A fumbling tremble of the night,

Red runes flare before me bright

Around the dais nightmares fly

Should I hide? Or should I fly?

The meeting stanzas-From the lay of Thavis Wayland

I crept towards the entrance scrabbling to make use of whatever natural cover the broken landscape provided. Eventually I found a rocky outcrop to squat behind that offered a clear view of the interior and hid my presence.

The cavern walls glowed, appearing almost alive in the lurid illumination of leaping gaseous flames that licked out from shattered vents in the rocky floor to curl up, lost against a high cathedral-like ceiling. A pervasive stench of sulfur and decay fouled the hot close air. From the depths, growing louder, shadowed drummers beat out an arrhythmic pulse. Drumming that pounded against my ears as if signaling the doom of the world. In the center of all this, on a raised dais, crouched a naked thing in whose tattooed manlike head, yellow eyes burned.

It bent low, muttering cloying importunities in a hissing breathy whisper. Its thin sweat-filmed form quivered and rocked insanely as it worked. One clawed hand fisted a blood red crayon which it dragged clumsily between the lines of a double circle that surrounded it, leaving behind a trail of perfect runes that glowed blue against the ocher stone.

I had seen the thing in my recent dreams; I had a name for it. A Burlie, I recalled. In a far corner, inhuman screams issued from the black hole of an oubliette bored into the cavern floor. The Burlie began a keening whine that increased as it completed the circle and it beat at itself, slapping clawed hands at its neck and shoulders. I felt blessed not being able, at my distance, to resolve the Burlie's obscene utterances for the images provoked a sick and disgusted feeling in me that I did not care to explore.

Above the circle in the flickering dark, a towering red shape took form. The crouching Burlie slithered onto its back in the rocky dust spasming arms and feet, mewling at the solidifying horror above it. The towering form resolved into a lizard-like head whose maw, fanged like a baboon's, dribbled spittle down its Buddha-like torso. It lowered long apelike arms and lovingly reached to pull up the tattooed thing.

Slowly, the monstrosity began to feed. As it nipped off small pieces of the Burlie's arms and legs, the mewling changed to deafening screams and ghastly shrieks. No human or natural animal could have survived the torture. Could some kind of drug or other agent be keeping the thing alive this long? Finally the demon stuffed the Burlie's head into its maw, and the screams ended with an audible crunch. Almost disinterestedly now, the apparition sucked the torso in after it. It lifted its spattered head and glared at a shadowed and cowled figure standing in an arch cut into the craggy face of the cave wall, looming thirty feet above.

In the wavering pith thrown by cave's sinuous fires, the man had gone unnoticed by me till the monster's attention had focused there. It leaped suddenly at the figure, crashing with a sound like thunder against a borealis of blue light that streamed up from the warding circle of runes. Repeatedly it raged, pounding its arms against the warding wall of light and once more the booming shook the cave. Eventually it subsided, glowering in its frustration.

The drums became silent. In the dim, flame-lit archway, the scarlet cowled apparition raised its hands and intoned a basso chant. The cadenced words reverberated throughout the cavern and seemed to repeat endlessly in the mind.

The huge demon covered its head with his arms and cried out, "Stop! Speak now of your feeble desires, conjurer! What would you have of me?"

The shrouded figure brought down his hands, rubbed one under the shadowed cowl, and spoke. "By the circle that binds you, the sacrifice that summoned you and the drums of war that sooth you, I compel you. Astheroth, I name you and lay upon you this task..." Petulantly, the robed figure flicked one hand in a gesture of irritation. "It's the transport spell again. Every time I use the Boots of Leagues, they drop me off half way, and I have either to walk, or do the spell all over again. I need those boots to work properly."

The demon slit its eyes, gazing slyly at the unobtainable figure. "A great deal you ask, just for dinner and a show, little mage," the demon rumbled. "How many leagues do you have on those boots?"

The cowled figure continued stroking its chin, and temporized. "Two, maybe three thousand leagues; give or take."

Astheroth snorted, licking the dripping remains of the Burlie from its jaws. "I will do as you ask but your offering is insufficient."

The man demurred, and the pair argued back and forth for a time, but eventually a agreement seemed to come of it. "I shall renew the charge, but next you call me, a new set must be bargained for and more will it cost than a soul and a sonata. The reinforcement will only empower the boots an additional 9,000 leagues, and only till the boots wear through."

