I awoke to shouts and the creak of rope rasping over wood, eager to start my first real journey since being transposed to this place. There wafted a scent of hot wax being ladled over taut pulled hides, sealing up barrels of brined food stores. Pull-carts rustled, lining up outside the forge and along the lane, all the way to the tower's front. The crisp clarity of morning air stung my skin, blowing across the hillside, and I felt renewed. The day of departure had finally arrived.

Chord, resplendent in loose, deep red pants and white woven shirt, hovered and bobbed in his high shined, black Boots of Leagues, checking on supplies, directing the lined-up caravan's affairs with sweeping gestures and loud, sharp orders.

I hurried to complete all my preparations, giving last minute advice to my apprentices, and threw a final upward glance at the cliff-side, where a small cadre of Nublin now chipped away, mining ore for the Smithy. I motioned Gort forward, and we took our place in the assembled train.

Surprisingly, two of the farmers had brought a brace of my cycles with them, but then I thought, why not? There was adequate room on the bikes for their cartage needs, and the trip would be at a walking pace, so the units should be more than serviceable for the journey.

Dimanda, near the end of the queue, checked on the food supplies, and finding everything to her evident satisfaction, moved on to the front, where her father and Harold conferred. Finally, with a wave of his hand, Chord set our group in motion.

Gripping the poles of my handcart, I started forward with the rest, Gort to my left pulling a considerably larger load. I had brought a few forming tools, my two best hammers, a set of long tongs, and a few other things besides my kit. The little two wheeled pull-behind made more sense than a backpack.

We did not stop in the village but continued through it, and onto the western road to Corbell, a two day excursion if we made good time, I was told.

The trek left me with time to think. All the discoveries I had pushed to the rear of my mind rushed back again. The customer I had known as Steve Markham had turned out to be MaCaan, an apprentice mage who had disappeared from the fief of Wayland.

He had conned me into forging an exact copy of a mythic sword, the Corm Da. This somehow bound me to the latent manifestation of the God, Credine, Master Artificer of the Tuatha De, and founder of this place, the myth Chord had told of. Not what MaCaan would have planned, I reasoned, which left open the question of what he did plan, still planned, on doing.

Credine's manifestation in the tower's cave had exhorted me to seek out the crown, to raise his essence from the land, and rule it. Which went far to lend credence, in my mind, to Chord's story. The brief merger I had sustained left traces of his intent behind. Credine wanted to unite his will and essence with my physical person, so that I would become his living Avatar, never again to have a will entirely my own. The concept, like much I had been exposed to here, was incredible, but experience left me a believer.

Through me, Credine wanted to dominate these people completely, even if benevolently, forever. With every flow of energy into the Corm Da, I had gained more access to the God Artificer's power, and he gained more access to me. The mind bending merger I had suffered when forging the roundel had been unpleasant, not to say frightening. I had been careful, as Chord had warned, not to do anything that might recharge the Corm Da. I was beginning to suspect the blade might be causing my little encounters with Credine's influence. Perhaps that was Chord's concern with the blade. Why does everything mystical have to be so, so obtuse?

I thought of demons, bargaining for bits of arcane power culled from Burlies, enough of which would give them uninvited entrance to this land. Brock had thought this a vicious long term goal of the Demons, and blamed men for their foolish traffic with these powerful and evil beings. Moreover, I wondered just what kind of bargain MaCaan had struck.

He didn't arrive in Illinois on some wing of chance. He had known exactly where to go and what he wanted when he arrived. Namely, the Corm Da. But how could any local achieve the firm visualization Chord deemed necessary for demon driven transport?

If the materials needed to make the artifact were available on Earth, then Markham could repeat the process. Likely, I would be dealing with him again. I frowned, the thoughts made my head swim. So I shook myself from this depressing reverie, and took in the changing scenery.

The way stayed wide enough to break the forest canopy above, letting sunlight stream down to nurture a proliferation of plant life. A roadside riot of yellow, orange, and red wildflowers leaned out into the trail between thick mounds of lush greenery. The picturesque view lightened the trudge somewhat, but the dense roadside foliage made me wonder how we would handle rest stops. That question was answered about eight miles farther on.

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Chord stopped and signaled for the farm workers to come forward. The men, scythes and sickles in hand, began hacking down the verdure to the side of the trail, cutting a path through the thickened growth. We made camp on a slightly mounded area of the wood, which required only a little hand-ax work to clear.

The ax work wasn't wasted. Seth bawled orders at the axmen, and had them pile the wood in two shallow pits his apprentices had dug. The old carpenter carefully re-stacked the piles with the concern of an architect. before squatting to set them alight.

