The town was so remote it wasn't even on the map, just a little place tucked away at the edge of nowhere with a crossroads, two houses and a bar. It was the bar that Max noticed as they approached at the end of the day just as the light was fading, the neon letters springing out against the darkening sky as if the sign had been turned on just for them. Afterwards, Max said that should have warned him, but it didn't. The flat, bare reaches of western Kansas are not the sort of place to inspire belief in fantasy.

Max himself was a practical young man in his mid-twenties, and although he had begun to learn that many things in life were not as they seemed, he was not quite the type to leap to grandiose flights of fancy. Since he had met John Peter McAllister, ninja master, and begun to learn the ways of ninjutsu, he had discovered that life held many mysteries, and he was slowly opening up to strange new experiences. McAllister was a balding sixty-year-old whom Max had offered to help out of a tough situation when they had first met. But that was before he realized that he was the one who needed the Master's own brand of help. McAllister was a veteran of two wars and thirty years of ninja training. He had left his sect behind when he discovered that some of his students, led by Okasa, once his prize pupil and now a ninja master in his own right, had reverted to the old ways of ninjutsu, practicing terrorism and assassination. Now Okasa pursued him, intending his death, and McAllister eluded him as he traveled America with Max, teaching him the skills he had learned from his own master in Japan while the two of them searched for Teri, the daughter McAllister hadn't known he had. So far they hadn't found her, but they would one day. Max planned to enjoy every moment till then, and he'd come close enough to the Master by now to understand that finding Teri wouldn't end their friendship. For the moment, he was willing to take things as they came.

This time, though, he couldn't have guessed what was about to happen.

"The Cavern!" The lights flashed on and off like a signal, and the weathered boards that made an old fashioned porch seemed to go with the lanterns that hung around the edges of the roof below the one bright sign. "Suppose we can get some sandwiches here?" Max asked McAllister. Later on, he realized that he had felt a compulsion to stop, but right now it simply seemed chance that had brought them here.

The older man nodded. "But we'll be where we're going in another twenty miles. Why not wait?"

"Because I'm hot and tired and dry, and I could do with a cold beer and some food," explained Max as he pulled up in front of the tavern. "We'll just grab a sandwich and something to drink and be on our way. There's no hurry, is there?"

The Master smiled at his eager pupil. "No, I suppose not." He climbed out of the van as Max retrieved his pet hamster Henry from his cage mounted on the dashboard and stowed him in his pocket. "Just try to avoid trouble in there," the ninja cautioned as they headed for the door. "I know you and bars."

Max threw him a look of mock hurt. "And I thought I was doing so much better," he protested. McAllister laughed companionably. "So you are. But I don't want you to press your luck."

"Gee, thanks." Max pushed the weathered door open and led the way inside.

The interior was mostly one big room, the kitchen almost entirely visible through an open hatch behind the bar. The place was rustic, and Max half expected to find a collection of good ol' boys in cowboy hats standing at the bar drinking whiskey from shot glasses and listening to Willie Nelson on the jukebox, but instead the place was almost deserted. Max remembered he'd only seen one other car outside, a 1953 Chevy, plus a motorbike propped up against the side of the porch. The customers inside didn't seem to reflect either vehicle properly. There was a young man at the bar wearing a white home-spun shirt with billowing sleeves that flowed out from below the shoulders, and tight jeans tucked into suede boots that looked hand made. A metal loop belt hung low on one hip with a dagger in a metal sheath attached to it. He looked like a refugee from a Society for Creative Anachronism event or an attendee at a science fiction convention, and his long curly hair was pulled back in a pony tail like a leftover hippie's. He was too young for that though, a few years younger than Max, although something in the arrogance of his rather too good looking face gave him an air of being older than his years, at least at first glance. Max decided the motorbike must be his.

At one of the tables on the far side of the room sat a man in his late thirties or early forties. He had a profile like a Roman coin, and the look he threw down the length of his elegant nose was little better than a sneer. He wore a black shirt of unusual cut and there was a silver pendant on a chain around his neck. Put him in a suit and he'd pass for a convincing businessman, but the black silk shirt gave the appearance of a mildly dissolute hedonist, although the coldness in eyes that appeared black in the dim light and the fringe of bangs that almost reached his eyebrows made him harder to place. For a minute Max wondered if he was gay, but dismissed the thought immediately. Whoever he was, he was all male.

Then Max got a look at the waitress and promptly lost interest in both men. She was at least as tall as he was, and for the first moment, Max could only stare. A blonde Valkyrie of a woman, she should have been Aryan-fair, but instead her complexion was as dark as a surfer's who has haunted the beach year round in a warm climate. Something about the way her eyes tilted gave her a foreign look, but she didn't seem Oriental. Max couldn't place her, and that bothered him.

She gave him a warm smile that made him forget his questions and drew him to the bar as if she had issued a worded invitation. Aware of McAllister's silent amusement behind him, Max plowed forward. He wasn't the type of young man to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The young man shifted aside to give Max and the Master room, and Max glanced sideways at McAllister to find him surveying the place with a narrowed and thoughtful eye as if he were trying to place it. Then the Valkyrie said, "Welcome," in a voice that was warm and rich and soothing all at once. There was a note of accent in it, almost too slight to be perceived, and Max wondered if the bar were run by an immigrant family from one of the eastern bloc nations and that was why they seemed to unusual.

"Hi," he said cheerfully, discounting it as not important. "Any chance of some sandwiches and a beer?"

"Of course. For both of you?"

At her question, McAllister made an abortive movement beside him, and Max threw him a questioning look, but the Master wore one of his inscrutable looks, and Max decided to let it go. Everything they said in this place would be heard by the other three, and Max didn't want that. Better to keep the conversation normal.

"That's right. Roast beef?" Max asked, picking up the menu that was stuck in a holder behind the napkin container and passing it to the Master. When the waitress nodded, Max ordered a beer to go with it. McAllister glanced at the menu, ordered a club sandwich and a coke. A cook appeared at the hatch and pulled the order slips from a wheel, vanishing again before Max could add him to the collection of oddities. He was a nondescript little man with a pointy face, although there was enough of a twinkle in his eyes to make him stand out, too.

The sandwiches were ready almost immediately. Max noticed that neither the dark haired snob or the curly haired man were eating before the young man reached past him for a napkin and jogged his elbow roughly. Max's beer cascaded over his sandwich.

Hastily swallowing the one bite he'd been allowed, Max turned angrily. "What do you think you're trying to do?" he demanded in outrage.

McAllister caught his arm. "It was an accident, Max," he insisted.

"It's not my fault you are so clumsy," the young man said in an arrogant and surly voice. "It wasn't crowded before you came in."

Suddenly understanding what McAllister had known from the beginning, that the young man wanted to pick a fight, his realization was proven when the youth went for his knife, pulling it smoothly from the sheath. It was a type of dagger Max had never seen before, with an elaborately tooled hilt and a thin, well-worn blade, obviously frequently used. The young man fell into a crouch. "Well, come on," he urged. "Show me what you're worth."

"Easy, youngster," McAllister cautioned. "You don't want a fight."

The young man spared him one poignant look that said all too clearly, 'Don't I just?' then he lunged at Max with the knife.

If Max hadn't been studying with a ninja master for two years, he would have been skewered, but his training stood him in good stead, allowing him to skip lightly out of range, grabbing for his opponent's wrist. But the young man was light on his feet too, and he moved like a pro--no, he moved with the grace and agility of someone who did this naturally, both for survival and for enjoyment. His eyes danced, showing he was having fun, and he suddenly looked much younger than he had before. Max wondered unkindly as the blade missed his ribcage by a fraction of an inch if he were an escapee from a mental home.

The man at the corner table had risen, but he made no move to come closer. He was about Max's height and maybe twenty-five pounds heavier, but the one glimpse Max had of him showed that he was not a fighter. His hands were too well manicured, and when Max swung around to make sure he wasn't coming up behind him, he saw a fastidious curl to the man's lip.

He also glimpsed McAllister trying to circle around behind his adversary, and he called, "Stay out of this, old fella. I can handle him."

"You must let him," the waitress put in. "This is not your fight."

"If Max is in danger, this makes it my fight," McAllister told her. Max knew the Master wouldn't hesitate to intervene if he thought Max was getting in over his head.

But Max could handle it. He sparred with the man a little, finding his measure, and although he was trained differently than Max, he was very damn good. He wasn't a street punk; he had none of their deadly, economical and savage drive. Instead he fought elegantly, but no less dangerously, and behind the lazy curl to his mouth and the bright glitter in his eyes was a man who could kill without hesitation if he had to. Not a hit man, not a murderer, not a martial artist, not a terrorist. Max couldn't place him.

But he could beat him. If he couldn't, McAllister would already have intervened. Since the Master was standing back watching as if this was just another test he'd set for Max, it seemed that he could win, if he could just figure out how to disarm the other man. As they struggled for possession of the knife and for the chain that Max had taken from his belt, Max could sense a precision in his opponent's movements that spoke of long hours of training. Whatever he was, he was good at it. Although he'd deliberately picked the fight, it was becoming clear that spilling Max's drink had been nothing but an excuse for this bout, because he no longer looked either angry or surly, and if his blue eyes glittered, it was with happiness rather than malice.

Suddenly Max felt Henry struggling in his pocket and he remembered his hamster for the first time. Realizing that he must be more careful or he'd hurt his pet, he altered his stance to protect him.

It was a mistake. Suddenly off balance, Max could only retreat when his opponent lunged at him, smiling happily with a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Max jumped back and felt the window behind him. The glass shattered as he fell, and his last thought before he crashed through and landed flat on his back outside was that the Master would never let him live it down.

McAllister observed the fight between Max and the young man with growing interest. recognizing early on that Max's opponent had no real intention of hurting Max but was fighting him for another reason entirely, a reason he was not yet prepared to explain. Whatever it was, he was enjoying himself and so was Max. McAllister was certain that there was more going on here than met the eye. and that if the fight progressed to a draw or a victory for Max, explanations might be forthcoming.

The dark-haired man in the corner had not spoken, simply standing there watching, but not as if he found the fight particularly interesting. The waitress made no attempt to break it up either, and the cook emerged through a door at the end of the bar and watched too. Of all of them, he was the only one who looked worried, but maybe it was his bar and he didn't want the place broken up.

