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CHAPTER 3

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There was a ball of pain in the core of his being. That was the first piece of information Artie got as he groped toward consciousness. His belly was pitching and rolling, heaving like a row boat on hurricane driven waves. His head kept bumping against something furry but the abysmal pain wasn't from that, it just 'was'. Everywhere. Shrieking through every neuron. A million nuclear blasts exploding at once, non-stop.

He tried to open his eyes but when he finally forced his eyelids apart, they were unfocused. The first truly coherent thought he had was to bemoan the loss of his glasses…again. The second thought was that he needed to free his tongue from where it had stuck to the roof of his mouth. That accomplished he tried to lick his lips but his mouth was so dry that critters surviving in the Sahara wouldn't have stood a chance of finding moisture in there. He remembered that feeling though it had been ages since he'd experienced it. Dehydration. The end result of celebrating way too much the night before. But there was one huge difference this time. The accompanying headache was the monster of all hangovers. Godzilla and The Giant Behemoth combined.

Somehow, from somewhere deep in his chest, he managed a piteous moan. The back and forth bumping of his head ceased and voices broke through to the muddled mess that used to be his gray matter. He felt his feet touch the ground, as his torso slid over something extraordinarily scratchy. His thin shirt did nothing to protect his skin. Then he was dumped, more or less unceremoniously, onto a surface that was soft and yielding.

"Ow!" he protested weakly, surprised to hear his voice, scratchy and strained, protesting the abuse to his still-pounding head.

Noxious smells, unwashed bodies, poorly tanned hides, raw meat and other odors unknown and unnamed, barraged his nostrils, not only adding to his hangover but curdling whatever was left in his stomach.

One unsteady hand rose to run trembling fingers through silvering brown curls. He felt something tickling the back of that hand, managed to pry his eyelids open, and found a hand dangling his glasses within easy reach.

He tried to take them. He really did. But he kept missing and he wouldn't have minded grabbing the constantly swaying dirt-stained paw if he thought he stood any chance of succeeding. Finally, the broken nailed fingers dropped the glasses onto his chest. Somehow he fumbled them on, only poking himself once in the eye, which he considered a blessing considering how bad he felt.

Groaning pitifully, he rolled over onto his side, trying to prop himself up but it was too much of an effort. His muscles went lax and he toppled back over, closed his eyes and, presumably, fell asleep although he couldn't have said for how long.

Voices woke him, some laughing, some shouting, some definitely chiding, and among them were higher pitched feminine sounds. "Women?" he wondered as he collected his thoughts. He remembered running, flagging behind, being dragged, going airborne, breathing so hard he thought he'd puke (but he didn't), eating something that looked like it would make him puke (but it didn't), drinking something that turned his insides to molten lava that, ironically, also made him want to puke. He could only vaguely remember events beyond that point although non-stop pain figured prominently in those recollections.

When a slender soot-smudged hand handed him a flask he cringed and turned away. She persisted and he tried to push the flask away but she was having none of it. She was a persistent little she-devil, he gave her that, because she grabbed his nose and as he gasped for breath, she poured a prodigious quantity of the foul tasting brew down his throat. Laughter exploded around him as he gagged and coughed. Most of it he spit out but enough found its intended destination.

To Artie's amazement, his headache began to clear within a few minutes and the nausea started to abate with it. Soon, he was sitting up and fit enough to observe his surroundings. He had been placed on a bundle of smelly furs, inside a large rough-hewn structure that was clearly put together piece-meal. Other piles of furs were lying around, mostly unoccupied, although one couple was having a grand old time in a corner where the least amount of light reached them. He heard giggles and lusty grunts, occasional moans of pleasure and part of him marveled that these people had no sense of shame. But then he recalled that many cultures living together like this had different moral viewpoints of right and wrong.

He tried to stand, flopped down and gave up. One of the enormous men stuck out a hand and pulled him upright as if he were merely a child. The sudden motion made him dizzy but at least he didn't fall, at least not until that same hand smacked him on the back in congratulations. He nearly toppled over as he had earlier but miraculously he didn't.

A smaller group of warriors beckoned him over to the fire and patted a spot, shifting over to make room for him. Cautiously he settled down onto fur covered pillows between the two enormous and sweaty bodies. They handed him a wooden platter with fresh cooked game, berries, and chunks of fruit that looked like kiwi although he reasoned that they couldn't be. The climate wasn't suited to it.

Despite all that had happened to him, he discovered he was starving and desperately thirsty. A relatively plain, auburn haired woman, apparently the same age as the men, knelt between him and the fire, and offered up a flagon of something. After being internally boiled by one drink, and poisoned by the next, he was loathe to test this one. Clearly the others were still swilling the first noxious brew because they were swaying as if very, very drunk. Artie looked at it as she brought it closer to his lips. He tightened those lips in rebellion. She drew closer, coaxing with her hands and a surprisingly healthy smile. He leaned away. She frowned. He frowned back…harder.

