Hil-Re-Zin responded, stepping cautiously towards the nervous animals, which were still near the water's edge.

At the first sign of their intended prey fleeing the area, the mass of Wenris-Wer swarmed down the beach towards the startled Apporans, scaring their horses in the process. Fortunately, these hideous beings were not particularly fleet of foot and moved in a considerably clumsy fashion.

Sil-Ta-Dan managed to kill three of the creatures with relatively little effort when they made the fatal mistake of approaching her. To her left, she could clearly see her companion on this doomed mission climb onto one of their mounts, only to be thrown clear in the initial commotion. Fortunately, Hil-Re-Zin had not been seriously injured in her fall and was instantly back on her feet, slaughtering the supposedly mythical beasts whenever they ventured within reach. Sil-Ta-Dan's horse had already launched itself into the cold air and was presently lashing out at the monstrous creatures with all four hooves. The other animal panicked badly under the duress of this most unexpected attack, both huge wings propelling its bulk across the lake towards the opposite bank where the remainder of the tribe were stationed.

Tragically, the two Apporan women now faced a swarm of about fifty Wenris-Wer. The sheer weight of numbers had forced the women almost into the freezing water, which now lapped hungrily at their feet. Her eyes wide in terror, Hil-Re-Zin wielded her spear with all the dexterity of a battle-hardened warrior. She had been taught these basic fighting techniques since childhood, as were all Appor children. One defensive method she had learnt when facing overwhelming opposition was to pick a single target, deal with this obstacle then move on to the next. She disposed of one of the vile creatures before focusing her attention onto the next nearest target. Sooner or later, this method was bound to fail simply due to human error and the sheer number of opponents. Hil-Re-Zin slipped on the bloodied sand, her feet almost giving way underneath her lithe frame. Instantly, the foul smelling beasts were upon her, grabbing at her with their claws, their sharp tearing at the woman's skin and clothes.

***

Something was definitely wrong. Opening her eyes wide, Edith Bonaparte peered up and stared intently at the roof of the tent as she gathered her thoughts. She turned to look at her husband and found him in a deep sleep, the occasional snore escaping his partially closed lips. What was wrong?

Carefully extracting herself from their tent, she quickly threw on her dressing gown and stepped across to the children's tent. On opening the flap, Edith was at first bewildered and a touch shocked to find only one of her sons asleep in the portable abode. She stared silently at the empty place where Ernest junior should have been fast asleep next to his brother on this cold night. The car! Thankfully, the eight-year old boy had commandeered the vehicle's rear bench seat and, like his elder brother, was fast asleep. His small, thin frame was presently curled up as much as the narrow seat would allow with only his head visible, poking from out of a collection of woollen blankets.

Although extremely relieved at this discovery, Edith was somewhat annoyed to note the small child still sported an unhealthy layer of dirt and grime over his innocent face. She paused to reflect on recent events with the Appor tribe. The Appor men and women were polite enough and certainly maintained a clean, healthy lifestyle, but had no sense of how to raise children, well, Earth children anyway.

Only the other day, their leader, the High Councillor had requested that the Bonaparte family all be given Apporan names to firmly cement their place within the tribe. Edith had flatly refused to consider such a thing. Joseph and Ernest junior were children born and bred in the United States and they were going to keep their given Christian names, as far as she was concerned. The Appor were a bit disheartened by this decision, but fully understood the reasons behind her refusal. Once it had been fully discussed, the tribe members resigned themselves to the obvious and did not raise the matter again.

Still overcome by feelings of dread, Edith wandered away from the vehicle, her path only illuminated by a scant few campfires scattered about the groups of soundly sleeping Appor. In the distance, somewhere across the great expanse of motionless dark water, a barely visible pinprick of firelight flickered, marking another obviously much smaller encampment. Suddenly this light lurched, then vanished.

Moving down to the lake's shoreline, she continued staring into the distance in the direction of the now invisible glow. It disturbed her that the light had died so abruptly.

"The best of the morning to you."

Edith gasped and spun around to find herself staring at one of the Appor.

The night sentry was just a touch taller than Edith, complete with the mandatory dark eyes and hair. He smiled at her in an innocent, friendly manner, unaware of how badly he had frightened her.

"You startled me!"

"My apologies, Edith Bonaparte," he responded. "That was certainly not my intention."

"Apology accepted," she informed him with a light smile.

"If I may be so bold as to ask why you are awake and wandering about the camp at such an unhealthy time?"

"I don't really know," she admitted nervously. "I just can't get over the feeling something's terribly wrong."

Now the Appor man had lost his smile. "Why do you feel something is wrong?"

She shrugged before answering. "I can't really explain it. There's just this terrible feeling I can't shake. And also, I just was just watching the light from a fire all the way on the other side of the lake. All of a sudden, it just went out as if someone had poured water over it."

The Appor man turned to gaze in the direction she was pointing. While they both watched for some sign of an impending problem, it appeared to them in the form of an unoccupied horse winging its way over the water's smooth, black surface. The animal's coat was drenched in perspiration, marking the fact it had been moving under great duress. After hovering briefly overhead, it finally came to rest at the edge of the main camp to join a number of other Appor horses resting at this place.

The guard needed to see no more. "Please go back to Ernest and your children and stay with them," he firmly instructed Edith an instant before raising the alarm.

In a matter of minutes, a full complement of Appor had been roused from their slumber by the commotion and hastily prepared themselves to further investigate this incident. The tribal Housemaster, Zer-Qil-Ard took personal control of the expedition. He immediately recognised the mount as belonging to Hil-Re-Zin and set a course in the direction where she has been posted with Sil-Ta-Dan.

Ernest, who was hauled from his deep sleep by all of the commotion, joined his nervous wife as a number of the Appor and their horses flew high overhead.

"What's going on, Edith?"

"One of the horses came back by itself."

"Do they know whose it was?"

"They think it belonged to the girl who was with Sil-Ta-Dan.

Ernest's heart skipped a beat. He had taken quite a liking to the good-natured Appor girl and was quite disturbed to think some harm may have befallen her during the night. There was certainly no thought of love for Sil-Ta-Dan; he loved his wife and simply found the Apporan woman enjoyable company. Her sense of humour kept him amused in his family's bizarre circumstances.

"What's going on?"

The Bonapartes turned around to find their eldest son, Joseph standing just behind them. He rubbed at both eyes with his hands while trying to get a clear picture of the commotion going on around him. Adding to his confusion, the Appor were scrambling about the campsite, posting extra guards and hurtling across the moonlit sky on their horses in all directions.

"There's some trouble, Joe," his father mentioned as calmly as possible.

"What sort of trouble?"

"I don't know yet." This was sort of the truth.

"When will you know, Dad?"

Children: They lived to ask questions.

"Your guess is as good as mine, son. Now go sit in the car with Ernest junior and make sure he's all right."

"Aww... Dad! Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"What did your last babysitter die of, Dad--exhaustion?"

"No," his father replied, "strangulation. Now go do as I tell you, please."

Children also lived for rebellion.

The eldest child trudged back to the parked station wagon and climbed inside muttering angrily to himself. He gently shut the door and remained seated in his mother's traditional place in the family vehicle. All the while, he quietly observed the activity taking place throughout the area. Something was definitely going on tonight.

***

The first search party flew high above the lake, their horses frantically beating their wings, all eyes keen to pick up any signs of the two women at their distant posting. No-one held high hopes for either woman's escape from whatever terrible trouble had enveloped them. The lone horse was testament to the fact one of them was in the gravest of trouble and the other would certainly not leave her fellow tribe member to fend for herself, even if meant forfeiting her own life. Indeed, Apporan law deemed it a serious crime to abandon a comrade, fallen or otherwise under practically any circumstances. Thus, they were astounded to see a horse flying in their direction, its bloodied occupant clearly visible even in the faint moonlight.

Clutching the reins of his mount more tightly than required, the Horsemaster, Zer-Qil-Ard was overcome by variety of emotions when he realised it was Sil-Ta-Dan. At least she was alive, although apparently badly injured by whatever had caused Hil-Re-Zin's horse to flee. The fact remained that if her partner had perished for some reason, the girl had broken Apporan law.

A few of the other Apporans managed to reach Sil-Ta-Dan's horse and found themselves barely capable of controlling the terrified animal. Finally, they managed to corral it amongst their number, even though the horse occasionally kicked out at them and reared violently for no apparent reason.

"Where is Hil-Re-Zin?" one of the Appor men demanded of the injured woman, shaking her by one arm in anger.

"If you do that once more you will return to our camp without your head," Zer-Qil-Ard warned.

The other man ceased harassing Sil-Ta-Dan, but remained close at hand. Like many of the others present, he was angered by the apparent desertion of a tribe member.

"Some of you take Sil-Ta-Dan back to the camp," the Horsemaster instructed from his hovering mount. "The rest of us will scour the woods for Hil-Re-Zin, even if it takes us the rest of the night."

This proclamation appeared to appease the search party. Two of the Appor present reluctantly volunteered to escort the injured woman back to the base camp. The remainder of the group flew across to the place where both women had set up their posting on the small beach.

Once on the narrow lakeside beach the search party could easily see the strip of sand had been the site of a shocking battle. Numerous decimated corpses were strewn about the area. Amongst the bodies, the Appor discovered both women's abandoned spears. To one side of the beach a small fire had started in the nearby undergrowth, an apparent result of someone throwing a burning branch at their assailants. A hasty count revealed there were just over twenty bodies about the place.

The Horsemaster pointing towards the recently started fire, "Someone extinguish that before it becomes a major hazard."

One of the women in the group nodded and began to assemble a fire fighting team. They could not mount an effective search for their missing tribe member if the entire region was well ablaze.