Of course Max would fight at the drop of a hat, but usually he had a better reason for continuing a fight than he had this time. Something prevented McAllister from interfering, although he couldn't say whether it was his own curiosity, the expectant look on the face of the tanned Viking woman, the exultant way the curly haired man fought, or something else that he didn't understand. McAllister joined the woman. "Shouldn't you call the police?" he suggested.

"No. We don't need the police. Arran is no killer."

"Max didn't start it."

"Max didn't need to." She smiled a little, but it didn't take very well, and McAllister could see a grim and desperate worry in the back of her eyes.

"Max won't hurt Arran either," he felt compelled to reassure her.

"We must know how Max fights," she confided surprisingly. "You are his teacher."

"Yes," he admitted although she had not meant it as a question. For the first time he wondered if his old nemesis Okasa had something to do with this mad fight. It was too bizarre to mean nothing beyond two quick-tempered young men blowing off steam, not with a weapon like that knife. That was a real weapon, worn naturally as most men wear a watch or a tie.

When Max hunched around stiffly, McAllister thought for a moment that he'd been cut, and his heart leapt. Even as he started forward, he remembered Henry and realized that Max had turned to protect him. Then Max reeled backward and McAllister winced, grinning wryly as his pupil crashed through yet another bar window. He should have known it would come to this.

When Max didn't reappear, McAllister feared he'd hurt himself as he landed, and he started for the door to investigate. Behind him, the dark man finally roused himself enough to speak. "No!" he shouted. "Wait! Not that way."

But McAllister was too concerned for Max to heed him. He stepped out into darkness; night had fallen while they were inside, and the neon lights reflected off the side of the van, blinking on and off, on and off. A breeze had risen and the day's heat was beginning to dissipate. McAllister rounded the corner and came up to the window. It was darker here in the shadow of the building, and he couldn't see Max lying on the ground. He must have got up and gone around the other way. McAllister saw a square of light from the window and glanced up as he passed it, then froze, his blood going cold. The window was unbroken.

But it was the only window on the entire wall. Max had come through it, there could be no doubt of that. It would have been impossible to repair the window in the time it had taken him to come outside and walk around the building, and even if they could have done it at lightning speed, they could not have done it silently.

McAllister looked into the building and saw the others gathered there staring at him, their faces wearing various expressions. The dark man looked disgruntled as if he was fed up with the whole thing. The woman was worried, the cook even more so. But the young man with long hair only looked excited. He stepped forward and opened the window, leaning out. "Won't you come in, Master?" he prompted. pointing toward the door. "Max is waiting for you."

It was a trap. It couldn't be anything else. McAllister didn't think he'd been drugged, but it was possible that someone had dropped a mickey or some acid in his soda and he was hallucinating or dreaming. He reached inside himself to find his chi, the center of his being, and tried to calm himself, although he was far from calm. He didn't understand what was happening, and although he was wise enough to understand that many things in this world lacked simple explanations, he suspected there was far more to this perplexing mystery than met the eye. Wherever Max was, he was someplace, and Arran and his friends obviously intended McAllister to join him. But there were ways to vanish that McAllister understood all too well, ninja ways. A man could be knocked out without realizing it. They could have done that to him, it could be a half hour later, the window could have been repaired, his watch altered. Max could have been smuggled away.

They knew who he was; Arran had called him Master. It was almost as if he and Max were expected, somehow guided and manipulated here. Max had seemed awfully determined to stop here when they could easily have waited to reach their destination. There had to be a purpose to all of this, and McAllister was determined to discover what it was and rescue Max in the process. Max was too hotheaded to be plunged into something so offbeat without getting into even more trouble.

McAllister heaved a sigh and returned to the bar.

Once inside, he stopped dead. Although Arran had opened the window and it stood ajar, the glass was obviously broken. It was broken. But for some reason, the fractured glass didn't show from the outside. A hologram? An optical illusion? Hypnosis?

"The window is really broken, Master," said the dark-haired man with a cold and cynical note to his voice. "Surely your experience tells you that things are not always what they seem." He sounded bored with his explanation. "I had hoped you at least would accept this with an open mind."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," retorted McAllister, "but I tend to take Max's disappearance as a threat. And I don't like threats."

"And yet, that sounds remarkably like one." Arran's voice held a teasing and amused note. "I think there's nothing for it, Dare. We'll have to show him. Besides, we don't have a lot of time."

"Not all of us are as impatient as you. You've been enjoying yourself. Surely a little too gaudy."

"But effective," said Arran brightly. "Max is there already, and soon his teacher will join him. Then nothing can stop what must be."

"I rather think Serralla will have something to say about it," Dare reminded him. "She doesn't believe in the prophecy. Max would be no match for her."

"Where is Max?" McAllister kept his voice mild with an effort.

The blonde woman tossed her hair. "He's in the Protectorate," she explained, which didn't exactly help. "Serralla won't be there."

"Won't she?" Dare glared at her. "You're a cheery little optimist, aren't you? Instead of standing here talking about it, suppose we send McAllister after Max?"

"And when I find him?" McAllister asked. "Since you're implying he's...somewhere else."

"Then you shall have to make your choices. When all is completed, you will be returned."

"Here?"

"Back through the window," Arran said with a grin. "It might not be 'here' precisely, but it will surely be 'here' if you define 'here' as the United States, planet Earth, 1986. It might even be this location, but that depends on how long it takes you and Max to finish what you must do."

"When I go through the window, I'll enter another world?" McAllister asked, feeling slightly foolish for asking, but unable to see any reasonable alternative to Arran's words. "I don't suppose you'll tell us what our options are?"

"That's not allowed this side of the gate," Dare replied. "And even if it were, Raban wouldn't permit it. He'll want to tell you most of it himself. He's a fool!" The sudden venom in his voice was not entirely free of some milder and warmer emotion, and McAllister turned toward him sharply. He hadn't been drawn to Dare until now, although Arran's cheeky good cheer was only slightly more bearable.

"Who is Raban?" he asked.

"Raban is Lord of the Protectorate," Dare told him. "And that is all you need to know so far. Serralla is Empress of the West." His lip curled. "Or so she would prefer to be called."

It would be pointless to ask for further information now. For all McAllister knew, this whole thing was a dream. But Max was gone and the window was both broken and unbroken, and the only way to find Max was to follow him through the broken side. "Will you come too?" he asked.

"We'll be there, although not with you at first," Arran replied. "But I'd fight at Max's side against a whole tribe of mur-wolves." There was admiration in his voice. "You taught him well. Different than my father's Guards taught me, but good. He might even be able to stand against Brin."

"Enough chatter," Dare cut in. "You have supplies in your van." He pronounced the word 'van' as if it were alien to him. "You may take your own weapons with you. You'll certainly need them."

"Will I?" McAllister realized that if he were to play this game, he would have to play it to the hilt, so he turned without a word and went to the van, where he dressed in his ninja robes minus the hood. He armed himself thoroughly, packed some weapons for Max, brought his young friend's jacket in case the Protectorate had a colder climate than Kansas, and returned to the bar. The blond woman handed him a knapsack of an unfamiliar design. "Food and water for your journey," she explained. "And this." She passed him an amulet like the silver one Dare wore. "This will draw you to Dare and Arran and them to you, if you need each other," she informed him. "It is tuned to you." Unexpectedly, she caught his hand and raised it to her lips. "Go carefully, Defender."

"Defender?" He lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sentimental twaddle," Dare declared cynically.

"So you say." Arran flung him a truculent look. "If you don't believe in the legend, why are you here?"

"Do you imagine Raban gave me a choice?"

"Raban gives you every choice there is," Arran half shouted. "I don't know why he puts up with you. I don't know why I do."

"I don't believe you do," Dare responded in a deadly quiet voice. "Raban gives no choice."

"We know." The cook spoke for the first time, skeptical and amused. "We know."

"You know nothing." The words were dismissive, but the cook only grinned. He turned to McAllister. "If I interpret the prophecy correctly, you shouldn't see much of me in the Protectorate once it all begins," he explained. "But if Max needs me, I'll be there."

"Complaining all the way," snapped Dare. McAllister wondered fleetingly if they were brothers; they sparred like siblings.

Arran made a flamboyant gesture toward the window. "And now, Master, it's time for you to follow Max."

Dare smiled sourly. "Will you step into my parlor?" he quoted sotto voce.

The cook threw him a puzzled glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're supposed to have a brain, even though I doubt it," Dare observed. "Figure it out yourself, Chel."

McAllister smiled a little and stepped to the window. For a moment, he saw only the Kansas night, the glow from the window tracing a faint rectangle on the dusty ground, then it became superimposed over a warm and glowing night with moonlight almost as bright as day, casting stark shadows against unfamiliar trees. He didn't see Max, but he saw a place he hadn't seen outside. The window actually opened onto a different world. It seemed implausible if not impossible, but too elaborate to be a hoax. Maybe he would awaken and find it all a dream, but as long as he was awake, he must go after Max.

He climbed through the window. When he turned, he stood in a silent glen, and there was no trace of a building where the bar had been only a moment before. Max was nowhere in sight.

When Max crashed through the window, he couldn't help thinking of what McAllister would say to him about it. Max was trying to avoid leaving bars this way, and had been doing much better lately, but this was a definite setback. He landed hard, knocking the breath out of him, and he lay there struggling to breathe for a second or two, then, when air finally began to return to his laboring lungs, he checked himself for injuries. When he was satisfied that he had done nothing more than collect a few new bruises, he struggled up, prepared to return to the fray. This time, he would demand an explanation, find out what the fight was really about. Distanced from it, he was determined to think rationally as the Master would. Whatever this fight was for, it sure as hell wasn't because Arran or whatever his name was had felt the bar was too crowded.

To his astonishment, there was suddenly a stand of trees right where he'd expected the bar to be. Puzzled, he blinked a few times, half expecting his vision to clear, but when the view remained unchanged, he spun around to survey the rest of his surroundings. There were trees on three sides of the glen, but on the fourth, they opened out to reveal a distant valley. In the bright moonlight, he could see a jagged and terrible mountain range beyond the valley, its serrated peaks stark against the sky. Frowning, still not getting it, Max muttered, "What the hell--" and lifted his eyes to the sky.

Stars, brighter than he had ever seen, hung above him, and try as he might, he could find nothing familiar in any of them. No Big Dipper, No North Star. The moon was full, the only thing still recognizable. This was crazy.

Drawing Henry from his pocket, he clutched his hamster, the one familiar thing in this entire mess, and stroked his back. "Somehow, Henry, I don't think we're in Kansas any more," he muttered with an uneasy chuckle.

