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CHAPTER 4

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Horrible dreams of battle, decapitation and devouring flames plagued Artie but they held him so tight in their grasp that he couldn't wake up. When he finally awoke, he found himself sprawled on his furs, a woman's hand resting across his bare chest, her hand lightly touching his upper arm, her head nestled into his shoulder. He was sure she wasn't the same one as before and he was equally certain that nothing had 'happened'; however, space in the long house was at a premium and he presumed she settled there just so she'd have a soft place to rest. Around him, others were stirring from similar groupings, disentangling arms and legs, yawning and shivering in the slightly chilled air.

The first thing the women did was start rekindle flames and set up cook-pots. The scent of bread wafted in from small round ovens outside. The men were a different story. They sat around sharpening tools or their weapons, polishing their simple armor, repairing damage to their chainmail.

The same woman who had curled up against for warmth in the middle of the night brought him a light meal, similar to what they ate the previous evening. She also brought him a cup of water which she shared with him, along with the meal itself.

She tried to converse briefly with him but was unsuccessful.

As conversations started up with greater intensity, Artie donned the helmet. His companion gave him an odd look and in the sweetest voice, said, "That's not necessary in here."

"I know but I need it to understand you," he explained gently.

"Ah, so you need magic to understand us?" She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder. It was limp and far from clean. She also looked much younger than many of the others in the longhouse.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Artie ran his fingers over his cheeks which were already getting short bristles on them. He used his fingertips to smooth out his neatly trimmed goatee and the jumble of curls that he knew would be awry after all that had happened in the past twenty four hours. "In my…city, we call the helmet and the sword "artifacts". In fact, this is what we'd refer to as a bifurcated artifact. They need to be in close proximity to function properly. My people learn how to use them. We are like scientists…" he paused realizing the word 'scientists' came out as 'sorcerers'."

She shrank back slightly, not from him but from the word itself. Her eyes glazed over at the concept of magic and magic users. Her life had been too short and too simple to associate with such things.

"You will save us with your magic," she said, a statement rather than a question. "I believe that even though I don't know how it will happen. The men will leave soon and you will be with them. May our gods favor you with success."

That said, she leaned closer and gently, softly kissed his lips. Unlike the previous evening, he returned it, holding her face within his hands, wondering if this would be the last time he would ever enjoy a kiss from anyone.

The young woman was right. They called for him to join them in preparations for battle. Accoutrements came out and their wives or girlfriends assisted them in dressing. This seemed more of a ritual than a necessity but neither male nor female protested the routine.

The woman who had shared his bed returned with a large bundle and put it by his feet. In it, he found a leather short shirt, breechcloth, belt, boots, in other words similar garb to what all the other men wore. There was also light armor to protect his limbs and a chainmail shirt that would barely reach his thighs. On the other men, it wouldn't have covered the belt. Without asking permission, she reached for his shirt.

He put his hands up in supplication. "I can do it myself, really."

"It is tradition," she stated simply, her honest, open face telling him this was true. "It reminds our men that someone is waiting for them after the battle, that there is something to live for other than the fight itself."

Spreading his arms out and away from his sides, he gave her silent permission to proceed. She may have been young but she was no stranger to the routine and had him garbed and armored in no time at all.

The weight of the chainmail was oppressive. It looked light and finely made but was incredibly heavy. He was glad for the light leather shirt to protect his skin. Surprisingly, the mail moved with him, so flexible that it made little sound. As he examined this, she hung the belt with scabbard around his hips, going as far as buckling it on for him.

The final addition to these preparations was the addition of a ruby banner which she tied around the helmet. There was no need to bend over to reach it either because she, like the other women, towered over him.

He looked and felt ridiculous, dwarfed by these giants, wearing garments that were too big for him, carrying a weapon he had no right or desire to possess. Well, Donjonik would argue the former point. The fates had decreed he had the right, and though desire was lacking, the choice had been removed from him. As if sensing his reticence from the day before, no one had let him out of their sight. In fact, in retrospect, he realized the younger woman probably hadn't chosen him to keep her warm purely out of need. He suspected the arm thrown over him was more to alert her if he got up so she could warn the others.

Not that it mattered anymore. He was committed. And so as the others marched off into the forest, he moved with them, a small sapling in the midst of mighty oaks, a cringing cub in the midst of full grown grizzlies.

