. 03

Mitchell felt himself falling.

"No, that's not right. I'm flying. Holy shit, I'm flying!"

He had no body. He had no eyes but he could see. Except there is nothing to see.

"Is this death? Is this what happens after we die? Crap, I hope I'm going to heaven."

There was light before him. The sense of motion increased. He was falling after all. He was falling down a tunnel that seemed as long and as deep as the universe.

"Oh fuuuuuuuuuuck!"

The first thought that Mitchell had upon returning to consciousness was ouch. The second thought was also ouch.

"Owww, son of a bitch!" he groaned and tried to move. Pain. "Nope! Nope, not moving."

He grunted as his muscles spasmed.

"There's no way being dead hurts this much."

He heard the sounds of someone else in extreme discomfort and knew then that he wasn't alone. He tried to pull his muddled thoughts together through the haze of agony that was clouding his brain and remember how he'd gotten here. There had been the woman, Allora. She'd wanted him to see something in her house. Her empty house! They'd been attacked by three people, one looked horribly disfigured, and there had been explosions and swords and light. Magic! She'd used magic! That was really the only explanation Mitchell could think of. Magic was real. I've got to get up. I've got to move.

His face was pressed flat against a cool smooth surface. His head was throbbing and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. It was like the worst tequila-induced hangover ever combined with the body aches of a nasty flu.

He opened one eye, the one not pressed into the glassy surface, and looked across an expanse of a polished black floor. There was a soft light from somewhere above him and it filled the room with a warm orange glow. A few feet away he could see a shape slowly getting to its feet. It was Allora. He watched as she pushed herself up to her hands and knees, breathed for a moment, then got up to one knee before pushing herself upright. She staggered a little, then turned and looked at him.

"Re wux kruth, Mitchell?"

"Huh?" Mitchell found the strength to roll onto his back. He felt something press into his side as his body turned. He reached back and found that it was fleshy and warm. Yanking it from under him, he saw that it was a greenish-gray arm cut off cleanly just above the elbow.

"Shit!" he cried out, throwing it aside. It landed with a meaty thwack on the stone floor. It was enough of a shock to get him moving and he sat up fully, groaning as his head throbbed.

"Are you okay, Mitchell?"

He looked up at her and she was standing there, as beautiful as ever, holding her hand out to pull him to his feet.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I think. Nothing's broken. I feel like I've been hit by a truck, but all my fingers and toes are still attached."

Mitchell eyed her hand a moment and then took it. She pulled him to his feet with ease and he staggered around just as she had. "I think I'm going to throw up," he gasped, as his head swam and his stomach turned.

"Keep moving around," she advised. "It gets better. The sickness should wear off momentarily, the aches and pains in about fifteen or twenty minutes."

The room they were in was rectangular, maybe twenty feet by thirty feet. Composed of large blocks that fit smoothly together, the color of the walls suggested cut sandstone. About three feet down from the ceiling and spaced equidistantly around the perimeter were small balls of light that seemed to float against the wall. As much as he wanted to examine them, a flurry of questions suddenly pressed into his mind as the pain began to dissipate.

"Where the hell are we?"

"We are in Iletish, it is a kingdom neighboring Awenor. We are not on your plane of existence anymore. This is the home of an arcanist, a powerful one, named Revos. I'm sorry, but we do not have much time. If they tracked me to your realm then we are not safe here. We need to get my things and run."

"Look, no offense but..." Mitchell stopped and reconsidered his words. "No, you know what? Offense intended. You need to tell me what the fuck is going on because I'm not going anywhere with you. I need to get back home. I don't know how you brought me here and I don't really care, but you need to do whatever that voodoo shit is and send me back. I have a job, a family, hell I have a date next week! So let's go. Chop chop!"

Mitchell snapped his fingers at her, causing her head to pull back. Anger passed over her features.

"Send me back."

The exertion of his outburst left him winded so soon after whatever that was that brought him here and he felt slightly dizzy as his heart raced in his chest. There were so many questions racing through his mind and he was sure he was running off pure adrenalin since a severed arm had barely phased him but he was prioritizing getting home first. He would deal with the PTSD later.