Kneeling beside a motionless form on the cold sand, Zer-Qil-Ard began to examine the remains in a bid to identify the culprits responsible for this tragedy. He rolled one corpse over for a closer inspection and leapt back in shock at his discovery. "This thing is a Wenris-Wer!"

His simple statement sent a shockwave through the entire group and even those Appor fighting the fire stopped to stare at him incredulously.

"Impossible!" someone blurted, their voice tainted with unbridled fear.

The Horsemaster stared down at the vile corpse, astounded by this discovery. Even though he was certain about his deduction, Zer-Qil-Ard still found it unbelievable. "We also thought it impossible to find ourselves on another planet," Zer-Qil-Ard reminded everyone in the vicinity. "Now, we have work to do. It will be light before too long and we have to make haste in finding Hil-Re-Zin if she still lives. If not, then we must punish the things responsible for her demise. Is there anyone in disagreement with this?"

Not one voice was raised in protest against his plan.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

Standing by the dark water's edge, shivering slightly from the cold air and their feelings of dread, Ernest and Edith Bonaparte watched with intense interest as a handful of white horses and accompanying Appor flew towards the main encampment. Not until some moments later did they fully comprehend one of those dark-haired people was Sil-Ta-Dan, her face pale from shock and blood loss.

A crowd of equally concerned tribe's people gathered about the shoreline to watch apprehensively as the mounts came to rest in an area relatively free of any obstacles. The observers approached as the other horse riders assisted the injured girl down from her animal. One Appor man had to physically hold her upright lest she collapse to the ground. While the injured woman was helped towards the tent where the tribe High Councillor resided, Ernest caught sight of a swift movement out of the corner of his eye. His eldest son, Joseph had fled the car, fear clearly visible on his youthful face.

"Joe, please go back to the car," his father patiently instructed.

"But she's hurt!" the child cried out, barely pausing in his efforts to reach the wounded woman.

"Then we have to let Wan-Re-Fah and the others take care of her."

"But..." the child stammered, his bewildered mind at a loss for words.

"We don't have time to stand around here talking about this, Joseph. Now do me a favour and look after Ernest junior. We don't want anything to happen to him now, do we?"

Joseph tearfully shook his head then proceeded to wander back to the station wagon. He halted and turned back towards his father. "You'll let me know how she's doing, won't you?"

Ernest nodded. "You bet. As soon as I know something; you'll know about it." To his surprise when he looked around, his wife was nowhere to be seen. "Edith?"

No one paid any particular attention to Ernest as he wandered towards the High Councillor's tent, calling out his wife's name. It was a complete mystery where she could have ventured off to at such a dangerous time of the night. He located Edith in Wan-Re-Fah's tent, clutching one of Sil-Ta-Dan's trembling hands as the tribe medic applied first aid to her injuries. The only fortunate aspect of this dire situation was the girl's injuries all appeared to be superficial and would therefore heal given adequate time. Strangely though, as her fellow Apporans watched her being treated, their mood was not one of enthusiasm. In fact, there was a barely disguised air of hostility towards their returned tribe member.

"She should have stayed," someone standing just in front of Ernest grumbled.

"I tried," Sil-Ta-Dan murmured weakly, biting her bottom lip as a wave of fresh pain flashed through her nervous system. Her injuries included a particularly gruesome gash to her abdomen, cuts on both arms, severe bruising all round and a badly swollen eye, which she could barely see through by this stage.

"There is no excuse for this!" someone else announced, further upsetting the injured woman.

"I tried to save her!" she called plaintively in response to the outraged voice. "There were just too many of them. They were everywhere!"

"Who were?" Wan-Re-Fah inquired in a calm tone.

"The Wenris-Wer."

This statement instantly hushed the crowd of onlookers as though her words had slapped the breath from their bodies. None of the stunned Appor dared even repeat what their injured tribe member had uttered while her wounds were tended.

"What are Wenris-Wer?" Ernest asked.

"Wenris-Wer," Wan-Re-Fah answered softly, gazing across to the Earthling, "are vile, voracious demons that walk like men. But they are nothing more than a tale told to scare children amongst our tribes into going to bed when instructed to do so."

"And I bet that story helps the little mites sleep," Ernest muttered. "But why would Sil-Ta-Dan say she saw them tonight if they don't exist?"

"Because she is a coward!" the man standing just in front of him announced.

Grabbing the offender by his highly opinionated collar, Ernest hauled him around so they could stare at one another eye to eye. "You should watch your great, big mouth, buddy!" he exclaimed, "Before somebody sticks a great, big fist into it!"

"Everybody leave!" Wan Re Fah bellowed, all pretences of being a kindly old man now gone. "Right now!"

All the onlookers, including Ernest, immediately began filing out of the makeshift medical tent. Both he and the offensive Apporan man continued glaring at one another until the latter was escorted away by a number of his companions.

When Edith attempted to leave the High Councillor's tent, the injured Sil-Ta-Dan reached across and grabbed hold of her hand. "Please... stay with me," she pleaded.

Edith glanced at the High Councillor, who briefly nodded then departed the flimsy structure.

Once out in the open, he was confronted by the sight of almost the entire tribe readying themselves to assist in the rescue of Hil-Re-Zin. While the mounted horses took to the still dark sky, Ernest, with his pistol tucked neatly into his belt approached the tribal elder. His features were set in a grim expression as he stood close to Wan-Re-Fah.

"I want to help look for the girl."

"You would be better placed staying here and looking after your partner and children, Ernest," the old man responded.

A number of the searchers swooped high overhead, enthusiastic to begin the hunt. They called loudly to one another then flew across the wide expanse of water.

"Are you leaving anyone here to guard the camp?" Ernest inquired, his eyes watching the steady procession of departing Appor.

"Certainly, I would never endanger those remaining by sending every abled-bodied person from the tribe to search for the missing girl."

"Then you won't miss me all that much."

"I fail to see the point to this exercise."

"The point is that Sil-Ta-Dan is being blamed for something she's not responsible for. I want to help look for the missing girl."

"The other girl is most probably dead by now. We must face this fact."

"She might still be alive," Ernest countered. "After all, stranger things have happened. At least I'm another pair of eyes looking for her. It beats just standing around watching the sunrise."

Wan-Re-Fah finally agreed, marking his decision with a single nod of his head. "You may go with the search party, Ernest: Although, I beg you to take every precaution while searching over there. I fear your wife would never forgive me if some misfortune befell you during this unfortunate business."

"No," Ernest calmly corrected him, "She would forgive you. Right after she killed you." He glanced across the wide lake. "How do I get there?"

"I will arrange for a horse to carry you across the lake," the High Councillor answered, although he still harboured some doubt over Ernest's endeavour. "Can you swim, Ernest?"

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

Wan-Re-Fah turned to stare at the great expanse of water nearby and looked back at Ernest. "It was an obvious question on my part."

***

Less than ten minutes later, Ernest Bonaparte was desperately clinging to a saddle on the back of one of the Appor horses as the winged animal flew over the lake at a rather disturbing height. Fortunately, this horse was one of the more gentle animals belonging to the tribe and politely followed a group of Appor as they headed away from the camp. Before leaving the main camp, he just managed to catch sight of his wife. He gave her a fleeting wave before his mount flew off after the other animals.

Edith remained motionless near the tent, staring up at his slowly fading form. She did not wave back. Stepping across to the tribal elder who was likewise observing Ernest's somewhat haphazard departure, she gently tapped him on the shoulder, causing the Appor leader to turn around. Unlike Edith, he appeared to be completely at ease with the sight of her spouse hanging on to a flying horse with all the dexterity of a child clinging to the side of a swimming pool on his first swimming lesson.

"How is Sil-Ta-Dan fairing?" Wan-Re-Fah politely inquired.

"She'll live," Edith replied, still a touch confused about her husband's sudden departure from the campsite.

The elder nodded. "That is good. Although, I fear there could be more serious repercussions over this tragic business."

"Why? She did her best to help the other girl. What was her name?"

"Hil-Re-Zin."

"Her name's similar to yours," Edith noted.

A pained expression flashed across the old man's features. "She was... I mean is the daughter of my brother," he gently explained, a cool breeze pulling gently at his cloak.

"Your niece?"

"Correct," he confirmed. "There is a custom amongst my people to share segments of our names with our next of kin."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Do not feel pity for her. If some terrible misfortune has befallen Hil-Re-Zin then it was because she was acting to protect the entire tribe. It is considered a great honour to go to the afterlife by performing such a selfless task."

"It's still a terrible thing to happen," Edith remarked.

"Yes, it is, Edith Bonaparte," he sighed, his voice brimming with emotion. "A truly terrible thing."

"May I change the subject?"

"I would greatly appreciate it."

"Where was my husband going in such a rush?"

"To assist the rest of the tribe in the rescue mission. He is a very brave man."

An odd, menacing sort of grin spread across her features. "Only if he comes back to face me," she muttered. Then Edith remembered something that confused her. "Why did you say there would be trouble with Sil-Ta-Dan? I noticed back in the tent that the others were getting agitated about something."

"I am unable to go into great detail about her situation, except to say some members of our tribe feel she should not have left Hil-Re-Zin under any circumstances, even if it meant her own death at the hands of those terrible creatures. After all, our law decrees it so."

"You can't be serious!" Edith exclaimed, outraged by such a ludicrous statement.

"Unfortunately, there will have to be a tribal assembly about her conduct in this matter and some will no doubt speak out against her, especially amongst Hil-Re-Zin's friends within the tribe."

"And you?"

He shrugged in a weary gesture betraying the exhaustion he felt. "I am the High Councillor of the tribe. I can only listen to the facts and make a judgment according to Apporan law."

"Will Ernest and myself be allowed to attend?"

"No."

"Why not?" she inquired.

"Your family has become most welcome in our midst in these troubled times. But this does not include you as a member of our tribe. Officially, neither Ernest nor you have a voice in official matters."