Henry refrained from comment, but the little animal was shaking and jittery, and Max couldn't tell why. He stowed Henry in the safety of his pocket again, just as he heard something behind him that resembled a low growl.

Spinning to face the new threat, Max saw nothing at first, then as the sound was repeated, he spied two glowing lights just within the trees. Eyes? Eyes that glowed red in the starlight. Wolves?

Max backed away only to realize there was nothing in this glade to put at his back. He didn't want to get any closer to the trees than he needed to. On the side of the clearing where the trees opened up, he saw a standing stone a little taller than a man and maybe twice as broad. If he could put his back against that, it would be easier to fend off the beast.

Carefully he began to ease in that direction. The eyes didn't move right away, and he was close to the stone before they shifted at all, pacing him just within the shadow of the forest but never coming out of cover.

As Max approached the standing stone, he saw another beyond it and a third past that, then a whole series of them marching down into the valley. It wasn't bright enough in this alien night to make out any details on the valley floor, but he did see lights there, possibly campfires. If he could reach them, he might be safe. On the other hand, he could wake up at any minute and find himself back in Kansas with the Master bending over him.

But only if he was really unconscious. There was too much detail to this dream. The strange stars were bright overhead even in the moonlight. The air was heady with the scent of pine trees, the grass was damp with dew beneath his feet and he could feel the moisture beginning to soak through his pant legs. The eyes gleamed at him and as Max edged along, never quite ready to turn his back on them and run, he could hear the snap of twigs and the rustle of brush as if something bigger than a wolf was pacing him. Determined to awaken from this bizarre experience, he pinched himself hard. It hurt.

"Where are you?" he muttered to the absent McAllister. "And where the hell am I?"

By then he had reached the first standing stone. It didn't bear much resemblance to the stones of Stonehenge, which he'd seen once when his family had taken a trip to England the summer before his senior year in high school, being smaller and far more irregular, but there had been a circle of smaller stones, Avebury, he thought it was called, that looked more like this. He suspected that, in daylight, these stones would be solid black.

The distant fires on the valley floor seemed to offer a better chance of protection than the stones did, so he continued to descend carefully, judging the distance between the stones and moving cautiously, not quite daring to break into a run. He was sure if he did the beast would be upon him instantly.

It paced him all the way down to the valley floor as Max grew more and more confused. What the hell was happening to him? Where was he and how did he get here? All he knew was that if he ever got back, nothing in the world would get him through another bar window as long as he lived.

He was still a hundred yards away from the safety of the campfires when the creature suddenly burst out of the trees and came for his throat.

Max had prepared himself. He wasn't as well armed as he would have liked, and he'd dropped the chain when he fell through the window, but he had a shuriken and a knife. Bracing himself, he threw the shuriken first, and the huge hairy creature jerked when the throwing star struck and hesitated, making a weird mewling cry that alerted the people around the campfire. Shouts came from there, but Max didn't think rescue could reach him in time. Shifting his grip on the knife, he set his feet firmly on the ground and waited. The creature charged him, favoring one paw. Max doubted that was enough to turn the odds in his favor.

The creature was not a wolf. As it sprang at him, he could see that quite clearly. It was much the same general shape, but tusks curled out on either side of his muzzle, and its ears were set flat against its head. Shaggy and grey like a wolf, it looked like no creature Max had ever seen, as if someone had taken a wolf and grafted alien parts onto it before turning it loose.

It was at least as big as a large wolf and it struck with enough force to fling him flat on his back. As he fell, he struck with the knife, desperation lending him strength. The blade slid into the creature's chest just behind the foreleg, scraped bone, twisting his hand with the force of the creature's spring, and Max cried out as pain flashed through his wrist. Ignoring it as best he could, he dragged the knife free and struck again, jerking up his other arm to shield his face. He felt teeth penetrating his shirt sleeve, and he blurted an involuntary cry of pain. The creature shuddered at the knife's penetration, but it continued to savage his arm.

When the attack stopped, Max didn't realize it immediately. He pulled the knife loose to strike again, but the creature went limp and collapsed on top of him, its fetid breath searing across his face for an instant before a long sigh shuddered out of the creature. Struggling wildly to free himself, Max tried to wiggle out from under it, shivering away from the touch of the thing.

Then he became aware of the shouting. Torchlight gave him a distorted view of the savage muzzle inches from his face, the eyes glittering for a moment, then going dull as life left the beast. A second later, it was rolled off his body and a huge man with sword in his hand looked down at Max and smiled benignly.

"By the power, that was a good fight!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. Passing the sword to a second man clad in an identical tunic--a uniform maybe--he stretched out a hand to Max and deposited him on his feet, bracing him for a second when Max's knees would have buckled. "Arm looks nasty, but we'll have you fighting fit in no time. Welcome. I don't recognize your livery, but anyone who fights a mur-wolf like that is one of us."

"Mur-wolf?" Max echoed dazedly. "Whatever it was, it was big."

One of the others in the background, a woman, exclaimed and held up Max's shuriken. The big man's eyes widened as if he'd seen something miraculous, and he plucked it from her hand, staring at it as if it was his hope of heaven. "A wheel?" he asked. "A wheeled weapon? What is it called?"

"A shuriken," Max explained helplessly. His wrist throbbed and his arm hurt fiercely where the teeth had savaged him.

His big rescuer turned his eyes from the shuriken reluctantly, saw Max sway a little and caught him up in his arms as easily as he would a child. "Well, come on," he urged his fellows. "Back to the fire. We've longer to wait for the Prince, but we've got a hero to tend."

"Hero?" Max echoed muzzily.

"That you are, my lad," his new friend assured him. "Anyone who can take a mur-wolf with a knife is a hero, and we've been waiting for your shuriken for years, we have." He grinned. "I'm Dagan, and this is my Guard troop. Let's get you bandaged and fed, and then it will be time for exchanging stories. Your name--you are perhaps the Acolyte?"

"I'm Max Keller," Max replied.

Dagan appeared satisfied with that. "I don't suppose you've seen the Prince this night?" he asked, depositing Max before the nearest fire and calling for water and ale.

"I don't know the prince," Max admitted apologetically.

"You came from the Sacred Grove," one of the others mentioned hesitantly.

"You mean up there?" Max gestured unwarily and winced at the motion.

"He crossed the Gate." Dagan's voice put an end to the discussion as he began the decidedly unpleasant task of cleaning Max's wound. Max grimaced as he pulled the sleeve away from the injury, and made himself look at it, relieved to find it wasn't as bad as he'd expected, at least not until Dagan ruthlessly upended the contents of an earthenware flask over it. With a screech that might have roused the dead, Max sat bolt upright, only to relax as he felt Henry scrambling frantically in his pocket. Dagan's hand clasped his shoulder apologetically. "Sorry, lad," he murmured. "Had to be done. A mur-wolf's bite can go septic if we don't care for it right away. I know it hurts. Better to have it hurt clean."

Max decided he preferred his own world's antibiotics, but he didn't say so. Instead he reached into his pocket to free Henry, settling him in the curve of his arm. His right wrist was starting to feel better; it had only been wrenched rather than sprained.

"What manner of beastie is that?" ventured one of the other soldiers.

"He's a hamster."

"Food?"

"A pet," Max replied, bristling at the thought of someone dining on Henry.

"Not enough meat on it to make it worth carrying for food," Dagan pointed out placatingly. "It's different across the Gate, Rad."

"How do you know, Sarge?" Rad asked. "You've never been there."

"The Prince told me."

It was apparent that the Prince, whoever he was, had been in Max's world, and Max wondered if he was one of the two men in the bar. Making a choice, he asked, "His name isn't Arran, is it?"

"So you did see him," Dagan said, relaxing. "What was he doing?"

"Seeing how I could fight."

"So he sent you here." Dagan grinned. "From the way you took the mur-wolf, he was right about you."

Max winced as Dagan poured something else on his wound, but this time it only stung a little. Max glanced down at his arm and saw that whatever it was was fizzing like peroxide. Maybe it was peroxide. At least it would clean the wound.

He was sleepy and drained from the fight, only dimly aware of one of the soldiers, a tall, lean woman who looked like she could take a mur-wolf with her bare hands, coming forward and offering his knife, thoroughly cleaned and rid of the mur-wolf's blood. "Your weapon, Sir Max," she muttered respectfully, and Max had to fight back giggles at the title. He decided he must be delirious. None of this could be real.

As Dagan fastened a rough but efficient bandage around his wound, another trooper brought him a blanket, and the next thing Max knew, he was lying before the fire, half asleep, sipping excellent ale from a jug. "When the Prince comes," Dagan told him, "he'll answer your questions."

"I'm glad somebody will," Max returned. I've got enough of them."

McAllister stood and examined the glade for a long time, seeking traces of Max before he went to the place where the trees drew apart and surveyed the valley. The standing stones led down to distant campfires, and it was likely that Max would have gone there. Surely the fires would be friendly--although he had no reason to assume as much. Serralla sounded devious from what Dare had--and had not--said, and it would be like her to be waiting here to capture a chance met stranger. If Dare and Arran were the good guys and Serralla the villain of the piece, she would try to counter the two men's moves with some of her own. If Dare was right and this was Protectorate territory, it could be that Serralla could not come here. The Empress might not want to risk herself so far inside enemy territory. That didn't mean she couldn't send her minions to do her dirty work, and McAllister had only his impressions of Arran and Dare to go on, to determine if they were honorable or not. Although he had not immediately warmed to them, he did not feel any real deception in them. If they had manipulated him and Max for their own purposes--and he knew now that they had somehow compelled them to stop at the bar--he sensed desperation rather than motives of gain behind their machinations. They were fighting for their lives, desperate enough to use whatever tools came to hand. There had been something about a prophecy too, or a legend, and if Serralla didn't believe in it, she couldn't entirely discount it either. So the Master would have to be very careful. He did not fear for himself, although this was outside his realm of experience. He knew what he was capable of. But Max had less exposure to situations that were outside his perceptions, and he might disbelieve in this enough to fall into unnecessary danger. McAllister had to find Max right away. He set off down the hillside toward the distant campfires, hoping that Max was there and safe.

Halfway down the hill, he knew himself to be pursued.

He halted abruptly, blending into the shadow of one of the stones, becoming still, invisible, a phantom. Not even the sound of his heartbeat would give him away. Regulating his breathing, he waited, tensed and poised for danger. The presence was closer. He could feel it, but at the same time, he sensed that it was not there, as if someone were watching him from a great distance.

Very good. Very good indeed. The voice was not for his ears but for his mind and his instincts. So you are my enemy.

