Vikings of Scorpio

It is with great trepidation that I relate to you the story of Sygar Sygarhan, the man who has occupied my attention greatly the last few weeks.

Those who know me know that I am a great fan of a series of novels known as the Dray Prescot Saga, which prior to a few months ago I believed was a work of fiction. However, some evidence that the strange and wonderful world of Kregen may in fact be real has come to my attention; that evidence is in the person of Sygar Sygarhan.

A friend of mine who I had introduced to the series was (and still is, actually) an intern at the Queen Street West mental institution, and related to me the background of one of the patients there, one "John Doe", a violent man who it was believed at that time had some sort of mental disorder, though the details of his diagnosis remain a little fuzzy. This man did not seem to speak any English, or for that matter any language known to the people in the institution. Attempts at communication had largely failed primarily due to his violent behaviour; virtally any opportunity that was presented to "John Doe" to assault the workers in the institution and escape was taken; "John Doe" proved to be so unmanageable that ultimately it became necessary to sedate him most of the time.

John Doe had originally been discovered in the stairwell of an office tower downtown, somewhere near the 60th floor. Using a fire axe he had brutally murdered two businessmen who worked in the building. At the time he was completely naked, and appeared to be raving, though as I mentioned before this was partly due to his inability to speak English. When the police arrived, John Doe was chased by them through the 59th floor and ultimately captured; however, in the fracas one officer was seriously injured and John Doe was shot several times. There was one witness to the double homicide, a woman who also worked in the building, who was not attacked by John Doe but may have been the victim of some other incident, possibly involving the two dead men. Police and city officials have been very quiet on the subject, claiming that the woman is under police protection and cannot be named.

A few weeks later a variety of arrests were made by police in the fields of international smuggling, particularily arms dealing and the illegal transport of immigrants from various points in Asia to North America. Apparently these arrests were facilitated by evidence discovered in the offices of the two dead men. The press has speculated wildly on the nature of the two men's involvement, although the records are apparently sealed until the matter can go to trial.

Meanwhile, upon regaining consciousness, John Doe became immediately violent, attempting to escape from the hospital where he was recieving treatment for his gunshot wounds. Over the next few days, at least four altercations occurred in which John Doe attempted to escape custody. The only solution seemed to be strong restraints and sedation, which was used liberally.

John Doe continued to prove unmanageable when transferred to a prison facility awaiting trial. He seemed unresponsive to any sort of disipline applied to him and spent a good deal of his time in solitary confinement. Because of the inability of John Doe to either speak English or cooperate with the prison authority any meetings between John Doe and his crown-appointed attorney were impossible, and would have been futile even if John Doe had not attacked anyone in a uniform who entered his cell, again because he could not understand English, and no one could even figure out what language he did speak.

Ultimately John Doe was transferred to the Queen West mental hospital, where he was diagnosed as some sort of violent psychotic. He continued to be virtually unmanageable without heavy use of sedatives. Eventually the hospital authorities reached the conclusion that his language must be some sort of self-invented gibberish, which may have had meaning for John Doe, but had no meaning to anyone else. John Doe became a sort of showcase study, and new diagnoses were made regularily, as a variety of theories were made to explain his condition. It turned out, however, that none of them were right.

At one point about a year after being admitted, John Doe was involved in yet another altercation with some orderlies; despite the fact that he was in a straitjacket he was able to put up quite a fight. At this point my friend Alex Riardan was working in the area and had the opportunity to observe the fracas. While Alex could not understand the bulk of what John Doe was saying, at one point, after it appeared he had subdued on of the orderlies, John Doe shouted:

"Hai! Jikai!"

Alex recognized the phrase from the Dray Prescot Saga books I had lent him; it can have many meanings, but one of them is as a sort of battle cry.

Thinking quickly, Alex shouted "Lahal", the Kregish term for "hello", or "greetings". John Doe looked up, stunned, at Alex. Alex told me that the look of astonishment was clear on John Doe's face; it was clear to Alex that John had understood him; like a thunderbolt it hit John Doe that someone yet on this world might understand him. However, this momentary distraction was enough for the orderlies to regain the upper hand, and they brought John Doe down with a tackle and the blows of batons.

I was contacted by Alex about a week after that. It seemed that he had brought this up with the hospital administration, and after a great deal of cajoling they had agreed to pursue the notion that he might posess a vocabulary based on these works of fiction. However, Alex's knowledge of the books was limited to the first couple, which I had lent him, and he had not even finished the second, Suns of Scorpio. At first he simply asked to borrow more books. I was delighted that he was showing interest, although when he suggested that I lend him the entire series, I was a little reticient. After all, I value my collection, and am careful to protect it from undue use. I asked him what his reasons were and he began to relate to me the story of John Doe.

Naturally I was fascinated. The notion that there might be a man who could somehow only speak Kregish was something I found remarkable. Though at the time I thought the books were simply works of fiction, I was nevertheless excited by the notion that someone could have so completely immersed themselves in the books as to subsume his own personality, though I thought it a little frightening that he had ended up being so violent as a result; I thought that might reflect badly on the books, and I was (and still am) a fan.

I convinced Alex to suggest to the hospital administration that I be brought in as an "Expert", since I had the benefit of reading the entire series several times over, while Alex hadn't even finished the second book. I was a little surprised when the hospital accepted my proposal, though I also had to sign a waiver claiming that I would not hold the hospital liable should I be injured throught the course of my involvement with the John Doe case.

Three days later I was brought to a chamber in the hospital which was divided in two portions by a thick plexiglass shield. The shield was transparent and had a number of small holes through which sound could travel. On the other side stood John Doe, who glared at me sullenly.

And I must say, he did look a fright.

His eyes were what caught my attention first; they were red and puffy, and it looked like he had got a lot of mileage out of both sedatives and the abuse of the orderlies, along with a hefty dose of not enough sleep; somehow this only seemed to accentuate his angular, harsh features. His dark hair was matted and thrust about crazily, his fingernails were dirty and uneven, and his clothes looked a little tattered and stained; he wore the typical patient's pajamas. He stood about my height or just slightly shorter (about six foot, perhaps), and while he did not seem to me to be an exceptionally big man, there was something about his body that suggetsed a heavy, dense, power; despite the baggy clothes he seemed mostly muscle.

I sat in the chair in front of the sound holes and said:

"Llahal and Lahal".

These, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the terms, are the two forms of greetings used on Kregen; the first (with the double-L) represents a greeting used with strangers, and the second is one used among friends. I actually butchered the pronunciation of the first "Llahal", as it is pronounced with a Welsh LL sound, which I did not know how to produce.

His eyes widened, and after a moment he practically lunged at the window, jabbering at me in Kregish, plaintively beeging me to do something, which I assumed had to do with his release. I held up my hand, and in a moment he stopped speaking, unsure of what was happening.

I spoke again, saying "Kregish", and indicating a tiny amount with my fingers. After a moment he understood, and said:

"Llahal e Lahal."

Well, I now knew how to pronounce "Llahal", and knew I had said it wrong the first time.

I then said: "Pappattu", which I knew is the Kregish word for "introduction", and said "Pete Smith", while holding my hand to my chest. I gave him a curt nod.

He understood immediately. He smiled, and indicated himself, saying:

"Sygar Sygarhan".

And that was the beginning of our relationship.

I began working with Sygar regularly, as often as I could. The first order of business was to establish mutual communication; I had to learn Kregish, and he English. We spent the next couple of weeks working together, learning each other's languages. I had a distinct advantage, having the Dray Prescot books to draw upon for vocabulary.

The hospital began operating under the notion that Sygar was a delusional who thought he was a character from the books. However, gradually I realized that there had to be more to it than that; his language was too complex and detailed for him to have simply made up the words that he did not know from the novels. Little differences began to occur to me about the Kregish language, and I started to realize that if he did invent the language, he did not simply create Kregish words for English ones; rather many of the Kregish words he taught me have no direct equivalent in English, and vice versa.

The hospital staff, particularly Dr. Mortenhoe, who was supervising the case, assumed that this meant that Sygar was extremely intelligent; that his creation of the Kregish tongue indicated a certain genius. But while Sygar did seem intelligent to me, he did not exactly come across as Einstein.

While the hospital officials were unsure as to whether I was helping Sygar, on the grounds that I might be "reinforcing his delusion", ultimately they began to give me a freer rein with Sygar, because after starting to talk to Sygar the violent incidents involving him shrank to virtually nil. Although I may not have been helping him psychologically, it certainly gave the hospital a great deal less headaches. This especially became the case when I was able to explain to Sygar that the reason he was in the hospital was that they thought he was "makib", which is Kregish for "mad" (though interestingly I discovered that the derivation is from an idiom; translated literally it means "black soul").

Gradually we reached the stage where some sort of communication became possible. Our speech became aggravating for others to follow, since we drifted back and forth from English to Kregish seemingly at random; the patchy vocabulary we had acquired of one another's language required us to improvise heavily. But I was able to begin to get a picture of just what had transpired to bring Sygar here.

Sygar had claimed to have been on Kregen when he was caught up in a glowing blue mist. He found himself in the stairwell of the building where he had killed the two businessmen. Apparently, the teleportation effect that brought him here was one he was familiar with; it had occurred to him on several occasions prior to this one. Since this is a typical motif in the Saga of Dray Prescot, I took this in stride; Dray Prescot is repeatedly teleported by powerful aliens into yet another adventure. However, he wasn't expecting to end up where he ultimately found himself.

He was naked. Everything seemed strange; the odd lights hurt his eyes; the walls were made of some sort of strange seamless stone, and seamless metal rails were at the edge of each stair. There were doors with strange markings on them. He looked down and up, and it seemed that the stairs went on forever. Was he underground?

He heard the sound of a woman's scream far below, and the laughter of some men. Even though they were speaking in a foreign language, he understood what must have been happening. Well, at least he knew what it was he was supposed to do here. He crept down the stairs slowly, looking about for some sort of weapon. Soon he found a glass-faced panel with red-painted edges in the wall, with a number of strange things inside; metal piping, bolts of some sort of canvas, and so on. But the one thing that he did recognize was an axe.

It seemed to him to be more like a wood axe than a proper war axe; it was heavy and a little unwieldy, though it was of very sturdy make. It was not very sharp, but sharp enough.

Quickly but quietly he continued down the stairs, until he was able to peer around a corner and see the situation clearly. Three men dressed in strange clothing were harassing a woman who was also dressed in similar clothing. She was backed up against the wall, and the three men had her surrounded. Her clothes were torn, and the men were pawing at her and talking to her in derisive tones. Sygar knew that the men were warming themselves up to the task of assaulting the woman, and it was only a matter of time before they did so.

Wasting no time, with a "Hai!" Sygar roared down the stairs swinging his axe. I can only imagine what the three men thought when presented by a hairy naked man swinging an axe. According to Sygar, one of the men ducked out of the way, while the other two just stood and goggled. That was the end of the first one, who took a backhand swing of the axe in the face. His head crunched against the wall, and practically exploded. The axe also embedded itself in the wall. The girl screamed and covered her face with her hands.

The man who had ducked lunged at Sygar, tackling him. Sygar remembers that the man smelled very strange, like some kind of perfume. Sygar kneed him in the groin and threw him onto the stairs. He punched him in the face a few times, and heard the cracking of bones in the man's face. He got up and wrenched the axe out of the wall. The third man was still just standing there, while the woman was now huddled in the corner, sobbing. Sygar turned to the man on the floor, who was now struggling to rise. He hefted his axe and swung downwards. The man attempted to roll out of the way; the axe caught him in the side. The man screamed. Sygar hefted the axe again; the man raised his arms to cover his face, and then there was a sound like a thunderclap.

It was very loud, and echoed throughout the stairwell over and over again. Sygar's first thought was sorcery. He felt a burning sensation on his left thigh, and the air reeked of brimstone. With an ugly grimace, he brought the axe down on the man on the floor. Perhaps the man was making some sort of arcane symbol with his hands; who knows. Either way, Sygar could not allow him to continue; the first stroke bit into the man's chest, and there was a splintering sound as the man's ribs cracked. He struck again, and again; the man's arms no longer protected his face, so Sygar clove in his skull.

He stood up, trembling; his stomach was in knots. He was letting himself go berserk, and knew that he did not need to do so and could not afford to do so in such a strange place. He looked across at the third man, who was still standing there with a frightened look on his face. Only now the man was holding a shiny metal object before him; he held it with two hands as if it were some sort of talisman, and Sygar were some sort of demon who could be warded away.