As they neared the perimeter of the forest, the full contingent of warriors stopped to scan the open meadow. No one remained on guard. There were no marks of their presence whatsoever, aside from the trampled grasses their skirmish left behind.

Two men, lighter than the others and presumably fleeter of foot, broke off from the main group and charged ahead. Their feet made no noise, their armor and chainmail maintained silence. As they approached the top of the hill, they crouched and observed. After a while, they signaled the others and off they went at a ground eating lope.

Burdened down by the weight of mail, armor and sword, Artie flagged behind. At first he was disgusted with himself. He was already sweating and winded. And then he figured this was a blessing. If the others got excited enough, maybe they'd keep going and forget about him entirely. Then he snorted aloud. Fat chance that was gonna happen, he told himself. And he was right. He was their supposed ace in the hole, their secret weapon, their 'ringer'. When he couldn't keep up, they slowed down.

Some faces reflecting anger, others concern, they watched him approach at a pace barely over a walk. Ragged breath rasped out of his lungs and he bent over trying to rest.

"You must move faster, Artie Nielsen!"

Red-faced, Artie gasped, "I'm trying. This is the best you're going to get. If you don't like it, leave me behind!"

Brogan clearly wasn't happy about the disrespectful tone Artie was using toward his leader, because he ground out, "Are you going to let this fat little man speak to you that way?"

"Peace Brogan," Donjonik murmured. "Now is not the time to cause strife. He will do what he has to do because it is his destiny, and we are along to help see to it that he is where he needs to be. If he lags behind, then we stay with him. It is that simple."

"He is a sorcerer. Why does he not use magic to make himself fleet of foot?"

Moving in front of Brogan, the warrior patted the mail on his chest hard enough to make it rattle. "We assumed he'd have much knowledge about magic. That he does not. But the items necessary for his success responded to him as was foretold. For that reason alone, we stand behind him in this. Even if we don't understand why the gods would choose someone so physically inferior for this task, I am certain he is the one we expected."

He turned to them then. "All of you, it is our job to see that this man reach the demon. We are to protect him, forfeit our lives if we must, but there will be no victory over them if we cannot get him close enough to do what he needs to." He looked at Artie with mixed emotions including determination to get the job done and fear that this little man wasn't up to the task despite what the prophecy said. But he also knew they couldn't wait to train him properly. More and more innocents were dying every day, and countless others were coming under the tyrannical rule of Gerza-Set and his followers. "Remember, we don't do this for the sorcerer, we do it for all of us, our wives, our families, our friends and for the greater good of all who hunger for freedom."

So saying, he turned and began to walk up the hill. The others followed without comment at a similar pace, Artie in the midst of them, protected until the time the fates would have need of him.

Walking made slow going of the journey but no one complained. They arrived on the top of another hill an hour later and several miles from their camp. Below them, spread out for hundreds of yards, were tents. Small ones for individual warriors on up to command tents were easily visible.

Artie took it all in. His insides were knotting up again and he was glad that his last meal had been hours ago. The rough estimate he made while standing there came to about two hundred warriors. Their party, impressive as it was, numbered no more than fifty.

While Donjonik had said the opposing force was massive, Artie reasoned that this wasn't the entire contingent. Studying battles of long ago had told him that this was actually a very small force. He presumed that the army had been spread out during its time of conquest and this group was there only to handle 'the locals'. At first he wondered if Gerza-Set would bother to handle such a menial task as slaughtering a small group of men when his own warriors could handle the job efficiently. Perhaps 'the demon' wasn't even there. A part of him hoped so but the logical part of his mind recalled the obvious facts. He'd been pulled through a portal in the Warehouse. The helmet had gone in with him. He'd acquired the second part of the artifact almost immediately after the first, which was most definitely not a coincidence is his book. Nor would the Warehouse procedural and artifact manual have disagreed with him.

To add insult to injury, he was obviously the focus of some insane prophecy requiring him to battle a force of evil. He snorted at the thought. This was worse than any Conan the Barbarian novel he had ever read as a kid. And he'd read them all, thank you very much.

Yup, no doubt about it, he was here with those artifacts to fulfill the prophecy and because of all that had happened he also had no doubt that Gerza-Set was down there waiting on him to show up.