Even though he could not really hear it, he knew that the mind touch was female. "Serralla?" He spoke aloud, certain that if it were she, she could hear him in return, and did, for he felt a ripple of amused respect.

I should have known. Dare cheated. He always does. But no matter. I will vanquish you with or without your awareness. l am the dark sorceress. You are the one who turned from the dark. You exist within it, but you are no longer of it. How much pleasure it will give me to break down your fragile protective shell and loose the evil within you again.

"The old ways are gone." said McAllister levelly.

Not here, Defender, she all but chortled. Not here.

Contact broke then as if she had reached the limits of her endurance: mind talking must require great reserves of energy, McAllister decided. So Serralla was the enemy after all, even if Dare cheated by speaking of her in the other world. She knew him, knew he had turned from the old way of ninjutsu. She meant to turn him back again, and McAllister suspected that if she succeeded, it would be a victory for her and a defeat for Raban and the Protectorate. But McAllister did not intend to be turned. He didn't understand how these people knew of him, and that didn't really matter now. What did was that he get to Max right away. Max was his one vulnerability, and if Serralla discovered that, Max would be in great danger. He was probably already in danger.

McAllister stepped from his hiding place that had been no hiding place and hurried down into valley. As he neared the campfires, he hesitated, unwilling to burst into the middle of an armed camp, even though he could have done it without being detected. These people were at war, and they would not take kindly to strangers. He hoped they hadn't taken exception to Max's presence and killed him out of hand, but the camp seemed relatively calm.

Before he reached the camp, he came upon the body of a wolf--at least he thought it was a wolf until he got a better look at it. Cautiously he circled the carcass, noting the tusks, the set of the ears, the powerful body, the alien musculature. The facts of its difference from his own world analog brought it home to him even more forcefully than Serralla's communication had that he was no longer in his own familiar world.

"You there!" The voice came from behind him. "Identify yourself!"

He turned toward the campfires again and saw several armed men and women carrying swords or maces or axes, braced and ready to fight him if need be. He spread his hands to show that he held no weapons and said mildly, "Arran sent me."

A murmur ran through the soldiers at that, and abruptly a huge man five or six inches taller than the Master pushed through them and stood ready. He carried only a staff, but McAllister knew that staff could be a deadly weapon in the right hands. Although the new man looked a gentle giant, his jaw was set in a determined line.

"He's from the Prince, Sarge," the youngest man cried. "He's the one, he must be."

"You were expecting me?" McAllister asked mildly. "Is Max here?"

That sent a buzz of excitement through the line of troops, but the sergeant didn't waste time exclaiming. "My name's Dagan," he introduced himself. "Max is here. Come."

The line parted to let him through and he followed Dagan to the nearest campfire, where Max lay sleeping, one arm bandaged. Dagan put out an abrupt hand and stayed the Master when he would have bent to investigate his young friend's injury. "Hold. He killed the mur-wolf you were looking at back there. His wounds are not serious, but he needs to rest. The morning will be time enough for reunions." He caught McAllister's arm, which prompted a whole series of gasps from his troops and led McAllister to the next fire, where a spit braced over the flames contained the body of a much smaller animal that looked like a rabbit. Dagan lifted the spit from the fire and passed it to McAllister. "Are you hungry, man?"

"I could use a bite," McAllister agreed, and introduced himself. Seeing no utensils, he took out a knife and hacked off a piece of meat, then, returning the spit to Dagan, he sat before the fire, propping his pack beside him, and began to eat. A dozen of the soldiers bunched around, watching him eat as if they had never seen anyone have a meal before. McAllister looked around the circle, recognizing this band for a warrior troop; curious and excited though they were, they did not relax, and guards were dispatched automatically to patrol the perimeter of the camp. They were a tough lot, hard and wary, hands never very far from the swords they wore, but when they looked at him, a superstitious hope filled their eyes. McAllister had never considered himself the salvation of an entire people, and he was uncomfortable with the idea, although he had enough savoire faire to sit at ease among the soldiers.

Dagan sliced himself some meat and returned the spit before hunkering down beside the Master and taking a bite. A man brought a flask and Dagan drank from it before passing it to McAllister. He half expected it to be alcohol, which he didn't touch, but it wasn't; it was some kind of hearty fruit drink with a taste somewhere between apples and pears and it was refreshing. Dagan dragged the back of his sleeve across his mouth and grinned. "Grenberry juice. We had some ale, but I poured it on Max's wound; you can't be too careful with mur-wolf bites." Sensing McAllister's arrested movement, he laughed comfortably. "He'll be fine. A little feverish in the morning, maybe, but he'll do. A handy fighter, that lad, with plenty of spunk. Did the Prince pick a fight with him to test his mettle?"

"Prince?" McAllister asked.

"Prince Arran. He went to your world to fetch you back. Knowing the lad, he would have enjoyed a good fight, and I would guess Max'd give him one."

"You're right on both counts," McAllister returned with a smile. He liked this man. Although Dagan was hardly a cosmopolitan type, he was calmly accepting of two strangers from another world, more down to earth than his awed troops, obviously in control. Yet beneath his military position, he could unbend and enjoy the experience. He was concerned enough for a stranger to take good care of Max and to go out of his way to reassure McAllister. Dagan had a good heart.

Dagan laughed. "Suppose you tell us about it," he suggested. "I've had the training of Arran since he was a wee lad. He's good, better than his teacher. I'm a mite clumsy for delicate work. But Arran isn't. As fine a swordsman I've seen, unless it's the Minister himself."

"The Minister?"

"Our Lord Protector, Raban, is Arran's father," Dagan explained easily. "His First Minister, Lord Dare, a dark man that some folks say has no heart, stands as godfather and protector to Arran, no easy task."

"I can see why," McAllister said, grinning. "Arran doesn't look like he'd be easily broken to bridle. I know how that is from experience with Max. A hot tempered lad--both of them are. And it wasn't swords. He had a dagger."

"He learned his knife fighting from Dare. Dare can kill without hesitation--but an honorable man for all that. Our Lord Protector values him." Dagan passed the flask again. "So tell us about the fight."

McAllister made a good story of it, and the soldiers who weren't on patrol or guard duty gathered around to listen. Tales around the campfire must be the local equivalent of television, thought McAllister with a smile, doing his best with the tale. The locals took Max's toss through the window as a victory for their Prince and celebrated it with cheers and hoots and catcalls until Dagan called them to order, reminding them of the injured man in their midst. McAllister knew Max could sleep through anything short of the third world war and he didn't try to restrain them. He did get up and go over to look at Max though, sitting beside him and putting a hand on his forehead to test for fever.

Max was a little too hot, but when Dagan joined him holding a different flask and offered to change the dressing, McAllister opted to do it himself. Peeling away Dagan's bandages, he caught his breath at the sight of the wound, caused by the mur-wolf's teeth, but he thought it looked worse than it really was, the damage superficial, and Dagan had cleaned it very thoroughly. McAllister called for his pack and cleaned it once more with supplies from his first aid kit, which drew a few of the men to watch him with superstitious awe as if they suspected him of wizardry.

Max muttered a protest as the alcohol stung his wound and struggled back to consciousness through the layers of sleep. "That hurts," he muttered fretfully, then he opened his eyes and awareness filtered into them. "I see you made it," he told the Master with a grin.

"You know me." McAllister clapped him on the shoulder. "I spend half my time following you into trouble."

"This is some trouble," agreed Max. "Where are we anyway? I thought I was unconscious or delirious, but I keep waking up and I'm still here. This is nuts."

"We're in a place called the Protectorate," McAllister explained. "It's another world or another dimension. I'm not sure why we're here yet, but it has something to do with a woman called Serralla." Her name drew a series of mutters and curses from the circle around the fire. "Although I don't know all the details yet. Lie still," McAllister added, once again swabbing the wound. "I should have known you'd be fighting wolves before I could get here to stop you."

"Listen, I would have loved to let you stop me," Max pointed out, roused to defend himself. "I didn't exactly ask to come here, you know."

"No, but knowing you, you couldn't resist crashing through that bar window."

Max propped himself up on his good elbow. "I think you've finally convinced me. No more bar windows. So when do we go home?"

"When we've done what we came here to do." McAllister explained. "Your opponent in the bar is a prince here, and from what I can gather, he's one of the good guys."

"Oh great," Max muttered. "I can't wait to meet the opposition. We should have turned west at North Platte."

"Oh, I don't know, Max. This could be quite an experience."

"Oh yeah? Are we having fun yet?"

McAllister chuckled. ''I'll let you know," he promised as he put the finishing touches on a new bandage. "Why don't you go back to sleep. I'll explain everything in the morning."

''I'll hold you to that, old fella," Max promised sleepily, but he closed his eyes anyway.

McAllister said, "Wait a minute," and arranged his pack to make a pillow.

Max settled against it, finding the most comfortable position then roused a little. "You better take Henry. I don't want to roll on him in the night."

McAllister fetched the hamster from Max's pocket and arranged a makeshift cage for him before he went to sleep too. They were safe for the moment, but he didn't know what the morning would bring, and he wanted his rest. Stretching out beside Max, he closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.

In the morning, Dare and Arran arrived, accompanied by Chel, who, out of the cook's clothes, looked a different man. Although he tried to maintain an unobtrusive appearance, there was a bright gleam of intelligence in his eyes, and the green tunic he wore had a look of affluence about it. He and Dare were bickering amiably when McAllister roused from sleep, while Arran strode about the camp, barking orders. He sounded unbearably arrogant, but McAllister realized that the squad, although quick to obey, didn't seem intimidated and even regarded him with some fondness. They probably remembered him as a child and didn't care that he tested his wings among them.

Dare sat back calmly, his face revealing nothing as he watched Arran bustle about urging the men to break camp. When McAllister splashed water on his face and went to join him, he turned a calculating eye in his direction and announced, "We will talk today."

"I think that's a good idea," McAllister agreed. He wasn't quite ready to mention Serralla's contact, suspecting that it was best to leave it for now. Instead he asked, "Where are we going today?"

"To Abarant, Raban's capital. You must meet with him as soon as possible. Although we're well within Protectorate territory, we could be attacked, either by more mur-wolves or by one of Serralla's mercenary bands. We won't get Imperial troops this far from their lines, at least not yet, but Serralla sometimes hires Techtan mercenaries and they fight anywhere. They also move quickly and quietly. They're good fighters and, once bought, they're loyal." His mouth curled a little. "Raban won't hire them."

