Preface

     The first thought he had was that he had gotten drunk and fallen unconscious out in the plains on the way back to his dwelling. His eyes still closed, he tried to recreate the events preceding finding himself lying on cold ground, the grass hard with frost against his cheek, the dampness chilling him to the bone.

     The low hut of the Chieftain had been crowded--sweltering with the press of bodies contained within. Ale had flowed freely and the din of laughing voices had been almost deafening, making conversation below a shout impossible. He recalled his cup being re-filled repeatedly by a comely wench with flashing eyes who had been given to him for the night. He was not simply a reveler, but on this night, honored amongst them all. The warrior chief of a neighboring clan had been felled by his heavy spear on the field of battle late in the afternoon of the day, and his own Chieftain’s gratitude and generosity were great indeed.

     Laying immobile, ignoring the damp chill on his body as he lay face down, he tried to concentrate, to remember.

     He had always been blessed with the gift of a keen sense of danger or threat, a gift that had served him well, allowing him more than once to wheel and parry a thrust or slash from behind at the last moment. It had been such a parry, then counter attack, that had felled the enemy war chief. He allowed himself a small, grim smile as he recalled the look of surprise on the man’s face --the stout spear running through his body, entering just below the sternum, the sharp point driving upwards to exit at the nape of his neck, and lifting him bodily off the ground with its force. It had taken no small effort to retrieve his spear from the shattered corpse.

     Laying very still, but with alert mind, he sensed no danger or immediate threat. So again, he pieced together the evening.

     He reeled drunkenly out of the low hut, the hands of his comrades clapping his shoulders and his arm tight about the slender waist of the girl. Had he not held her so, she surely would have fallen having sampled too much of the ale from his cup. He took her on a bed of fresh straw beneath the stars, and when he had spent his passion, he laid his great cloak across her, leaving her to sleep, exhausted. He walked far then, body and heart strong, breathing in the cool night air. Cresting a low hill, he found himself looking down onto the low plain of battle. He smiled to himself, not surprised that his feet should bring him there again. Looking over the field, he could still see the dark stains of spilled blood upon the ground, the dark earth slowly absorbing the essence of man, feeding of it, as was the way of things. The bodies of the fallen had been removed from the field, to be cleaned and dressed in fineries before being laid beneath low cairns of fieldstones. After battle was decided, they were all warriors again, no longer blood enemies to be slain. Accordingly, great respect was paid to the bodies of the fallen of both clans, as was right.

     He felt the pulse of his Gods surge through him as he stood there looking over the plain, and drew his sword, holding it high above him. A great cry of exultation and freedom passed his lips then, ringing out over the fields into the night, the tremendous sound of it echoing off the low hills surrounding the plain. He could hear the cries of wolves responding, and he laughed, truly and inexorably alive. Head thrown back, eyes scanning the heavens, the celestial glories above him were only a reflection of the boundless pride and strength within his breast.

     One star seemed to shine brighter than the others, and as he watched it, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Before his mind had even had a chance to process the signal, his body had tensed, ready to react, to fight or flee. In a flash, he had taken stock of his readiness, knowing that he bore neither shield nor spear, not even the great helm for his head. He allowed himself the thought: what good are spear and shield against a fiery star? As he watched, feeling bile of fear rise in his throat, the star continued to grow, hurtling now towards the ground. Their lights now dimming even the moon’s brilliance. His mind screamed at him to run, but something else inside him knew that this was to be. There was no escape from whatever fate this star had for him. Suddenly, the fear was gone from him, and he stood fast, sword raised, feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes afire. He stood thus, ready to die, welcoming it even. The light in the sky grew larger still, and there was a roaring in his ears as he watched the star move directly over him.

     "No," he thought, fear swiftly creeping back into him, "not a star, but a disk."

A great silver disk.

CHAPTER ONE

REBIRTH

     His eyes flew open at this memory. He reflexively went into a roll, landing on the balls of his feet, hand on the pommel of his blade, eyes alertly scanning around him. He thought it strange that his blade should be sheathed as the last he remembered it was held in his fist. He took in his surroundings quickly, keenly aware that where he now stood was not the same ground he stood upon the night before. He assumed it was the night before as the light of early morning glinted on the hills around him. The soft rolling hills were familiar enough, but as an un-hooded falcon suddenly finds itself in a strange land, he knew in his heart he was nowhere near his home. He allowed his senses to take in everything, unease growing within him. His own body told him he was in a place undreamed of, and falling to his knees, his body convulsed as he vomited, disorientation reeling him.

     His chest heaving, it occurred to him that it had not simply been hours, after all, as there was little in his stomach for his body to eject. Had it been the morning after, surely there would have been evidence of the feasting and drinking he had done. No, it had not been hours, but days, perhaps more than two, judging at the painful bite of hunger upon him.

     He allowed his body to rest from its painful contractions, willing his breathing to be slow and deliberate, desperately trying to collect his thoughts. There was no grasping what had become of him, no understanding the events that had brought him to this. But what was this? He looked up, telling his mind to be still and receptive as he took in his surroundings once again. He was on a gentle knoll, one of many leading off into the distance to the dim outline of a dark mountain range, which seemed to span into the horizon in both directions. A pale yellow sun was rising over the range, and the sight of it reassured him, for surely was not this the same sun which dawned over his own loved land each day? Turning slowly, he surveyed the land away from the sun, and saw a lush green forest stretching away from him, beginning perhaps four leagues distant. It began sparsely, small shrubs and bushes dotting the rolling hills, before growing denser, the green splashes of plant-life against the yellow grass drawing together and becoming a solid mass. His eyes scanned the great expanse of green, rising to the horizon still dark with the shadow of night. His heart stopped in his chest then, and he felt the world around him spin as nausea again swept through his body. In the sky, low on the horizon, he saw three pale moons. his eyes clenched tightly shut, mind revolting against what he had just seen. Standing thus, he tried to reassure himself with thoughts of bad ale and spoiled food.

     Filled with dread, he again opened his eyes, and saw it was true. The three moons hung lightly in the sky, a bit lower perhaps, but their reality was unavoidable. He wept then, sinking once more to his knees, face pressed against the cold ground, the frost now melting slightly under the sun’s rays. Bitter tears streamed down his face, dropping onto course grass, mixing with the morning dew upon them. He wept, because he now knew beyond a doubt that he would never see his land again. Never again would he fight alongside his brothers, the ring of steel and the shouts of the triumphant and of the dying ringing in his ears. Never again would he walk across the fields of Moy Tura, sharing quiet counsel with his father. He lay for a long time there, allowing himself the time to let these things pass through him, grasping onto memories in sadness and self-pity, then letting them go. Despite all, he knew that whatever this place was, he would need to be of clear mind and heart to survive. Not once did the thought of dying cross his mind. Not this way, weeping like a frightened child.

It was finally the pangs of hunger that brought him back to his senses, and his resolve strengthened. He heard the call of birds about him, and opening his eyes, he saw small insects moving in the grass.

"The birds eat the insects," he mused, "what eats the birds?"

Whatever fed on the small birds, must surely make a sufficient meal, he decided, casting his gaze upon the dark wall of the forest. And whatever beasts they were, what better place to make their dens, than the relative safety of the trees? His course decided, he rose and readjusted his sword belt about his waist, and began to walk away from the rising sun, down toward the tree line. His mind wandered as he went, wondering if there were other men like himself in this strange world, or if the fates had cruelly seen it fitting that he be cast out alone, never again to share the company of man. He sighed deeply, and tried to push such thoughts from his mind, strengthening his resolve, concentrating on the task at hand, sustenance.

All other matters could, and would, be considered afterwards....

(To be continued)