"I see," Edith remarked bluntly.

"Please do not take this as an insult, Edith. These are our laws and we of the Appor must abide by them to maintain order in our lives."

"What's order worth without compassion?"

Thinking about her words Wan-Re-Fah lowered his head slightly, then after a brief pause he looked at the woman. "We will have to await the outcome of the search. But do not be surprised by the most probable outcome of any tribal hearing into Sil-Ta-Dan's conduct. Whatever happens, I am certain she will accept her fate. Others may feel further aggrieved if I display any favouritism towards her. It could cause disunity within our small community on this strange world."

The elder paused to allow Edith to consider his serious words. "Oh," he added. "And your sons appear to be awake. I can clearly see them moving about in your motor car."

"I'd better see to them," Edith commented. "I do hope they find your niece alive and well."

"I also pray to the gods she is alive and in good health," the High Councillor responded with a curt nod.

Walking towards the station wagon and its increasingly rowdy occupants, Edith pondered her grim conversation with Wan-Re-Fah. She wondered if she even had the right to question the Apporan laws and tribal customs. Like her family, they were living in highly unusual circumstances and difficult times. As much as she was aligned to the traditions on Earth, she accepted the Appor had a perfect right to live their lives in the way in which they were accustomed back on their home planet. By the time she had reached the parked vehicle, Edith had decided merely to keep an eye on the upcoming proceedings within the Appor tribe and the troubles created by Sil-Ta-Dan's apparent crime.

***

There were about a dozen individuals in this particular group as they moved with great purpose through their assigned sector of the heavily timbered woods. The seemingly endless intermingled collection of trees, shrubs, vines and grasses had only become fully visible on the day's first rays of sunlight. Having extinguished their torches, the search party continued on, all eyes yearning to locate any signs of their missing tribe member. Strangely enough, despite dozens of potential rescuers scouring the forest, they had only come across a lone Wenris-Wer. The abhorrence in question had been found wandering about, apparently oblivious to the fact part of its right arm was missing, the lower half presumably hacked off at some stage during the vicious fight on the beach. The Appor had dispatched the creature under a barrage of spears and sharp knives.

Ernest recognised some members of his assigned search party, but could not recall their rather convoluted segmented names. Fortunately, they all appeared to accept his presence in their midst and were grateful for any assistance he could offer in their time of need.

Feeling a great deal more adventurous in the new morning's pleasant sunlight, they spread further apart to cover more ground. Despite their courage, they maintained a strict sense of awareness, alert for any movements or disturbances in the midst of the massive forest. They patrolled the area with an ever-waning measure of enthusiasm. All of the search party members now considered it hopeless; they would, no doubt, find little trace of the missing woman or the fiends that had abducted her.

Further along in the search, Ernest noticed an inviting breach between a cluster of trees and a particularly large boulder. There appeared to be a trail winding its way between these obstacles, possibly well past their position. Ernest halted briefly, peering along the camouflaged trail, then took off towards the naturally formed path at a steady pace.

The remainder of the group continued on in their supposedly fruitless quest. They began foraging about a growth of aged trees furthers ahead.

"Ernest Bonaparte!" a voice called to him. "Where are you going?"

He turned to face the leader of his patrol.

"I just want to have a look along here," he informed the team leader, pointing along his newfound trail. "I won't be gone too long."

"Please take care," the tall, dark-eyed woman insisted, before joining her party.

"I intend too," he muttered under his breath.

Stepping past the trees and the huge boulder, he was taken aback to discover a small valley hidden neatly behind these obstacles. To his chagrin, Ernest realised it would take a large army a couple of days to fully search an area of this size, so expertly concealed within the massive forest. Removing his gun from its delicate resting place in his belt, he decided to continue his inspection of the area before going back to gather the others for a more detailed exploration. He wandered along cautiously, his eyes alert for any signs of these 'Wenris-Wer' things the Appor spoke of in hushed, uncharacteristically frightened voices.

A distant noise that sounded like some sort of sloppy chewing caught his attention. The rather disturbing sound was coming from just beyond the next rise in the isolated valley. Leaving the track, Ernest stepped cautiously over the long grasses of the valley floor and crept up the slope to peek over the crest of the hill. He found himself staring down at eight or nine 'things' that resembled short, anemic ape-like men with a lot of filthy body hair. In their midst was a human form laying face-up on the bloodstained ground wearing the remnants of some garment that closely resembled the Appor mode of dress. One of the creatures turned to gaze across at Ernest with a mild animalistic indifference. It opened its mouth to reveal a maw full of sharp, pointed teeth, then bent back over the girl's body and continued eating.

A scream of revulsion and hostile rage tore free from Ernest's mouth. His pistol now raised, he charged towards the group of feeding monsters with little thought for his own safety. Pulling the gun's trigger as he ran, Ernest was actually surprised at just how swiftly he covered the ground between himself and these ghoul-like apparitions.

Having been disturbed while dining, the mass of Wenris-Wer turned to stare stupidly at this loud, fierce biped. His first shot managed to perform no greater function than blast a hole in some unsuspecting tree a good distance from the scene. Fortunately, the second round ripped into one of the dumbfounded creatures, knocking it backwards and causing the vile predator to thrash wildly, its arms and legs jerking spasmodically in the throes of death.

Still bellowing and furiously rebuking the monsters, Ernest advanced, firing his sidearm point-blank into any of the forms now surrounding him. This rather hazardous approach to venting his fury left him directly in the midst of a number of surviving Wenris-Wer, all of who were fully intent on continuing to feed.

And then, Ernest ran out of bullets.

The nearest creature latched onto his unoccupied arm and for its troubles was dealt a number of furious blows with the now useless gun. Almost as soon as this Wenris-Wer had been knocked senseless, another one grabbed Ernest from behind, leaning up to sink its putrid teeth into his shoulder. The sharp teeth sank easily into the startled man's flesh, causing a quantity of fresh blood to pour directly into the evil creature's greedily waiting mouth.

Ernest screamed in pain, flaying insanely at his attacker with the empty pistol. To his amazement and relief, the creature toppled sideways onto the bloodied ground. On hitting the valley floor, it stirred only mildly before succumbing to a large hole in the neck, courtesy of an Apporan spear.

The leader of the Appor search party along with most of her group began furiously slaughtering the surviving Wenris-Wer, reducing their numbers in a matter of seconds. With blood splattered across her dark clothing, the party leader stood near the injured man, her eyes still scanning the downed creatures for any signs of life. Once convinced every last one of these monsters was indeed dispatched, she turned her attention towards Ernest, who had collapsed to his knees.

"You have done well, Ernest," she congratulated him. "Only in your place, I would have taken greater care to avoid being bitten."

"Funny," he grumbled, one hand clutching at the bleeding wound on his damaged shoulder.

"Make certain these vile things do not have any more surprises for us," she instructed numerous members of her party.

On hearing her command the other Appor began rushing about, deftly cutting the heads of the Wenris-Wer away from their lifeless bodies.

"How did you get here so quickly?" Ernest inquired.

"We heard some unusual sounds and decided to investigate. Do all of your people make so much unnecessary noise while killing the enemy?"

"Don't really know," Ernest admitted, wishing the intense pain in his shoulder would go away and bother someone else. "It's the first time I've ever shot anything before, other than the odd rabbit."

An Appor man stepped up to speak with the leader. "The creatures are all dead," he duly reported.

She nodded approvingly.

"What do we do about Hil-Re-Zin?"

Ernest had been trying to ignore the tragic remains of the girl lying nearby. She was in a shocking state. The other members of the search team were also trying to avoid looking at their deceased tribe member.

"We will move her from this place," the group leader commanded, her voice laced with grief. "I will not have these creatures feed off her. She fought for the safety of the tribe and she will be buried with dignity and honour."

"We should get back to the lake," Ernest insisted. "These damn things could be all through the forest."

The woman nodded at this suggestion. "An excellent idea. We will take her to the deepest part of the lake where Hil-Re-Zin will sleep for eternity."

"We have company," someone called out, pointing towards some overgrown bushes in the secluded valley.

The search party all turned, and with no small measure of revulsion and fear, saw three more Wenris-Wer. These odd beings walked with a strangely inhuman gait towards the stunned Appor party and Ernest. Another two creatures appeared from a different direction and, like their counterparts, began steadily moving towards the only source of food in the region.

"Get the feeling they're trying to corner us?" Ernest enquired, reloading his .38 pistol. He dropped two of the shiny metal cartridges in the process and bent over to pick them up with slightly shaking, bloodied fingers. His shoulder and arm were still causing him great discomfort. Glancing up, he was quite stunned to note the Wenris-Wer were now a great deal closer to his group than a mere few seconds ago. "I think it's high time we made a break for somewhere a little less hazardous to our health."

"Agreed."

By this time, no less than ten Wenris-Wer had appeared about the group, effectively cutting off any avenue of escape.

Respite from their dire predicament appeared in the form of five horses and their Appor owners who landed in the clearing near the group. The recently arrived Appor were somewhat taken aback to discover the situation the search party were in.

"Do you require any assistance?" one of the new arrivals inquired sarcastically.

One of his companions tapped the man on the shoulder and pointed to the sad remains of their tribe member still lying dead on the ground. The smile instantly vanished from the Appor man's features. This was certainly not the place to be making amusing comments. A great tragedy had befallen one of their number in this valley.

"We require a blanket to carry Hil-Re-Zin back to the tribe," the group leader instructed.

One of the Appor reached into their saddlebag and immediately withdrew a plain blanket. He passed it down to one of the searchers, who dispatched this item to those tribe members gathered around the fallen woman. In a remarkably quick time they had secured her in the makeshift shroud in a manner that would allow her remains to be safely taken from this terrible place.

The task complete, one of the mounted Apporan men remarked: "Now if you will excuse us for a short time, we must see how many of these revolting things it takes to fill a deep hole."