"My father's right," Arran said, coming up behind Lord Dare. "And you know it. Protectorate troops are good enough for us."

"I hope you feel that way when your father's head adorns a stake outside Crag Castle," Dare muttered with a deprecating gesture. Arran flashed him a hot look, but he must be used to Dare, for he didn't react as McAllister had half expected, but controlled his anger, biting his lip.

Instead he turned to McAllister. "I hear that Max killed a mur-wolf with a knife last night," he said eagerly. "That must have been a good fight. How is he today?"

"I've been letting him sleep till the last minute," McAllister said. "I'm going to wake him now. Come along if you like." Here in this new world, Arran's tunic and sword looked natural, although the blue jeans he'd obviously acquired in the USA seemed out of place. He'd tucked the pants legs into suede boots, obviously worn and comfortable, and, now he was home, he'd donned a silver amulet like the one McAllister had been given and the one Dare wore.

"Take over, Dare," Arran said carelessly over his shoulder, and McAllister saw the dark man stiffen, although he didn't comment, rising to obey the Prince's command without a word. Arran looked after him. "Dare doesn't approve of me," he told the Master cheerfully. "He thinks me frivolous and untested, and he's largely right, although I can be serious when I must. I know how bad things are. Dare's been there ever since I was a boy, and I used to worship him. Now--I don't know. He's my father's closest friend and I know he'd die for him--but he can be damned unpleasant."

"Maybe he has reason," McAllister suggested mildly.

"More than you know. I'll tell you about it sometime."

They reached Max then and found him sitting up, tentatively examining his arm. Arran went forward eagerly. "So, Max. They say you gave the mur-wolf a good fight. I wish I'd seen it. Mur-wolves are hard to kill. Not one man in ten could kill one with a knife, and I've seen men with better weapons fall to them. How's the arm?"

Max threw him a suspicious glance, catching McAllister's eye. The Master nodded and Max relaxed. "I'll live. You didn't tell me I was going to have to fight wolves. That's the last time I let myself get thrown through a bar window."

Arran grinned engagingly. "I don't seem to remember actually throwing you," he pointed out.

Max grimaced. "I was hoping nobody had noticed that. Getting thrown out is bad enough. Falling--well, that's a lot harder to live with."

"Practice," McAllister told him. "You'll get it right one of these days, Max."

"Sure, here. Doesn't look like there are any windows to get thrown through."

"We can find you a few," Arran cut in. "Glass is precious here, but my father has a few glazed windows back at Abarant. You'll need to keep away from them, Max."

"Then you keep away from me with knives," Max insisted. He stood up cautiously as if expecting to be dizzy, then a grin broke through and he strutted around with a macho expression on his face that matched anything Arran could have produced. "I'm feeling pretty good," he bragged. "What happens now?"

"I'm not sure this is the right place to tell you," demurred the Prince. "Dare should tell it or my father; both of them would be better at giving you the whole picture than I am. But to put it simply, you're here in answer to an ancient prophecy. We've known of your world for hundreds of years and we've sent observers through. We're not allowed to borrow from you, and to be honest, we want none of your technology here until we're ready for it. Although I rather liked the motor bike I learned to ride while we were waiting for you."

"You just took a chance that somebody would show up who'd match your prophecy?" Max asked with heavy skepticism. "Come on, I don't buy that. You had to know who we are. I don't like that. I bet you found out about the Master's daughter and left a false trail to lead us right past that bar. I'm right, aren't I?"

"We were desperate," Arran replied. "We had no choice."

"I bet. Why should we help you after that? Playing around with the Master's feelings..." He shot a resentful glare at Arran, and the Master heaved a sigh, disappointed that their clues were not leading them to Teri after all. But he decided not to pass judgment yet. Arran really did look uncomfortable about his tactics.

"I don't like being spied on or manipulated," Max went on hotly.

"I don't like doing it." Arran sounded convincing. "But the time matched the prophecy, and our need is desperate. We had to do it. If all goes well, you'll be returned safely to your own world when this is all over."

"Sure--or we'll be killed."

"Not by us," Arran defended himself. "You lead dangerous lives in your own world and reports indicate you like taking risks as much as I do, Max. When Dare heard about you, he was disgusted. He said it sounded like he'd have two Arrans to cope with instead of only one."

"Heaven help us," muttered McAllister under his breath. "Not that."

Max, who hadn't quite heard, shot him a suspicious look as if he'd got the gist of it without much trouble.

Before he could comment, McAllister turned to Arran. "Your time of crisis called for someone like Max and me?" he asked with interest.

"That's right." Dare had come up behind them unremarked, although McAllister had been subliminally aware of him, and he turned easily to face the First Minister. "When we realized more than a year ago that the time of crisis was upon us and that the Defender and his acolyte were to come from your world rather than our own, we contacted our observers and instructed them to start searching for someone who matched the prophecy." He had a cynical cast to his face as if he couldn't believe he'd gone along with such a plan. Skepticism seemed to be Dare's middle name, but he had not resisted the scheme, although he didn't appear to believe in it. "You and Max fit it best. One of our observers talked to someone who had seen the two of you in action, and the observer was excited enough to send for me. When I heard about you, I agreed it was worth trying."

"Of course you did," Arran muttered. "It took my father and the council to persuade you that it was worth the effort to track them down, and you only went because my father ordered it. Now that it looks like Max and McAllister fill the prophecy, you want the credit for it."

"I am quite satisfied to let you take full credit, my Prince," Dare told him, casting him an exasperated look. "Or Raban himself. He has quite a knack of getting involved with people who will lead him into trouble. The treaty with Vallon comes to mind."

"My father wanted that treaty," Arran shot back. "The more kingdoms and nations that fall to Serralla, the harder it will be for the rest of us to resist her empire."

"You've left your concern a bit late," said Dare. "The West grows stronger with each passing day. More and more land is absorbed into Serralla's power base. She's across the Stone Mountains now and moving steadily East. I do not see how two men, two outlanders, skilled fighters or no, can make a difference. We will be defeated like all the rest, and Serralla's rule will cover the land."

"Then run away and hide someplace beyond the Barrier Mountains, Dare, since you obviously don't have the stomach for a fight."

"Well now, my Prince, I could never do that." Dare's voice was a sneer. "Your father would find me and drag me back."

"My father would never stop you if you wanted to run." Arran caught his rapidly building temper with a considerable effort. "He loves you. And I think if it came down to the moment, you wouldn't leave him either."

"Believe what you wish, my Prince," came Dare's cold reply. "But remember although we are in Protectorate lands now, we are not safe this far from the castle. I suggest we break camp and return to Abarant before many minutes pass."

Max was disgusted to learn that he was expected to ride to Abarant Castle in one of the wagons instead of on horseback, but Dagan decided it would be easier on his arm, and Max had to admit his wound was not yet healed. There was a dull ache in it that sharpened when he moved too quickly, and when the caravan started for the castle and he realized how fast the horses could go, he knew that Dagan had been right. Still, he felt like he was being patronized or treated like a child while the 'adults' had a chance to prove their mettle. Dare settled upon a black horse that had beautiful lines and pranced about spiritedly until Dare brought him to hand. The Prince rode a roan, and he swung into the saddle, a strangely shaped device that looked eastern and exotic to Max's untrained eyes, grinning as his mount danced energetically. He looked like he had been riding since he could walk. McAllister mounted easily. Max should have known. He looked completely at ease on horseback as if he had years of riding experience.

One of the guards, a woman named Vesper, drove Max's wagon, and the team had spirit too; once they were started southeast toward Abarant, all the horses went faster than any horses Max had ever seen. It was yet another difference between home and here, one more thing to convince him that this was really happening.

"You all right?" Vesper asked him. She looked about his own age, but he didn't think he would have mistaken her for an 'Earthwoman.' She had the same exotic look around her eyes that the blonde woman back at the bar had, although her hair was a copper shade that shone in the pale yellow sunshine. She wore a cloak lined with grey fur over her uniform, and Max didn't doubt she could use the sword buckled at her side. Her hands were sturdy and capable on the reins, but when she turned and smiled at him, she was no less female than the girls he'd known back home.

"They say you are the Acolyte," she offered in a voice loud enough to be heard over the pounding hooves of her team.

"What's an acolyte?" Max asked. "I thought it was an altar boy or something."

It was her turn to look blank. "I don't know what that is. But our prophecy says that two will come in our time of greatest need, the Defender and his Acolyte. Your friend is the Defender, he who has turned from the darkness to the light. Only someone who has done such can defeat the Sorceress."

"Sorceress?" Max asked dubiously. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. He'd read a few sword and sorcery books, but he'd never expected to find himself living in one of them. He found himself wishing he'd got around to learning how to play Dungeons and Dragons. "But the Master doesn't have those kind of powers," he objected. "Just his ninja skills."

"Ninja?" She shook her head before he could reply. "No, you must tell no secrets of your world. I shouldn't learn too much because you'll go back there after and I never will, and Raban has forbidden us to know too much about your world."

That made sense. It sounded like things were going badly here, so badly that Raban had to send for outside help. Max wondered if that made him and McAllister mercenaries. But if it was that bad, people might want to escape it--by passing through the gate into his world. Probably not a great idea. They had enough trouble here; they were bound to find his world more than they had bargained for. "Right," he said. "What am I supposed to do here? Fight dragons?"

She threw him a wide eyed gaze he suspected was largely put on. "You have dragons in your world, Max?"

"Nah," he denied hastily. "I just thought maybe you did."

"We have enough trouble here without that, too."

"So tell me about it."