"Mitchell, I--" she cut off then, head cocking as she keyed in on something. Then she jerked up sharply. Immediately she reached for one of her long-bladed knives but before it was out of the sheath, Mitchell saw the air ripple just behind her, and a man just sort of... appeared, like he was stepping out from behind an invisible curtain. He was big but not like Tall Gray And Crispy had been back in the house. He looked human and was wearing some sort of leather armor. In his hand, he held a stout wooden club about two feet long and, as Mitchell watched, he started to bring it down, aiming it straight for the back of the girl's head.

"Allora!" Mitchell cried out, but he was too late.

The club connected solidly with a sickening sound, and she crumpled as if her legs had turned to jelly. The big man looked at him his eyes flicked up and over Mitchell's shoulder. There was the sound of movement behind him. Before he could turn to face the new threat, there was a sharp pain that exploded his whole world and he was once again unconscious.

*****

The first sensation Mitchell felt upon waking this time was a slow rocking motion. And heat. He felt as if he was sitting in a sauna and being cooked. His senses began to slowly come online and there was the press of bars into his back. His legs were bent and cramped and there was a stinging sensation around both of his wrists. He heard the rhythmic sounds of plodding feet and the creaking of wood and metal. Then the smell entered his nose. It was a heavy, musky scent that reminded him of summers at his grandparents' farm in Illinois when he was a kid. The smell of horses and cows mingled together with an almost ever-present smell of manure.

Every part of him hurt. His back was cramped, his legs were stiff, and every rocking motion made him want to retch. His head was the worst of it, though. He imagined this is what it felt like to have your skull in a vice with someone slowly increasing the pressure. He felt like he wanted to crack his cranium open and pour his brain out onto his lap.

He wished for the painless void of unconsciousness but he knew he was up and there was nothing to be done about that now. There was a painfully bright light pressing into his eyelids and he was squinting before he even tried to open them. With an effort, he cracked open first one eyelid, then the other. He couldn't stop the groan from escaping his lips as harsh sunlight pierced his retinas. He brought his hands up and noticed then that there were two manacles around his wrists that were linked by a short chain. There was some kind of writing on it but his eyes couldn't focus well enough to make out what it might be. After blinking rapidly for several agonizing seconds, his vision started to clear and he could see the bars of his cage.

The bars were a sturdy-looking dark wood with iron bands at the top and the bottom holding them together. There was maybe an eight-inch gap between each one. The cage was barely four feet to a side and only a little higher. Mitchell was sitting, legs curled with his back against the rear of the cage. As near as he could make out he was in a wagon and, through the back, he could see a desert. Nothing but sand and burning blue sky to the horizon. Looking around he saw that he wasn't alone. To his right was another occupied cage, this one containing Allora. He could make out her black hair, sticky with blood, dangling through some of the bars. Mitchell, remembering that he had been whacked in the head as well, reached back and felt the tender spot that was the source of the radiating pain that seemed to be traveling all the way down to his feet. Even the light pressure he applied to the large and oozing bump made his vision go blurry.

"I've probably got a concussion," he said to himself.

Allora wasn't moving. As he turned to get a look behind him he saw another cage, this one also occupied and when he saw who was inside, he couldn't help but cry out and flinch away.

"Oh, shit!"

His voice was raspy and weak, but the creature in the other cage heard him and stirred. He was some sort of monster or demon. At any rate, he fit the description of demons that Mitchell had grown up with. His skin was a coppery-red color and he had long black horns that curled around to the back of his head. As his eyes opened and met Mitchell's own he saw that they were golden in color and they seemed to glow. Bisecting each pupil was a black slitted iris, just like a cat. His cheekbones were so pronounced that they almost looked like ridges of bone protruding from his skin and his nose was thin and came to a near point. His lips were black and as they parted and he began to speak, Mitchell saw white fangs where normal human incisors might be.

"Ava yorn, muthrak." His voice was deep and rich and he didn't sound at all put out by their current imprisonment.