Only then he realized that the talisman the man held had a hole in the end that was oozing smoke, and the man was trembling all over. Sygar realized that this man must have been the sorcerer, and clearly his attempt to cast a spell had drained him greatly. As Sygar straightened himself out and glared at the third man, the man began jabbering away nervously. Sygar still didn't understand the man's language, but it dawned upon him that this might be some sort of secret sorcerer's tongue; perhaps the scene he stumbled upon was not some sordid rape scene but instead was something even more sinister; some kind of ritual magic that required an unwilling victim.

Whatever it was that the man was saying, Sygar certainly wasn't about to let the man cast another spell. Sygar threw the axe, and the man raised his arms, shielding his head. The axe bit into the man's arm, and he stumbled back, dropping the talisman on the floor. The man fell down the flight of stairs, coming to rest at the next landing. He sat up, holding his wounded arm; blood was already seeping out though his thick clothes. Sygar casually picked up the axe and stood at the top of the stair; the third man looked at the talisman for a moment, which was clearly out of reach. He then bolted down the stairs.

Sygar let him go. No sense picking a fight with a sorcerer. He turned to the girl. She was still trembling, and looking at him with wide eyes. He approached her, saying that everything was all right now. She shrank against the wall, and gave out a pitiful little cry. Sygar stopped. He looked at himself; here he was, a naked hairy man, covered in blood and holding an axe smeared with gore. Of course the woman was afraid. He put down the axe and tried to speak softly to the woman. Her eyes glanced about, and fell on a small bag on the floor that looked like it was made of chunkrah-hide. She scuttled over to the bag, and began rummaging through it, ignoring Sygar. Sygar was a little mystified, but is seemed that she could not understand him either.

She produced a small object out of the bag, which she held before her; another talisman, it seemed. Sygar wondered why she hadn't used it on the three men, and decided that it couldn't have been much of a threat. He continued to try to reassure her, using calm soft words, and she began replying with more frantic jabbering. He held up his hands before him, and took a step forward, trying to be as non-threatening as possible; suddenly his head was shrouded in a cloud of stinging fog.

It burned! Sygar shouted and covered his eyes; it felt like she had just sprayed acid on his face. He staggered back, choking, and he could hear the sound of the woman running up the stairs. Perhaps she was a sorcerer too. His eyes burned; not knowing what to do, he rubbed them, but that seemed to just make it worse. He fumbled with the door handle, trying to get clear of the stairwell, but it seemed to be locked. A few quick blows to the hinges with the axe and the door was hanging open awkwardly. He stumbled into the room beyond.

The sight that met his stinging eyes filled him with dismay; he emerged into a room filled with strange furniture; the room was broken up into little boxes, with desks and chairs made of some strange resin. Papers lay about the desks, with some sort of fine writing upon them; the room was dark, and he could not make out what they said. The desks had strange boxes with glass faces on them; most of these were dark, but a few were strangely luminous. Other strange items on the desks also seemed to have little lights upon them; sometimes they just blinked on and off, and other times they formed strange symbols.

Sygar figured he must be in some sort of wizard's laboratory, and decided not to touch anything, for fear of releasing some sort of demon. Gone were the days when he might have smashed one of the boxes with the axe to see what was inside. His eyes were clearing now, and he looked around; little hallways branched off the main room, and what looked like a metal curtain made of long narrow scales covered the far wall; a strange orange light seeped from behind the scales. He padded over; the floor, he realized, was carpeted rather comfortably, and although there was no pattern to speak of, the carpet seemed to cover the entire floor of the room; it must have cost a fortune!

When he got close enough to the scale wall covering, he realized that they hung from the ceiling in a manner similar to curtains. Assuming that was what they were, he took hold of one, and it seemed rather flimsy. He pulled it aside, and his jaw dropped once again.

He was looking out a huge glazed window, upon an enormous city. Wherever he was, he was in a tall building; the ground looked like it might be half an ulm away or more. Though the city was in darkness, the ground was shrouded in lights, like jeweled necklaces strung out on the ground below. Some of the lights stood still, while others flowed next to them like rivers. A huge spire stood off to the left, and below it was a wide dome, shrouded in green light. Other tall buildings clustered around, clawing up towards the sky. The sky itself was quite strange, a sort of ruddy orange glow suffused it.

Where in Sicce was he?

Perhaps the whole place was run by sorcery, he thought. He didn't see how such a place could exist otherwise. Perhaps he was in the hidden city of the Zanikim, of which he had only heard rumors; they were mostly sorcerers of one sort or another, and for all he knew this is what that city looked like, though the bizarre grandeur of this place exceeded all his expectations. That strange ruddy glow in the sky might be the ceiling of a giant cavern; the whole city might even be underground.

He was not sure how long he had spent gawking at the spectacle before him, but after a while he heard a very soft footstep. Suddenly he realized that someone was trying to sneak up on him; he whirled around, and saw a shadow move from behind one of the strange partitions. Without a thought, Sygar charged towards the sound, and caught a man coming around the corner quietly creeping along. Before Sygar could even see the man clearly he was swinging the axe, and it landed with a crunch, landing in the man's abdomen. The axe didn't cut cleanly, though, and the man was knocked over and to the side with a grunt. Sygar raised the axe to strike again. The axe blow had not drawn blood, and the man lay on the ground groaning. Perhaps the glossy vest he wore was some kind of breastplate.

This man looked more like a warrior to him, he was wearing a harness with a variety of strange objects on it, though none of them looked like weapons, exactly. He was dressed all in black, and was even wearing a face mask that looked like it was made of wool. Perhaps this is a local stikitche, Sygar thought. After all, who other than assassins would want to conceal their face?

The object that the man had been carrying with both hands now lay on the floor. It was a rather bizarre object made from black metal, with a variety of little parts that looked like they moved around. It did have something that was clearly a handle, and a trigger that looked a lot like a crossbow trigger. But it had no visible means of doing anything, aside from a small hole in a nozzle at one end. Perhaps it was another sorcerous talisman like the one the man in the stairwell had, but this one looked much more businesslike.

Sygar realized that the man on the floor was looking up at him, quietly, waiting for Sygar's next move. Sygar looked down, wondering what to do.

"I mean you no harm", Sygar said, somewhat stupidly. I'm sure the ache in the man's guts will testify to that, he thought. "I have no quarrel with you," Sygar continued. The man just stared up at Sygar, intently but blankly.

Getting a little frustrated, Sygar said, more loudly this time: "Did the sorcerer hire you to kill me?"

Once again, the man lay silent. Perhaps he was mute; he knew that sometimes Stikitches had their tongues cut out so they could never confess to anything. Nevertheless, it was getting pretty infuriating; was the man deaf as well? About to start shouting, Sygar looked up as another stikitche stepped around the corner. Seeing Sygar, the man raised the device in his hands, pointing it at Sygar...

Sygar was somewhere else. Thinking fast, Sygar ducked down a corridor as he heard a loud report, and saw a flash behind him illuminating the walls. It figures there would be more of them, he thought. Who knows how many. Wonderful. A team of magical stikitches, chasing me through a strange building in an even stranger city.

Whatever the assasins carried seemed to be desgned to blind and deafen an opponent, he thought. They had produced a flash of light, and a loud report. That at least meant something. If these things were meant to stun an opponent, then that meant they were trying to take him alive.

Not likely, Sygar thought.

Naturally, the idea of being captured by wizards did not appeal to Sygar.

The corridor Sygar had ran down had twisted a couple of times, and now Sygar was a little disoriented. He found himself in another room with strange cubicles; a number of doors led to other unknown rooms. Somehow, Sygar had to get out of this building. But he was obviously pretty high up. That meant two options. He could either go down to the bottom floor, and leave at ground level. Or he could smash a window and climb down.

Well, with no idea how to navigate through the building, Sygar decided to give the window a try. The first blow cracked the glass, causing spiderwebs of cracks to spread away from the impact point. With a crunching sound the second blow did a little more damage than the first, making a little hole in which the axehead was wedged. Yanking it out, Sygar hit the window a third time, and the window shattered, shards of glass flying in all directions. A jagged gaping hole led outside, and a cold wind blew into the room, then out again. Papers on desks fluttered wildly.

Leaning outside, Sygar looked down, and a sense of vertigo nearly overcame him. The ground seemed so far away, and the side of the building looked virtually sheer, as if the whole building were made from glass. Climbing down did not seem like a good idea. An uncommonly bad idea, actually, particularly naked as he was, with no rope or tools.

Sygar could hear footsteps coming from several directions at once, and realized the sound of breaking glass had allowed the assassins to locate him. Well, bring them on. If all they've got are the little flash devices, then they'll find out how hard it is to take Sygar Sygarhan alive.

Two of the stikitches came out from behind one of the partitions, and upon seeing Sygar they pointed their devices and started shouting. They both seemed to be repeating themselves, but they were not talking in unison and even if Sygar understood their language, he doubted he would be able to figure out what they were saying.

Sygar wiped his hand across his mouth. His stomach was in knots again, and his mouth was drying. His jaw clamped.

Another Stikiche arrived, this time coming from the opposite hall, and he started jabbering too; another was not too far behind him. Fine, Sygar thought. Have it that way. His grip on the axe tightened, and he could feel the smooth grain in his hand, as if it were some sort of lined Hyrgon map that he could read by touch. His feet were placed apart, and he stood, ready for one of them to rush him. But they just stood there, shouting.

Unwilling to wait any longer, with a shriek Sygar rushed forward, raising his axe. There was a sound like a thunderclap, and a flash, and Sygar found himself thrown back against one of the desks. Not sure exactly how he got there, Sygar goggled for a moment, reeling. The stikitches came into focus again, and they no longer spoke. Not sure what just happened, exactly, but not willing to wait and find out, Sygar rushed forward again, this time with a deep growl. The devices in the hands of the stikitches began flashing, and Sygar heard another bunch of thunderclaps as the cloak of Notor Zan enfolded him.

Eventually, Sygar posed the big question:

"Where in Sicce am I?"

Slowly but forcefully I explained to him that the mental hospital he was staying in was within the city of Toronto, which was the largest city of a country called Canada, and that this country was not on Kregen, but rather on a planet called Earth.

Sygar nodded solemnly. He had seen the sun through windows, and was frightened by it; Kregen, as you probably know, lies in a binary system with one large red star (which Prescot says is Antares) and one smaller green star; these stars have a variety of names, depending on where you go.

Sygar told me that he had originally thought that the two suns had somehow merged, or fused together. Perhaps they had collided; but whatever had happened had left the sky with only one sun. But the moons were changed as well; Kregen has seven moons, some of which appear larger than ours, while most of them seem much smaller. This strange moon was not like the moons of Kregen; it always showed the same face, and shone with a pale bony white light. He could not imagine what would cause the moons of Kregen to be replaced by this deathly spectre.

Gradually he came to a new theory, that he might actually be dead, and this some strange afterlife. His imprisonment was perhaps the result of a wicked life, and now he was doomed to suffer for eternity.

That idea didn't especially appeal to him.

But his keepers seemed mortal enough; he seemed to be in a real place, not some mystical land of the dead. It was not what he expected at all.

He had quickly discarded the notion that he could be on a part of Kregen where the suns and moons shone differently. He knew enough about astronomy and navigation to know that couldn't be.

It gradually dawned on him that he might be in another world entirely, a different world, where different rules applied to how things worked. But beyond that he was at a loss. So my words did not rattle him too much. He wanted to know more and more about our world. Where were the diffs, he asked. Were they not allowed in Canada?

I explained to him that there were no diffs on Earth; that the only intelligent species were Homo Sapiens Sapiens, what he would call apim. That surprised him somewhat.

He had a flurry of questions about the things of Earth, particularly to explain things unfamiliar to him in his surroundings. How did the lights work? How did the doors lock with no apparent locking mechanism? I tried to explain to him about electricity, and found the subject difficult at best, with the limited vocabulary at my disposal.

The first thing I tried to get across what that whatever it was that powered our technology, it wasn't magic. He found that notion puzzling; after all, if something produced a magical effect, wasn't that magic? Gradually I realized that we had different definitions for the word; he seemed to feel that magic was not necessarily mysterious, just that magicians tended to be secretive about how their magic worked. I explained that the main difference was that the workings of technology did not depend on some sort of natural talent in the operator, rather they always worked, no matter who used them. That seemed to satisfy him somewhat.

I of course had a great deal of questions for him about Kregen, and I was finding it hard to be patient with him while he probed me for information. I understood that he needed to get his bearings, but I had my own questions for him.

When I started asking questions about him, he was cagey at first; he wasn't sure why I wanted all this information. But eventually we decided to exchange information about things, so we took turns asking questions.

I discovered that Sygar was from a part of Kregen called Mengradrin, which was a modest-sized nation on the Island of Urndrin. Kregen has many islands, but only nine "Islands", prominent subcontinent-sized land masses, of which Urndrin was one. His hometown was called Sundergar, and he was from a large family; not only did he have a variety of siblings but also many cousins, aunts, uncles, and other relations, most of whom lived in Sundergar, a place where he was no longer welcome.