During the high speed race for the castle, Vesper filled him in a little on the background of this land, not only the Protectorate but the world itself from the eastern Barrier mountains to the Western ocean, from Erly and Kalivera past the Stone Mountains, across the plains nations of Iothana, Lahana, Rotha and Wen, where nomadic tribesmen roved seeking game and warring with each other at the drop of a hat, to the nations that bordered the twin river systems of Amozary and Mazilla, to the Barrier range beyond which no one had explored, but where it was said wild tribesmen dwelled. For centuries the world, Lorrania, had been a series of small kingdoms, dukedoms, and nations whose leaders amused themselves with minor wars. Allegiances changed all the time, and each ruler maintained a standing army because one never knew if the duke who fought on your side in the last battle might change his allegiance and fight against you in the next one. But aside from the Incoming, an annual meeting held at Crag Castle in the West, on the coast of the Western Ocean, there was nothing resembling a centralized government. Until recently Crag Castle had been the capital of the duchy of Erly, and the duke had been one of the most powerful rulers in the land. But the duke had died mysteriously four years ago, and in his place had risen his daughter Serralla, who was a magician without peer. Some said she had killed her father with a spell, some that she had poisoned him, and others swore she had hired assassins to put an end to his life. Whichever it was, once the duke was dead, Serralla took control of the army and began a series of battles that caused one kingdom after another to fall, to be swallowed up within her growing empire. In the old days, wars were small and private things, but as more nations were absorbed, their troops were absorbed too, and trained to be a part of her rapidly growing army. Even without the magic, if something wasn't done soon, Serralla's army would be too large to defeat, and Raban, who was determined to halt her, was hampered by the fact that the various kingdoms of Lorrania had never been united before, and the rulers were suspicious of each other. Raban was working to unite them against the growing tyranny of the Western empire, but each kingdom was determined to protect itself first. Although Raban had tried to lay the groundwork for a united army to meet Serralla's force, he had not yet been able to overcome the traditional suspicion that existed between the various factions.

A shaky alliance was beginning to form in the overwhelming evidence of Serralla's purpose, but it was a fragile one, and the slightest misstep might cause it to topple. Raban had wanted to come here himself, but he had the representatives of twenty different kingdoms and principalities ensconced at Abarant where he had assigned himself the task of playing peacemaker. Max got the idea that Raban was slightly more foresighted than his fellows, that he was a driven man, and that he had sent his son and his First Minister here because diplomacy was not their strong suit. Dare was coolly outspoken and Arran was like Max in that fighting was often his first solution to a problem. It was easy for Max to look at Arran and decided that fighting was not always the wisest way to cope, but it was harder for him to recognize it for himself, and he began to feel a sneaking kinship with the Prince.

The real problem was not Serralla's military strategy at all, although she was a skilled battle commander, but rather her magical talents. She was powerful enough to turn men's minds around; she could address a captured army and they would find themselves following her. She could send her thoughts across great distances and influence leaders who had not yet met her in battle. She could make a charging army believe it was about to race off a cliff or into a wall of fire.

"She has no scruples at all," Vesper went on in tones of outrage. "Always before, when wars were fought, there were rules." She sounded betrayed. "Serralla doesn't believe in rules. She doesn't believe in anything but herself. The only thing that matters is her. Even Dare, who acts like he cares for no one but himself--" Her voice dropped and she looked around uneasily, heaving a sigh of relief when she realized that no one had been within earshot when she spoke. "Even Dare really does have honor. He doesn't like it spoken, but he'd die for the Protector. They're like brothers, even more than Chel, who is Dare's real brother. He's Raban's liege man. He'd follow him into fire if he had to." She grinned suddenly as Max grimaced. "No one expects you to like Dare, at least not right away," she said. "But we will expect you to respect him."

"Whatever you say," Max muttered easily. "Okay. I can see you've got a problem from a military point of view, and McAllister can probably help you there. He's been in two wars. I was too young to really fight in our last one. But we're not wizards or magicians. I don't see how the Master can take on this Serralla. He can't fight spells." But Max wondered. There was the Master's inner strength, his chi. Maybe he could focus that to resist spells somehow. Maybe the spells didn't work on people from another dimension, although Max had scant hope of that.

"Serralla was foretold," Vesper reminded Max. "And so were you and...the Master. The only one who can resist Serralla is someone who has been in the darkness and has found his way back to the light. From what I've heard of your Master, he once belonged to an evil sect of killers, but he renounced them and turned his back on their evil."

"He was never evil," Max objected, wondering if he was being naive. He knew the Master had killed for hire. The first time Max had seen the Master overcome Okasa, the Master had responded to Okasa's taunt to kill his enemy as he had always done by claiming that he would never do so again. He had walked away from Okasa without killing him, and only a fool could take that to mean that McAllister had led a life of pure contemplation and discipline without ever killing an enemy. Some of that had to have been for survival, but Max knew it was more than that. Maybe McAllister had done more than renounce his students who had turned to the old ways. They had been more gung ho than the Master could tolerate, but he had to know where they were coming from. McAllister had once confessed to Max that he had gone after a fellow ninja who had tried to leave the sect, and it had taken Max time to work that out and stop feeling like he had been betrayed. He had finally realized that such a feeling was childish, and that it was what the Master was now that mattered, not what he had once been. The fact that he could be what he was now with that kind of background was all the more impressive than if he had always been on the side of the light, and Max began to see what Vesper meant.

"But surely there are other people who've been on the other side and then come back," he objected. "There must be people like that here."

"There are people like that everywhere," Vesper agreed. "At least I hope so. But they don't have the gifts the Master does. The prophecy says he can become invisible and walk through walls, and that he can make all kinds of unlikely weapons do his bidding, weapons we don't understand. The wheel you threw at the mur-wolf, for instance. The prophecies say that he commands wheels of death. Nobody knew what that meant until the word came from your world; someone had seen him fight. They saw him fling smoke and vanish into it. They saw him jump higher than most people and disguise himself to be unrecognizable. He can disarm enemies from a distance and fight a group of men and overcome them single handed. And the prophecy mentions a student who fights at his side. So he fulfills more of the prophecy than anyone has done before. They said he crossed the water to leave his past behind, as the prophecy foretells, and that he is on a quest that he cannot abandon."

"Looking for his daughter," Max explained.

"An honorable search," Vesper commented. "Max, can you do these things too, become invisible, things like that?"

"Some of them but not as well as he does. I can fight, though. Give me a weapon and I can fight, even if I can't see where my enemies are."

"In the darkness?" she asked sharply.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because it might be necessary. There's a labyrinth beneath Crag Castle, and it's pitch black. It's full of pitfalls and there are vicious creatures there, and illusions. Someone who can fight in the dark might be able to get into the castle that way. Can the Master penetrate such areas?"

"Well, he's got into high security areas before," Max replied, remembering the time they had penetrated a museum full of high tech defenses. This would require a different technique, but he could picture the Master handling it. Maybe, just maybe, McAllister had taught Max enough that he could survive it too. And there were ways to light the darkness. Crag Castle wasn't high on Max's list of tourist stops, but you never knew what would come up, and if the way home led through the labyrinth, then Max would not back down, even though he hated the idea.

"Good," Vesper replied, although she didn't sound entirely reassured.

"I don't know about all this magic, though," Max admitted honestly. "It scares me."

"It scares me too," she confessed. "Dare says anybody who isn't scared by it is a fool. Of course Dare thinks everybody is a fool but him, but this time I think he's right."

"What do you do in all this?" Max wanted to know.

"I'm a Guard," Vesper replied. "My duty is to the Protectorate, and I'm assigned to Arran's personal Guard troop. Dagan is our sergeant, and he's tough, but he's decent. There are a lot worse people to work for."

"Have you been in battle?"

"Yes."

From the abruptness of her answer, Max decided it would be better not to ask any more questions, but Vesper had the seasoned look of a warrior who has killed before. She didn't particularly like it, but she did it because it was her job and it was necessary. Life here was harder than back home, or maybe Max had some chauvinistic ideas he hadn't realized he had. If Vesper had been a man instead of a woman, he wouldn't have been shocked. Used to rescuing damsels in distress, Max wasn't quite sure how to deal with one who did her own rescuing. He wondered how people were chosen to the Guard.

"Anyone can go into it," Vesper explained when he asked. "My father and mother were both guards, so there didn't seem to be much choice for me, although my brother decided to go into the church."

"Church?" Max asked a few questions and discovered that religion here was a loosely organized thing and ranks translated to priests, bishops, and cardinals, although the actual words must be different. It had dawned on Max that he was speaking a different language and as long as he didn't think about it. he had no problem with it, the words translating automatically in his head. But when he tried to pin it down and do a literal translation, it blurred away from him. Now he knew he was getting a translation that was familiar to him, but the religion Vesper described didn't really resemble Christianity unless it was in the structure of the hierarchy. It was monotheistic, but it seemed to have a basis in some primitive ritualistic structure, slowly modernizing. There had been human sacrifices once, but those days had been banished centuries past. Vesper spoke with scorn of a few holdouts in the remote mountains and amid the occasional plains tribe where 'modern' civilization hadn't found its way yet. She pointed out a man in a red cloak riding at the head of the column, whom Max hadn't noticed the night before. "That's Bishop Alver," she explained. "He came along to celebrate the ritual. You were probably still asleep."

"What's the ritual like?" Max asked, interested.

"It's a holdover from the old sacrifice days." she explained. "Only now an image is sacrificed instead, an offering unto the day. Made of grass or straw or wood. It has to be newly made each time."

"An effigy?" Max asked, and she nodded.

There was something of a commotion up ahead and the whole party began to slow down. Vesper's hands tightened on the reins as she drew her team up, and a few minutes later, Arran and the Master rode their horses back along the train. "Lunch," the Master told Max. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine." He had almost forgotten his injury, and now, reminded of it, he was pleased to note that it felt better. He hopped easily down from the wagon, grimacing slightly as the landing jarred it, and the Master said. "I'll change the dressing. You'll be okay in a couple of days."

"Great."

The troop of soldiers shared out food quickly and efficiently, sticks of dried meat and slices of coarse bread, followed by an apple-like fruit with a pulpier texture and a sweeter taste. McAllister sat with Max as they ate. "I've been finding out more about this world," he explained. "It looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

"How're we supposed to be able to take on a sorceress?" Max asked skeptically, taking a bite from his pseudo apple.

"As near as I can make out, her powers aren't supposed to work against me," McAllister said mildly. "But that doesn't mean she can't use conventional means, and her powers will work against other people. She's strong, but there is only so much she can do at anyone time, and she can't do it indefinitely."

"You hope," Max muttered. He didn't like the thought of the Master confronting Serralla one bit.

"She contacted me as soon as I arrived," McAllister confided, too low for Vesper to hear. "Some kind of telepathy, I believe. It felt strange. She knows I'm a threat to her and she understands why a lot better than I do. I'm learning what she can do--and one of the things could be to force someone else to try to harm me. Which means I'll need to be on my guard against her--and other people."

"I'll keep an eye on you," offered Max.

"She might even be able to reach you, Max."

"She couldn't make me hurt you," Max protested, tossing away his 'apple' core.

"She might make you believe I was someone else," McAllister explained. "A threat of some kind. I'm telling you this so you'll know what we're up against."

"But you make it sound impossible!"

"Max, Max," the Master chided, shaking his head. "Haven't I taught you yet that nothing's impossible? You make it impossible by doubting yourself."

