- I -

He opened his eyes and eyed around. A wooden rooftop that wouldn't go anywhere greeted him. He rubbed his eyes as he stood up. He glanced around, trying to get his mind in focus. The grog from the night before had bequeathed an irritating hangover to him. Bloody beer! He should drink less next time.

He went to the bathroom and instinctively buried his face in hands, after having turned on the water and filling them with the liquid. He stared at his reflection in the not-so clean mirror. He blinked and flashes of a recurrent nightmare assaulted him.

He was in a large field. He had long hair and wore tartan and kilt, as the old Highlanders. He wielded a large claymore. Around him, people battled, and either killed or died. The stench of blood surrounded him. Then a devil-ridden stallion appeared before him, and from it descended a giant in a golden armour. He tried to attack but this stranger simply stabbed him below the heart.

He sensed the illusory pain vividly. Every morning he had those dreams he felt an acute sensation aching in that zone. He couldn't understand the source of those nightmares. In fact, he couldn't understand anything. He didn't know who he was.

He put on a warm shirt, a pair of worn-out jeans and some boots and left his room. He headed for a wooden staircase and descended into the main floor of the MacIntyre's Hostel. It was a small place. Seven or eight square-shaped tables greeted the visitor. Under the stairs there was a bar, which also served as reception for checking-in.

"Morning, Mac."

Jeffrey MacIntyre greeted him. His wife and him had found him lying naked amid the green of the Highlands of Scotland. He was covered in dust and unconscious. The wake-up would bring an unpleasant surprise: he was amnesiac. He had no memories whatsoever. The MacIntyres offered him lodging in exchange of work. He agreed. Since he had no name, they named him Mac. A nickname that could be used for half the inhabitants of Scotland.

"Good morning, Mr. MacIntyre."

His reply was kind. The old man was near seventy. The excess of alcohol had left its mark in his oversized stomach and haggard factions. The wife, Jane, was almost the same age, but she retained a slender shape, though her face was very wrinkled.

"I told you to call me Jeff." The man scolded softly. "Hangover?"

"Some. Nothing work can't shake off."

"That's the attitude." He had the van keys in his hands. "Jane got stuck in the city with all the supplies. Think you'll be able to handle the place?"

Mac looked stunned. After only two months, the MacIntyres entrusted him the place. He knew all the chores, but...

"Sure."

"I knew I could count on you, lad."

Jeff left before Mac could notice. He guessed that the first thing to be done was the washing-up. He headed for the kitchen as he heard the engine of the van roaring. He turned on the water and grabbed the first of at least a dozen dishes that were piled beside the sink. He heard a melody stemming from the electronic device that announced the entrance of a visitor. He turned, still holding the ceramic piece in his hand.

Damn! He collapsed on the floor as the dish crashed to pieces. His head spun in and out of a pit of dolour. He felt his guts squirming as he tried to endure the unfathomable pain. He choked, trying to intake the air that his lungs claimed desperately.

Slowly, he grasped the washbasin and helped himself up, wondering what had been the reason of that seizure. Maybe he suffered some sort of epilepsy. He treaded slowly towards the diner, prone to greet the visitor.

"Good morning, sir."

A large, stocky African-American man sat in the table nearest to the door. He wore a long leather coat over a collar-neck red sweater and a pair of denim jeans. He scowled at his host and his lips formed a mocking grin. Mac was used to the contempt of some guests and disregarded it.

"Would you like some breakfast?" The man didn't reply. He just kept staring. "Sir?"

"Something on a plate." He muttered finally, his voice a cavernous, if shrill one.

Mac smiled, trying his best to be nice. He turned heading back to the kitchen, hoping for the answer to the question he was about to utter. "Such as?"

"Your head, for instance."

"That's very funny, sir." His eyes were intent on returning to the kitchen, hoping this lunatic would leave upon the lack of attendance.

But some noise made him turn. The man had kicked the chair away and pushed the table away, turning it upside-down. He tore at his coat and revealed something that froze Mac's blood... a sword!?

"I'm Stephen Briggs. Whoever you are, I challenge you!"

Challenge? What was this man talking about? Could he have some sort of delusion, believing himself in the Middle Ages? Then Mac remembered his dreams and an ice cold sweat ran through his back.

"I... I don't understand..." he uttered.

Briggs seemed not to heed. He shoved another table aside as he approached Mac. He gained speed as he began to swing the blade around. He was almost at him when he lashed violently. Mac felt his body freeze and suddenly, he was behind the man. Somehow, fuelled by pure instinct, he had ducked and avoided the blow. He didn't stop to hesitate about it. He ran from this mad stranger and out of the hostel.

The isolated green of the Highlands greeted him. The hostel was the only dwelling in at least a mile. Unless he could run that far, he had only gained a little time.

He heard Briggs coming up behind him. He tripped and fell.

"Stop and fight, coward!"

"Fight?" he stammered, rising to his feet despite he felt his legs numbing.

"Yeah." Briggs growled. He hoisted his sword. "Where's your sword?"

His sword?!?! Was he supposed to have a sword? What was going on? It was insane. A man that challenged him to a duel. It had to be a nightmare, one even worst than the one of the hulk in the golden armour.

"I... don't have... one."

"Then you die!"

Briggs rushed towards him, wielding his sword as the maniac he was. Mac felt his muscles stiffening and his bladder giving in. He wanted to run, but he was too scared to do so. Suddenly, he heard the words.

"You've already lost."

It was... his voice?! He barely realised he had muttered them when he lunged forward and stole the sword from Briggs', his body making a full twist as he inflicted a deep cut on Briggs' neck... so deep it severed his head. Mac dropped the sword, aghast at his own doing. He tremulously raised his left hand to his face and touched it, to then stare at his fingers. There was blood on them. He felt his stomach struggling to release its content. Then thunder cracked and a lightning hit him...