"I suppose that will have to do. Very well, you are dismissed."  With that, the conjurer clapped his hands with a shout, and the unnatural horror faded and was gone.

I remained crouched behind the rocky outcrop, feeling stunned and soiled, until the mage left. Heart racing, I pondered what I had seen. I could not, given what I had so far witnessed, afford to reject the bald statements of the girl about magic being a real force here, wherever 'here' might be.

What kind of culture traded in torture and death for transport? Still shaken, I considered my options, and decided to pare them down to those solutions as would serve my immediate survival. I would have to fit myself into this horrific landscape somehow. I would at least need to provide myself with shelter and food. My smithing skills could provide that, if employment could be gained.

From what I assessed to be the level of culture in this place, I should even be able to do quite well. If 'magic' sent me here, then magic, for lack of a better term, might get me home again. Despite my fear, staying close to a source of it might be the only answer. Meantime, I needed to avoid ending up as demon food or making some kind of civil error, so I had much to learn. I slowly backed away from the cavern mouth and debated whether to approach the tower door, or go on in hopes of finding a town or village.

On the one hand, it seemed as if more than coincidence might be involved, in that I had entered from a similar tower in my own world. I felt at my side for the one item of my craft remaining to me, fingering its hilt. If Dimanda could be believed, I should be safe enough if I stayed carefully within the law of this land. On the other hand, the macabre happenings shook me. But if the residents of this land could cope with life here, then I could as well.

Again, there was Dimanda's pert assurances, and the girl herself had provided good emissary..

I decided to sleep on it, having faced enough insanity for one day. I waited out the evening in the wood by the path leaving any final decision to the morning.

Ah, sleeping beneath the sheltering branches of an elder oak; while moonlight caresses the thoughts that fill mind's gentle coils, when night dusts the world.

Awakening with the sunrise, my head hurt in twenty places where small shards of rock had tried to dig holes in it. My feet were numb and icy right through my shoes, and I itched everywhere from swollen bug bites. My gored leg throbbed worse than ever. A miracle the the pain had not woken me. I arose hacking up phlegm from ground chill, legs otherwise stiff and sore inside the damp, gritty Levis that sucked onto me like sanded honey. I sought out a boulder big enough to warm myself on and sat hunched, letting the early sun do its work, drying my clothes until I could brush them off.

I still felt muzzy and poorly rested. The hunger percolating in my belly decided me. At least I had a name to ask after. Chord, I recalled, and a reference, Dimanda. Plus, if I took work here, the shelter and food problem would be solved until I came to know more of the surrounding country. There were no phone lines evident, and somehow I doubted there would be any in the reputed village either.

The keep's door was an imposing oak construction, roughly hewn but well fitted, set deeply into the solid black stone of the entry vault. It felt very solid to my touch, nothing like the flimsy structure I had all but ignored when bursting into the Townsend tower. A small square hole was chiseled into the door at eye level. It ended covered on the inside by a plank, doubtless to provided a shield over a peephole. I gauged the peephole to be well over three inches through. A few unglazed windows pierced the tower, the lowest, above the door, easily fifteen feet above the ground. The narrow window beveled suspiciously downward through at least two feet of thick wall, providing a handy view of the entrance-way from above. Doubtless comforting to the residents, the arrow slit certainly didn't provide me any.

With no other provision to announce my arrival, I slapped the door with an open palm several times, drawing back a stinging half-numb paw for my effort. This exercise evoked only dull echo-less pats from the dense wood, but the peephole opened regardless, and a squinting gray eye replaced the plank covering.

"Your business...?" came a rough and muffled voice from beyond the door.

"I am here at the suggestion of Dimanda on a matter of employment with, ah, Mage Chord," I said.

"Wait here. What service do you provide?"

"I'm a blacksmith. My name is William Drake."

The eye withdrew and the plank shut. I waited. Eventually the eye returned to its wooden nest. Satisfied, it again vanished. The door swung outward, revealing the eye's owner; a thin fellow dressed in a loose-spun, yellowed woolen shirt and tight knit pants that gave off an animal smell. His sported gray hair, cut close to the skull. The entire tonsure twitched as he squinted at me with a hesitant suspicion.