As their great wings beat with a remarkable delicacy, the five white horses lifted off the ground, heading in different directions. The sight of these airborne mounts and their owners actually seemed to produce some sort of emotional response from the creatures. They attempted to flee the area in their standard shuffle, but were cut down with relative ease.

To everyone's surprise, no sooner had this first group been disposed of than others appeared from out of the surrounding forest to take their place. The new group of Wenris-Wer had increased to almost twenty and although it was not a particular problem for the Appor, it was becoming an increasing concern. While some of the search party carried the body of Hil-Re-Zin from the secluded valley, the remaining Appor lingered behind to cut down the ever-multiplying numbers of the carnivorous creatures.

"Our problem's getting worse," Ernest noted nervously, still holding his aching shoulder. "Where the hell are they all coming from?"

"I do not know," the party leader admitted, watching as the mounted members of the tribe fought away even more Wenris-Wer.

Now that the creatures' ranks had swollen in number, they were becoming much bolder, openly attacking the Appor with little hesitation. Only the services of the horses were keeping their attacks at bay by this stage. Everyone present came to the same realisation: it was only a matter of time before their position would become completely overrun by the evil things. One creature ventured too close to Ernest and received a couple of shots for its trouble. Fortunately, the loud reports from the handgun seem to confuse and repel the constantly advancing beasts.

"How long will that 'gun' thing of yours last?" the group leader asked.

Ernest quickly checked his reserve ammunition. "I've only got four shots left," he answered, glancing nervously about. "Then I might as well throw it at them."

"We require reinforcements," she stated the completely obvious, observing the continuous skirmishes between the creatures and the Appor. "Their numbers are getting larger with each passing moment. I cannot figure out where they are all hiding! It is if they are simply materialising up out of the ground." She turned to Ernest, her mind coming up with a drastic solution to their growing crisis. "Can you make more noise with the gun thing?"

Ernest shrugged, wincing as this movement hurt his injured shoulder. "I suppose it's worth a try," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I'll have a few shots at these things and see if I can scare them away. It might just give us room to get the hell out of here."

"Please try."

Bracing himself, as his marksmanship was not that great at the best of times, he aimed his weapon at the nearest roving Wenris-Wer and proceeded to fire into their midst. The loud, startling reports of the .38 revolver caused the flesh eating beings to scatter in all directions. Some of the Wenris-Wer struck by the bullets toppled to the ground, either dead or gravely wounded by Ernest's brief barrage.

The unexpected reports drew the immediate attention of a sizeable group of Appor a short distance away from the besieged valley. These members of the tribe, in turn, caught the attention of other searching Appor. In a short time, a considerable formation of the tribe members was swarming directly towards the area. On arriving at the partially obscured valley, they spied the commotion created by the Wenris-Wer as their own people battled for survival. Unfortunately, this backup team faced the problem that there was only one negotiable breach in the forest canopy. While some of the Appor dropped down through it to take part in the fight, others were forced to hover high above the disturbing scene, waiting for an opportunity to make a safe passage to the tumultuous valley floor.

Being one of the last to enter the area, the Horsemaster, Zer-Qil-Ard was astonished to discover a full-pitch battle in progress between his people and now a good hundred or so Wenris-Wer. Bodies, mainly those of the vile creatures, blanketed the bloodied ground. Some continued to stir and even regain their footing despite having suffered horrific injuries. In the distance, he saw one man and his mount topple under a constant onslaught of the wretched beings. Both he and his horse were instantly torn apart despite the best efforts of those Appor nearby to lend assistance.

No wonder Sil-Ta-Dan had failed to rescue her companion, he realised. It was nothing short of miraculous she even survived her encounter with these filthy creatures. The shocked Horsemaster silently promised he would report his finding to the High Councillor as soon as he returned to camp--assuming he was able to make such a journey after today's grim events.

"Behind you!" a somewhat familiar voice called in alarm.

Noting the owner of the warning was Ernest, Zer-Qil-Ard turned and saw three of the creatures approaching him from the left side. Removing his spear, he prepared for the oncoming fight then lashed out at the nearest group of these voracious carnivores. His first swipe with the short spear ripped open one Wenris-Wer's face from the forehead to chin. By the time the Horsemaster had dispatched the third one, he found Ernest standing beside his horse, attempting to keep his head away from its wildly flapping wings.

"Run!"

"What was that?"

"Run!"

"Why run when we can fly? Sometimes I do not understand you, Ernest Bonaparte."

Reaching down with his free hand, he grabbed Ernest by his collar, hauling the badly bleeding man up onto the back of his mount. Somewhat startled, the horse beat its large wings, hauling itself and both men clear from the valley floor and the continuous violence.

Seeing it was time to make a hasty withdrawal, the remaining Appor likewise withdrew from the clutches of the hungry Wenris-Wer. As with Ernest, the members of the first search party were carried away on the backs of other tribe members' horses.

In the twenty minute battle, three Appor and two horses had perished, along with a greater number of Wenris-Wer. Later on, two other horses had to be put down due to the serious extent of their injuries. While the main group travelled directly back to the campsite, scouts were sent about the surrounding forest to round up any remaining members of the initial search crew. Not all of their number had been involved in the wild mêlée and they had no wish for these stragglers to suddenly find themselves confronted by the ravenous creatures. There had been more than enough death for one day.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

Edith Bonaparte stood on the narrow lakeside beach gazing across the vast expanse of blue water. She was exhausted and irate, as well as being greatly concerned for the wellbeing of her husband. When he finally arrived back at the camp, she was going to kill him for causing her so much angst, but in the meantime, the frustrated woman continued her lonely vigil under the empty sky. Another problem weighing heavily on her mind was the fate of the Appor girl, Sil-Ta-Dan, who remained asleep in the High Councillor's tent. On several occasions, both she and the tribe elder, Wan-Re-Fah had to physically repel tribe members away from the canvas enclosure. It was as though the girl's people had somehow changed into a mean-spirited lynch mob intent on blaming her for an event beyond her control.

As she continued her unofficial sentry duty, Edith thought she saw something just above the horizon that resembled little more than white specks in the otherwise clear morning sky. In a space of a few minutes the specks increased in size enough for her to see they were the returning Appor search party and their horses.

A couple of the Appor at the campsite had also seen the approaching group and immediately rushed to the water's edge to attain a better view. They nervously wondered who amongst their number had survived and who had perished in whatever hostilities had taken place.

Much to her relief, Edith saw her husband, bloodstained and exhausted, sitting behind Zer-Qil-Ard on one of the first animals to arrive back at the camp. She remained motionless as the Appor cavalry landed on the cool lake sand around her.

On seeing his wife, Ernest Bonaparte smiled wanly, his eyes distant and haunted. He climbed down from the horse, thanked the Horsemaster for his assistance then staggered over to join his concerned spouse. At first, just as he had expected, she appeared to be angry with him, but instead of launching into a lecture or giving him the cold shoulder, she planted a light kiss on his mouth--a sure sign of forgiveness, he hoped.

"How did it go?" Edith asked gently.

He shook his head. "Not good."

"What happened?"

"We found the missing girl... she's dead."

Edith was very disappointed to hear this news. It meant there would be even more trouble for Sil-Ta-Dan with the remainder of her tribe. "How did it... happen?" she cautiously inquired.

"You really don't want to know, Edith," he replied, shocked by the events he had seen unfold only about an hour earlier. "Believe me; you never want to know what happened to her."

"Oh my God, you're bleeding!" she exclaimed. "I thought it was someone else's blood!"

He glanced down at the damage wrought on his shoulder by the Wenris-Wer. The bleeding had finally ceased, and to his surprise, the wound no longer ached. Still, it was a grave concern to him that without proper medical attention the injury could become infected.

"We have to do something about that right away," Edith stated, inspecting the bite mark at closer quarters. "What on Earth were you doing out there, Ernie?"

"I was just playing with the big kids is all," he quipped, trying to make light of a horrible situation.

"I'll have to have a word with them about playing too rough," Edith smiled kindly.

Ernest tried to ignore the fact his beloved wife had her nose almost inside his open wound while inspecting the gory injury. "I have to have a talk to Wan-Re-Fah about something I saw out there; it could be important."

"Whatever it is, it can't be as important as getting you patched up," she announced. Edith also noted some of the returning Appor were in less than perfect condition. Most of the tribe members sported only cuts and abrasions, but a few were having difficulty walking.

***

The Apporan High Councillor personally assisted Ernest into the same tent where Sil-Ta-Dan was recovering from her battle wounds. While medical assistance was administered to him, he saw her dark eyes drift across to stare at him in a mixture of surprise and concern. A minute or two after making Ernest swallow some vile green potion, the name of which he had no intention of trying to pronounce, the tribe's medic began suturing his wounds. The procedure did not cause him any great distress, but occasionally a merciless shot of pain would cause him to gasp and wince, followed by a wave of nausea.

Finally, the injured Appor girl built up enough courage to ask the question, the answer to which she already knew. One way or another, she needed to be told first hand of her companion's fate. "Ernest," she whispered, her voice a barely audible murmur.

Ernest slowly turned his head to look at her.

"Hil-Re-Zin?"

"No," he simply replied.

With tears welling in her eyes, Sil-Ta-Dan grimaced as though in some sort of physical pain. "How?"

"Does it really matter?"

"It does. Did she suffer?"

"I don't think so."

A lie: An outrageous lie. The other woman must have suffered a slow, horrific death under the constant assault of those hideous things. It would have been a lingering, tortuous death. Worst of all, the ill-fated Appor girl would have been alone in this strange world in her final moments.

"Shit!" Ernest abruptly bellowed, involuntarily leaping into the air. He glared up at the tribe medic, who he suspected doubled as the tribal butcher. "Careful, buddy! You're not sowing a baseball glove there!"