"But if they can get to me--"

"I do know a few things about self-defense, Max."

"Yeah, but they may try to poison you or shoot you from a distance or something like that."

"They may try. The Royal House seems exempt from Serralla's powers. That is, they can see through her psionic talents. She can create an illusion and they can see it, but it doesn't look right, and they can tell it's not real. So they've decided that Arran will stick close to me as much as possible. They think you'll be able to see past the illusions too, since you're not from this world, but they won't know for sure until she tries something. If I'm really the Defender, then I'm immune, too."

"If!" cried Max. "You mean they might have brought you here and you're not the one at all! How are we supposed to know?"

"We'll know--when the time comes. That's what Dare says."

"Yeah, and I'll bet he enjoyed every bit of it." Max grimaced. "I don't like that guy."

"It's just his way," said McAllister mildly. "He's been through a lot. So he doesn't let much get through to him. Raban's about the only real friend he has left, besides his brother, although that seems to be different."

"Well, brothers don't always get along," Max pointed out. He'd been close to his own brother, but just looking at Dare, he could tell that things would be different there.

"Probably the best thing for you to do is to stay out of Dare's way," McAllister said.

"You bet I'll stay out of his way," Max agreed. "He gives me the creeps."

"We're ready to start again," said an amazingly bland voice just behind him, and Max stiffened before he looked up. It was Dare, standing there with a cold, expressionless face. Max lifted his eyes for a minute to the older man's, and he was startled to see a glimpse of sardonic humor flash in the Minister's eyes. He ignored Max's unwary words completely. Oops.

McAllister said to Dare, "I want to dress Max's wound again before we go."

"Then be quick about it."

McAllister took out his first aid kit and set to work, while Dare hovered over them, peering over the Master's shoulder to inspect the wound. "It looks clean," he commented. "Dagan knows his stuff, and so do you, apparently." He turned to Max. "How does it feel?"

"Better." Max was surprised to hear something resembling concern in the man's voice, but then if he was supposed to be the Acolyte, whatever that entailed, Dare might be concerned about his health for the sake of their country rather than anything more personal.

"Good." Dare caught his eyes and held them briefly, and Max had to work hard to keep from looking away. Finally the man nodded, then turned abruptly. "I'll tell the column to start again," he called over his shoulder. "We should reach Abarant in two hours."

Back in the cart again, Max passed the two hours sleeping. Vesper grinned as he grew more and more drowsy. "Go ahead, catch a nap," she suggested. "Any good soldier knows that you take your sleep when you can get it. You'll need all your strength for what's to come." So he stretched out in the back of the cart, on top of a couple of supply sacks. He'd had worse beds, although not very often. Between that and the jolting of the cart, he didn't expect to sleep, especially since he had to shift around to make sure he didn't roll on Henry, but he did, and when he awoke, they had slowed down and there seemed to be a lot of shouting.

Fearing trouble, Max sat up hastily, wishing he had a better weapon than his knife. But when he looked around, he realized that it wasn't trouble after all, just arrival. They had reached Abarant.

Max had expected something like a fairy tale castle, and while Abarant had a drawbridge and thick walls, it was squarer and more solid than something with tall spires and turrets. It was a big block-shaped building, high walls surrounding an inner courtyard that was full of life and confusion, little shops and homes built into the inner walls. They had just crossed the drawbridge when Max awoke, and, looking backward, he could see a good sized walled town behind him, sloping down to a river valley. The river was a broad one with ships and barges drawn up at a series of docks. There must be a good river trade in this world. The houses in the town, which looked like they might have been built of adobe or some kind of plaster, had been painted in bright colors by the locals, who seemed to favor yellow and green and red. Some of the roofs were thatch and some tile, and the closer to the castle they were, the bigger and grander they got. He could tell that some of them held walled inner gardens, even though the outsides were plain and unadorned except for color.

Then the castle walls closed around them and he couldn't see the town any more. One end of the grounds contained a huge formal garden; the other side was given over to small shops. An arched gateway led to another, inner courtyard, and it was through this gate that Vesper guided her horses. Some of the troops turned away, heading toward the shops and a smaller passageway that led to another enclosed area, but Dagan and two of his men, along with Dare, Arran, Chel, Bishop Alver, and the Master, went through the arched gate. Once inside the inner court, Vesper halted the wagon behind an elaborate formal carriage with something resembling a six-legged green lizard harnessed in the traces. Max goggled at it blankly. Scanning the court, he saw that several other teams of lizards were being led away toward the stables. Vesper's horses seemed unconcerned.

"What're those?" Max demanded in an undertone, pointing.

"What, the lizards? Don't you have lizards in your world?"

"Not tame ones that big," Max replied.

"Oh. Well, they're a lot faster than horses, so when someone comes from outside the Protectorate, they usually travel by lizard. Our army is mostly lizard mounted, but the Guard favors horses. We're the castle's defenders rather than a part of the main army, you see." It was clear the Guard felt superior to the regular army.

A man stood at the main door awaiting them, a tall, solidly built man with a mop of brown curls and a stubborn face that warmed into life at the sight of Arran and Dare, who dismounted in front of him. Arran gave the man a quick and casual salute before they gripped each other's arms at the elbows. Max couldn't hear what they were saying, but they seemed pleased with each other. Then the curly haired man turned to Dare with a broad smile, and Dare raised his voice. "We've brought them for you," he said, pride and mockery filling his voice in equal parts. "The Defender and the Acolyte. My lord Protector Raban," he went on formally, "meet John Peter McAllister and Max Keller." He threw a glance at Max that had him down from the wagon and on the steps beside the Master in an instant. You didn't trifle with that kind of look. Dare heaved a sigh as if to disassociate himself from the proceedings, and said, "It's good to be back. I was getting tired of their beknighted culture."

"I wouldn't recognize you if you weren't complaining," Raban told him, and Max detected fondness in his voice that seemed to disconcert Dare. Then he turned to face them. "Welcome. I trust Dare has explained our situation here. I know it's expecting a lot of you to take an interest in our problems, and if you should choose not to stay and help us, we'd understand."

Dare made an abortive gesture of protest, and Arran cried out, "But, Father, they--"

"Enough." Raban obviously expected obedience, and he got it. Arran fell silent, and Dare donned an expressionless mask.

McAllister smiled a little. "Dare told us what was expected," he said. "Admittedly, he didn't tell us until we were already in your world, but I have to admit I'm interested. I've fought a lot of different enemies in my day, but an alien sorceress is something I have yet to encounter. If I'm really in your prophecy, it seems fated that I'd come here. Max doesn't have to stay, but I will."

"Hey, old fella," Max objected. "If you're staying, so am I. Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."

The Master threw him a sour smile, and Raban, realizing that both of them had consented to stay, smiled with a warmth that must draw followers to him in droves.

"Let's go inside," he said. "We've got a lot to talk about." He clapped a friendly hand on Dare's shoulder, seemingly unconcerned when the Minister stiffened and shrugged it off, although Dare did not move away. Chel clattered noisily up the stairs to join them, throwing a grin of greeting at Raban and a sly look at Dare, who ignored him. Not the least put out, Raban led them all inside.

McAllister still found that there were moments when he needed to pinch himself to believe this was real instead of a drug-induced hallucination. Although he had a larger sense of the possible than most people, this stretched his imagination in ways he'd never quite expected, and from the mildly disgruntled, perplexed and skeptical expression on Max's face, he realized his pupil was having a harder time of it than he was. Max was the wrong age to accept what must look like fantasy; he had to work too hard at being grown up to allow his guard to slip enough to be comfortable with all this. When he'd lived as many years as McAllister had, he would know that the impossible was usually something that just hadn't happened yet.

McAllister gave Max a pat on the shoulder as they settled into chairs around a long trestle table in a vast room hung about with tapestries. The windows high in the walls were stained glass--out of Max's reach, he thought fondly--and the light came from candles in wall sconces and from something that shone like a primitive electric light but couldn't really be. This culture was nowhere near industrial revolution standards yet. McAllister eased closer and found the light was contained in a glowing transparent box made of some material that felt like glass but sturdier. There seemed to be no source for the light, just a steady, brilliant glow. He cocked a curious eyebrow at Chel, who was sitting beside him. "What's the power source?" he asked in an undertone.

"What, the glowbox?" Chel grinned. "Not electricity." The English word sounded strange to McAllister, like a foreign language, driving home the peripheral awareness that they had been speaking another tongue since their arrival. "The power source is magic, what else?" Chel informed him as if there could be no doubt of it.

"Magic?" Max leaned around him and stared, first at Chel and then at the glowbox. "How does it work?"

"Any competent magician can do a glowbox," Chel explained. "The magician simply vibrates the air trapped in there, and it glows until he damps it again. Simple."

"For you maybe," said Max skeptically.

Chel grinned. "Any real genius could do it."

"You're mean you're a magician?" the Master asked him in surprise.

"That's right. I'm not in Serralla's league, though. I can do most spells and light glowboxes and I can ward our camps, although that takes a lot out of most magicians. I can get past other people's wards too. If we have to go to Crag Castle, I'll need to come." He sounded disgusted at the idea, and McAllister realized he was afraid but wouldn't admit it. Dare would probably be scornful of his brother's fear.

Raban took a seat at the head of the table. It was larger than the others with an ornately carved back, but Raban had the presence to fit the chair comfortably without looking like a child trying to put on his elder's clothes. The man radiated a presence that McAllister could feel. Raban was a natural leader whose warmth and charisma could draw even people like Dare to his side. Although Raban was a natural leader, Dare was not a natural follower. It would require a very compelling man to win Dare's loyalty. McAllister looked expectantly at Raban and waited to hear what he had to say.

"I've put the Council on hold," Raban said quickly in answer to a question from Dare. "I didn't want them to meet our Defender until I was sure. I want to set the stage properly. I've got twenty leaders in the other Hall, and everyone of them is willing to form an alliance--if it benefits him. Nobody trusts anybody else, and each man feels he is best qualified to lead the army."

"As I expected," muttered Dare under his breath.

"Yes, we know you've been skeptical," Arran snapped. "Why don't you just wait and see what my father has to say."

"Well now, he'll tell us eventually," Dare responded, but he fell silent and threw his leader a pointedly expectant look.

"What I want to do now," Raban went on as if there had been no interruption, "is to verify the prophecy. We can go over what we know of it and what we have learned of McAllister and Max. You can fill us in," he told the Master expectantly. Max shifted in resentment, but he held his tongue. "Chel, you're most familiar with the magical side of things. You saw them in their own world. What do you think?"