The woman looked down at the large metal mug, said something in their guttural gibberish, and got an answer that was apparently pretty funny because she smirked and said something to him in an obviously teasing tone. The males nearby joined in.

"Oh my God," Artie moaned softly, "Only here a short time and already they're picking on me."

Rather than play games with him, the woman put the mug to her full lips and took a long slow swallow, licking her lips afterward in a way that had his mind wandering, even if her overall appearance didn't appeal to him. Heck, she was probably taller than him by at least eight inches and an unwashed body was still an unwashed body. He hadn't been with a woman in longer than he could remember but nevertheless he still wasn't that desperate.

As if sensing those thoughts, the woman grabbed him in a viselike grip and tugging him toward her. She playfully sucked and nibbled on his lower lip before pulling him into a heady embrace that sent his pulse racing even as his mind was writhing with distaste. His thoughts weren't the only thing writhing. His whole body was doing just that as he tried to pull free of her grasp. He'd almost succeeded too but she got a firmer hold on him. This untamed, unwashed, unashamed barbarian deepening the kiss, applying so much pressure she was able to force his mouth open again. And in went the tongue.

"No, no, no!" his mind shrieked. He threw all of his weight backward to get away from her. Stupid move, he realized a second later. All it did was pull her down on top of him, smothering himself with a bosom so ample that most of his face got covered. She clearly thought this was a great idea, pulling open her furs to grant him better access. He thought it was a horrible idea but couldn't do anything about it. Heck, he couldn't even talk from lack of air. So he decided to do what any healthy male of his species did when not interested. He played dead.

The gales of laughter actually managed to increase in volume. "Probably joking over the fact that she killed me," he thought but he stayed limp. By that point it really was all he could do because his oxygen starved lungs burned and his head grew fuzzy. A familiar pounding was starting in again.

Just as he thought he was a goner and what an embarrassing epitaph it would make if Pete Lattimer found out about it, a harsh male voice pierced the air and the woman flew toward the ceiling. Not literally of course, she had no wings and smelled more like a beast of burden than any bird, but up she went anyway.

Behind her, the same warrior who had carried him most of the way, drew her off him like she was a featherweight. Hissing and spitting like an infuriated cougar, she tried to swipe at him with broken nails but he was quicker. He brought her around, planted a big sloppy kiss on her lips, groped those Dolly Parton sized breasts with an enormous paw and waited until she surrendered to him. Then, hand in hand, the couple went to the vacated spot in the dark corner. In no time at all, lustful howls of pleasure were emanating from under the furs.

Pretending not to notice any of this Artie stared at his feet. His shoulder got lightly cuffed and when his finally raised his eyes, he saw another cup was being offered to him, this time by the warrior who'd tapped him. He took it, sniffed and wisely took a tiny sip. Water, he discovered, pure and simple. Grateful, he downed the large cup in five or six gulps, coughing as some of it slid down the wrong way in his haste to finish it.

By the time he had finished the water and another cupful after that, the amorous duo were already finished and the woman was going about her business.

The warrior on the furs rose, threw a huge smile at the men around him, adjusted his breechcloth, and walked by Artie. Before he passed, he grabbed a fistful of Artie's shirt, yanking upward. Nielsen went up with the shirt but not before little buttons went popping everywhere. Frightened, Artie got his legs under him so fast that he saved himself from being strangled by his own clothing although once up he realized he was now going to have to walk around with the shirt open because none of the buttons survived.

"Damn," he swore softly, looking down at the exposed white skin of his stomach. "I liked this shirt!"

The enormous man clearly didn't care. He propelled Artie out of the crude longhouse and toward a smaller hut. He gestured for Nielsen to enter and when Artie did so, he found several men waiting for him. A small fire in the center gave off a weak light and pungent smoke. They indicated he should sit and he complied simply because he was afraid of what they'd do to him if he didn't. If playful blows could bruise and break, he dreaded finding out what angry punches could do. Fear rose in him. This meeting was going to be about him, he was sure of it, and absently, he wondered if a tryst with the barbarian bimbo would have been worth delaying the inevitable.

No, definitely not, he decided and turned his attention to the matter at hand.

From behind one man, a tablet of wood was drawn forth. It was opened like a map, folding outward into a scroll like affair. Upon its surface, there were pictures or paintings. This scroll was placed before him on his lap. He saw scenes of village life, of love and war, of hopes and dreams. The pictographic history of a people. When he flipped it over he noticed more such scenes.