Sygar, on the other hand discovered that there were no slaves kept in Canada, or in most of the world, for that matter, and it was illegal in the places where it was still practiced. I also told him that no amount of wealth would buy his release (well, probably), and that he would be released if the doctors judged that he was no longer Makib, or insane. He discovered that wealth on Earth is measured with little pieces of paper, rather than through gold or silver, and that even those papers are becoming unnecessary, with bankers being able to keep electronic ledgers of things. He also discovered that though we have a monarch in Canada, we have no nobles to speak of, and government is determined by elections. That seemed pretty strange to him.

Well, all these things shocked him somewhat. They made Earth seem much stranger than the fact of only one sun and moon, or technology based on electricity.

It was at this point I realized that I believed in Sygar.

I can't really say what it was that clinched it for me, but upon realizing this I felt that I must try to contact either Dray Prescot, or his editor/author Alan Burt Akers, who I had formerly believed were one and the same. For those of you who don't know, the Dray Prescot books are narrated by Dray himself, through the means of a bunch of audio cassettes that are passed on to one Alan Burt Akers, who according to the story transcribes them into novels.

If Sygar Sygarhan is genuine, and Kregen truly exists, then the Dray Prescot story must be at least partly true as well. If that is the case, then the story of the tapes being sent to Alan Burt Akers must also be true.

Contacting Alan Burt Akers was more easily said than done. The original publisher for the books, DAW publishing, is now under new management and is not interested in questions about the Dray Prescot series, which they no longer carry. A company called Heyne has had more recent contact with Alan, having continued to publish the books in translation in German. They are apparently expecting the fifty-third book in the series, and apparently it is past deadline.

They were able to give me a mailing address of the Akers household, and I wrote a letter to Alan about his books, asking if the tapes really did exist. I thought this might make me look like a nut, but if it was true then it did not matter.

About a week and a half later, I got a call from a police detective from Alan's home town, and he was asking pointed questions about my relationship with Alan. I realized that the letter must have made me seem even nuttier than I thought. But the questions of the detective seemed strange; no, I had never met Alan Burt Akers, I was merely a fan of the books he wrote.

The question that hit me like a bolt of lightning was:

"Do you know the current whereabouts of Mister Akers?"

I was floored. Alan Burt Akers missing? I responded after a moment that I would have hardly written him a letter at his home if I even knew he was not there. The detective had to acknowledge the sense in that, and I gathered that he was somewhat desperate for leads. He wouldn't discuss the case, except to say that Alan when missing suddenly about three years ago and that his family is presuming that he is dead.

I was then able to contact the family and was told that there were no such tapes by Dray Prescot; that the entire series was a work of fiction and that the Akers family still retained the rights to it. I asked if Alan was still being sought, and the answer was no. The family was likewise reticent to discuss the case.

I searched around for the name Akers in the newspapers for that year and found more; apparently Alan was found missing early one morning, his bedclothes piled up haphazardly on the floor. No evidence of a break-in was found, nor was any evidence of a struggle apparent. No ransom note was ever given, nor was a body ever found. Since Alan was elderly the authorities thought that he had simply wandered off, but no reports of a naked old man wandering the streets ever surfaced.

Hmm.

I decided to try and track down Geoffrey Dean, the man who supposedly given the tapes to Mr. Akers. This was even tougher; the US State Department was not keen to release any lists of employees to a stranger, and it ultimately turned out that Geoffrey Dean was not a real name anyhow. To make a long story short, through the agency of the police detective I had spoken to earlier I was able to find out if the police during their investigation had called anyone named Geoffrey Dean or anyone in the Washington area.

They had, although Geoffrey Dean was not that name.

Well, I called the person up, and discovered that he did have contact With Alan Burt Akers many years ago, and did give a large number of cassettes to him, though he had not personally listened to them. He did not want his name connected with the publication of any books, so he had asked Alan not to mention his real name, and si I have not named him either. No, he had not seen Alan since his disappearance, or for that matter for several years before that; they had drifted out of touch. He cautioned me, saying that whatever was on those tapes is still just the word of one man, and that I should not take them too seriously.

This approach seemed like a dead end, and I decided I had wasted enough of my time trying to find the cold trail of Dray Prescot. After all, I had Sygar right here, and nothing but a bunch of vague connections elsewhere.

When I returned to Sygar, it had finally occurred to him to ask how it was I knew some Kregish, if he was truly on another world. Had I been there? I found it difficult to explain that I had read about it in paperbacks; I doubted that Sygar had ever really read fiction for pleasure. That seemed to be something alien to the culture he was from.

However, when I mentioned the name Dray Prescot, Sygar rolled his eyes, though he declined to comment; in fact, he seemed to want to avoid the subject of Dray Prescot altogether. Well, I could let that lie for now, but if Sygar did have some sort of relationship with Prescot, that might explain what he was doing here.

The notion of tape recorders did intrigue him though, and I was able to bring a tape recorder and demonstrate it's use to him. He considered it to be more magic, though again I argued the point. He suggested that what the people who built the device were doing was just the same as an enchanter, only with more volume. Nevertheless, he found the tape recorder fascinating, and was entertained for quite some time by that, though when I told him that most people used it to record music, he thought that was sort of odd.

"Can't they sing for themselves?" he asked. It seemed to him that listening to a recording robbed one of the pleasure of singing songs, of participation. I tried to explain that there were too many songs written on Earth for people to know them all, and besides, our music also was very strong with instruments rather than voices, and only the best musicians are able to succeed at making such recordings. He didn't seem convinced.

So, the next day, I brought some tapes from my limited but eclectic music collection. I had a secret hope that Kregans would like Rock Music. I tried to select a variety of musical styles, to give Sygar a sampling of what sort of things were available. His reaction was suspicious, but curious.

He enjoyed the Irish folk music that I brought, and I had played that first expecting him to be able to understand it. Classical orchestral music seemed to befuddle him; the heavy instrumentation and lack of lyrics were more than he could handle. But when I played a version of Brahms' Waltz #15 in A flat minor Op.39, which was played on a solitary piano, he was quite enthralled, and made me play it back several times. Jazz seemed interesting to him, but he had a hard time following that as well. I played for him "Out of my House, Roach" by the Shuffle Demons, and he seemed to get into the spirit of that, though he didn't ask me to play it again.

He liked the rhythm of Elvis and The Beatles, but the music he could take or leave. He liked some more recent stuff, like ballads by Sting. He thought highly of Sarah MacLauchlan's voice, and he particularly liked Dire Straits' "Brothers in Arms". Considering the subject matter, that did not surprise me.

Harder stuff like the Kinks and AC/DC he enjoyed as well; the simplicity of it made it accessible to him, I suppose. But when I played "Bombtrack" by Rage Against the Machine, he became uncomfortable. That surprised me; I always enjoy the angry visceral response I get from such music. But he refused to get into it. He said:

"This sounds like a war song."

"I guess..." I said, not certain where this was going. "It is an angry song."

"Turn it off, please", he said, in a firm way that made me do it quickly. Sygar seemed disturbed, maybe even upset. So I put the tape player away. Besides, the doctors really didn't approve of my entertaining him; they wanted information, and, well, so did I.

The information I really wanted from Sygar was about just who he was (and so did the doctors, since they needed more information about Sygar's "persona" to understand just what sort of psychosis he was under). So I started asking him about what he did on Kregen, and what his family did. I started with the question: "Are you a warrior of some kind?"

"Of course", he responded. "Every man from Mengradrin that is worth anything is a warrior. But I was also raised a sailor and a fisherman, and I can tend herds and do most of the ordinary thing that most Mengradi can do. No matter what, though, an Urndrinner man is judged first on one thing, his ability to fight."

That sounded a lot like the Kregen I had read about. So I pressed on, saying: "Were you any good at it?"

A strange look came over him. His eyes seemed very penetrating at that moment, and I can hardly imagine what emotions ran through his head right then, though it looked like a combination of pride, shame, sadness, and wistfullness, all at once.

"Oh, yes," he said after a moment. "I was very good. My kind is among the most feared among the Mengradi. You see, I am a berserk."

I then asked him if he could tell me about it. He assured me that the story was long, and would take a while. I suggested that he use the tape recorder, and much to my delight, he accepted.

It was at the battle of Raviksmot that I discovered I was a berzerker.

Since Raviksmot was on our side of the Tryaka mountains, the king of Mengradrin at the time, Ivak the fourth, decided to attack the town before winter, thus making sure that the Javikians would have to come through the passes again in the spring to continue the campaign. It was a reasonably good plan, I suppose, though being in the base ranks of the army I had little to say in the matter. Vad Kyrix of Javikiadrin had captured Raviksmot in the summer, in a surprise attack that left us in Mengradrin to curse him for an oathbreaker, having dishonoured the truce of three years before.

We sailed from Sundergar, my friend Nazak and I, when the leaves were just beginning to lose their green colour, and by the time we had rounded the cape and landed to join the army, the leaves had mostly fallen from the trees. It seemed at that point that all the world had become cold and damp, no matter how one tried to warm himself by the fire. That time every year the lands are covered in fog; the misty forests of Urndrin are known for such. The boiling sea is not called that because it actually boils, though in rough weather there is enough foam on the sea to make one think so. But over the sea hangs an almost-perpetual mist, that only breaks up in the late spring and early summer, and in the autumn that mist becomes a fog so thick you can barely see the hand in front of your face.

And yes, I did say Urndrin. That land of barbarians and brutes is where I am from, and nothing anyone has ever said has made me ashamed of it. I know that men in other lands spit and curse when they speak of us; we come in our ships to reive and plunder where we can and when we can, from the coast of Segesthes to the edge of Turismond, and even to the coast of Evir in northern Vallia. Foreigners hate us because we burn and plunder and take slaves. But those men buy slaves from aragorn, Katakis and others; these men are no better than us in my estimation; rather they are less, since what we did out of need they do out of greed.

On all of Kregen, no land is colder or more forbidding than Urndrin; the word Urndrin means simply north-land. We pride ourselves on being close to the Ice floes of Sicce here; in the spring and summer huge islands of ice can be seen floating by on the Boiling Sea, like behemoths, glowing in the light of the two suns with a sort of silver-blue glare; they wander southward, only to explode once they reach the tropics.

In the winter, Urndrin is covered with a thick blanket of snow; when the air is still my homeland has a quiet and serene beauty, though when the wind blows the frost can tear the flesh from your bones. Most of the creatures that live in Urndrin have a thick coat of fur to keep them form the cold. Us apims, however, or humans, as you would call us, have no such protection, and have to improvise.

Traders from many nations come to Urndrin for the thick pelts of animals that live here, and many Urndrinners make a fair living hunting and trapping. But Urndrin is a land of warriors, and hunting, though a useful skill, takes a back seat to acts of valor and skill at arms. We of Urndrin live at the edge of the world, and must fight to keep all that we have.

This time we were fighting against the ambitions of the evil King Sortvar of Javikiadrin, who wished to become king of all Urndrin. Javikiadrin is the nation that lies just to the east of my homeland of Mengradrin, and is inland of us, though they can still reach the sea via the Bay of Daggers.

We all knew what servitude to Sortvar would mean; inevitably slavery for most of the men, and the women would be divided up among the conquerors. Sortvar had made it clear that he would have little mercy for those who resisted him, and we had all heard of the horrors that had happened when he conquered the tiny kingdom of Beltana, up in the mountains. Now it was our turn, and we weren't going to hand him our kingdom without a fight.

Our army gathered in the town of Shivkheim, a port on the sea of daggers. We of Mengradrin, I can say without exaggeration, are the finest shipbuilders of Urndrin, and no other nation has more longships than us. Thus it made sense to gather at the nearest port, and from there prepare to march inland. By the time Nazak and I arrived, the army was almost twenty thousand strong, and everyone judged that we could not be defeated. We knew that Vad Kyrix awaited us in Raviksmot, but we expected that whatever preparations he might have made would come to naught before this force we had gathered.

After all, we had heard that Vad Kyrix had taken the town with only eight thousand men, and now that the snows had come to the mountains, no army would come through the pass to reinforce him. Likewise, we had heard that he had burned the town's wallhouse down, so he could not retreat into the town for a siege.

I had been anxious to leave my home behind me, and when the call went out for volunteers I was happy to enlist, having just come of age, and I left the villiage of my home for Sundergar without regret. Nazak, a friend since childhood, came with me, and excited at the possibility of adventure we set out with light hearts.