Soon two moderate cook fires were started, and the air bloomed with the dark smell of camp smoke, helping to dry the air a bit. The warmth laved across my skin, making the stop, at least for me, more comfortable. Chord directed the unpacking and set up of his pavilion, while the rest of my fellow travelers set out bedrolls and cookware clattered, by which I understood that we would be traveling no further today. A relief, since several hours of cart pulling had taken a toll, and I was both hungry and footsore.

I gathered some dry kindling and old branches, and set about making a small fire pit for myself, more in the hope the smoke would help chase off insects than to prepare food, and laid out my bedroll and kit. Dimanda noticed the effort, and brought over a burning brand from one of the cook fires. She thrust the brand into the kindling, and together, we slowly fed the larger branches on top, until cheery flames flickered and played upon it. She squatted next to me, gazing at our handiwork.

"Happy to be traveling again?" Dimanda asked, wiping her hands off on the rough brown leggings she wore.

I nodded. "It is something I have been looking forward to, given what I have learned recently. Most of the answers I need may lie in Corbell."

"It must have been painful for you, to be ripped from your home and friends as you were. Did you leave behind a wife or girlfriend?"

I shook my head. "No. My shop is abandoned, of course. My house, clothes, possessions, all left behind. I was never very social. Never had what I would consider a deep relationship, as an adult. I haven't really ever had the time. My family ..." I stopped and threw another stick on the fire, ordering my thoughts. "My parents had waited to adopt until they were about as old as the law allowed. I came to them very young. They were good people. They didn't have much in terms of extended family, and being a Service family, we moved around a good bit. I followed my father's example and joined up at eighteen. They died while I was still in the service, within a couple years of each other."

Dimanda drew her brows together. "Service?"

"Hundred twenty first..." I stopped realizing none of this would mean anything to the girl... "Military service. It would be like joining the king's guard here. The service moved me around a lot too. The upshot is that I never made many lasting relationships."

She put her hand on my arm, massaging it. "I can't imagine life without family. My mother's death, the loss, was overwhelming. You have people here who care about you, who would be saddened to see you leave. If you have left so little behind," she caught at her lower lip with her teeth, and then querulously blurted, "Oh, why can't you just stay here, and make a new life?"

The unexpected comment somehow both bothered and uplifted me. I won't pretend I was not interested; but until this moment, I had not fully understood the depth of her feelings. Then again, my life had not been rife with close female encounters, and the signs another would have understood simply left me confused. I became flooded with a mix of both fear and hope. Yearning and desire fought with disbelief that a woman like Dimanda could harbor such emotion for me.

Her eyes beckoned, and I pulled her close. There were no words I could in conscience say, until the fears and consequences of being pulled to this place were settled. This wasn't chivalry on my part. To let someone deep into my heart, then be pulled away by fate, should that happen, would be unbearable. Especially with my history of travel and parting, a horror. There is nothing like a lifelong lack of roots to grow an appreciation of their worth, of how precious they are. Somewhere pressed far down, where it could not hurt, fear of such a relationship squatted, I knew. It would consume me if I fed it, and it fed on loss.

The scent of her, warm and caring and close, almost more than could be borne. Instead of words, I wrapped her in my arms, and we kissed deeply, holding away the night.

Dimanda put her hands on each side of my head and gazed into my eyes, sensing somehow, the struggle within me. "You are like a man imprisoned," she said. "I look at you, and it is if you are held back from me by some invisible jailer. It is the strangest thing."

"Dimanda, I don't even know that I have a future here, or even if my mind will remain my own. What could I possibly say to you now? What tomorrow have I to offer?"

She looked upon me with glistening eyes. "I know of no one with more vision, or who lays claim to the future more vigorously than you, and there will always be a future for you here, I can promise you that."

We watched the fire without further conversation. Dusk was upon us, and the smell of roasting meats drifted across the campsite. Dimanda rose, and retrieved some of the camp's bounty. We ate together, kissed, and she returned to her father's pavilion. It was dark now, and I fed the last of my gathered wood onto the fire for a little more light. I checked Gort and the wagon one last time, then laid down, my mind roiling, troubled by what Dimanda had said. Multiple questions about my future, my prospects, and goals haunted me.

I awoke to the echoing peal of a rifle shot, already on the roll by long trained instinct, fetching up against the bole of a near-by oak. There was another sharp report as my head cleared, and wood chips sprayed from the tree. It was still dark, but by the cindering glows from the surrounding fires I could make out heads lifting in muzzy confusion all across the camp.