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CHAPTER 2

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Disorientation was the first sensation Artie experienced as he opened his eyes. He had a vague memory of sailing through the air and landing hard on his hands. Instinct and years of earlier training kicked in. He tucked his head in and rolled with the impact so that his injuries were minimal. But his body was older now and far less fit.

Once his mind cleared, he felt the expected aches and pains. He drew a firm breath, using the movement to test for broken ribs. Nothing. His exhalation was one of relief, at least over small favors. A quick inventory told him all his other parts seemed to be in relatively good working order. All except his eyes of course, which gave him nothing but fuzzy images in the background. He blinked several times, trying to bring things back into focus, waiting on his eyes to adjust as they always did during those times he took the glasses off for more than a few minutes.

Large brown eyes scanned the tall, pale yellow grass beneath him. A metallic glint caught his attention. Hope rose in his heart. Without standing up, he leaned toward it, one wide thick-fingered hand sliding through the stalks of grass to grab the object. His glasses, he noted with joy, relieved to find they were intact, the lenses unbroken. Quickly, he slid them on and looked around him.

Of course, the Warehouse was no longer there. He'd surmised that immediately upon impact with the soft ground and scratchy foliage. Somewhere nearby, odd sounds, like noisy breakers crashing on rocks, mixed with the hiss of airbrakes deploying, drifted toward him.

Above, a nearly cloudless blue sky smiled down on his good fortune at having survived the trip. Artie snorted. Bad fortune was how he would have labeled it although he supposed he did have to thank the powers that be for allowing him to arrive without broken bones or worse.

The next thing he did was to half turn and look over his shoulder. As expected, he saw nothing but the same field and forest in the distance.

"Damn," he muttered, "no portal." He bent over, placing his hands on his thighs, and shook his head. "Of course," he amended. "What else is new?"

The projectile that landed squarely between his spread feet forced him to bolt upright. He glanced down instantly for a better look, having to bend at the waist to get a better look, and saw fletching on a narrow straight stick.

"An arrow?" he said, shocked as he backed away from the thing, instantly scanning the horizon for the archer. He didn't have long to wait. His ears clued him in before his eyes did. A racket was building, the sounds of grunts and screams and cries of pain were building to clearly audible level. Those had been the strange sounds that had whispered to him as he was taking physical inventory but could not be identified.

His confusion over the noises or the identity of the archer didn't last long. Just over the rise of a small hill, several bodies came barreling toward him, voices shrieking in anger, helmets, swords and shields reflecting sunlight as they bore down on another group, equally armed, who ran from them.

All were bearded with wild hair flowing from beneath their headgear. All wore similar garb with few distinctions, mostly changes in the colors of pennants attached to helmets or the occasional spear. Other than that, it was impossible to tell them one from another. All wore assorted furs over short leather shirts, tucked into equally short leather breechcloths. Gauntlets graced many of the arms of these warriors as did assorted shin guards. Chain mail, dull but in good repair, covered many of the shirts, dangling over wide dark belts with pewter buckles much the same color as the furs. Dark scabbards swung at their sides no longer weighted down by the swords which were gripped in their meaty palms.

They charged, they yelled, they bellowed and roared. Blood flew, screams ripped through the air. Some dodged, rolled, and rose, others died where they stood. Weapons flashed and clanged, drawing blood or parrying attacks. Arrows were notched and sent into fighters on the perimeter where the archer could be more certain of his target. Wild berserker eyes scanned for enemies or for a better place to make a defensive stand. The mass of warriors surged on, leaving heaps of previously living breathing bodies in their wake.

And they were charging down on Artie. A few more arrows sailed toward him so did what any smart man would do in his situation, he turned tail and ran for the safety of the forest.

Several warriors, realizing they were terribly outnumbered, decided Artie had the right idea and charged after him, swords still slashing, although they only hacked at the air around them as their arms pumped and their lungs gasped for breath, their grunts carried on the wind.