I had taken my father's war axe and shield, and had left without telling him, or even saying remberee. I felt a twinge of guilt at the choleric wrath my father would spew forth, as I knew the rest of my family would suffer my father's rage in my place. But I had had enough of my father's temper, and so I kicked the dust of my villiage off my shoes, and left.

Sundergar is not a town I will describe in detail right now, save to say that it was a typical modest-sized Urndrinner town,, and the square in front of Alledur hall was actually paved with flagstones. The Sundergari thought they were quite grand. We drilled incessantly, both in that square and in the fields outside, and our Deldar, one Jortyg the Breaker, promised us he'd make warriors out of us if it killed us. I had to admit, though, that I had a hard time figuring out what marching in place and performing fancy little maneuvers in a group had to do with being warriors.

After a couple of weeks we could form up in a line relatively quickly and without anyone tripping and knocking everyone else over. This was only accomplished because our chief problem, Zirk, who was even younger than I, was held in place by Jortyg standing on his foot most of the time. Whatever the case, our hikdar decided that we were ready, and so we shipped out.

Our villiage was inland, so Nazak and I didn't know a lot about sailing as compared to most of the people we were with, but we could pull an oar with the rest of them, so we left the thinking to them and just pulled when they told us. I did learn that when the weather was foggy, the sailors used a variety of means to determine where the shore was, one of which was to read the way the waves struck the hull. Apparently this could tell you both the depth of the water and distance to shore. I would not learn until much later how that was done.

Shivkheim was a rowdy affair. By the time we arrived a large army camp had been set up on the west side of the brook, and the town stood on the east. We discovered that the town had been closed to soldiers for over a month, thanks to a few violent incidents between townsfolk and soldiers. So the army camp had become a sort of shantytown, with mess halls, ale tents, brothel tents, gambling tents, and all manner of merchants' stalls, all strewn about haphazardly on streets of mud. Nazak and I, and a few others from our Audo got into a fair bit of mischief there, though I will save that story for later.

Dozens of longships were pulled up on the sandy strand of the brook as it emptied into the bay, and that number kept growing, as did the size of our camp. By the time we were ready to leave, the camp was larger than the town of Shivkheim, and I wondered just how nervous those stony-faced guards were that the disgruntled members of the army might try something.

So, full of confidence we set out for Raviksmot, ready to send those Javikians packing for home. The air was crisp and clear, but with that crisp coldness that promises that the snows are on their way, while the twin suns shone down blearily. We were in good spirits, and sung songs as we marched.

But the fog returned on the second day, and an eerie silence fell over the army. As we marched we spoke in whispers, as if a thousand eyes were watching us. Fortunately the road was easy to follow, and we made fair time, though we tended to bunch close together. No one wanted to be left behind in this weather; we had all heard stories like the ones my great-uncle used to tell, about strange creatures stealing people away in the fog.

On the third day it began to rain, a sort of miserable, cold rain that chilled to the bone. My furs became soaked, and the woolens underneath as well. We lit bonfires that night and huddled around them desperately. I imagine that if Vad Kyrix came upon us that night we would not have been able to lift our weapons to fight back.

The rain continued on the fourth day, and we trudged along in the mud, trying to keep dry and warm, and not really succeeding. Many of us carried their shields above their heads, leaning them on their shoulders, trying to keep the rain off. But an Urndrinner shield is a heavy affair, and those men could not keep their shields up for as long as it rained.

In the afternoon we passed though a small village, and the King ordered a halt; we would quarter here for the night, where there were at least roofs to shield us from the rain. Those of us that could fit crammed into the houses trying to get out of the rain, letting the original inhabitants fend for themselves. Sadly, the Sundergar contingent was closer to the rear of the column than the front, and there was no space left in any of the houses. Nazak and I, along with a few of our friends, slept that night in a chicken coop, and were grateful for the shelter.

The rain continued on the next day, though not as hard as it had, and we trudged along in near silence. Though I was traveling in lands I had never before seen, most of the time my eyes looked toward the ground, careful not to trip and fall into the mud. It is truly astonishing just how much mud 20,000 men can make by marching. I felt like I was covered in it; I had become some sort of mud-creature, a loathsome, cold, wet, miserable thing that knew nothing of warmth or dryness or the sky. Nazak woke me with a shake from this reverie when the halt was called; I hadn't noticed. In fact I was astonished that the day was finished.

That night, our Deldars and Hikdars went around the campfires, trying to encourage us. It helped that a quantity of ale was available that night, enough that everyone could have a couple of tankards full. That brought us a little bit of cheer and some warmth to our bones. We were told we would reach Raviksmot tomorrow, and tomorrow would be the fight.

That night, the sky cleared, and the wan starlight of a night of Notor Zan enfolded us. The air became crisp, and cold, almost brittle; and just before midnight, the northern lights, which we call the Veils of Zantarina, began their stately dance across the sky. Lavender, green, and blue, the veils of Zantarina wended their way across the sky like some enchanter's dream, teasing us with the secret mysteries of the night, rippling with that hypnotic ethereal wind; as if some great truth were about to be revealed, but instead, the Veils faded away back into the outer darkness from whence they came.

In Urndrin there are seers who make their living interpreting these Veils, scrying their future within the Veils of the Lady of the Night. They are called the Oracles of Sharina the Stargazer, and we had three of them accompanying our army. I don't know what their opinion was of the night's omens, though I heard from some of the other swods that the three had disagreed on the Veils' meaning. Well, from what I knew of the Oracles, that was typical. Whatever they prophesied, however, didn't halt the progress of the army the next morning.

We were roused just before dawn, to witness a ceremony to honour the gods, particularly Vungar of the Ice, and Pynzar of the Flame, the twin warrior gods of Urndrin. Eighteen chunkrah bulls were sacrificed, nine to each god, in supplication for victory. The priests went through their usual mumbojumbo, though I never really paid attention to that sort of thing in those days. To me it always seemed that the priests of my homeland were always mostly improvising, and gave whatever they came up with the air of something steeped in tradition and ritual. I had been told that a couple hundred years ago, rather than sacrificing chunkrah, it would have been virgin apims. Well, times change, though I know a few people later on blamed what happened that day on the fact that we did not perform a human sacrifice, as the old ways demanded.

We ate pretty well that morning; we had a stew with ponsho meat, beans, onions, and scava, a sort of coarse grain that grew in the cold climate of Urndrin. It is good not only for eating but also for making ale and porridge. Bread made from scava, on the other hand, is hard and rough, and leaves something to be desired.

We broke camp with full bellies, and within a bur or so we were on the march. It didn't take us long to come within sight of the town; there were plenty of fields and pastures in the area; the land had a certain rolling quality to it; slightly hilly, but not enough to interfere too much with our ability to see distances.

This was the first time I had seen Raviksmot; it was built on a low hill in the center of a wide valley. On either side of the valley the slopes were covered with firs and pines, and a few deciduous trees as well, which had mostly lost their leaves. The valley was a patchwork of fields, all of which had been harvested by now; the stubble peeked up forlornly. Where the ground was other than level ponshos grazed on what was left of the year's growth; soon they would be taken in before the snows came.

The town itself was surrounded by a high earthen rampart, which for the most part guarded the top of the hill's edge. On that rampart there once stood a wallhouse, a sturdy building of logs and turf, from which archers could shoot arrows and javilineers could hurl spears. At gates and other key points would have stood towers, also made of wood, of which a few were still standing. It was clear that in the months while the Mengradi had been here, they had repaired some of the wallhouse, and closed some of the gaps with a palisade. But about a quarter of the town was still without the protection of it's wall.

We formed up in a great line about half an ulm away from the town. Those of us from Sundergar were on the left end of the line; we faced the gap in the wall; the King and his elite Crimson Huscarls were on the right. According to our Hikdars, the plan was for the bulk of the force to charge the gap in the wall. Though we'd have to climb the earthen rampart, our force of numbers ought to allow us to carry over the top. Meanwhile, after the battle was joined in the gap, the King's elite Huscarls and his other forces would swing around the side of the town, and attack one of the gates. With most of the defenders tied up at the gap, they should be able to force their way through the gate; once inside the town they'd curl around and hit the Javikians from behind. Clearly, the King hoped to crush the Javikians utterly.

From our position we could see the enemy line at the top of the rampart. They stood on the rampart, shouting jeers at us and daring us to come at them. Some of us shouted back, though from here no doubt all that would be heard would be raw noise; we were too far off to make out any of their words, either. I could see their standard fluttering overhead of their ranks; a crimson bosk's head on a field of blue and grey stripes. Blue and grey are the colours of Javikiadrin, and most standards from that land used those colours. Our colours were red and blue, representing Vungar and Pynzar, the Ice and Fire gods, and the king's symbol was a crowned golden korf, which is a noble-looking bird of prey. The king had such a standard, embroidered with gold lace and tassels; most of the other flags in our host were less grand. The flag of the Strom of Sundergar bore a silver hand holding a flaming silver sword upright, on the traditional background of red and blue.

We formed a very long line, wrapping around about half the city, just out of arrow range. Urndrinners do not use bows for much more than hunting, but occasionally they are pressed into use for war, and we also use crossbows on occasion. Traditionally the bow is a coward's weapon, but it is so useful in defending fortifications that our aversion to such weapons is never total. However, when it came to it, the heavy shields we all carried would more than protect us from any arrows.

We waited over a bur as the line formed; the deldars were running up and down the line, making sure we were all ready and in formation. We formed a mass six ranks deep, and our front must have been two ulms long. We felt sure that the people in the town must be a not a little daunted by the size of our host.

It seemed like forever, waiting in the line. The formations were fully formed, and yet we waited for the order to march. The Hikdar was clearly unsettled, somehow. He would alternate from nervous silence to an attempt at a rousing speech, and then he would get distracted and his speech would falter. We could see the Strom, Sark Alledur, who was also our Jiktar, standing aways off down the line chatting and laughing with his cronies. Just before the hour of mid one of his pages appeared with a benhoff, ready for him to ride. He climbed up, and though at the time I knew little about saddle animals, it was clear that neither did he. But he managed to spur the benhoff into a walk and rode out in front of the line, facing us.

He paused, surveying the men arrayed before him. We all waited for him to say something, as he sat there eyeing us. He turned around and reached behind him for a saddlebag, which he hitched up, and began ruffling through. Beside me, Nazak peered at him, puzzled.

"What's he doing?"

"Shh."

Similar rumblings could be heard throughout the host. But when the Strom looked up, quiet settled upon us like the eye of the hurricane. He lifted his hand out of the saddlebag, and it was full of gold! Coins, jewelry, baubles and trinkets... if that bag was full of such things then in it would be a fortune that could last a man a lifetime.

"This bag of gold," the Strom announced, "is a reward to the boldest of my men. As you know, we are to storm the hill, while the King's men attack the gate. But I do not intend to allow the King's huscarls to get all the glory while we climb up a hill of dirt."

"Instead, we are going to crest that hill, and drive back the Javikians so utterly that we will then open the gate from inside, and invite the Kings Huscarls to enter!"

A cheer went up from the regiment, along with a few shouts of "Sundergar!" and "Pynzar!"

"This gold is a reward to whichever of you can reach the rear of that gate and open it before the King's men breach it! Who wants the gold?"

A hearty cheer of unanimity went up. I must admit to looking longingly at that gold myself, and cheering heartily along with the rest of them. Such gold would set me up in fine style for a long time. With it I could buy a great many things, though I fancied I would get some Skurlain weapons and armour; they are noted as being the highest quality and are naturally expensive. Others might be thinking of buying land, or a ship, or perhaps slaves. But living comfortably is not something a young Urndrinner worries about.

"Sons of Sundergar, we know that a victory today is not in doubt. Our army is more than twice as large as theirs. What matters today is who takes the glory... and the booty!"

Another cheer went up.

"We know there must be plenty of loot in the town. It will be in the hands of the soldiers there. Once we are over the wall, find the barracks and where the nobles are staying, and you will find enough silver and gold to fill your sacks!"

Again, cheering resulted. The thought of riches filled the heads of the swods in the ranks. But naturally Sark wanted us to gain as much plunder as possible. As Jiktar, he would receive a third of everything his Hikdars took in, who would in turn receive a third of everything their Deldars took in. Our Deldar, Jortyg the Breaker, would receive a third of all our booty as well. If we managed to get first crack at the loot in the town, Sark would make out like a bandit.

One of the swods said "But this is a friendly town! The people are Mengradi, like us!"

Most of the swods didn't think much of that. Neither did Sark.

"Yes, this town is part of Mengradrin. But remember that all the loot has already been taken by those rasts of Javikians. We will be liberating it. Those of you who take loot are welcome to return it to the people of Raviksmot!"

There were guffaws at this. Sark pressed on.

