Vigir lent his broad shoulders against the stone, arms folded, blue eyes smouldering. It was not his first time in a cell, yet confinement was no more tolerable this time than the first. It twisted his barbarian soul to be caged. Worse, this cage mocked him. The bars were slender but yielded not at all to his straining arms. The bed was narrow but clean, the sanitary facilities more than basic, there was ample water and the food was edible, if strange to his palate. In all this it was better than many barracks he had shared, better than his childhood home. Had these people fallen so far that even prisoners were treated thus? Where was the mouldy straw, the filth, the chains, the bucket of slops? He had not heard a single scream, or even a whimper. It was all civilised softness.

Such lily-livered effeteness was only to be expected from a land ruled by sorcerers. On his way from the strand to the wharves he had passed paved streets lit by glowing stones where loads and people travelled slung under poles held aloft by some wizardly art, where clean water flowed from pipes into basins for the benefit of every passer-by and carven stones spoke. He had seen no cripples or beggars; he had seen shop windows where the signs pranced in imitation of life and once a figure had passed overhead, flying seated through the air. These indulgences spoke of a contempt for simple healthy toil and the hardships that toughened a race. This was evident in dress, for many women wore breeches and had short hair, while men wore long skirts and sported every kind of hairstyle from single locks springing from shaved skulls to flowing tresses. It was unmanly and unwomanly.

The wharf district was what Vigir thought a city should be. It was noisy, cheerful and garish. There were taverns where people drank and came to blows, and a lot of flesh visible. Vigir marked manly displays and varied affections as a sign of civilised degeneration while appreciating womanly curves. His roving eye picked out a lithe young woman in short tight pantaloons and a halter. His was not the only interest. She sauntered into an alley, and three wharf-rats chose to follow. Vigir pushed through the crowd, gave them a dozen heart-beats and entered the narrow way. He would rescue the girl, take the wharf-rats’ purses and buy himself a flagon. The girl would be grateful and the night would end well.

The alley was a narrow slot between high brick walls, angling around corners where buildings overlapped. The wizard-lights were few and widely-spaced, feebly supplementing what natural light filtered from above. A cry came from ahead and he quickened his pace, his sandals slapping the ancient stones. The alley opened a little where another came in, and here two bodies lay supine. The girl was facing the third wharf-rat, open hands against a knife held low, ready to thrust up below the ribs. Even as Vigir’s hand went to his sword-hilt the girl pounced. One hand flashed out to grasp a wrist, the other turned an elbow just so, the man was spun around, two precise jabs at the neck and he collapsed. The girl had the knife and was cutting his purse free before he hit the cobbles. As he watched dumbfounded she frisked the other two, gave him a grin and was up the sheer brick wall like a squirrel up a tree. Vigir was standing there, sword drawn, when the watch came on the scene.

The pair were a man and a woman carrying staves and wearing blazoned tunics. At their abrupt command Vigir turned to flee, for he was not minded to fall into the hands of some foul wizard’s henchmen. He had not gone three paces before a paralysing scream locked his muscles, sending him to the ground. With an effort he threw off this sorcery and rose, only to have a whirl of mesh wrap around his limbs. The more he struggled the tighter it held, and he fell again. The rest was an ignominious journey slung under a pole, carried as a deer from the hunt to this place of confinement.

Vigir glared across the passage to another cell, where two men were having a loud argument. They were both large, rough-featured, red-haired and bearded, very like to the tribes that neighboured his nation to the west. He called out in that tongue, for they might be kin or familiar enemies. The two gave him a glance and continued their argument. Vigir cursed them roundly, then returned to stern brooding. The two arguers were escorted away early in the afternoon. They did not return, and Vigir resolved that if his fate was to be the gallows or the block, he would take as many as he could with him to the gloomy halls. They would chain him, not realising that manacles made good weapons, and a man of his strength could seize one of these puny folk and use him as a club. Had he not escaped the slave-pits of Strygia, leaving a litter of shaven-headed priests dying in his wake?

He did not have to wait long. A pair of guards clattered down the stairs, the cell door opened at one’s touch and he was beckoned out. Here was his chance. Vigir sprang, tigerish quick. A guard side-stepped and tapped his leg with a stick. The leg locked up and Vigir once again crashed to the stones. He was escorted to the courtroom at a gait between a hop and a limp, where he was directed to stand in a circle marked by inlaid tiles. An older woman in blue robes and a conical hat of stiffened velvet nodded to the recorder, a guard read a short statement and the questions began.

“Name?” That he understood.

“Vigir of the North” he answered proudly.

“Can you say that again?” After several repeats the recorder was satisfied. Vigir did not understand the next questions and his frustration grew. Let them try to kill him or let him go, not waste time with words. Put a hilt in his hand and he would converse in the northern manner. He hurled a curse at the judge, only to find no sound coming from his mouth. Silenced, he put all his feelings into an awful glare, blue eyes smouldering beneath his square-cut mane. The judge gave over her questioning of him, to wait tranquilly until the watchman and woman who had found him were brought in. Some more questions, she rubbed her nose, set her hat straight and gave some direction. Vigir was hustled back to his cell, leg still stiff, to brood out that day and the one following.