Artie made one hurried glance over his shoulder, noted they were about to stomp on his heels, and picked up the speed. His feet grew wings, fueled by a fountain of adrenalin. For a minute or two he thought he would actually outdistance them but two factors intervened. Both went back to his earlier physical assessment. One he was getting older and two he was no longer as fit as he once was.

"Diet," he mentally chanted as he puffed along. "Diet. For sure. If. I. Survive!"

Survival worries overrode weight-loss worries as he heard a loud thudding of booted feet behind him. His wind was giving out and he wondered if he stood a snowballs chance in hell of fighting them off or arguing his way of the situation.

The first option was out. He was sweating so heavily that a snowball in his hand would have melted long before it got to hell, and the second option was just plain ridiculous. He could tell just by listening that English wasn't their language. While it was true he spoke several languages, this wasn't one he recognized let alone spoke fluently. So reasoning with them was out.

But the testosterone coursing through him motivated his next action. He turned to face the onslaught, prepared to use what meager self-defense resources he possessed before they took him down. He'd be damned if he'd let them run a sword through his back without him even attempting to strike back.

A fist bigger than a ham hock towered over him. He brought up his own fists while judging just how high he'd have to jump in order to hit the shortest guy in the jaw. Then he wished he knew how to slam dunk a basketball because he would have needed those kinds of legs in order to reach that height.

Commonsense won out over overcharged hormones and he bent over, fully prepared to try ducking under them regardless of how embarrassing that might have appeared to spectators. But then it dawned on him. The second group of warriors was still pursing the first. He froze with indecision.

The matter was taken out of his hands. He felt his body whirled around so that he was facing where the portal had been. Powerful hands grabbed him under the armpits, lifted, and charged off with Artie dangling between the two who supported him. They carried his weight as if he were feather light for about half a mile but then started to grunt heavily with the effort and dropped him to the ground. That didn't mean they let him go, however. Instead they took to dragging him along with them during those minutes when he couldn't move his legs fast enough to keep up. He lost his first sneaker soon after he was back on solid ground but they wouldn't stop for him to retrieve it. The second sneaker slid off during another leg of the journey while being dragged like a sack of flour.

Fortunately, Artie's socks were thick old-fashioned brown and white argyles which didn't shred under the assault of being hauled over the ground. While the socks held up reasonably well, his feet were still relatively unprotected and each little rock or chip of wood elicited a mild curse or grunt of pain. But he kept running when he wasn't being physically propelled along. Clearly, whoever these men were, they weren't interested in slaughtering him then and there and for that Artie had to be grateful.

The logical part of his mind struggled to memorize mundane landmarks in hopes of retracing his steps but that one tall skinny tree looked like every other tall skinny tree. That was pretty much all there was to see, particularly after they entered the forest.

Behind them, their pursuers had stopped and stared at the wall of trees as if afraid to approach it. They stood in a line, just watching. Silent. Stern. Angry. Cheated of their quarry, at least momentarily.

The warrior group still holding Artie's biceps stared right back, for all of ten seconds. As if on cue, they quietly turned and marched farther into the damp green canopy.

When they reached a small clearing, they promptly lit a fire, dragged over several large logs to sit on and broke out small packets of dried meat, berries, hard bread and lumps of very ripe, distinctly odoriferous cheese. Artie, who had been pushed down between two of the burliest warriors, wrinkled his nose and eyed the food suspiciously. It looked nasty as far as he was concerned but evidently his stomach wasn't as picky. It growled, loudly enough for the men flanking him to hear it and make joking comments.

After what was presumably a round of good natured gibes at the portly little man in their midst, they all broke off bits of their meal, collected it and offered it to him on a broad flat leaf gathered during the time they spent making fire and seating.

Sniffing it at again, Artie decided that no matter how bad the food may have looked or smelled, he definitely didn't want to offend men big enough to wrestle bull elephants…and win. He sampled first the meat which was gamey but edible. At that moment, he was glad for a good report from the dentist because the stuff required some serious chewing. The berries were tart but not terribly so, the bread flavorful and chewy albeit almost as tough as the meat and the cheese was surprisingly sweet and nutty in flavor. Hungry as he was after burning so much energy, he devoured it all quickly, earning a few heavy-handed whacks on the shoulder that almost sent him flying off his log.