"Though remember that Raviksmot is the home of the Murjiran clan, and we do not owe them any favors. I for one will keep my silver, and the Raviksmoters can hang for all I care!"

There were cheers at this too. Even those here who were not somehow connected with the Alledur clan (and that wasn't many; it always seems that everyone is related somehow or other in any Urndrinner town) knew that the feuding between the Alledurs and the Murjirans had been virtually non-stop for longer than anyone could remember. If it were not for the greater threat of the Javikians, the people of Sundergar would have been unlikely to help.

The idea of looting one enemy after defeating another appealed to most of us. At that moment it was hard not to be in good cheer; we were ready to face our enemies boldly and without fear, for all logic told us that we could not be defeated. But no general should take a battle for granted, especially when it involves assaulting a fortified place against a dug in defender. Vad Kyrix had more than one surprise prepared for us, as we would find out.

It wasn't until just past the hour of mid that the horns began to sound. A cheer went up among the ranks, as the bleary horns sounded, and there was a great deal of banging upon shields. The horns sounded again, and Strom Sark strode out in front of us brandishing his sword. He waved it into a circle and then pointed it at the town.

"Forward!", he shouted, and was immediately echoed by his Hikdars and Deldars. Shouts of "forward!" and "advance!" and "march!" could be heard up and down the line. Then, not quite in unison, but close enough that the effect was more or less the same, the line began moving forward. I can still remember that sight clearly; all the shields straightened and moved forward, and the people of Mengradrin stepped forward to meet their destiny, good or bad. The air was crisp and clean, and the sky was blustery with a few patches of blue here and there. The wind picked up a little. I could smell the autumn leaves in the ground mixed with the odor of leather and sweat. And I began to hear the Javikians jeering on their rampart once again. I remember thinking to themselves, are they as confident as us? Is it always like this before a battle? Or are they simply trying to cover their fear at the sight of so great a host?

As we crossed that hard ground I remember a strange nervousness overcoming me. I had the urge to fidget with my hands; restlessly I kept readjusting my shield. Nazak told me to cut it out more than once. This field was so wide! It seemed to take burs to cross, step after step, with the enemy ahead of us, in plain view. I could hardly restrain myself from breaking into a run and charging the town; not because I bore the enemy any real hatred or was keen on proving myself to my peers. I just couldn't stand the wait, the tension of it all building up with no release.

I was about to do something crazy; scream or break ranks or something, when a shout came down from the Deldars to the right:

"Shields right!"

The Javikians had set up a little archery platform to the right of the gap; little more than a wooden square raised up on stilts. There must have been a dozen or so archers up there, and they had begun shooting arrows into the ranks. Now, with your shield strapped to the left arm, covering the right side of your body with it is a tricky proposition, though when someone is shooting arrows at you you'd be surprised at how you improvise. My eyes could just see over the top of the shield in this position, but enough to see that we were getting close. I could hear the chanting of the Javikians now:

"Mengra whoresons! Come and join us,
Then we'll chop your poxy loins off!
Serve you right for laying with ponshos
We'll share your wives with all our fanshos!"

Our response was much less organized; there were shouts about Javikian land-thieves receiving their six feet of Mengradi soil, and similar death threats, but we had no ready reply we could shout in unison. There was a great deal of shield-banging, though, and pretty soon we were all pounding away on our shields with what weapons we had, mostly axes and spears, and a few maces, flails, and swords as well.

Though we were still taking arrows from the small tower, the deldars called for a halt to dress the line; we banged away on our shields as we stood there; by now the Javikians were doing the same. I thought they would have an advantage if they charged down the hill at us, but they waited at the top of the rampart. Then, after just a mur or two, we could see a flag waving down at the other end of the line, and horns began to blow again. All our deldars began roaring.

"Chaaarge!"

Though I had been waiting for this moment, it actually caught me by surprise. With a roar the line surged forward, and I found myself roaring and rushing pell-mell with the rest of the swods towards the rampart. In moments we were at the foot of the rampart, and with shields slanting up we began rushing up the hill.

"Blood and Fire!" I shouted, the war cry of Pynzar the fire and war god. Others shouted with me. We were halfway up the hill when I saw the Javikians raising something up in the air, made of wood. I remember that moment of clarity, as while the body I was in rushed towards the crest of the hill, screaming blue murder and trying to keep my shield and axe up, a part of me considered in puzzlement what these wooden things were. It was as if ramps were being raised behind the Javikian line, to allow us to keep charging upward into the sky! For a moment I could almost see the logic in such a stratagem, absurd as it was. Then, I could see that at the top ends of these ramps were large barrels, which were starting to roll down...

I didn't know what was in those barrels (I later found out it was lead shot packed with frozen damp earth), but they roared through our line like a landslide through a stand of saplings. Next to me, Jaro the Deft was smashed like eggs as his shield was blown to bits by the barrel, which kept hurtling down the hill as if nothing had stood in it's way. Another barrel bounced over my head, and I ducked under my shield, the bottom end of which was propped up against the ground in front of me. A barrel struck my shield and my face was driven into the dirt; my arm felt like it was being ripped out of it's socket. Still, the pain meant that I was alive, and that the barrel had rolled over me. I struggled to my feet, and saw that our line, though much more ragged than before, was still making it's way up the hill. I got to my feet unsteadily and started climbing again, only to see something that astonished me even more.

The Javikian shield wall had pulled back neatly in little columns, and now a new body of troops were cresting the hill from the far side. Rapas! Vulturine humanoids, with bird-like heads and mottled skin, who stank of carrion. To us, this seemed the ultimate treachery, that Rapas should tread on Mengradi soil. We Mengradi never used to tolerate diffs in those days, whatever variety of half-men, be it Rapas from the far side of the Boiling Sea, or Ochs from the Southern parts of Urndrin, the eight-legged Thierzars from the continent, or any other race of humanoids on Kregen, of which there are many, including a good many which are native to Urndrin. Mengradrin was a "pure" land; only apims were welcome, while Javikiadrin harbored all sorts of menagerie men, like Traegarim, Trymoxes, and others; it had been a bone of contention between our lands for some time. But Rapas! They were by far the worst race of diff; they stank of filth and had the habits of rasts. Well, that was not quite true, as I would find out later; many of the things I was raised believing died hard at later points of my life. But there they were, Rapa mercenaries, the ultimate sacrilege, dressed in their ringmail armour. They were crouching down on one knee. And they were hefting crossbows...

I was down on the ground again, as the sleeting mass of destruction poured into our ranks. My shield was in front of me, and several bolts punched through and peeked out at me from the far side, though none came all the way through. Not everyone was so lucky; the barrels had caused enough confusion that many people had lowered their shields. Dozens of men fell back down the hill, their bodies pierced with heavy bolts. The crouched Rapas passed their crossbows behind them and received more crossbows, and readied for another volley. I heard Jortyg the Breaker shouting "Shields! Shields up!" and some of the swods managed to raise their shields in time, but as the second sleeting mass of bolts came down, more holes were punched in the line of swods. Our army didn't look much like an army anymore; it more looked like a big mob of startled chunkrah, not sure what it was doing. But the foremost of us were almost at the top now...

Nazak, Darrin the Sko-eyed (so named because of his lazy eye), Chaalin Alledur and I bunched together; I couldn't see anyone else from our audo, except Jortyg, our Deldar, further down the slope, and Zirk, beside Jortyg, struggling to get up. I saw a Rapa sighting his crossbow towards us, and I hurled my throwing axe at him; I remember how it stuck into his head, with the blood spurting as his head flew back with the blow. That was the first time I ever killed. The crossbow spat anyhow, though the bolt sped over our heads.

We were almost at the lip of the hill, now, and a few others from our line were there as well. As our eyes came level with the hilltop, we saw the Rapas were pulling back a little; the Javikian shield wall was moving up again in pockets, leaving wide gaps between them through which the Rapas were falling back. I could see the Javikians looking at us with hatred and glee; they seemed sure that the battle was going their way. Some of them clearly wanted to get at us, but their Deldars were shouting:

"Wait for it! Dress that line! Wait, damn you! Hold!"

I wasn't sure what they were waiting for; we were cresting the hill, and soon they wouldn't have the high ground advantage anymore. But coming up through the intervals were men who made my heart turn cold.

Trymoxes.

A Trymox is a fearsome creature. He stands typically about seven or eight feet tall, with a massive, blocky build; I suppose 500 or 600 pounds is an average weight for a Trymox. They have enough body and head hair to appear shaggy, and they have a pair of curling horns, not unlike a ram's. Top that off with a pair of tusk-like teeth jutting upward from the corners of their mouths.

Make no mistake, though; as frightening as a Trymox is, he is still a man; he has two eyes, two arms, and two legs (though I would later meet men who had more than two of each of these). We of Mengradrin tended to think of them as half-men, and we sometimes called them (along with many other races of beast-men) halflings, though "diff" is the correct term for such people. Apparently the Trymoxes sometimes jokingly refer to themselves as "one-and-a-halflings", as a jest on their large size.

As for Trymoxes, we used to say that they were stupid and ignorant, and lived like savages (something I later discovered that was said about all Urndrinners by many Southerners, and was, of course, just as untrue). Their homeland, Trymoxdrin, is a forested land on the Eastern side of the Spine of Vungar, the central and highest chain of mountains in Urndrin. This particular Trymox who stood before me wore a ringmail tunic, a fur cape, and a ferocious leer.

He was coming towards us at a trot, and he leaned back, his right arm over his shoulder behind him. With a yell he brought it down, and in his hand was a thick iron chain, to the end of which was affixed a large iron ball, about a foot wide. The ball came whistling overhead and smashed down, striking Chaalin's quickly upraised shield. His shield splintered into bits, and he was flung back down the hill, out cold, his left hand a useless bloody stump. I recall thinking how he was lucky enough to own a sword, and he had fallen without ever using it.

"Come on, you puppies!", the Trymox shouted, hefting his ball and chain again. This weapon, called the Claggar, is the preferred weapon of the Trymox, though they use plenty of others as well.

He was twirling the Claggar about his head, and it was picking up speed. As if we had just snapped out of a trance, the three of us that remained rushed forward. I swung my axe low, and it bit into the Trymox's ankle with a crunch. The Trymox howled, but before he could bring his Claggar down, Nazak had Struck at his ribs from the right, and Darrin's spear had thrust into his belly. With a gurgle, the Trymox spun around wildly; his Claggar flung out over our heads. Darrin's spear was wrenched from his hands as the Trymox whirled away, and collapsed in a heap a few feet off.

We cheered together, and pressed forward, even though Darrin no longer had his spear, and all he had left was a hastily drawn dagger. Another Trymox, dressed in ragged furs, roared past us to the left, axe overhead, no doubt plunging down on some hapless Mengradi. Another one came towards us with a huge iron-banded cudgel in his hands, and swung it at us.

Nazak and I stepped back, and I could feel the power of the swing as it whistled past; it was a palpable thing, like heat off a stone in summertime. We reeled back, though we had not been struck. Darrin was not so lucky; he raised his shield, and the wide arc of the great cudgel struck Darrin's shield dead on.

There was a horrible "crack!", and Darrin's shield split down the middle, leaving him holding the boss, what good that did him, I don't know. Darrin flew backward in a cloud of splinters. Past Darrin to our right I could see what remained of our line wavering; the hill was piled with dead and wounded, and I could see a Trymox dressed in what seemed to be golden scalemail, hewing away with a golden leaf-shaped shortsword that must have been a yard long, though it seemed small in his hands.

As the cudgel swept by, Nazak leaped forward and tried to cleave the Trymox's skull in. He struck a horn, and the axe got wedged in the horn. The Trymox roared, and grabbed Nazak with his left hand, throttling him. I hacked at the Trymox's hand, drawing blood but missing the wrist. He turned and threw Nazak at me; I ducked, and Nazak flew over me, and tumbled down the hill.

"I'll squash you good, pipsqueak", the Trymox rumbled, and he leaned back to retrieve his cudgel. I stepped forward, as if to hack at his ankles with my axe; wildly the Trymox swung the cudgel overhead, and smashed it down. I quickly stepped aside, and buried the axe in the side of his neck. He tumbled sideways, gushing blood, and I remember thinking it was a shame that all that blood got on his blue and red striped woolen tunic.

I looked around, and heard blowing from a great many Huarach horns (a Huarach is like a wild Chunkrah, with even longer, thick horns that are good for hollowing out and blowing. They have shaggy thick hides). The Javikians had formed a solid line now, and few Mengradi stood on the hill; none were left who had reached the top. I stood alone, and faced the Javikian line, and it seemed like they all just leered at me for a moment.