Then, despite his best intentions, Mitchell started to retch. Overwhelmed by the movement of the wagon and the nausea from his head wound, his stomach contracted and he heaved. Not that there was much to throw up. It felt like hours since he'd eaten. That didn't stop his protesting stomach, however. The more he heaved, the more the pressure built up in his head until he thought it really would crack open. Thankfully, he passed out before that happened.

*****

Mitchell awoke when warm water splashed him in the face.

"Rocen!" came a hard voice.

Mitchell blinked and brought his manacled hands up to wipe the liquid from his face. He was so thirsty he almost sucked the water from his fingertips but they looked filthy and he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. They were no longer moving. Looking around, he saw he was still in his cage in the back of the wagon. His body ached even worse than before if that was possible, but the air was slightly cooler although the sun was no less bright. His head was still pounding but not quite as bad as before. Added to all that misery, his throat felt like he'd been gargling with sand.

The figure standing over him with a now empty ladle glared down at him. It was the same man who'd hit Allora when they'd arrived in whatever this place was but Mitchell could see him better now. He was of normal human size. His armor was a mix of black and brown straps, buckles, and patches of leather that had to be murder in this heat but, despite a face covered in sweat, the man seemed to be dealing with it well enough. He had a sword at his left hip and a dagger at his right and he wore breeches tucked into well-worn leather boots.

The man said something to him that Mitchell couldn't understand. Mitchell just blinked at him and the man repeated himself, a little angrier this time. Allora spoke up then, saying something to him and the man sneered at her. His jailer then looked to the front of the wagon and said something else incomprehensible. In the silence, Mitchell turned to look at her, his head only swimming slightly. She turned her violet eyes to his and they gazed at each other for a long moment. Her pale skin was streaked with sweat and grime, she had a black eye and blood had run down from the back of her head along her jaw and dried in a dark line but she was still beautiful. The tilt of her eyes still gave her a bit of an alien appearance, but he thought he could pick up a deep sadness in her expression.

After a few moments, another man appeared at the end of the wagon. He pulled himself up easily and stood next to the man with the ladle. He was outfitted in similar attire, sword included, and he had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was then that Mitchell saw his ears. They were pointed and angled back slightly against his head and his eyes were a silvery blue that, despite the circumstances, Mitchell found beautiful. In the bright sunlight, the silver streaks in his eyes almost glinted. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were thick with muscle. He moved with confidence, like someone who knew what he was doing. He said something and then glanced at Allora who gave him a terse reply.

As Mitchell stared at him, he held out a hand and Mitchell saw then that he had a glove on. But not just a regular glove. There were almond-sized gemstones embedded into the leather across the back of his hand, one just behind each knuckle. Mitchell saw a couple of them glimmer with an inner light that was noticeable even in the brightness of day and felt a tingle across his skin. Then the man with the pointy ears spoke again.

"Can you understand me now?"

"Yes," Mitchell croaked. "Water, please."

God, he sounded pathetic, he thought. But that really was the most pressing thing on his mind. His lips were cracked and when he had reached up to feel them, his fingers had come away wet with blood.

"Give him some water."

The other man went over to a barrel that was tied to the side wall of the wagon and scooped out some water. The ladle easily fit between the bars of the cage. Mitchell leaned forward and grasped at it, drinking it down greedily. It was brackish and warm but at that moment it was life itself. He groaned in relief.

"She says you're not from here. Is that correct?"

"Yes. I'm from--" he started to say Phoenix but realized that would probably mean nothing to him. If what Allora had said was true, he was no longer even on Earth. He remembered then that she'd said they were in a different realm, whatever that meant. "Another realm."

"I guess you were who she went to retrieve. Didn't work out too well, did it?"

"No."

Even with the water, his throat was still scratchy and raw. It hurt to talk.

"Unfortunately for you, we didn't get to her before she dragged you along. Now your lot is tied to hers and, honestly, that's not going to be too good for you."

"Look, if you just send me back, I'll forget about this whole thing. I don't know what's going on and whatever problems you have with her are between you two. They're not mine."