"Base-ball?" the medic inquired.

"Don't worry about it," he rumbled. "Please, just be a little more gentle." Ernest turned to gaze up at his wife who was presently positioned to one side of the large tent. "Where are the boys?"

"Playing in the forest."

"Is that such a good idea, Edith?"

"Someone's with them."

"Believe me, 'someone' isn't enough. Could you go get them? They should be here. Then they can see for themselves what a big hero their father is."

"I'll go get them," Edith announced, moving slowly towards the exit. "Hopefully by the time we get back, their father won't be having delusions of grandeur."

"I love you too sweetheart!" he called after her.

He wanted to speak to Wan-Re-Fah, but was cautious about upsetting the injured woman occupying the same tent.

"Wan-Re-Fah?" he called out.

"What is it, Ernest?"

"Do you remember when we first met, how I told you about the tall building?"

"Yes. I certainly do," the tribal elder answered. "You did not wish to go into great detail about the sights you saw in the great building. You warned us to stay well clear of that place."

"What I saw in there, the people inside, they were in a similar state that the girl was in when we found her."

As he spoke, Ernest was aware his words were being closely monitored by those Appor still present in the tent. Even Sil-Ta-Dan was leaning up, staring across at him. She felt grateful he had not gone into great detail about Hil-Re-Zen's final condition.

After remaining silent for some time, Wan-Re-Fah carefully considered Ernest's grim warning. His aged though alert eyes darted about as if it was an integral part of his thought process. He leaned back in his collapsible chair, one hand covering most of his wrinkled face. Without warning, he began to speak. "Apparently, the Wenris-Wer have been brought across from our home world in great numbers. From where they came on Gobbor-Den-Ittar, I honestly cannot say. Firstly, I will have to double the guards about our campsite in case these wretched things manage to find their way to this side of the lake. When the injured have had time to recover from the worst of their wounds, we will break camp and seek safer refuge in a distant region. It is not my wish that any more of our people become meals for those abominations." Closing his eyes for a moment, Wan-Re-Fah fully comprehended that he had just said the wrong thing. The elder turned to face a mortified Sil-Ta-Dan, who was staring at him through horrified eyes. "I must apologise for my last remark, Sil-Ta-Dan. It was greatly uncalled for."

"You do not have to offer me any such apologies," she responded from her bunk. "I was the one who fled in terror, leaving Hil-Re-Zin to her fate." She paused. "What will happen to me now, Wan-Re-Fah?"

"I will do my best to protect you from the others of the tribe. Many of them see only the end results and suffer ill-informed outrage. They do not comprehend the true cause of your plight. Unfortunately, it may be necessary for sacrifices to be made in order to save what remains of our hunting party from breaking into smaller factions, all intent on seeing their own brand of justice performed."

Ernest was outraged by what he had just heard. Breaking free from the medic, he turned on the tribal elder. "Now look here! I was there fighting these things, so I know how she felt. You should have seen them! They were everywhere! It amazes me Sil-Ta-Dan got out in one piece! And now you want to punish her for somehow surviving!"

"I have no particular wish to see Sil-Ta-Dan stand trial," Wan-Re-Fah started to explain.

"Trial! What trial?"

"She will most certainly have to stand trial before the High Council over this matter. And although I am the only Councillor present, I will have to appoint other members of the tribe to assist me."

"Does anyone get to speak on her behalf?"

"Only if Sil-Ta-Dan wishes this to happen."

"Good! Then I'll defend her against this 'Council' of yours." He turned to gaze across the tent at the injured woman. "If you want me too, naturally."

She nodded from her bunk bed. At this stage, any support was appreciated. Her mind was still clouded by these recent terrible and tragic events. "I would be honoured, Ernest, if you would speak on my behalf. On some occasions, I am not very tactful with words."

"As I have already stated," Wan-Re-Fah interrupted, "I will do my best to see to it that Sil-Ta-Dan is treated fairly. Until she stands before the Council, she will continue to be a welcome part of our assembly. She will also remain in my tent as my guest until her injuries are properly healed. This is the best I can do."

"My thanks to you," Sil-Ta-Dan graciously replied, smiling for the first time since her horrible ordeal across the lake.

"You are most welcome," the elder replied, in his standard unemotional manner. "But the camp must be secured. While you both rest, I will arrange for additional guards for the remainder of the day."

"You do realise we could have to leave in one hell of a hurry," Ernest added as the medic finally finished tending to his injuries.

"We of the Appor have precious little in the way of material possessions to tie us to any one place for too long. If necessary, the entire tribe could leave this place almost immediately. The only concern I hold is that your family might be forced by circumstances to flee with us and have to leave many of your belongings behind, including your motor car."

Ernest was not terribly fussed by this possible dilemma. "If it happens, it happens. We can always come back and pick it up later. It's not like these Wenris-Wer things are going to come along, hot wire the car and go for a joy ride. To be honest, I'd love to see them try."

Wan-Re-Fah smiled at this notion. "You have a strange humour about you, Ernest Bonaparte. Are you certain you are not somehow related to the Appor?"

"I wouldn't think so," he responded. "Although after recent events, nothing would surprise me." He paused to reflect on this last statement. "I wonder what they're doing back on Earth?"

"They?" inquired Sil-Ta-Dan.

"My friends and relatives. I wonder if they miss us. To be honest, I wonder if they even know we're missing as yet."

"Again, I could not say, Ernest," retorted Wan-Re-Fah, mistaking Ernest's musings for a direct question. "Only this piece of advice comes to mind: None of these others you have mentioned are responsible for the safety of yourself and your family. We are in a decidedly dangerous part of an unknown world, so do not concern yourself about possibilities involving other people who you will most probably never see again. Concern yourself with the survival of those persons present with you. Your family must come first."

"Sounds reasonable to me," Ernest agreed just as his wife joined them in the large tent.

"What's reasonable?" she asked.

"It looks like we could be staying on this world for the duration, Edith," he surmised.

Her features illuminated by a burning oil lamp, Edith stared across the canvas structure at her husband and came to the realisation he was correct. They would never leave this strange world. Of all the emotions welling up inside her mind, one clearly stood out: Fear. There was great foreseeable trouble for their future in this world. A powerful feeling of dread filled her heart like a huge, inevitable storm. And all she could do was hope, fervently, that they would survive.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE

REALM OF PHORNIMIREN  
OUTER FOREST DISTRICT

Unlike most of their transferred contemporaries, Victor Chan and Lorraine Montague had encountered no difficulties to speak of over the past number of days as they and their companions remained in what was left of the huge mansion stuck in the middle of the forest. A sure sign that life was returning to normal in the area was the reappearance of wildlife about the tall, partially demolished building. Nocturnal animals scampered around the structure after sunset, birds could clearly been seen in the branches of the surrounding trees and occasionally, a deer or two ventured into the clearing near the scientists' current dwelling.

At first the Rider, Immir Hanis had attempted to shoot one of the grazing herbivores from an upper window of the Minerva Project mansion, however, he was forced to halt this pastime under Lorraine's constant protests.

"You can't kill them!' she wailed. "They're so cute!"

She fondly remembered the deer Connie and she had seen feeding just outside the mansion not long before their 'accident'. She wanted no part in the death of these peaceful animals. Anything that was not trying to kill, rape or eat her should be left well enough alone, as far as the blonde scientist was concerned.

"We need something for the table," Immir Hanis had kindly informed her at the time, "unless you wish to spend dinner time gnawing bark off the trees of the forest?"

"There's no need for sarcasm, Immir Hanis," she scolded, always careful to use both his names, as was the local custom. "If you perforate one of those poor things with your horrible crossbow arrows, I'll never speak to you again!"

That decided the matter. No deer hunting.

That night, they dined on stewed vegetables and some rather tough salted meat, much to everybody's mutual distaste. Unfortunately, the mansion kitchen had been located in the section of the building that decided to stay behind on Earth. Otherwise, there would have been plenty of food for everybody.

Having been the first to rise the next morning, Lorraine set about hauling an easel, a suitably sized, mounted canvas and a vast collection of paints and brushes from her room down to the clearing. She spent about ten minutes deciding on the best place to set up her equipment, which turned out to be a spot no great distance away from the building. In this area, strong shafts of brilliant sunlight broke through the overhead canopy of branches and leaves to illuminate the ankle-high grasses and patches of small, brightly coloured flowers. Some blue finches in a nearby bush abruptly fled the scene.

"Good morning, Lorraine!" Victor called from the edge of his bedroom that he had recently inherited from Simon Leveque. He did not actually mind breathing in the uninterrupted flow of fresh air due to the absence of an external wall; it was like camping out, only in a four star hotel.

"You scared them away, Vic!" Lorraine replied exasperatedly without bothering to glance away from her work in progress.

"Scared who away?"

"The birds."

"Damn! And I could use a good, solid breakfast," he declared. "Oh, well, better luck next time."

"You're just as bad as Immir Hanis. He'd eat anything he can catch."

"I know exactly who he'd like to catch and eat," the team physician muttered under his breath.

Lorraine turned to look at him. "What was that, Vic?"

"Nothing, Lorraine. Just talking to myself."

Dressed in jeans and a slightly oversized long-sleeved shirt, he climbed down from the second storey to take a closer look at Lorraine's latest artistic endeavour (or 'utter crap' as she usually referred to her own works). In truth, her artwork was not at all unbearable. Lorraine's brushwork was more than adequate, her use of colours reasonable and her eye for lines quite effective.

"Not bad," Victor remarked on first spying the canvas.

"There's hardly anything there!" she protested. "Just some green paint."

"I know. That's why it's not bad."

"If you're going to behave like that, you can go back inside."

"You're sending me to my room?"

"Yes! Now go before you really get in trouble!"