Then, with a hearty roar, they surged forwards, and my stomach turned to lead. Hundreds of Javikians raced towards me, and all my friends were gone. I wanted to run, but my feet seemed rooted to the spot. Suddenly, I saw the face of my father, jeering at me, his narrow chin, wrinkly brow, and beady eyes loomed in front of me like a statue, or a god.

And he laughed.

He laughed at me.

"I told you you'd never amount to anything!" He jeered, gleefully. "You're useless! You'll always be useless! Run away, now, run away with piss in your breeches and a girl's tears in your eyes! Run back to mother, you useless wretch"

At that moment I let out the most bloodcurdling scream that ever passed my lips.

Whatever happened, my father would not win; I would stand and fight, and rage and cleave and kill until I was struck down. I would die today, the last of Jortyg's audo, but no one would say that I ran. No one.

With my teeth clenched, and tears in my eyes I met the Javikian line. I smashed the first man's head in, and beheaded the second, and was on to the third before they knew what hit them. My mind was on fire, and my body was like a whirlwind; suddenly I possessed strength and speed I never knew I had.

Blood spurted, though not mine; I smashed a man's shield in two and cut off his let hand; another took my axe laterally in the face, and I cut him a new mouth just below the eyes.

Quickly the Javikians around me stopped leering and began looking at me wide-eyed, trying to make some distance around me. But I was among them, and in the press I hacked and hewed and clove. The world burned red around me. Their fear fed my rage, and my axe rose and fell, and my shield smashed out.

Us Mengradi call this Pynzar's gift, the fire-blood rage of a berserk. Though they are rare, they are known througout Urndrin, and they are feared by most sane men.

A rapa stood in front of me with a crossbow poited at me. There was no bolt in his crossbow. He stared at me dumbly as I hacked his head off. A sword licked out at me, and a tough looking Javikian flashed his swordpoint before my eyes. I smashed at it with my axe, but he yanked it out of the way. He lunged again, meaning to skewer me and have done. I caught his swordpoint on my shield, and I rushed him, bowling him over backwards, and landing on top of him. I think I broke his sword. I tried to lift my axe, but he grabbed it by the haft, and clung to it with a deathgrip. So I let go of the axe, and raised my shield over my head with both hands, ready to smash him with it. Just as I began to bring my shield down, I saw the round iron ball of a Claggar swinging towards me. It struck my shield, cracking it in half, and as if it had not passed through anything more substantial than mist, it kept coming towards me. It struck, and the cloak of Notor Zan enfolded me.

When I awoke, I was lying on my back, gazing up at the sky. My face hurt, and so did my left leg. But the pain was a quiet stinging, not the searing pain of a broken bone or torn flesh.

It was snowing softly; big fat snowflakes that drifted down like goose feathers. Everything seemed quiet, and I could hear the sounds of battle distantly. I gazed up at the sky for a while, which remained a blustery grey, sometimes pale, and other times dark, with the clouds marching slowly southward.

After a while I sat up, growing tired of looking at clouds. I found myself at the foot of the hill, with bodies piled about me. A crossbow bolt portruded from my left thigh; it had assed all the way through, and the head had broken off somewhere. I stared at it numbly for a while. My shield lay nearby, split in two pieces. A few other survivors crawled about, moaning, or weeping, or laughing; I couldn't really hear what any of them were saying.

Off in the distance I could see the battle still raging; the Javikians had pushed our army way back down into the fields, and I could see some distant figures, riding around on Benhoffs. slashing with sabres. They looked like Traegarim, a race of diffs that look like Siberian Huskies who walk upright. I could hear their yipping war cries, as they raced around, preventing the escape of our forces.

It occurred to me suddenly that I had lived; not only had I lived, but I had lived those moments on top of the hill well. Had I died then, I would have been certain to pass through the Ice Floes of Sicce and sit at the Hearth of Pynzar, and tell him the tale of my heroism.

But I had lived; I had survived the impossible. And as I looked around, I realized that many others had also survived, and still moved through this field of charnel. And I realized that I wished to continue living.

It would soon be dark, and then it would get colder still. I had to get moving.

I tried to rise, and felt a shooting pain in my leg. I looked down, and noticed for the second time the quarrel sticking out of my leg. I stumbled, and sat again. Steeling myself, I gripped the shaft, and after a couple of short breaths I yanked on the shaft as hard as I could.

It felt like fire had shot through my leg. I could feel the shaft inside me, like some abominable worm chewing it's way through me.

And then it was out. It came out with a sucking sound, a little boot-coming-free-of-mud noise. I gasped, and my leg felt ragged and abused, but better. Blood started pouring out, though, so I tore a strip of cloth from a dead man's cloak, and wrapped it around my leg tightly, tying it off for now.

I judged I could stand, so I stood, and hobbled about a little. I knew I would need a weapon, and a shield, and I soon had a half-decent axe and a sturdy shield. It had red and grey checks on it, and a symbol of what looked like some sort of leaping fish. I didn't recognize the insignia. Well, it was not my family's schtuvral, but what could I expect.

I could see a group of rapas, spread out and picking through the bodies. They were working their way through the bodies, pickinga things. I had no desire to still be present when they got this far. I glanced around. To the east lay the town, and though I saw no more people on the rampart, I had no desire to look over that crest again. To the west and southwest the battle still raged, and it certainly wasn't going our way. I wondered what happened to the King's elite Huscarls; I couldn't see their banner from here.

To the north, about a quarter of an ulm past the town lay a stand of pine trees. Well, that looked likely. I started off at a trot towards them. After a moment I heard a shout from behind me, and I gathered I had been spotted. Without looking back, I broke into a shambling run. A crossbow bolt whistled by, to my far left, considerably wide. None followed it. If there were any of those Traegarim riding around on benhoffs nearby, I was done for.

I crossed a road, which was covered with hoofprints, and I realized that the Traegarim must have waited around the north side of the town, waiting to spring the last piece of the trap. Now I was crossing the tracks of their charge.

Though my lungs were afire, before I knew it I was among the trees. I chanced a look back, and saw that a few rapas were pursuing, but not with any particular zeal. Most had gone back to looting the dead. I kept running, and soon the quiet of the forest enfolded me.

And so I lived through the Battle of the Barrels, and discovered my gift and curse, the gift of Pynzar. I was a berserk.

It was fully a minute of silence before I realized that Sygar had stopped speaking. Slowly, and in wonder, I reached over and shut off the tape recorder. I was at a complete loss for words; it seemed as though this cold, hard warrior had just poured his heart out to me. What could I say?

"So... that is what it's like," I said, dumbly.

"Do you still long for the life of a jikai?" Sygar said to me with a wry grin, both sad and ironic at once.

"I didn't say I did.." I said, but it was as though he could read my thoughts.

"I can see it in your eyes," he commented. "The eyes alone can betray one's ib." He sat back, streching in his chair. "Your world has few places for men like me," he continued. "But it is a great world, do not misunderstand me. You have a mighty city with no walls, and men travel about unarmed. They do not fear invaders, or aragorn, or bandits, nor does their honour require the spilling of blood to avenge insults. You have a city that not only has peace, but has become used to peace being the norm. That, my friend, is a greater achievement that any act of valour on the battlefield."

I was certainly surprised by Sygar's remarks. Here was a savage warrior extoling the virtues of peace.

"Well, I wouldn't say life is perfect here," I countered. "We have crime, and murders, and hate. People are violent, and they steal, and betray one another. And much of the technology we have made just makes it easier for us to be ruled over."

Sygar responded: "This is true wherever you go. People do as people do. As long as men have hearts there will be hate as well as love, greed as well as charity, brutality as well as tenderness. And do not tell me how you are ruled by evil men here, for you choose your leaders in this land. That alone makes it foolish to complain of tyrranny."

Well, well. So Sygar was a philosopher, as well as a berzerker. Things could be stranger, I suppose.

After our session was over, I was called before Dr. Mortenhoe, who wanted an appraisal of my progress. Somehow I didn't like the kinds of questions Mortenhoe was asking, and it was clear to me that he was getting impatient. When he discovered that I had taped our session, he insisted that the tapes I had made were the property of the institution, and could not be removed from the premises. He told me to hand them over.

Fuming, I sputtered some response, but Mortenhoe was adamant. Since I was not a psychologist, I could not be trusted to maintain patient-doctor confidentiality, and for the institute to retain the tapes constituted a form of protection for Sygar. Well, I didn't buy that, and I reminded Dr. Mortenhoe that I had already signed a non-disclosure waiver, but there didn't seem to convince him. Finally, with the taste of bile in my mouth, I surrendered the tapes.

However, Dr. Mortenhoe called me the next day, and he had listened to the tapes. He was quite annoyed, because he found himself unable to understand most of what was being said on the tapes. Sygar and I had cobbled together a pidgin language combining Kregish and English elements, and thus someone who had not been part of our learning process could likely only understand every other word.

Naturally he was miffed, and he berated me for not getting Sygar to speak English exclusively. By communicating to him is his "made-up" language I was "reinforcing his delusion". Dr. Mortenhoe told me that I must make transcripts of the tape readable in English.

Well, my "volunteer" work was starting to interfere with my life; I had another job and was not too keen on spending large blocks of time typing stuff out for some popmous psychologist. However, I realized that I would miss my sessions with Sygar. To be cut off from his story now... well, I didn't want to contemplate that. I realized that I was hooked; I had to find out more about the story. Sygar's tale had cast a spell over me.

So, dutifully I made a transcript of the story. Fortunately, since I had to listen to the tape to transcribe it, I also was able to sneak in another tape, and I made a copy while apparently only innocently listening to it. This copy was not of especially high quality, and had frequent and annoying clicks and stops, but nevertheless gave me a real record of what had been said.

Doctor Mortenhoe insisted on joining me for my next session. He told me that I had to translate, while he would speak. Sygar's psychotherapy was to begin in earnest.

I had a bad feeling in my gut about the whole thing. I believed Sygar's tale, I knew now, and therefore I had a hard time reconciling him being "treated". Uncomfortably, I introduced Sygar to Dr. Mortenhoe, and I explained to him that Dr. Mortenhoe was one of the men who decides if people such as Sygar are healthy and may leave. Sygar eyed him cautiously.

Dr. Motenhoe started off with a few pleasantries, asking Sygar how he felt, and so on. Sygar had caught my uncomfortable vibe and seemed to be answering very cautiously. He also seemed to be using Kregish terms wherever he could, and avoided many English words that I knew he had learned. Dr. Mortenhoe began asking him about his sleeping patterns, and if he had many dreams. Sygar responded that eh had been sleeping quite well, thak you very much. No, he had not had any dreams, as far as he could remember.

Dr. Mortenhoe cleared his throat, and shuffled some papers, and I knew that he was building up to a big pronouncement. After a moment, he began:

"Sygar, I know that things must seem very strange to you right now. You are in a strange place, and you cannot come and go as you please. But there is a good and important reason for this. This is a hospital, and the people here are sick. You are one of them."

Sygar did not answer; he just eyed Dr. Mortenhoe stonily.

"You see, Sygar, people who are here have lost some sort of part of their reason. You should not be ashamed that you are one of them; it can happen to anyone and for a great many reasons. And we want one thing here; that is to help you get better."

Sygar still said nothing.

"Understand that in order for us to help you, you must trust us. We do this for hundreds of people and we can help you just like we have helped them. We know what we're doing. All I'm asking you to do is to take seriously some of the things I am going to say. These things, if you can accept them, will help you on your way to recovery.

Sygar finally stirred. "Like what?" he asked.

"Well, Sygar, most importantly you need to think about this. I know your memories of Kregen seem very real to you, and very vivid. But you must understand that all of these memories are part of your mind, and it is your mind that is the organ which is sick. All of these memories of Kregen are from your imagination; they are not real. Kregen is not a real place; it's a fictional world invented by an Englishman about 30 years ago."

Sygar scowled most ferociously. He stood up, and began to pace arounfd the room. Mortenhoe had hit a nerve.

"I know that seems difficult to believe," Mortenhoe continued, "but I have no reason to lie to you. Kregen is a mde up place, and I know that you must have read about it at some point in your life. You were born here, on Earth, and not on an alien world somewhere far off in the galaxy. You have a real family here, and a real name. Even the name 'Sygar' is a part of this fantasy."

"I don't expect you to accept this right away, Sygar. What I want you to do is just to think about it. Ask yourself: 'Is it possible that I might have imagined this other world?' Once you start to recognize that this really is a delusion, then you might start to remember your real life again."

"I know that the world of Kregen might seem to be a wonderful place, full of excitement and adventure, where the heroes always win; the men are all mighty and the women are all beautiful. But that is a fantasy world; those things are all the way we would want the world to be. It's not real."