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Vigir’s next visitor was a man of his own age, who wore no blazon nor carried arms. He had a pleasant, open face, shrewd eyes and a soft voice. Yet when he showed Vigir a vial of black liquid and mimed drinking, Vigir did not take it. He was no simpleton to be cozened into taking poison, that notorious weapon of the weak. The man proffered it again, and Vigir again refused. The man sighed and called out. Another appeared, a woman with some mark of office about her neck. She was yet another witch, for she uttered strange words and Vigir’s felt his mind wrapped in soft bindings, his will sapped. When the man gave him the vial his hand raised it to his lips and his mouth took the bitter fluid in. He swallowed, “Sleep” said the man and he hopped to his cot and fell into darkness.

When Vigir awoke his mind was awhirl as new concepts and sounds battled for space in his brain. He levered himself upright, drank deep from the spigot and then sat back, dizzy. A voice roused him. It was the same young man.

“I am sure you can understand me. How do you feel?”

Vigir raised his head to see the man standing there, a slight smile on his face, hands at ease. “Yes, I can understand you,” he growled. The words felt foreign in his mouth.

“Good. I am Nereif, a Fellow of the Learned Archive. I am interested in your case. Forgive us for forcing you to drink, but it was not possible to decide anything if we could not communicate. If you can, tell me how you came here and of where you come.”

This foreign tongue came more easily as Vigir spoke, describing his sojourn in Zangier, city of ten thousand thieves, his climb to save the city from the sorcerer who preyed upon its folk, the mysterious circle, his escort of two women from the perilous wild to this city and the perfidy of the wench who had lured men to that alley. Nereif took it all in without comment. At last he tapped his lips in thought, then spoke.

“I would know more of your world, and of the magics used there. I will ask the magistrate to release you on my surety. If you will stand in the circle and attest that you have harmed or robbed none here I am sure she will agree.”

To Vigir’s surprise, the magistrate readily agreed. In his experience those like himself, wanderers with no protector, were fodder for the mines or the galleys. When they had tried that in Rhagos he had thrown the robed fool down from his bench and escaped to the harbour. His sword was returned, with a warning not to draw within the city. He belted it on and at once felt able to do what he willed in this strange place.

Now, as he walked alongside Nereif through the streets, he could ask questions about what he saw. Those people marked by strange afflictions, such as the woman whose skin changed colour from a pale red to black and then to green, or the fellow with spines instead of hair, were no doubt victims of wizardly punishment? Nereif was amused; no, they had taken a potion that healed even the most grievous injuries in seconds but sometimes left changes. Vigir thought approvingly of battle scars.

He had noticed on his first walk that the streets lacked the usual rich aromas of waste and wood-smoke. They passed a construction site where a winch turned by itself to lift heavy stones, crossed a market square where fish lay on blocks of ice, unmelted despite the warm sun, and vendors offered snacks cooked on stones like that the women had carried. These people used magic as carelessly as his own folk pursued feuds. Did it not make them weak, prey to their enemies? He put the question to Nereif – what would happen if red war came to Gshener? If its houses were put to the torch, its men slain, its women led off in chains, while an enemy exulted in its palaces?

Nereif gave him a narrow look. “Is this then a common fate among you?”

Vigir shrugged broad shoulders. “Kingdoms rise and fall. The weak give way to the strong.”

“Gshener has stood for many centuries, and never has that kind of war come to it. Our walls are to deter undermen and the occasional bold pirate, and we have seen off both with ease. For that matter, our magics are a strong defense, and our women wield them as readily as men. There are many women in this city who could best you in fight.”

“I have faced vile sorceries before, and come away the victor,” declared Vigir. “Good steel and swift arrows count for much, even against abominations.”

Nereif nodded tranquilly. “So they do. I would be interested to see how you fare against some of our better warriors.”

They had turned into a street lined with tall houses. A line of flower-boxes in faded brick ran down the centre, spilling greenery over their sides. An iron mask beside one door hissed at them as they passed, causing Vigir to start. A little further a long black shape slithered from the flower-bed on to the paving. Vigir’s sword was half out of its sheath when Nereif laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“It is but a harmless rubbish-worm.” The worm absorbed some loose petals and a scrap of leather before plopping into a drain. Vigir resolved to find some way back to a sane world.Nereif mounted the steps before a modest green door, tapped the plaque mounted on the wall and led Vigir within. Several doors opened off a hallway, clean but bare of ornament. As Nereif closed the outer door a woman entered from one of these, pausing to regard the incomers. Her gaze swept Vigir from head to toe, appreciating the swell of hard muscles and the smoulder of blue eyes. Vigir was conscious of every rip in his shirt and trews and every smudge of dirt on his skin. The woman looked him over in the same frank way that he might look at a comely wench, very much as the courtesan Thalia had done in Kath. Of course, Thalia had drugged him so that her hellish master might sacrifice him to the dark gods, and been taken off by winged monstrosities when his strength had foiled their fiendish plan. Was this woman of the same ilk? She was dark of skin, nigh as tall as he was himself and of queenly build. A simple linen dress draped over lush curves and fell only to her knees, leaving firm calves and high-arched feet in plain view. Vigir swallowed.

“Is this your other-worlder, Nereif? If so, are there more like this where he comes from, and they all as … big?”

Nereif was amused. “Hands off, Jammathe. This is Vigir, and he has much to tell us.”

“I am sure Vigir can talk and do other things at the same time. He looks very capable.”

“Later,” said Nereif firmly. “For now, a wash and a meal and some better clothes.”

“Not a skirt,” interjected Vigir.

“Not a skirt,” Nereif agreed, and led him onwards.