"But there's an entire wall missing! You do realise I can be locked in my room and still call out derogatory comments at you?"

"I don't care. You're not going to stay here and annoy me! Why don't you go to the lab and see if you can blow up the planet? That might be fun for you," she remarked.

"Actually," he commented, "that might not be such a bad idea: Except for the part about destroying this charming, little planet. With a bit of luck, I might be able to get the air conditioning going."

"You were complaining about a wall missing in the mansion a second ago and now you want to get the air conditioning working? And people say blondes are dumb."

"Who said that?" a serious voice demanded from behind the bickering scientists.

"Hi, Immir Hanis," Lorraine called without bothering to turn around. There was only one person she knew who would take such a comment without a grain of humour.

"Good morning, Lorraine. What are you doing?" he politely inquired, having noticed the easel and canvas.

"A little painting. Want to have a go?"

"I believe I will pass on your most generous offer."

Feeling he was intruding on these two lovebirds, Victor made his way back towards the mansion where he intended to inspect the laboratory. So far, they had not reactivated the Minerva Project for fear of possible consequences. These woods, despite the occasional carnivorous parrots and hideous monsters, were really not a bad place to sustain themselves for now. Also, the two team members lived in the hope that one day they would be reunited with Colin Bourke and the rest of their co-workers. Perhaps Colin or Connie knew what had gone so terribly wrong with their experiment.

Climbing up the ladder he had constructed a couple of days ago, Victor opened the lab's main door and stepped into the room's immaculate interior. A multitude of small lights of varying colours created a rainbow effect inside the chamber until the scientist switched on the brilliant overhead lights, blanketing the area in a harsh, white light. In little under an hour he had rechecked the equipment, but as he had suspected, there was simply no change from the prior day's readings. As far as the Minerva Project computers were concerned, the building and laboratory were still sitting in a forest somewhere in Canada, waiting to be reactivated.

Slumping into a chair, Victor gave serious consideration to the notion that both Lorraine and he could spend the remainder of their lives on this primitive world, surrounded by all sorts of weird and wonderful creatures and people; unless they reactivated the experiment. Personally, he believed this to be a highly dangerous and risky option, even if Lorraine agreed to help him. Somehow, he seriously doubted she would agree to assist him in recommencing the project. If so, the whole idea amounted to nothing. Two of them running the show would prove next to impossible; by himself, he had absolutely no chance at all. Without accurate procedures to monitor the Minerva Project while in operation, it could easily overload and just sizzle out or even blow up in his face.

Still, the fact remained Victor did not wish to spend the rest of his life on Perencore where, unlike Lorraine, he did not quite fit in with local society. Immir Hanis and his Rider friends had almost suffered simultaneous heart seizures on first seeing his typical Asian features. No bigotry was meant on their part, they were simply unaccustomed to seeing people of his appearance. Perhaps he could use this difficulty to persuade Lorraine to aid him in reactivating the Project. Victor had no idea of the consequences of such actions, but anything was better than the type of isolation he faced on this wild, sometimes inhospitable world.

***

Seated on a large rock at the edge of the clearing, Immir Hanis watched intently as Lorraine silently painted, her brush occasionally pausing as she carefully considered her next stroke. Most of the time, the brush deftly touched the canvas, gently creating a brightly coloured, though simple scene. Pausing once more, the blonde woman turned her head to focus her attention back to the blue uniformed man. Normally, his presence did not disturb her, but at this moment it was driving her to distraction. Back on the property in Canada, Lorraine had usually been able to locate fairly isolated areas to set up her equipment and paint without the distraction of spectators. Naturally enough, she had assumed the same conditions would apply in this vast forest. After all, there were probably only three people to be found in the entire region as the previous day, Loterin and Ulac Zat had returned to the town of Carous. The Riders still had their other duties to attend too.

"Are you sure you have nothing better to do with yourself?" she inquired.

Immir Hanis nodded, smiling slightly in contentment. "I quite enjoy watching you paint, Lorraine. Why, is my presence here disturbing you?"

She sighed. "No, not at all, Immir Hanis. I just don't normally have an audience when I paint."

"My sister used to paint," he noted.

"I didn't know that."

"What, that she painted?"

"No. That you had a sister!"

"Sorry. I thought I had mentioned her at some stage."

"How good was she at painting?"

"She was not good," he stated with some measure of disdain.

"You used the past tense when talking about her. Did something happen to your sister?"

"Something great happened! She was fortunate to acquire a husband, who refused to allow her to destroy precious resources by putting brush to canvas. Now they spend all of their time making offspring."

"You mean having children?"

"Yes. Daughters--six in all. By this time, there could easily be more additions to their family."

"You should visit them more often," Lorraine suggested, focusing her attention back to her canvas.

"I fully intend to follow your suggestion," he admitted, "but alas, duty often prevents us from proceeding as we wish. What about your family, Lorraine? You have never spoken to me of them."

"No, and there's a very good reason for that," she responded, her voice tightening enough for the Rider to fully comprehend this was a dangerous topic of discussion.

"Everyone should have the comfort and benefit of being part of a family," the seated man cautiously continued. "Perhaps you should think about that. You could be here for an extremely long time."

She grinned while still facing her canvas. "Immir Hanis, is that an offer?"

"Perhaps."

Lorraine spun around to stare at him. He was still sitting on the rock, no expression touching his face. The man just stared back at her without so much as a mild smile on his features.

"You just be careful," she told him, "you might get your wish one day."

Immir Hanis' heart skipped a beat. Opening his mouth as if to reply, he suddenly halted, looking off to one side of the spacious clearing, an action that caused Lorraine's attention to be drawn in the very same direction. She gazed across at two men on horseback, one of whom she easily recognised as the junior Rider from Carous. The other, more simply dressed man she had never seen before this morning.

Ulac Zat rode his mount further across the grassy clearing, leaving his unknown companion alone on his horse. "I have been listening to your dialogue," the young Rider remarked from on top of his stead, "and it is truly nauseating. I believe my stomach has soured so badly I will not be able to consume food for many days."

"That is just as well," Immir Hanis politely retorted. "You were beginning to become quite portly anyway."

"Your wit is as sharp as the rear end of my horse, Immir Hanis," the other Rider commented. "It is good to see some things in this world never change."

"Is there any reason for you being here, Ulac Zat?" Lorraine asked, wondering if she would ever have any peace and quiet to complete her task. "Or did you ride all the way here to exchange insults with Immir Hanis?"

"I have an urgent task, Lorraine Montague," he explained, indicating the silent newcomer. "This man's heavily pregnant wife is in desperate need of expert medical assistance. I have informed him of Victor Chan's great ability in the art of healing and we wondered if the doctor might agree to inspect the unfortunate woman in question before her time comes."

"Don't you people have your own doctors for that sort of business, Ulac Zat?" she asked, placing her brush onto the easel.

"To be honest, the village physician is away and the person tending to this man's wife is known to be a charlatan of the worst order. The man could not cut a toenail without creating a serious infection."

"Then why let him anywhere near her?"

"We have been meaning to do something about him," Immir Hanis interjected. "Unfortunately, this foul individual keeps well out of our reach. One day, we will catch him and expel him from the district."

"I suppose I should get Vic," she announced, moving away from her easel. She wandered across to the mansion and climbed up the sturdy looking ladder to the laboratory entrance. "Hello! Is anybody in there?"

She knew full-well her fellow team member was presently occupying the interior of the chamber--unless something else had gone horribly wrong with the stupid Minerva Project and sent Victor off to some other weird and wonderful place.

Victor stuck his head out of the lab and Lorraine explained the situation.

"You were correct, Ulac Zat," the plainly attired peasant blurted to the unconcerned Rider. "He does present an unusual appearance. Are you sure he will be of assistance in our cause?"

"Only if he does not hear your derogatory comments, Eranil Junil."

The peasant paused after this mild rebuttal. "Sir, if this man can save my wife and child, I do not care if he has two heads, seven eyes and a noticeable limp!"

Ulac Zat laughed. "Well said! I would hate to believe you did not appreciate our efforts to assist your family."

"One of us must remain behind to guard this place," Immir Hanis announced. "After all, we would not wish to return only to find a large band of Anhil making themselves at home."

"Then good luck with your new guard duty," Ulac Zat cheerfully retorted. "Although, I was unaware the Anhil had homes. I was under the impression they resided in piles of manure."

"That may well be true," the other Rider acknowledged. "But this is the absolute truth: There is no way I am going to stand aside and leave Lorraine in your capable, but womanising hands. And since I am the most senior member of The Order present, I order your good-self to remain in charge of this dwelling and the valuable contents held within its' walls or what is left of them."

"If you insist," the junior Rider huffed.

"I do. And please try not to cause yourself any harm inside the building."

During this banter, Lorraine walked over to them. She halted almost halfway between Immir Hanis and the other Rider. "He said he'd do it," she announced. "But, I have to point out to all of you; pediatrics isn't his specialty, so Victor's not certain he can be of any help."

"My thanks to you, my lady!" the peasant replied, almost overwhelmed by the generosity shown by someone he had never met before today.

"That's okay," Lorraine responded. "We're all glad to help."

The peasant stared at these people while waiting for the medical practitioner. He had no idea on how these odd strangers were going to aid him and his long-suffering spouse, but was grateful for any assistance.

***

Holding the oversized laboratory medical kit in both hands, Victor climbed down from the mansion and walked towards the small gathering near the clearing's edge. "Are we ready to go?" he inquired, placing the heavy bag on the ground near the easel.

"Any time you are, Vic," Lorraine insisted.

"Well, we better get moving, otherwise this poor woman and her child are likely to be in serious trouble."

His statement had the desired effect of instantly sobering the conversation. The peasant, Eranil Junil, remained on his horse, staring down at the man of Asian extraction. Despite his other worldly appearance, he felt strangely at ease with the decision to involve him in this urgent situation. The strange man's serious attitude towards his wife's dire predicament calmed the local villager.