"You may as well stand in here, as clog the doorway," he noted gruffly, motioning me inside. I smiled and tried to look friendly. "You can leave that by the door." He pointed to my sword. I pulled the blade from my belt and leaned it against the wall, then entered after him. The floor was strewn with small knot-woven rugs of simple colors, and the north-facing wall sported a large tapestry, stirred by a constant draft ruffling through the rock. Some water staining marred the tapestry's bottom edge, and a trestle table and bench fronted it. Two hammered braziers flanked the arched entrance to a wooden staircase that wound upwards between the outer and inner tower walls. This looked far different from the iron spiral of the last tower I had entered, which screwed its way up the center of that edifice, its small rooms pitched off to the sides.

Footsteps bumped down the staircase, eventually followed by the red-robed presence I had seen the night before. A flashback of the gory scene in the cave engulfed me, images of cruel dismemberment, and sulfurous smells. I swallowed my horror of the memory, balanced it against the remembrance of the helpful girl I had met, and the certainty that I would have to deal with what this world presented, were I to survive it. The need stiffened my resolve.

No longer muffled in a shadowing cowl, the robe's owner turned out to be a middle-aged man with short hair, though darker than his servant's and more carefully tended to. He appraised me with mild brown eyes and calm, peaceful features, a fatherly image that projected confidence, and soothed my nervousness, despite all I had witnessed in the cavern.

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"Harold here says you know my daughter. How is this?" he said, motioning to the servant, who quickly retreated now that his master had arrived.

"She met me on the road yesterday evening, and said I should ask after employment here. It was late in the day, so I waited out the night before approaching your...keep. Excuse my appearance; I came on foot and haven't had a chance to make myself presentable."

Mage Chord looked oddly at me when I said this, but did not question the statement. Instead, "Where are you from?"

"Illinois."

"Never heard of it. You claim to be a smith. Are you any good?" he asked.

"I am," I said, passing over his unfamiliarity with statehood. "I'm willing to show you, if you have a facility, but I have no tools with me. Also, I can show you at least one example of my work now, if you wish."

He motioned me to do so. I retrieved the sword, carefully holding it by the spine, and showed it to him. His brows arched, and he brought his hand forward to take it, stopping with a frown just before touching the handle. He held his palm about an inch above the blades spine, and ran his hand across it.

"This is a blade of power. You forged this? It is a fine piece of craftsmanship. Not many have such skills." He ran fingers lightly over the blade, muttering something I couldn't follow. "Well, you have the talent I need, doubtless, and it is rare."

He moved his hand away from the work and considered me for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Yes, I could use a good smith here, as it happens. Would you be willing to work as I direct in other matters as occur? My keep is a complicated little outpost to run, It wouldn't be just banging metal every day, you know."

"I've run a forge as a business, so I can understand that."

"Then perhaps we can agree to terms. The land here is held in fief, so I need men willing to work at call, when my obligations require it. Come, let me show you the forge. Have you eaten?"

Food. Here at least I was on familiar ground. I admitted I had not, so Chord called Harold back and gave instructions to lay on some edibles. Meanwhile we proceeded outside to an area where outbuildings clustered. He seemed amiable, and we talked as we went. Having already provided the details of my plight to his daughter, it was too late to engage in a little paranoia, and withhold them now.

I told him my full story as we walked, and he nodded, taking it all quite soberly, listening carefully and asking occasional questions.

"I would guess you were caught in a sending this Markham fellow had prepared for his own use. The sword, likely a part of a return ritual, and perhaps has other purposes beyond the obvious. Be wary of it. I do not know this...place of your origin. There are many divisions of the cosmos; sometimes a mage of wealth or of more curiosity than sense, may pay the price to experiment with them. Unless we can find out more you are stranded here, sorry to say."

My gut tightened. Markham! Anger, resentment, and disbelief coursed within me. "There has to be a way. If the sword..."

Chord lifted a hand. "I didn't say there is no way, just that it may well take some time to unravel what might be done. Meantime," he encouraged, "let me show you my forge."

At least I was not being taken for a lunatic. If delusional, I had condign company, which for now seemed a soothing thought. Noticing my limp, Chord's attention followed down to my torn and stained jeans. "I will send Harold for some fresh dressings for that leg afterward, if you wish."