As I translated Mortenhoe's diatribe, I found Sygar looking at me periodically. I could not meet his eyes. I felt ashamed, as if I had betrayed him. When I got to the part about adventure, Sygar's nostrils flared up, and he began addressing Mortenhoe. He was not quite shouting, but he had raised his voice slightly, and had a stern tone that made me tremble.

"You think Kregen is all about fun and adventure? You think I long to swing from chandeliers and fence with dastardly villains, rescuing fair maidens? Well let me tell you this: while I have had many 'adventures' on the face of Kregen, most of them turned out badly. Many honest men have been killed, with no one to explain to their wives and children why it had to be so. I have seen the flesh flayed from a man's back, not once but a dozen times. The work of evil and cruel men is never finished, and after a sea of blood has been spilled in the defense of goodness you are merely left with things the way they were before the trouble began.

"Adventure! Hah! A wise man never seeks adventure. It is adventure that seeks men, to carry out those deeds that must be done. We are the hapless victims of adventure."

That shut Mortenhoe up for a while. After a moment, it seemed like he would respond, but then he thought better of it, and just stood up and went out, indicating that I should follow.

In the corridor, he said to me:

"Well, Sygar's need for this delusion is different than I expected. Rather than making him important, he seems to feel that his Kregis background makes him something of a martyr. The delusion serves to both reinforce his self worth, as he is a warior of some repute and therefore independent, but also serves as a rationale for why his life is so hard."

I was surprised that Dr. Mortenhoe was sharing this with me. He never seemed to have much confidence in me before. Hesitantly, I said "So... what now?"

Mortenhoe eyed me cautiously. "Deconstructin a delusion is a delicate thing. If we are too forceful we can damage his psyche further, while not enough pressure will cause him to retreat within his delusion."

"Okay," I said, "so where does that leave us?"

"Well, our job is not to force him to admit that he is wrong so much as to get him to accept the possibility that he might be delusional. We must always treat Kregen as if it is fantasy; we should get him to agree not to talk about it, and concentrate on other things."

"Like what?"

"Well, for starters, we will have him go through a variety of exercises to help him regain his memory. We must also encourage him to speak English as much as possible. And under no circumstances are you to encourage him to indulge in any more fantasy storytelling. You may not ask him anything of his background on Kregen. Sygar's story is over."

Nevertheless, my resolve weakened the moment I saw him. I had come to gain a sense of Sygar's character in the time I had spent with him, and I felt that he was not a liar. But could he really be crazy? That intense, penetrating look of his might be madness, but it seemed more the keen awareness of a man who was analyzing his chances. Well, I suppose it could be both.

Dr. Mortenhoe and I entered the room that day, and Sygar stared intently at Mortenhoe. It was not quite a glare; it had none of that sulkiness. It was more of the look that a predator gives to an interloper in his territory, a sort of hostile and guarded sizing-up.

Mortenhoe pretended not to notice, saying "Hello, Sygar," in as cheery a voice as he could manage. I noticed that the doctor did avoid meeting Sygar's eyes directly.

Sygar then looked at me, inquiringly. I met his gaze for a moment, then looked away. I hated to be the man who broke apart Sygar's world, fantasy or not. And to think Sygar counted me as his friend.

Sygar spoke.

"Peter."

It was not an accusation or a challenge, no guilt was delivered. Just a command for me to pay attention. I looked back at him. He was staring intently at me, though his eyes held none of the scorn I expected. Rather, it was an understanding look; not soft, for I could tell that Sygar would not let me make excuses, but understanding.

"What is happening now?" Sygar asked.

"Sygar, what we're going to start to do is to try to help you regain your memory. As Dr. Mortenhoe mentioned yesterday, Kregen is an imaginary world, and we are going to help you remember your past in the real world."

Sygar continued to stare at me, probing. After a moment, he said,

"I see."

"So," I stumbled on, "we are going to have to stick to English as much as possible, and we're not going to talk about Kregen any more."

Sygar's stare took on a wry, mildly amused look.

"Is that what you want?", he said, calmly.

He had struck shrewdly with that. He could see right through me, evidently. Was I that readable?

I fumbled for an answer, but Dr. Mortenhoe cut in:

"It's not an issue of what we want, Sygar, rather what matters is what will make you well again. Many people have come here with broken minds and hearts and have left again whole. You can too, but for that to happen you need to accept the fact that we know what's best. We cannot force you to co-operate with us, but without that co-operation you will probably never heal."

"And if I told you that I am not crazy?" Sygar responded.

"Do you still maintain that you are from another planet?"

"I remember it clearly."

"Then I don't believe you."

Sygar stared at Dr. Mortenhoe intently, challenging him. Much to my surprise, Mortenhoe met that stare. The two locked eyes for a few moments. Then, Dr. Mortenhoe looked away, saying:

"I'm not going to play any kind of dominance games with you, John. You won't get anywhere without my help, so I-"

"My name is not 'John'," Sygar growled menacingly.

"Probably not. But 'Sygar' is clearly a made-up name, to go along woth your made-up background on another planet. I will not play along with what I know to be flase, so until we find out what your real name is, I am going to use the name the police assigned you - John Doe."

Sygar stared at Mortenhoe for another moment, this time with real anger in his eyes. I could almost imagine lightning bolts flashing out of them. Then he let fly with a string of Kregish expletives, many of which I did not recognize, though I caught "Kleesh" and "Nulsh". Mortenhoe looked at me inquiringly.

"None of that was meant to be flattering," I commented lamely.

Well, a name is an important thing on Kregen.

Sygar had stopped his rant and had now stood up, his back to us. Mortenhoe was undaunted.

"This is a childish display, John. It will get you nowhere."

"Do not call me John. You have no right to name me."

"I will continue to do so, John, until we find out what your real name is."

Suddenly, with a speed that caught me totally off guard, Sygar picked up his chair and hurled it at the glass between him and Mortenhoe. I had to admit, Dr. Mortenhoe had been a pretty cool character, but this time, he flinched, jumping back in his seat. Well, so did I; I nearly fell out of my chair.

Fortunately for Mortenhoe, the glass was shatterproof, and the chair ricocheted off harmlessly, though it did leave a slight mark in the glass.

Sygar snorted, and turned his back on us again.

Dr. Mortenhoe got up, and indicated that I should follow.

"We will come back when you're ready, John." Mortenhoe said, and I wonder if it was just to get the last word. Sygar waved his hand dismissively, and we trooped out.

In the hallway, I remarked:

"That could have gone better."

"Perhaps. But John here prefers his delusions over reality. Naturally there is some resistance on his part. That's normal. He will probably be difficult to manage for a little while."

I chewed on that. Mortenhoe did seem to be able to predict Sygar's behaviout.

"Regardless, there probably will be little need for you to see him for the next little while."

I gaped.

Was I being dismissed?

"We'll call you in the next week to schedule something if John here comes around any. He'll resist for a little while, but he's smart enough to realize he needs to cooperate."

"I'd like to stay involved, Doctor," I interjected, trying not to seem pushy.

"Your presence here has helped us a great deal, Peter. John has come out of his shell, and started to connect with outsiders. Naturally we are grateful for your help. We will, of course, try to find roles for you in the future."

That sounded to me like a brush-off. But what could I say?

Glumly I returned home that night, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I had not only betrayed Sygar, but had been betrayed in turn by the institution. Of course, I had no standing there. I was just a volunteer. But I suppose I had hoped to be considered 'part of the team', rather than a pawn that was expendable.

Three weeks went by with no contact from the institution. I had just about given up when I recieved a call from their office, asking if I could help them straighten out the files of Sygar's case. Apparently, the institution had had the tapes transcribed, but since Sygar (and I) tended to go back and forth between Kregish and English during our interviews, the people had a hard time making out just what was there in order to analyse it.

So, I was asked to go through the transcripts and translate for them. I was not being asked to see Sygar again, but it was a start.

"I'll need to listen to the tapes again. The spellings are unlikely to be recognisable."

They agreed to that, and they sent the transcript and tapes over by courier. Naturally, the first thing I did was to make copies of everything.

Translating our seesions proved more difficult than I imagined originally, and I became exasperated by the demands of the Institution that they be completed. Eventually Dr. Mortenhoe called me, and I gave him a piece of my mind.

"I'm not being paid for this, you know. I do have a full time job and a life to get on with, so you can hardly expect me to deal with all this paperwork as if it ismy primary concern in life, for Chrissakes!"

I was venting a bit.

"Just what do you want?" Dr. Mortenhoe asked.

I was afraid to ask to see Sygar again. I thought that would reveal my motives too easily. So instead, I said,

"For starters, I want to know what's going on."

"Well, John has retreated into his delusional world. He refuses to speak English or to acknowledge that he even can speak it unless severely goaded. I think he'll snap out of it eventually, since we know that he can communicate with us, and he knows that we know."

"Do you need me to talk to him?" I asked, hopefully.

"I think that would be unwise at the moment. John is likely to think that he is free to speak Kregish if you return."

I chewed that over.

"Well, if I am to continue to work on all these records, I'd like to get paid as a consultant."

"I'll look into that for you," Mortenhoe offered. "I'm not sure if we have much of a budget for that, but I'll see what we can do for you."

Once again I felt that I had been sloughed off. But at least I had some answers.

Another two weeks passed, and I was contacted by a woman, a Dr. Coulter, who inquired as to my progress. I had to admit that I had achieved little, since the last time I had spoken to Dr. Mortenhoe we had just started to negotiate for some kind of renumeration.

"I think we can arrange to take you on as an independent therapist; that pays twenty eight dollars an hour."

I must admit I was surprised. I would have been willing to work for free provided I had access to Sygar.

"That rate is lower than a private institution might offer, but considering your lack of qualifications I think that's more than generous."

"All right, so what if I agree?"

"Understand that a fairly rigorous reporting scheme is in place for our consultants. You will need to document all your activities for us, and make regular reports to us about everything you do. If you can't document your activities, then your usefulness to us is limited."

She sounded like she knew I would accept. Well, naturally I would. I suppose she had to lay down the law before I started.

"I suppose that makes sense. But why the change of heart?"

"Mr. Smith, clearly you have made more progress with John Doe than had anyone had in the previous year. Since you left, the patient has reverted to a non-communicative state, refusing to speak English or interact normally with others."

"I see," I said, hiding my excitement. Was Sygar on strike for me? He surely knew that a refusal to speak English would eventually bring the one person who could actually speak Kregish. On the other hand, he could just as easily be doing this to spite Dr. Mortenhoe.

Before I knew it I was back at the institute, preparing for another interview with Sygar. We were going to try a variety of basic tests, including some Rorshach tests and word-association. That, no doubt, would prove interesting.

Dr. Coulter met with me and went over her plans. She was of middle height and a little heavy, and seemed to be in her mid-forties. Her sandy hair was in a short bob, and she impressed me as a non-nonsense sort of woman.

This time, I was accompanied not by Dr. Mortenhoe, but by Dr. Coulter, as I went into what I now referred to as the interrogation room. Sygar sat in a flimsy-looking folding chair on the other side of the glass. He seemed surprised to see me, and he rose when I entered.

"By Dreegar's Boots, dom, it's good to see you."

Mind you, most of the words he used were Kregish.

"You too, Sygar, you too." I warmed to him again. I sensed no reproach from the previous time I had seen him.

Sygar had already seen Dr. Coulter before, but his refusal to speak English had prevented them from being properly introduced.

So, I made the pappatu between them. Sygar addressed her as "Sana," a title used for learned people, so I took that to be a good sign.

I then went on into the agenda we had for the day.

"Sygar, Dr. Coulter here wants to do some tests on you. Things to test your memory, and your thinking abilities." I prpbably phrased it badly, but I hardly could know the Kregish terms for the psychological jargon that explained what we were to do. But Sygar nodded, and seemed amenable to this.

We started off with the Rorshach tests. The images that Dr. Coulter produced elicited responses like:

"A Graint."

"A carpenter."

"A Numim woman, swimming."

"An Argenter."

"Two Werstings fighting."

I began to suspect that Sygar was deliberately sticking to things Kregish when answering these questions. Dr. Coulter I could tell was getting a little frustrated.

We switched over to the word association, which was particularily bizarre, because I often had to translate the word she wanted him to associate, and then translate his response back. Sometimes I didn't have time, because Sygar would pick a Kregish word that simply sounded like the English word Dr. Coulter had used, such as when he had responded "Voller" to her "Volleyball." Once again, Sygar was trying to keep changing the subject to Kregen. I had to admit, I was starting to find it funny, but Dr. Coulter was less than amused.

"Sygar, I know this may seem like a game to you, but we need you to be honest with us. Without that honesty this is all a waste of time."

"Of course, Sana, though I suspect what you really want is for me to give you words in English. But how can I do that? The first words to pop into my head are likely to be in my native tongue, are they not?"