"I will get Rell," Immir Hanis stated, and walked off towards the opposite side of the mansion where his horse was corralled. The Rider returned a short time later with his horse saddled and ready to leave.

"I believe that leaves us at least one horse short," Ulac Zat remarked, climbing from his own animal. "Someone can take my horse. If I am to guard this place, I am hardly likely to need it."

"Lorraine can ride with me while Victor Chan takes your horse," Immir Hanis instructed. He faltered for a moment, casting a look across to the blonde woman. "If she so desires, that is?"

"She so desires," Lorraine replied, smiling broadly at him. At least the Rider had displayed enough manners to inquire about her feelings on the matter. "So long as you don't go too fast on Rell. It'd be embarrassing if I fell off him."

"I give you my solemn word, Lorraine. I will make certain Rell maintains a gentle canter."

The younger Rider handed the reins of his animal across to Victor, who remained motionless, the leather straps dangling from his outstretched hand.

"Do not fear," Ulac Zat implored him, "He is a gentle animal and unlike one horse I could mention, he will not flee at the first sign of trouble."

"To be honest with you," Victor commented. "I think I prefer a horse that has the good sense to run away when there's a problem."

His comment amused both Riders.

Immir Hanis rode Rell about the clearing a few times to dismiss any residual lethargy the animal may have been feeling. While the other Rider removed his sword and other personal belongings from his saddle bags, Immir Hanis assisted Lorraine in climbing onto Rell's back, where she managed to secure herself a reasonably comfortable position behind the horseman. "Hang on tight," he instructed his passenger.

"Funny," she responded, giggling lightly in the process, "I thought you'd say something like that."

Now on the other horse, Victor leaned across to speak to Ulac Zat. "You can go inside the mansion if you want too."

"How kind of you."

"Yeah, but please don't touch anything inside that you're not familiar with. The lab's locked, but that won't stop it from burning to the ground with the rest of the place if it catches fire."

"I give you my solemn oath, I will not set any fires inside your rather odd house," the younger Rider responded.

"Great. And don't play about with any of the controls inside the building. I've just managed to get everything working properly."

"Perhaps you should all get out of here so I may begin guarding the place," Ulac Zat retorted.

"I will lead the way," Eranil Junil insisted from his mount.

Standing back from the departing group, Ulac Zat watched with moderate interest as the small procession turned and galloped away along the trail in a display of flying hair, manes and cloaks. The doctor looked as though he would topple from his horse at any moment. Soon after the group had vanished from sight, the cloud of fine dust they had stirred up began to settle back to the ground. Removing his heavy riding gloves, Ulac Zat began moving towards the forlorn looking mansion. He had a lot of exploring to do.
CHAPTER FIFTY

THE NATION OF HAMAFORTH  
THE CITY OF VALDERHIEN

His Lordship, Colin Bourke stood on top of a high tower, watching the morning sun, which had only just cleared the horizon. In the distance, he could make out the funeral procession marching through one of the city streets. They were laying Thellic's brother, Ralamin, the previous Lord Protector to rest. In fact, it appeared to Colin that he was one of the few people in the mighty metropolis not attending the service.

The only member of the Thellon family not attending the funeral was Zarr Thellon. The young prince sat in the tower's parapets playing with his pocket calculator, which produced all sorts of odd figures on the thin device's screen.

Also present in the tower were the Dearnian guards, Junicca and Hock, while a detachment of Palace soldiers were scattered about the enormous structure. Junicca had brought Colin the news that the attempt to locate the small band of soldiers who appeared to be from the American Civil War had failed miserably. King Entell Thellon had remained seated on his throne while listening to the report by the white-robed man, his head clutched firmly in both hands. What should have been a relatively straightforward matter of rounding up a rag-tag group of displaced soldiers and escorting them to the Royal palace, had deteriorated into a full-blown battle between the military patrol, the Civil War troopers and a group of criminals. Some survivors of this last group were currently being questioned in the cells about their involvement in the matter. However, it now appeared the night time raid on their part was little more than a bungled robbery attempt with unfortunate timing.

On thinking back to this latest incident, Colin lashed out at the nearest stone parapet, his lightly shoed foot stinging from the impact. He hobbled about, swearing profusely under his breath. It would not do to have the Prince Zarr overhear him, only to pipe up in the middle of a fully packed throne room with a couple of new 'Beyonder' words he was obviously too young to comprehend.

Colin had really wanted to meet the strange grouping of Union and Confederate soldiers in an effort to find out how they came to be here and if they knew anything beyond what he had managed to deduce for himself, not that he expected them to be a source of scientific data. It would also have been nice just to talk to someone, anyone from his home world, even if these people were about a hundred and seventy years behind his times.

Colin sighed. Soon he would be travelling under military escort to Porra to take control in the King's name. He had no idea if his presence there would make any real difference to the workings of that unknown nation to the west, but he harboured a secret hope that a few thousand troops and Dearnian guards accompanying him on the mission would at least keep any local troublemakers in check.

Thellic, the new Lord Protector had been assigned directly by the King to assist Colin in his duties. He suspected the imposing, blond Dearnian would sooner remove his charge's head and present it to the nearest passer-by as a memento. Personally, Lord Bourke was of the strong belief the heads of the departed should be left intact with their original owner, not handed around like some grotesque door prize.

The Royal Protector was particularly obvious in his disdain towards the newcomer to the Hamaforth Court. His uncharacteristic display of belligerence during the planning of the trip to Porra had been testimony to his intense feelings on the subject. Colin prayed to no known god that Thellic would not resort to open rebellion once their company reached Xerous. He wondered how long he was supposed to remain in that distant city, acting as the monarch's representative. Sooner or later, he hoped there would be some word about the Minerva Project, or even some of his fellow scientists who could assist in his, so-far, meager efforts to find a way back to Earth.

Also, a number of questions remained unanswered. There was no obvious explanation as to how he and apparently many others had managed to end up on Perencore. Queen Sinar Thellon was of the opinion the gods of this world had sent him not only to save the lives of Prince Entell and Princess Paura, but also to aid them in their conflict against the people ruling the Azzil Territories. Colin was more inclined to believe this planet was flat and you would fall off the edge if you travelled too far. He had valiantly attempted to explain his feelings on the matter, but Queen Sinar appeared unwilling to accept his views. She felt his skepticism was more a result of frayed nerves. After all, his Lordship had been through a lot lately.

"Cool."

Colin glanced across to Prince Zarr who remained seated nearby, holding his technological toy in the morning sun to recharge. One of Colin's minor amusements of late was to teach the Royal progeny a couple of new words in an effort to bewilder their parents, the reigning monarchs. It was not uncommon for either the King or Queen to visit the new Porran Lord's quarters in order to seek a definition of their children's latest expressions.

"Yeah, cool," Colin responded to the young prince.

There were other questions about his inexplicable appearance on this world. How could he easily speak the local dialect and yet fail to understand the written word? It was certainly no fun being an illiterate adult. And why had others from Earth, but from different times appeared on Perencore? There was no easy answer to any of these questions.

In the Royal Court assemblies, there were increasing tales of odd creatures roaming the countryside. These strange beasts had not come from his world. Where had they originated? Rampaging bandits, bloody battles and assassination attempts were one thing, but a fire breathing monster and other such mythical beasts were an entirely different issue. Colin seriously hoped this and other reports were a combination of overactive imaginations and a copious quantity of the local ale. He was less than willing to believe all of these weird occurrences could be the result of the Minerva Project's initial malfunction. Also, he wondered what had eventuated back on Earth as a result of his and most possibly the entire Project team's disappearance. The Board of Control of the ScienceStart conglomerate were most probably in the process of knocking back numerous celebratory drinks of expensive champagne. Colin harboured serious doubts they would make any real efforts to discover what had taken place at the mansion and even less effort to bring them back to Earth.

"Cool," the prince remarked again.

"I've already heard that one," Colin calmly retorted without altering his panoramic view of the surrounding city. To his mind, Valderhien was one of the more magnificent spectacles he had witnessed in his life, although he also believed it was highly unfair to judge this picturesque city against the many marvels he had beheld back on Earth. It was clearly a case of comparing oranges to apples.

A feeling of frustration surfaced in Colin's mind as he continued to admire the local scenery. If by some miracle he managed to return to Earth, complete with details of Valderhien's architecture and customs, he was certain there would be a Nobel Prize in science for his discoveries. It annoyed him no end that there was still no way for him to reverse the transference effect and return home with all of these incredible details. The very fact intelligent life did indeed exist on other worlds was of the utmost importance to the people of Earth.

***

Despite being under a current state of martial law, life in the capital city continued as usual with the many residents maintaining their customary life style. Their behaviour almost suggested they were unaware of the greatly increased military presence in the city streets. Patrols of infantry, cavalry, Riders and even the Dearnian guards regularly traversed the cobbled streets of the city's various districts in a concerted effort to ward off any would-be troublemakers. These simple yet effective measures, along with night time curfews limiting the movements of all people within the city limits had succeeded in curtailing any activities of the enemies of the state.

Because of his young age, Prince Zarr was not able to fully comprehend the danger to his person from any outside source. He just continued his usual lifestyle of playing, eating, sleeping and occasionally exploring the maze that was the Royal palace. It was of relatively little concern to his youthful mind that his progress of late was constantly being monitored by at least two of the Dearnian men or women or a number of armed troops, but always at a discrete distance.

For his part, Colin was greatly agitated by the use of martial law, as it allowed innocent people to be hauled off the streets of Valderhien and imprisoned without trial. No doubt, these victims of injustice would be locked up in the palace dungeons where he had been a guest only a couple of weeks earlier. King Entell Thellon had earlier assured him such would not be the case. After his Lordship's unpleasant stay in the cells, the authorities were being exceedingly cautious in regards to which people they imprisoned. Apparently, some good had at least come from his time of keeping company with the dungeon rats.