He gave them a half smile and a bob of his head which he fervently hoped wasn't some sign of aggression. When they returned the smile and nodded without pounding his bones into the ground before-hand, he figured it was a universal gesture and relaxed.

The most muscular of the men finally stood up, walked over to their guest and crouched down so that he and Artie were eye to eye. More or less. The guy was probably still taller but was content with staying as he was.

He ground out some words in a totally unfamiliar language, sounding more like a bull with a belly ache than a human being. Artie could only shrug. Or shake his head. He finally stated softly, so as not to upset anyone, "I don't understand anything you've just said."

The stranger cocked his head to the side, listening intently, and spoke some more. Artie replied. "Nope, not any better. Sorry."

Mister Bodybuilder turned blazing gold eyes on him, trying to drive his words home with a hard gaze but that didn't work either. Finally, one-handed, he tapped his chest and growled, "Donjonik", then he whacked Artie in the chest with the back of the same hand. All that managed to do was knock the much smaller man off his perch, backward, arms and legs pin-wheeling for balance.

Laughing like a herd of braying donkeys, they snagged Artie from below the stump where only his feet still showed, and effortlessly righted him. As soon as they'd gotten him seated again, Artie rubbed his bruised chest and stifled a groan. It didn't matter. The others knew he was hurting from what they considered a love-tap, and his weakness made them guffaw louder than before.

As soon as the burning stopped, Artie tapped his own chest and stated "Artie. Artie Nielsen."

As if he'd just told them a great joke, several of men, slapped their knees and brayed to the heavens. "Artie Nielsen, Artie Nielsen," they repeated several times, pointing at him with fingers longer than jumbo bratwurst links.

It was a struggle for Artie to keep the frown off his face but somehow he managed. If there was one thing he didn't want to do, it was piss off these crazy men. He may not have been sure of their sanity but he was most assuredly aware of their strength and for that reason alone, he purposefully rearranged his features in order to present a smiling façade.

Swollen animal bladders with narrow necks were passed around to quench the thirst they'd worked up over laughing at the little stranger. They drank heartily and finally passed one to him with hand gestures indicating he should partake of it. Once again, he took a surreptitious sniff but smelled nothing beyond a slightly pungent aroma.

Originally intending to take a tiny sip, he tilted the bladder back and allowed a few tiny drops to land on his tongue. Just as the full experience of the liquid began to barrage his sense of taste, someone next to him, he wasn't sure who, upended it fully and a much larger volume of fluid coursed down his throat.

Artie sat immobile for a split second as the full effect hit him. His eyes crossed, then watered, his throat screamed as flames ripped down to his belly, hacked and slashed through his intestines and exploded out the soles of his feet. He swayed. The sky whirled around his head. His stomach lurched, threatening to erupt over every unfortunate spectator within easy reach. Gagging and retching he lurched to his feet, swayed back and forth like a metronome, and unceremoniously pitched forward.

Laughing uproariously, two muscle-bound warriors caught him as his knees buckled. They tried to stand him up again but his legs, wobbly like a newborn foals, just wouldn't cooperate. It was absurd. He kept trying to straighten up but couldn't manage it. He looked at his stalwart companions through eyes that refused to focus. The faces before him distorted as if they were reflected in circus fun house mirrors. Suddenly he thought it was all very funny and with a loud laugh, he grinned hugely at all the smiling faces around him. From a great distance, he heard their joking responses and he suddenly felt as if it were all very funny even though he couldn't understand a word of it. That made him giggle harder. Before long he was laughing so hard that he felt like hurling again. Still propped up by his stalwart companions he tried to take a few steps but nothing was cooperating. Arms wrapped around his stomach he fought for breath as the bellows of human columns flanking him rang in his ears like the bells of Notre Dame.

And then he blacked out.