We approached one of the outbuildings, a rough structure of wood and stone with a slanted roof. High at the back, it sloped so low at the front that it almost required me to duck in passing beneath it. An artesian spring flowed from the cliff side in the building's rear and a rude clay pit showed itself farther down the bank of the stream it spawned.

"Here it is. Unused for a year or so for lack of an appropriate talent, yet the tools remain. It will take some time to put back in order, I doubt not. What think you?"

I clapped onto the familiar, if antique sight, like a drowning man reaching for the gift of a raft. The forge's hand bellows were of deteriorated animal hide that would need replacing. I pointed out the sorry state of many items. Rotted wooden handles on tools that would have to be refit, punches needing to be cleaned of rust, or replaced, the generally poor state of the structure.

Chord noted my dismay and nodded. "Yes. Much disrepair. But it has been a while since anyone with either the skill, or the learning to teach such skills has been among us." He pushed in further, wending through the overturned tables and cobwebbed stacks of fixtures, to where stocks of copper ingots, billets of iron and some crude melts of tin were stacked. The mage seemed heedless of the tarry, dirty mess, and more concerned with the possibilities of the place, an attitude I found contagious.

"Copper ore is mine-able from further up this hill of ours, other supplies can be traded for in the village."

"And coal?"

"Ah," Chord returned brightly, "many of the cottagers around here prepare char, and hard coal is also available by trade." He showed me two bins. One contained coal; the other blocks of hardwood.

Gratefully, the forge's anvil looked a good one. It was of drawn iron, about 300 pounds, to my practiced eye, with a serviceable mouse hole and thick horn--familiar sights that I immediately focused upon, another island of normality in my sea of discord. Many things though, would have to be made from scratch. These thoughts freed me a little from my frustrations, as work always tends to.

"I would provide you with a couple of lads as helpers if you decide to take it on."

Talking further, I found few of my questions needed to be referred to others. My respect for Chord grew accordingly. "How would I be paid?"

Cord looked briefly bemused, but this cleared away. "I forget your origins are not local. Here, you will have shelter, food, my protection, and may make such purchases as are appropriate to the upkeep of your position as a master craftsman, both personal and for the forge. Also the aid of any in my fief, as due your station, of course. What would you?"

Of course, I thought, a feudal system, barter based, and me not knowing the ins and outs of it. I didn't see how I could afford to turn down food and shelter right now, or wait until I learned how things were done here. "I would need some free time, and your continuing help, in discovering some way of returning home."

"I would expect that. Everyone has a free day each week and the privilege of the holidays of course. I am a bit curious myself as to your case, so I will be looking into it. I can promise to keep you informed." Chord appeared to be becoming restive. "Anything else?"

"If I can make the forge profitable for you, a share in its success?"

Chord's eyes glittered. "Hah! You have a merchant's sense, then. Very well, as incentive a tenants share," he lifted a finger in warning, "but only after I can discern a good return from the forge."

Eventually we concluded our arrangement. I asked about the absence of any farrier's tools, not having seen any. The mage didn't seem familiar with the term. Following up on that fact I was surprised to hear there were no horses or riding animals, which explained Chord's earlier confusion when I mentioned coming on foot and why he had found the comment strange.

"We are not native to this land. My forefathers tried to train some of the local beasts," Chord continued, "as draft animals, but they become intractable when away from the safety of the herd. The smaller more trainable ones, such as our fore-bearers brought with them, are too limited for most practical uses. Some of the farmers make goat-carts for their children's amusement, but this is mountainous, hilly country for thousands of hectares in any direction."

A dozen different answers to this problem came to mind, but I felt it best to keep these speculations to myself for the time being. Instead I asked, "How do your farmers get their crops to market, then? Clear land? Build?"

Chord motioned to Harold who had caught up to us bearing a small tray on which perched a bottle of wine, a sizable wedge of cheese and a half loaf of bread. I consumed the cheese and fresh sweet tasting bread, washing it down with part of the contents of the wine bottle minus a generous glassful the Seneschal had first passed to his master.

Chord took up his subject where he had left off. "Overland, goods go by porters, though we ship what we can by barge of course. Large projects are community efforts. Many make their living as members of work parties--permanent groups that travel the fief and hire themselves out for shares or other goods." The mage took a swallow of his wine and dismissed Harold. "The Fief-holders can call a Levy for civil projects. Otherwise, we depend on supernatural aid from the demonic plane to supply power, both brute and subtle, when it becomes necessary. This is expensive, as demons will not work for free but sometimes," he shrugged, "the only answer. It is how I make my living, though I specialize in agricultural applications mostly. Weather and pest control, such like. Demons provided our anvil based on a relic held in Corbell. Not many have the skills you possess and fewer the tools I have managed to gather here."