She pressed on anyway, unflinching. The game continued, but I noticed the words that Coulter would choose became more abstract, and I was puzzled when in response to "Child" Sygar said "Run." But things really got uncomfortable when Dr. Coulter said "Father."

Sygar's brows immediately turned down, and his eyes grew cold. Suddenly I felt very nervous.

"Do you have trouble talking about your father?" Coulter pressed, dangerously.

"I do not have trouble. I simply do not discuss it."

"Sygar, you really need to open up to us about this. Our purpose here-"

"I said I do not discuss it, and that is how it will be. Do not challenge me, or try to trick me into revealing something I do not want to reveal. Dernun?"

Well, Sygar was not one to mince words. For a moment, Coulter was silent.

She recovered after a moment, and began to explain the next exercise, which was a memory game involving cards, when a buzzing sound came out of her hip pocket. She took a pager out of her pocket and looked at it as if it was a big bug. But she frowned, stood up, and said to me,

"I need to take this. Can you explain the next exercise to Sygar? I'll be back in ten minutes. And you'll be monitored on camera in case you need anything."

Before I could really respond, she had stepped out.

Sygar looked at me wryly. "Alone at last," he quipped, in Kregish.

"Um, yeah," I said, off guard again. Sygar seemed to have the ability to completely distract me with a few words whenever he liked.

"Ah, well. Tell me about the next silly game, Peter."

Fumbling about, I started to explain the memory game to him, and showed him the cards. Sygar rolled his eyes.

"A child's game! How long must I bear these Onkers!"

"Dr. Coulter says it will help your memory."

"My memory is fine, Peter. You know that."

"Well..."

I had to admit, he had never seemed irrational, and his memory of Kregen was vivid enough for me to believe that he had been there. Nevertheless, I was here at the sufferance of the hospital, and I had to play ball with them. I told Sygar as much.

"What will they do to you if you don't 'play ball'?"

I hadn't expected that question.

"Will they kill you? Or flog you Jikaider? Pynzar's flame, man, you are your own man! Is this how you want to spend this time, playing these silly games with a man in a cage?"

To this, I could say nothing. Again, Sygar had read me clearly.

"You want to hear more of the story of Sygar Sygarhan, don't you? I can see it in your eyes."

I nodded. My mouth had run dry.

"Then get your little machine on, and let me tell you about what happened after Raviksmot."

So dutifully, I once again became Sygar's scribe.

But after a time, the flush began to wear thin, and I began to settle somewhat. The peaceful quiet of the forest helped, no doubt; there is something especially serene and tranquil about a forest in a light snowfall. The soft flakes drifted down between the bare branches, dampening all sound. I seemed like an interloper in this peaceful forest, as my feet rusled through the musty dead leaves and snapped fallen branches.

Eventually my leg began to throb, and I remembered that I had been wounded there. So I made camp as best I could and I began to set to dressing the wound. The cold helped; the skin around the wound was somewhat numb, and the wound, though it had bled at first, had stopped bleeding for a while.

But nevertheless my breeches had become fouled with blood, and the black fluid had become encrusted all over, snagging in the hairs of my legs and looking like a foul mess. I did my best to clean the wound, but all I had to do so with was cold water. Well, it had to do.

I had a canvas tarp that was part of the tent kit my audo carried, so I went about setting myself up under the boughs of a Black Pine tree. There is usually ample dry space under the bootom boughs for a person to sleep, and the mat of needles on the ground is not uncomfortable. So, with the tarp to shield me from any breeze, I dozed off.

Some uncomfortable feeling awoke me in the middle of the night and I got up with a start. Suddenly keenly aware, I looked about in the gloom for some sign of danger. Though I could see faintly through the boughs of the tree thanks to the light of She of the Veils, one of Kregen's moons, I could see nothing that might have bothered me. I held my breath, not sure what danger might have awakened me.

And then I heard it.

A quiet, snuffling sound could be heard out in the small clearing where I had stopped. Some beast was there, and was sniffing around. On closer inspection I could see some movement out there, but I could not quite make out what it was that was there.

I saw a large black beak, curved wickedly downwards, the beak of a predator. It was sniffing the spot where I had cleaned my leg, and I knew it must smell the blood. I knew then and there that whatever it was would not simply go away. It knew I was here... somewhere. And it intended to find me.

My hand closed quietly about the haft of my axe.

It would find me all right.

The trouble was, there was little headroom under the branches; there was a clearance of perhaps two feet. I needed to be able to jump out, and strike at this creature quickly. Unfortunately, I was lying down in a space where getting up was difficult. I tried to bend my legs back under me. A stabbing pain came to me from my left leg, where the crossbow bolt had gone through. I gasped.

The head of the beast outside turned quickly towards the tree.

I could see it clearly now in the gloom. The beast was a Skarvonth, a deadly predator of the north. They have the body of a large hunting cat, with six thick legs and large paws. Two inch retractable claws can spring from those paws, and they are razor sharp. The Skarvonth's fur is a silvery white, and it is often marked by silver, grey, or black stripes or spots. They hide well against the snow. The head of the Skarvonth is much like that of a bird; it has a large black beak for a mouth, a sharp eight inch beak that is said to be able to penetrate even plated armour.

I leapt.

Up and forward as best as I could manage, I smashed through the boughs of the tree and out towardsthe Skarvonth. I swung my axe wildly, blinded by the branches and snow that were going everywhere in a white explosion around me. I used my shield as a plough, knocking branches aside, making way for a body to pass through.

That shield saved my life.

With a sudden blow that knocked the breath out of me, before I could even see the Skarvonth a paw lashed out at me and struck the shield. Suddenly, I found myself airborne, tumbling head over heels. My back slammed against the bole of a tree, and I slumped down to the ground. I saw stars.

I still held my axe.

With a screech the Skarvonth leapt at me. Though I had flown about thirty feet it seemed it was upon me in an instand. I raised my shield just in time, and that cruel beak closed on the lip, biting a chunk of wood out. The weight of the Skarvonth against my shield nearly crushed me against the tree.

Somehow, I swung my axe. It bit, somewhere along the flank of the beast.

The screech turned into a squeal, and the Skarvonth reared back. I scampered around behind the tree. The Skarvonth hissed and me, evilly. I could see the wound I had left, along it's ribs. The bright red blood stood out starkly against the silver fur, and stained the snow on the ground. I didn't think I had done it any real damage.

The Skarvonth started to shuffle a bit to my left, so I moved to the right, keeping the tree between us. The Skarvonth tried gojng the other way, and afer a few laps seemed to get the idea that I wanted to keep the tree between us.

It stopped, staring at me. Sizing me up, perhaps. It's tail twitched back and forth. It blinked. Then, so did I.

Suddenly, the Skarvonth leapt at the tree, reaching around with it's paws. The right came around and smashed at my shield, knocking me back again, and scaping off paint. Then the left came around.

I swung the axe again, and as it struck the Skarvonth's paw it was nearly wrenched from my grasp. The Skarvonth squealed again, and reared back.

I still held my axe.

The silver beast eyed me again from behind the tree. It was favouring it's left paw. It hissed again, this time a lower, longer hiss. It started towards my right, this time, and I moved left. It kept going. So did I.

The Skarvonth's pace turned into a trot, and I realized it meant to race me around the tree. I moved in towards the tree, trying to keep it between me and him.

Suddenly, with a puff fo snow, the Skarvonth reversed direction. Caught unawares, I suddenly found myself without any cover. The Skarvonth leapt yet again. I tried to keep moving forward, and hoped I might be able to clear the path of the onrushing monster.

The Skarvonth's vicious paw raked down.

It caught me across the hip, and it raked across my flesh like hot razors. My side was aflame. I kept going.

The Skarvonth had ripped my breeches off!

I spun around, and with a desparate swing smashed downwards with my axe towards it's head, as he turned around to bite a piece out of me. The axe blade landed right between his eyes.

It bounced, with a "conk!" sound.

Well, a Skarvonth is notorious for having a hard head. But then, so am I.

The Skarvonth blinked, and shook it's head like a wet Ponsho-Trag. While it got it's bearings again, I realized that I now had no cover again. If you think you can't climb a tree with a shield on one arm and an axe on the other, you're quite mistaken. With a hungry Skarvonth behind you it's amazing what you can accomplish.

I scampered up the tree like a Grundal in mating season.

At about twenty feet up I figured I might be safe. Really, I was not especially interested in a fight to the death. I just wanted this noisome beast to go away. But really, at this stage I didn't expect it to go anywhere, unless I was going to send it to the Ice Floes of Sicce myself.

Well, if I had to, I would. I am not about to let a wild beast eat me, no matter how spendid it is. Not while I still have breath in me.

The Skarvonth looked up at me in the tree. He snorted. He then started looking around the base of the tree, perhaps looking for a way up. I don't know.

He placed a forepaw on the tree. Then the other. He was coming up!

I knew that If i was to end this, I would have to hit him somewhere vulnerable, like an eye, or a neck, or perhaps the belly. The Skarvonth has thick, heavy bones, and strong muscles, and I was not going to be able to hack my way through the ribcage or the skull. He was not likely to keep still while I tried.

The beast came up. His middle legs left the ground, and he stood on his hind legs, slowly feeling his way up the trunk. Eventually he was stretched his full length, and he tried swiping at me with his claws; they were still about four feet below me. Still, that was getting uncomfortable.

The Skarvonth's hind legs are made for pushing forwards, and not upwards, but he revealed to me that he was capable of jumping at least a little when the beast lurched upward towards me clumsily. A paw raked out and smashed downwards at the branch I crouched on.

It snapped.

"Pynzar's Ghost! You misbegotten son of a whore!" I shouted, as I clung to the tree trunk. Again I scampered upwards, not wanting to stay within the reach of those razor sharp claws.

The Skarvonth leapt upwards again, and nearly shook me loose as his head smashed against the bole of the tree. Then, with another short hop, the Skarvonth leapt into the tree.

The Skarvonth was climbing!

The body of a Skarvonth is not really made for such adventures, but this particular one was determined to make me his supper. Clumsily it pawed its way upward, screeching like rocks being dragged over one another. It's beak snapped at my heels.

Now, a proper Urndrinner war axe has a wide blade for cleaving. Bot pointing in the other direction there is usually a long beak, perhaps four to six inches long, sharp and narrow. The object of such a pick is to pierce armor such as mail, and when used right they can pull a mounted man off his animal.

My axe had such a beak.

Like a golfer, I swung the axe underhand, driving it down and forward. The beak of my axe plunged into the neck of the Skarvonth.

A horrid screech cut the air, and the Skarvonth shook wildly. While it's lower and middle legs still clung to the tree, the upper pair flailed wildly, and the Skarvonth arched it's back. The wrenching motion nearly tore the axe from my grip. The tree bent forwards with the weight of the Skarvonth.

The Skarvonth fell, and suddenly I was airborne again, as the tree snapped back upright, and I was flung out bodily.

I hit another tree, and smashed many branches on my way down. The tree lashed at me as I plunged through it's branches, and angry welts appeared acroos my face and body. I crashed to the ground in a heap of twigs and snow.

I shook myself, and stood up feebly. It felt like I might have twisted an ankle, and I was covered with bruises. the Skarvonth was some distance away, and it was not dead; it squealed and thrashed about on it's back, pawing at it's throat.

I still held the axe. But the beak had broken off, and was probably still lodged in the moster's throat.

The Skarvonth righted itself, and it stood up, facing away from me. For a moment, I thought it would run off into the woods. But it turned around, it's beak wide open. Blood gouted from it's wound, and blood rand out of it's mouth. It hacked and wheezed. I knew it was done for. And perhaps, so did it.

With a flurry of snow and blood, it galloped towards me, it's legs pumping wildly. It's eyes were half closed. I ran to one side, and the Skarvonth turned to follow, sliding in the snow. It lashed out at me with it's front paws, and then it reared, flaiiling about wildly with it's front four legs, a tornado of claws and fur and blood.

I rolled left under a lashing paw, and stood. For a moment, there was an opening, and in a long reaching swing I summoned what remaining strength I had. The axe scythed upwards, and plunged into the beast's neck.

The monster's head did not come off. Not quite.

Silent now, the Skarvonth fell forwards into the snow, lifeless and still. It's blood formed a pool in the snow.

I reached down, and stroked it's soft, silver fur. It had really been a beautiful creature.

Among my people, it is a tradition of hunters that when a man first kills a particular beast, the man must then drink the blood of the animal. With cupped hands, I took some blood of the Skarvonth, and I drank, the hot salty liquid pouring into my throat, mingled with my own blood. A fire passed into my stomach, and I felt a strange power overtake me.

I had conquered the Skarvonth.