The man gave him a pitiless smile and wobbled his head from side to side. Allora had done the same over their meal. How had things spun so out of control since their burger just a short time ago?

"The moment she found you, her problems became your problems. And now you're my problem. I don't like problems."

The man's hand went to his sword. It looked casual but Mitchell was sure it was meant to emphasize his point.

"My usual instinct is to stab my problems until they stop being problems and then leave them in a ditch somewhere. You get my meaning?"

Mitchell nodded.

"We are supposed to bring her back alive and, if she had anyone with her, to bring them back, too. How alive you are when we get there is going to depend on how much of a problem you are to me and my men as we travel. It can go easy or it can go hard. If you piss me off enough I'll slit your throat and leave your body to rot and deal with the punishment afterward. She's the one Milandris really wants. You're just extra. You and the cambion, that is."

His jailer indicated the cage to Mitchell's left where the red demon sat motionless and without comment.

Mitchell looked at Allora then and she was glaring at the big man, rage plain in every line of her face.

"And when we get there, this Milandris is going to kill me?"

The man shrugged. That gesture appeared to be universal, at least.

"Probably. But that doesn't mean you need to suffer a lot before you die. If you try my patience, however, I will see to it that you do. I can chop a lot of pieces off of you without you dying and still fulfill the letter of my orders. So it's up to you. You be a good human and we'll let you out of the cage at night to sleep and make sure you get enough water and rations to survive. I can even pull the cover over the wagon and keep the sun from baking you during our daylight travel hours. It will save wear and tear on my gemstones since I won't need to heal the blisters. We've got several more days of desert travel before we get to the southern road and cross into Awenor. Make my life or the lives of my men difficult and we'll tie you to the back and drag you until the sun blisters your skin and the sand peels you like an overripe lana fruit. Your choice."

Mitchell nodded. He didn't know what a lana fruit was, but the meaning was clear enough. He wanted to say something witty or smartassed but nothing came to mind. Being an asshole would just get him hurt. Mitchell wasn't a violent person but just then he wished for a gun. What would these medieval fucks do if he pulled out an AR-15? Never bring a knife to a gunfight, right?

"So, are you a problem, human?" The leader's voice snapped him out of his John Wick fantasy. "Or are you going to obey and come along without trouble?"

"No problem," Mitchell said, his voice cracking.

The big man looked at him a long moment, then nodded to the thug with the ladle. "Once you get the tents up, let them out and get them chained to the block. We'll set out again five hours or so before dawn."

The leader hopped off the wagon then and walked out of Mitchell's line of sight. Waterboy fished out another ladleful from the barrel for the cambion as the leader had called him, which he drank without comment, and then covered the water and went about his tasks.

As they waited, Allora spoke to the cambion. He couldn't understand what she said but she sounded angry. The demon said something sullen in return, and Allora responded with what sounded very much like a curse. They were quiet after that. She was clearly angry at him, but he couldn't begin to guess why.

Mitchell ignored them both, knowing there was nothing he could say that either of them would understand. They, in turn, didn't try to say anything to him. There was some sort of magic they could use to communicate with him if they wanted to. Allora must have used it on him back at Filmbar since she obviously didn't speak English. He remembered the weird conversation with Dane, the bartender. Mitchell thought he'd been being an asshole at the time but now he figured he owed him an apology. Assuming he ever got back home, that was.

As Mitchell pondered the situation, he determined that her magic must have been targeted. She had used it on him but it only affected him and not other people. And it had stopped working once they came under attack at her house. If that really was her house, Mitchell thought. Jesus fucking wept, this is a mess.

While he waited for them to let him out, he took the time to examine his manacles again. They were a black stone material that appeared seamless as far as Mitchell could tell. They were joined by a short length of chain barely eight inches long with the iron links melded into the stone, also showing no indication of seams or of being worked. Etched into the stone was a geometric shape of some sort. Mitchell dredged up a memory of the fantasy books he used to read in high school and thought maybe they were runes. There had been similar designs on the doors at Allora's house and really complex ones on the floor of the master bedroom that she'd used to bring him here.