One thing it did tell him. This little village with its one main cobbled together longhouse and smaller huts was just as he'd suspected, a temporary camp. There had been no sign of the elderly or of children. He realized that these people might have sought battle to end their lives before they became sick and feeble but surely children would have been present in normal village life and he had neither seen nor heard them.

One long blunt finger swung into view, pointing at a particular image. He saw it, studied it, and didn't like what he saw. Not one bit. The artwork, though somewhat crude, was still quite clear. There was an image of many men in pitched battle, both sides separated only by the colors of their banners, pennants such as he'd seen earlier in the day.

The man beside him pointed at one side of combatants and pointed at those assembled in the room. Artie nodded his understanding. Then sweat broke out on his brow and began to trickle out down his temple, because, in the middle of the fiercely battling warriors was a creature right out of nightmares, black and ominous, serpent like in form and face. Humpbacked. Flames shooting from skeletal fingers rather than from its mouth.

But that wasn't precisely what evoked such a sense of dread in him. In the center of that drawing was another person, very short and stocky in comparison to the other warriors. He wore a familiar helmet over curly locks and bore a broadsword in his right fist.

Vigorously shaking his head, he tried to negate the message of the paintings with wild gesticulations.

"Not me, uh-uh, no way!" he said, realizing that he sounded more like Claudia than himself.

The same warrior producing the wood tablets once more reached behind him and solemnly brought another item forward.

Artie moaned with fear, not caring who heard. It was the helmet from the Warehouse, wings and all. No doubt about it. He'd wondered if it had been dragged into the portal but with everything going on after he'd arrived, and after not finding it close by, he'd assumed the doorway had closed just after he'd gotten yanked in. Clearly that wasn't the case. They must have scooped it up as they'd raced toward him.

"Not good, definitely not good!" he intoned, voicing his fears aloud.

The helmet was put before him. When he didn't immediately pick it up, they scowled at him. A gigantic fist clenched and the owner of that leg 'o lamb turned glittering, impatient eyes on him. Artie stared at the fist. If a light pat could send him flying, a blow would surely cripple or kill him. He didn't doubt that for a moment.

Sighing raggedly, he picked up the heavy metal item in shaking hands and gazed at it. The guy with the scary eyes said something and the man seated to his right nudged him in the ribs. The action jostled him so hard he almost dropped the helmet but something told him disrespecting this artifact would earn him a world of hurt. Somehow he hung on it.

Hammer-Elbow made motions with his hands. Those actions said, "Put the damn thing on already."

Hands twitching with apprehension, Artie carefully donned the helmet and waited for the physical interaction with his scalp to trigger some response. It almost always worked that way with these things. He sensed nothing aside from a cool tingling around his skull where the cold metal rested. For a second he assumed the blasted thing was just a simple ancient helmet more suited for a museum than the Warehouse. He relaxed. He smiled. He chuckled. Nothing.

"Our little sorcerer thinks something is funny!" A voice said.

The man to Artie's left grunted. "Let him enjoy his little joke, whatever it is. He won't be laughing when he battles Gerza-Set."

Startled Artie looked around the group. "What did you say?" he asked stupidly and wished he could withdraw the question.

What came out of his mouth sounded exactly like the gibberish they were spouting.

"Ah, so the sorcerer finally deigns to speak to us in our own language," his initial savoir, Donjonik, said chidingly.

"It's the helmet," Artie began explaining. "The energies within the metal must convert…" He let the last word trail off. He doubted they'd understand Warehouse vernacular. "Um, the magical properties of this helmet allow me to somehow understand you."

"Ah, a magic helmet!" Donjonik exclaimed. "See Brogan, I told you there was something special about it." To the others he yelled, "I told you the prophecy is coming true. I knew it the minute I saw our fat friend here."

Turning to Artie, he planted one sausage-long finger on the tablet, and proclaimed, "You were sent by Almesrhi to help us win our war against our enemies."

"Why?" Artie asked then bit his lip.

"Are you stupid, little man? Someone has to kill Gerza-Set so that our enemies will no longer be protected by him."

"Surely you can kill this Gerza-Set yourself. I've seen you fight. You are brave fighters. As big as they are."

"Ah but not as numerous," another warrior explained. "They outnumber us at least five to one. And as long as that demon leads them, we are powerless to stand before them for long."

"So get other villagers together and increase the size of your army," suggested Artie, clearly loathed to think about the alternative…a battle to the death between him and a 'demon' from the nine hells or whatever it was they called their place of horror and torment.

"Gerza-Set and his minions have devastated our lands, scattered our people. The old ones and children too young to fight are hidden for now but eventually they will be discovered. They are only safe because we keep moving, always one step ahead of Gerza's people."

