Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 44

The Realm of the Dead, distorted by sorcery and crawling with chains, did not obey its mistress.

The portalway Draedona opened tossed Xenro around within itself as though it were the churning stomach of some monstrous beast, and spat him out somewhere in the Mortal Realm he was quite sure was not the destination he'd aimed for.

Sceneries danced in and out of focus around him-- cobbled town streets, dense forests, someone's overgrown backyard, tundra wastelands-- then, nothing but smoke.

To crown it all, when he finally emerged into the Mortal Realm, he materialized several feet above ground, at someplace completely random.

Yet it was not hard rocks, nor frozen soil which slammed into him as he fell-- but burlap sacks, and stacks of wheat. Above him was a canopy of leaves. Bright morning sun peeked through them.

Before Xenro could make sense of his surroundings however, a colorful list of profanities assailed his ears.

"Draedona's mercy-- fuck-- Sweet Mother Rhilio, no that's not right either!" A man was shouting. "Scared the daylights outta me, good sir! Were you napping up on the trees or what? Dropping right from the sky like that!"

Xenro sat up with a groan, wheat-stalks caught into his hair. He was seated on top of a pile of sacks at the back of a farmer's carriage. The cart was rolling along slowly down a forest trail.

The farmer himself, and even the draught-horses stared at him, wide-eyed.

"You alright? Your hands are bleeding," the farmer asked again. "Somebody cast dark magic on you?"

But Xenro could not utter a word, looking at him with bewilderment.

How is this possible?

The man looked exactly like the other mortal, Farren, except with icy blue eyes instead of tawny brown. The hair which peeked from beneath his straw hat was chestnut, not red. Even the way he spoke, his entire demeanor was similar to her.

Xenro got to his feet, his head reeling.

Had the sorcery befouling Draedona's realm stretched all the way here, and thus Xenro was caught in a never ending loop of an universe where every mortal he met was some variant of the same Farren Clearstrike?

The thought was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

Meanwhile the man, whose name he knew not, was eyeing him with only mild curiosity, having gotten over the initial shock.

"Sir was on his way to a play by any chance?" he asked, eyes set on Xenro's clothes, which looked rather outlandish and impractical, compared to the farmer's furs and wools. "That sword looks grand though, for a prop."

"Er..." said Xenro, which the man accepted as a meaningful answer.

He fumbled around beside his seat for a bit, then tossed Xenro a water-skin.

"Better you wash those wounds," he said. "There's a good witch-doc who lives near Kinallen, I hear. I'll drop you there, if you'd like."

Ah, so I am near Kinallen, at least. He accepted the water-skin he'd offered. "Thank you, uh... mister--"

"Clearstrike. Finnian Clearstrike."

Splendid.

The universe seemed to have snatched him from one Clearstrike, only to stow him with another. He even forgot the courtesy of telling him his own name.

Destiny and all that crap I suppose, Atruer had said. Xenro wished to see whether, through this encounter, he'd really grasped the threads of destiny. Could this string lead him to...her?