Colin's hand itched, causing him to absently scratch at the bandaged limb. Hopefully, his hand would soon be fully healed. Studying the white bandage, he could not help but marvel that despite the vast number of differences between life in Valderhien and his world, there were also numerous similarities. These people worked, earned money, brought goods and paid for services, spent their spare time playing recreational sports, maintained a family life and sometimes indulged in illegal activities.

Their religion was a topic he found inexplicable. Then again, Colin found all religion inexplicable. He realised the locals would be less than pleased if their religion was criticised by someone currently holding a high rank amongst the nobility class. But then again, a nobility class was another thing he did not particularly believe in. Colin had come from a society where a so called 'ruling class' was looked upon with the utmost disdain, yet now he had become an integral part of that very same style of government.

The only way he could deal with this disturbing situation was to act and behave as though his assent to the throne of Porra was little more than the corporate takeover of a rather large company in complete disarray, which would quickly fold into bankruptcy if not correctly administered. However, when taking over a troubled company from its previous, usually incompetent administration, one had to be particularly ruthless in dealing with the difficulties within said organisation. Colin wondered just how ruthless he would have to be in his dealings with the citizens of this north-western realm in order to stop it tearing apart at the seams under an onslaught of internal strife and rebellion.

"Lord Bourke," a female voice spoke up behind him.

Turning to face the owner of the voice, he stared at a woman in her early thirties with fawn brown hair who happened to be a captain in the palace regiment. Another characteristic of this society was most homemakers often were indeed women, but if they chose some other career, such as being in the armed forces, there were none of the social setbacks often associated with most societies back on Earth. This particular woman was simply thought of as being just another officer within the ranks of the Royal garrison. Her commands would be accepted without question by all military personnel of a lesser rank. She was a moderate-ranked officer, no more, no less.

Colin came to the realisation she was waiting for him to speak. "What's up?"

She frowned slightly, being unaccustomed to his form of speech.

"I must request, your Lordship that you come inside to the safety of the palace."

"I am inside the palace."

"With all due respect, a well-placed crossbow shot would easily reach you, even at such a great height."

"I suppose you're going to insist?"

She smiled. "If I must. Your safety is of the utmost importance, Lord Bourke."

He shrugged. "Fair enough, I suppose. Should I bring along Zarr?"

"His Highness, Prince Zarr," the captain calmly corrected. "Please, if he is not too much of a burden."

The officer turned and disappeared back down the nearby flight of stairs.

"Well, Prince Zarr," Colin commented, sinking to his knees so he was at the same level as the child, "it looks like it's time for us to leave."

Before leaving the tower, Colin Bourke glanced once more across at the magnificent expanse of the city of Valderhien and the countryside beyond its unmarked boundaries. His thoughts went out to his absent companions from the ScienceStart team. He hoped they were safe and well under such trying conditions. Picking up the small prince, he walked towards the tower exit, the Dearnian guards dutifully following in his wake.

Destiny called to him with an impatient voice.
EPILOGUE

CANADA  
TORONTO, ONTARIO

Scratching at the starch stiffened collar of his business shirt, Simon Leveque sat on one of the seats positioned in the forward row in Court Number Three of the Toronto Coroner's Court. The air conditioning in this particular room appeared to have gone berserk; it was now stiflingly hot in the large, crowded room, much to the discomfort of everyone inside its aged walls.

A number of high-ranking members of the ScienceStart management sat in the seats around the large, perspiring scientist. The entire courtroom was busy with the sight and sound of grumbling people, rapidly flapping books, newspapers, magazines and any other lightweight, flat objects in an endeavour to stir the heavy, dank air. So far, it was miraculous no one present in the large, crowded room had passed out from the relentless assault of the manmade heat wave.

All mutterings and motion ceased almost instantaneously as the Coroner entered the chamber via a side entrance. He was a man aged well into his sixties, but still in possession of a keen analytical mind and humorous wit. Seating himself in a high-backed chair behind a large desk at the front of the room, he adjusted his clothing, then leaned closer towards a narrow microphone positioned a short distance before him. "I trust all interested parties are present and that no one is feeling cold in here?"

A murmur of mild laughter fluttered gently throughout the courtroom.

Satisfied he now held everyone's undivided attention, the Coroner opened up a leather bound folder, removed a collection of neatly typed pages then studied this script with the utmost attention. A good minute or two passed as the person in charge of this gathering continued to go over his notes on the matter at hand. The Coroner only hoped the people present would actually take note of the important things he had to say about this disaster, which had occupied the headlines of newspapers across the world.

"This matter before me," the elderly man began in a serious voice, "serves to underline the serious nature of so-called experiments that proclaim to be in the public's interest, but are, in fact, only attempts to blatantly tamper with a set of laws far greater than those of this Court: the laws of nature. This ill-advised attempt to pervert the course of natural time has resulted in worldwide condemnation from numerous governments, religious groups and the scientific community as a whole, a condemnation I wholeheartedly agree on without the slightest reservation. Those persons directly involved in this experiment known simply as the 'Minerva Project' acted foolishly with little or no regards to the lives of all the other people of this world who were placed in mortal danger. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a great deal of knowledge, combined with no regard for human life is a catastrophe in the making.

I must also roundly condemn the ScienceStart management, whose actions after the disaster were designed with one purpose in mind: to thwart the functions and investigations of this matter by the authorities. It must be noted that no less than fourteen warrants and search-and-seizure orders were issued by this authority in order for all of the details of the Minerva Project to be made available to various officers of the Court. Except for the fact it would be nearly impossible to procure any convictions against those responsible for this debacle, I would be sorely tempted to press criminal charges against many of the people at this hearing to prove once and for all that no persons or organisation can function above the written word of the law."

The Coroner paused in a most dramatic fashion, his cold, hard gaze bearing down on the collective ScienceStart management and their associated operatives. "Therefore, I feel morally obliged to verbally condemn these people for their reprehensible actions both during and after the disastrous instigation of this experiment. The tragic aftermath of the Minerva Project's initiation resulted in a massive explosion of sorts that sent shockwaves about the region and ultimately left three members of the public dead and almost a hundred injured; some quite seriously. If not for the fact the building housing this grotesque experiment was in an isolated area, I hold no doubt the death toll would have been monumental."

The Coroner paused once more, his eyes scanning numerous names on the pages before him. "Now, on to the business at hand. As a result of a lengthy investigation taking almost two years, I have come to a finding on the matter of the ScienceStart, Minerva Project. Let it be known that the persons Colin Bourke, Connie Alexandra York, Doctor Dale Albert Johnstone, Lorraine Montague and Doctor Victor Chan all died as a result of an inexplicable explosion of an unknown nature. Although their remains have yet to be located, it is the opinion of this Court that there would be no possible way they could have survived such a massive detonation at such close range--indeed an explosion that was powerful enough to render almost a full third of the building clear of the immediate vicinity. It should be therefore noted that the aforementioned persons are officially listed as deceased and their deaths be recorded as 'Death by Misadventure'. This brings a close to these proceedings."

A thunderous report blasted throughout the courtroom and caused a general, though reserved commotion as the residing Coroner finalised his findings by ramming his gavel onto the sounding board on the desk. Rising to his feet, the elderly man glared once at those persons present whom he believed to be company management, then left the crowded room without another word.

No one had really expected such a vehement outburst from the local Coroner. A throng of people filed from the stately stone building. Some of the ScienceStart management had secretly harboured beliefs that their numerous attempts to block the investigation into this disaster would be frowned upon by the authorities. Still, these higher ranked company personnel felt they had an obligation to protect their employer and their primary source of income from any external threats, and this was one of the most severe threats the ScienceStart organisation had ever faced in its relatively brief history.

Simon reached across, touching the expensive jacket of Bernard Gosford, causing the businessman to frown and turn to face the obviously troubled scientist. Both men sported reddened eyes from lack of sleep over the past couple of weeks. This entire matter had been a burden on everyone involved. "What are we going to do?"

"About what?"

"The Minerva Project."

"Pray the company stocks don't go any lower," Gosford replied, half-seriously.

"No. I mean, when do we start rebuilding the Project? We have to figure out what went wrong the first time."

"Didn't you hear the Coroner just now, Simon? The old sonofabitch blamed us for what happened as if we had any damn say in the matter! They're all dead; Bourke, Connie--all of them. They're gone for good."

"You know perfectly well there wasn't really any sort of explosion from the Project. They might still be alive."

"Where? According to the Coroner, they all died through 'misadventure'; whatever the hell that means. And I'll tell you this, Simon; I for one do not intend to throw an awful lot of good money after an awful lot of bad money to go chasing a handful of ghosts. I'll be perfectly honest; I never particularly liked Bourke, but all the same, I never wished him any harm. This business, as the Coroner said, is closed. Let's just leave the dead to rest in peace. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go to a media conference and give a lot of ridiculous answers to a lot of ridiculous questions. I'll see you later to reassign you to a more worthy position in the company. I'm certain it will be a beneficial meeting for both of us."

Simon watched in silence as the new ScienceStart CEO of the Board of Control turned and walked towards the waiting media throng just beyond the Court's boundaries. Simon realised his hands were well and truly bound in this matter. Without the company's support, he had neither the resources nor the financial backing to rebuild the Minerva Project to its former capabilities. And even if he could assemble some sort of package to reignite the experiment, he realised the company directors would interfere in his efforts to the best of their abilities. Turning his back on the building throng of impatient reporters and bystanders surrounding Gosford and his associates, Simon Leveque walked away. He fully believed Colin, Connie and the others were still alive, but wherever his companions were, they could depend on no one but themselves for their survival.