Again, images of the demonic rites I had witnessed rose up, and I could not contain myself from asking further questions of their nature. "I heard drums and noises from the cave near the keep last night." Normally I am more forthcoming but in this case, I needed to take some measure of this man who had stood calmly by while one monster fed on the living body of another.

Chord nodded. "Yes, a summoning was worked last night. There are soulless creatures here, called the Burlies, that feed upon the power of the Ley lines, arcane energies humans can barely tap. We believe them native to this place, but it seems, with inborn connection to the demon realms. Demons will do our bidding in exchange for them. The power absorbed by the Burlies is usable by demons. They crave them, but cannot enter here without a summoning ritual, obviously. So, with care, they can be bargained with."

"They are animals only?" Difficult to believe, having witnessed the rite in the cavern.

Chord frowned, squinting across the compound's buildings. "That is partially the case but not all of it. They are magical creatures and have an instinctual magic sense that seems also to tap somewhat of the human mind. They seek after demon kin eagerly, but can only be joined to them by our intervention. They seem unable to make even this connection between mages and demons however and must be hunted and contained as true beasts are."

I digested this. "Could they be raised in captivity? Bred instead of hunted?"

The mage pursed his lips, shaking his head regretfully. "We do not know how, or even if, they spawn. Certainly they do not try to in captivity and don't seem equipped for the task in any case. They seem mostly passive on their own, until a door is opened, when again only containment can prohibit the instinctive rush to join with demons. This much is no secret; all that dwell here know this. I must return to finish some business at the keep. Poke about a while till I return."

Left to my own devices, I spent my time snooping around the smithy. The spring at the rear caught my attention. I approached the hole in the cliff from which it came and watched it for a time. It geysered from the craggy cliff-side with a cold vigor and I leaned over the spreading stream below it to push my hand into the hole from which it poured. The thrust of the stream was strong, pushing back my hand with adamant force.

I envisioned mounting a screw or water wheel there, mulling over what might be accomplished with the power freely available from it. Walking along the bank I inspected the adjoining clay pit more closely, scooping up a handful, working the fine red earth between my fingers. A potter's dream, it felt buttery, clean of inclusions and heavy, with a good working texture. Any blacksmith knows the basics of clay. Some forges are lined with it, and many processes, from the making of china steel, to tempering techniques, require it. The kiln is the father of the true forge in all respects.

I had not asked if the tower sported a kiln or pottery facility, but if not, with such rich resources available, I would see to it. Such bounty present here, put to so little use. Reflecting on Chord's words, I wondered if this dependence on demon-driven power and the lack of animal labor might have weakened these peoples' drive to build, to develop a higher culture than I had so far seen.

Why build an irrigation system if the local mage could just force the rains to fall? Why develop chemistry if a blast of mystic force could level a rocky mountain pass? What need for advances in mechanical advantage if a stone wall could be raised with the wave of a magician's hand? Then again my world was enslaved to oil, and the power it provided, perhaps not so different from here. Still, they seemed oddly rooted in some indeterminate state between medieval technology and hunter-gatherer barbarism. It came hard to imagine farming without even animal aid to drive plows. Socially, this civilization seemed comparable to medieval in stature but even smithing, a truly ancient technology, had not developed as well as it should have, and according to Chord, as yet dependent on some tools that they could not yet make for themselves like the large anvil he had proudly shown me.

I shook my head and returned to the smithy. One small area in the forge seemed to be a personal space, with a greenwood pallet for bedding and chests to store a man's effects. I cleared away perhaps a year's worth of debris and lay down exhausted on the thin springy frame. After a night sleeping on the hard cold ground, it was a comparative luxury.

My mind turned in frustrated circles upon the hard news I had gathered. I had left no one important behind to either worry or care what had happened to me save an unsatisfied customer or two. It seemed whatever came would have to come from what could be discovered here. Was this depression? Unconcern? Hidden excitement for what the winds of change had challenged me with? I sank to sleep aboard the drifting ship my life had become.