The looks of abject sadness on the faces of these men scared Artie more than their anger did. It told him exactly what his foe was like. Suddenly, he didn't need that awful drink to turn his insides to gelatin.

"Look, I'm not who you think I am. At home, where I come from, our weapons are different, you see? And the people, um, well, most of 'em aren't quite as…large…as you. I could hold my own against one or two guys…" he held up his fists which looked pathetically tiny compared to theirs, "…with these, but I'm not…not…" he let the thought trail off with a shrug.

"That is because you aren't ready for the fight yet. You have the Helm of Bect. Now it is time for Fenton's sword." He pulled a bundle onto his lap. It was large and heavy, obscured by a suede covering, bound by rough twine. The man opened the bundle slowly, reverently, revealing a longsword, the hilt generous enough for two of their hands or three of Artie's. A huge ruby, worth enough to buy Trump Towers, glittered brightly on the pommel, its inner light seemingly dancing with anticipation.

"You see," Donjonik said, pointing, "all this is part of the prophecy. You are the one, like it or not. Our prophets have said you will battle Gerza-Set and give us victory." He said it as if reciting something he'd heard his whole life.

"I'm telling you, I'm not destined for anything other than holing up in a big metal building full of treasures the world can't have," Artie protested

"Bah! Your greedy king doesn't need you nearly as much as we do!" he bellowed.

"I'm not the one you want, I assure you!"

"Let the sword decide," its handler stated to everyone present. "You all know the legend. No one can pull the sword from the scabbard 'cept it be the one destined to wield it."

Hands splayed before him, Artie stated weakly, "But you don't understand—"

Brows over Neanderthal ridges thumped into each other. "Take. The. Sword…Now!"

Artie complied, what else could he do?

Fingers that had never quite ceased twitching wrapped around the leather grip. He gulped audibly. He prayed fervently to the God he was raised to believe in and to at least a dozen others he'd heard about to save him from this fate.

"Please, don't. Please, please, please," he whispered.

And then he pulled.

The result was worthy of a curse. He chose the great grandpappy of them all, the one almost as old as the act itself, and he let it fly. The sword slid free of the scabbard before the word had died on his lips.

"That's what the woman was for," one of them snickered and others joined in.

Ignoring them, Donjonik asserted, "See, as I said, you are the chosen bearer of the sword."

"When is this all supposed to happen?" Artie inquired, brown orbs still locked on the single red one.

"Soon, I expect. We can't leave the forest without them coming for us."

That caught Artie's attention, the question he'd meant to ask earlier but had been too distracted to think about. "Why didn't they follow us into the forest in the first place? Obviously they know you're in here, and they were so close to us. Why stop?"

Brogan's shrug was played out by him spreading his hands wide. His reach was expansive enough to easily pelt the two men on either side of him but they didn't flinch. "They think this land is cursed. I'm not about to persuade them otherwise, would you?"

"No-no-no, you're right." He looked at the leader, or rather the man he presumed was the leader. "Does your prophecy say how 'soon' is soon?"

Donjonik's eyes grew flinty. He stood. Artie and the others rose with him as if controlled by him. "As soon as you can carry that sword into battle."

Artie sighed loudly. 'Reprieve,' his mind crowed. To the others he stated, boldly. "For you information, I don't know the first thing about sword-fighting. I told you that before. I'd be dead in a heartbeat, less than a heartbeat, if I went against that thing now. And do you know how long it'd take me to become proficient at it?"

"The same span of time," Brogan answered with assurance. Seeing Artie's confused expression, he answered, "A heartbeat."

Right eyebrow trying to kiss his hairline, Artie croaked, "What are you saying? That I'm just to get in there without experience and let nature take its course? This helmet may possess the gift of giving wisdom to the wearer but it's not going to teach me how to—"

In that instant Donjonik's blade flashed out of his scabbard straight toward Artie's neck. This was no game, there was no restraint. The others didn't even have time to duck out of the way. But it never reached its mark because another blade was already there. The Sword of Fenton had somehow, inexplicably blocked the blow.

The warrior pulled his lips back in a smile. "Does that answer your question?"

Artie hadn't moved more than his arm. It had happened so fast he wasn't even sure exactly what had happened. Or how. He'd seen the action in slow motion. His brain, firing on all cylinders, energized neurons to his arm muscles and the sword had gone where he wanted it. No planning necessary. No motion from the blade itself. No whispered voices telling him what to do. It just happened.

Resheathing his sword, Donjonik wordlessly exited the hut and the others followed, leaving Artie to stare down at his hands still gripping the sword. Head hanging in defeat, he followed the others.