"I think he's got enough power to take Serralla. He's not a trained magician, and he won't need to be, but he's very controlled, and I don't think she'll scare him. He might scare her though if he's really what we're looking for." His eyes danced at the thought.

"Why don't you tell just about the prophecy," McAllister suggested. "That way we'd come closer to knowing."

"A good idea," Raban agreed. "Chel, you do it. You can tell it best."

Chel nodded. "All right. The legend has been around since the beginning of our history, and it takes many forms; poems, songs, stories to tell around the campfire. I'll just tell you the basic story, and you can see what you think of it. Long ago it was foretold that a time of crisis would come when our different nations would be in danger of being devoured by a swift-advancing threat, a threat that contained the power of magic. The legend says the threat will come from a woman who uses her powers to benefit herself. You see, in our world, magic is not supposed to be used for gain. Oh, it is," he conceded when Dare threw him a scornful look. "But not on such a scale. Maybe, knowing about the prophecy, magicians have been extra careful. Someone in one of the villages will sell love charms for profit, and magicians have been known to try to influence weather conditions in battle to support their side, but that's different from using magic purely to advance one's own power. Everybody does it a little--being the only one in a town who can light glowboxes does give a nice feeling of power--but it's harmless really. It's only when it's taken like Serralla does that the nature of the threat matches the prophecy. They say she killed her own father or had him killed so she could take over the duchy of Erly and get her start. The Duke of Erly was a powerful man, but he had honor and Serralla doesn't. Worse, she uses her power directly on troops in battle. She puts up imaginary fire walls and turns men so that her own troops can slaughter them. And when the word got out that she did it, she started mixing magic with real fire so the troops couldn't risk facing it; if they did, they might get burned for real. Then, when a battle is won, she influences the defeated army to make them join her. In the old days, after a little war, the losing side would pay taxes for a while to the victor and then in a year or so, they'd challenge and fight a new battle or two to free themselves. It was almost like a game."

"The trouble with games like that," McAllister put in, "is that they're only valid as long as everyone follows the same rules. Once Serralla started her takeover, everything changed."

"You're saying you want us to fight her on her terms?" Raban asked, his face reflecting his disgust at the idea. "That's her way. If we do the same, where's the difference between us?"

"If you don't do something soon, it won't matter," Dare insisted. "We have to fight back on her terms or she'll wipe us out."

"Not necessarily." Raban grinned suddenly. "There's the prophecy."

"Ah yes." Dare's voice was sarcastic. "The prophecy. How could I have forgotten? You'd better go on, Chel. Let these outlanders know what's really happening here. Maybe they'll choose to return home after all."

"And maybe not," Max burst out hotly.

"Easy, Max," McAllister muttered under his breath. "Tell us the rest of it, Chel."

Chel spared his brother a doubtful look, then he shook his head and plunged on. "The prophecy had the bit in it about Serralla killing her own father and taking over more and more lands by the misuse of her power. No one has ever done that before in the history of Lorrania. But the prophecy continues that a hero will appear at the time of need, that he will be found by someone of the Protectorate--all the versions of the prophecy say that, even the ones in other countries--and that he will be a man of great power. He will use wheels of death to defeat his enemies. He will walk among them invisible and will defeat them with strange and awesome weapons. He will be a man who has crossed the waters to leave the darkness behind him, a man who has killed and walked with evil power but who has renounced it and turned his life away from the old ways of the past."

Max sucked in his breath sharply at the terminology. McAllister smiled a little. He had often told Max--and Okasa--that the old ways were gone. How strange it seemed to hear those very words in a prophecy here.

"The Defender will be accompanied by his acolyte, who has begun to learn the Defender's powers," Chel continued. "Together they can vanquish their enemies. The Defender can stand up to Serralla's powers because he has vanquished them already in another life. She will try to turn him to the darkness again, and the temptation will be great, but he will not be tempted. He will meet her in psychic combat and vanquish her, and the Acolyte will guide the way through the darkness to victory, blocking the sorceress' power."

Max sat up sharply. McAllister had heard what Vesper had told him earlier about the dark labyrinth beneath Crag Castle, and now Max shivered slightly at the idea of it. Bad enough to be stranded in an alien world with the Master, even worse to be alone and in danger. McAllister could read his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud, and he gave his pupil a reassuring look. "Don't worry, Max. I think we still have some options here, and we'll take every precaution."

Chel offered a look that could hardly be called reassuring. He said solemnly, "I've always interpreted that part of the prophecy to mean that the Acolyte would find a way to get to Serralla's power source and destroy it while the Defender prevented her from stopping him."

"Power source?" Max tried to sound tough, although McAllister could sense his fear. He didn't blame Max. He'd be scared too--in fact he was scared, on Max's behalf and on his own.

"Every magician has a power source that he can draw strength from to perform his magic," Chel explained. "Mine's--well, I'd rather not say. But it's usually something that looks like an ordinary object--like your medallion for instance, McAllister," he explained, pointing to the butterfly symbol the Master wore, the sign of his household. "Simple objects like the amulet you were given can be temporarily infused with power--that one will link you to Dare and Arran if need be, but that's all it will do. But a magician's power source is infused with much more. One of the first things a magician does is design his power source, and the stronger he gets, the more power he stores in it. Then, when magic is needed, he draws power from it--in your world, it would be like charging a battery. When the power is drained, the magician must rest and restore power before he performs anything but routine magic again. Serralla is so powerful that her source will be carefully guarded, but it will also be constantly recharged. She might sacrifice other energy into it--if she defeats a magician, she can feed his power into her source. One thing that's been in her favor is that she has set the confrontations so far, so she could choose a time when she was power-high. I'm no match for her, but I've been hoarding power since this all began. Ranna opened the gateway for us, since she is staying in your world. It doesn't really take a magician to do that, but if I had, it would have used power. If we can get to Serralla's power source, we might be able to drain it off or block it from her. She won't have it with her, but shielded somewhere at Crag Castle."

"So I'm supposed to go to Crag Castle?" Max asked. "And get in through the labyrinth? Okay, so I get in. How do I recognize the power source when I see it?"

"Optimistic, aren't you?" Dare asked scornfully. "How do you know about the labyrinth?"

"Vesper told me. I can find my way in the dark. I know it's dangerous and I don't like the idea much, but I can handle it if I have to. But I wouldn't know a power source from a dragon's egg. It sounds like you don't know what she uses either."

Chel shook his head. "I don't. But I'd recognize it if I saw it. That's why I'll have to come with you." He made a pathetic grimace like a child who has been told he will have to take a dose of nasty medicine.

"Just a minute," interrupted Raban. "This isn't settled yet. I don't know that's what the prophecy about the Acolyte means."

"I have always thought much the same thing," Dare acknowledged.

"Max is not fully trained," McAllister objected. "If he is required to do something as dangerous as this sounds, we'll need a lot more information before I consent to it."

"What about you, old fella?" Max returned. "All they want me to do is infiltrate someplace and steal something. But you've got to face off against the most powerful magician in the world. That's a lot worse than what they want me to do."

"If the prophecy is true, then I have the power to do it."

"Yeah, if you do everything right the first time around and nothing goes wrong."

McAllister grinned. "Don't I always?"

"If the two of you mean to accept the terms of the prophecy, we'll give you all the backing we can," Raban offered. "Chel will go with Max to identify Serralla's power source, and Arran and Dare will back McAllister. Arran should be immune to her power, and as near as we can tell, Dare has enough magic to feel a spell being set upon him."

Dare grimaced scornfully. "Do I? Naturally I can detect her, but I am no magician, Raban, and you know it. If you choose to believe anything else, you are a fool."

"Maybe you're no magician, brother mine," Chel told him, grinning, "but you can sense when magic's being used, and that's a talent in itself."

"Is it? Oh thank you. I appreciate your praise."

"Enough," Raban snapped. "We won't get any further quarreling among ourselves--what's that?"

McAllister followed the Lord Protector's eyes and saw that Max had taken Henry from his pocket and was engaged in feeding him breadcrumbs left over from lunch. His seeming unconcern would stand Max in good stead with the others, and McAllister wondered if he'd produced Henry to appear more confident than he really was or if the hamster had suddenly moved to remind Max of his presence.

Max grinned at Raban. "Henry, meet the Lord Protector. You can't complain I never introduce you to the right people after this. This is Henry. He's a hamster."

Raban smiled and took the animal when Max passed him over, holding Henry and stroking his head with one finger. "I think you had better leave him behind when you go into battle. Sir Max," he suggested.

"I kind of planned on it. Do you have somebody here who can watch him for me while I'm gone?"

"My daughter Sharna. She's twelve and very soft hearted. I think she'd be happy to volunteer." He passed Henry back. "You can meet her after you go before the Council. We've got a score of rulers here arguing away in the other Chamber. No one wants to yield an inch and I don't think they believe me when I tell them that we might be close to fulfilling the prophecy."

"We can give them a demonstration if you like," offered McAllister. "What do you say, Max? A ninja workout?"

Max grinned broadly. "Do you promise to be gentle?"

"Every bit as much as you deserve."

"Oh well, I can only die once." He turned to Raban. "When?"

"Is now too soon? If we can convince them of your abilities, maybe the council will settle down to work out an agreement on the merging of the armies."

"This isn't going to work," Max retorted under his breath, glancing around the room. Raban had wasted no time presenting him and the Master to the High Council, and now they stood in the center of a vast room. Tables had shoved hastily back against the walls to leave a space for the demonstration, and the councillors bunched abound near them, united, if in nothing else, in their suspicion of the outworlders. Max had half expected them all to be Caucasian humans as everyone had been so far, but while many of them were, several were black and there were two or three of them clad in exotic robes and bright colors, who had a more primitive look to them as if they had come from further away. There seemed to be no sign of racial discrimination; differences were regional rather than racial, as near as Max could tell. The councillors from the plains nations of Lothana, Lahana, and Rotha held themselves aloof from the others, and those from Crea, Luzana, and Rith, down near the gulf, had haughty airs as if they were culturally superior to the nations along the two rivers. Raban had gone through their names very quickly, and Max didn't remember any of them except for the aged and proud Rath of Lothana, who had a sword slash across one cheek, and a tall, striking woman of middle years with jet black hair and a jewel set in her forehead whose name was Thiel of Yere, and one of the primitive types with rather Eskimo-like features, whose name was Jak. He came from a nation called Varak. The others had blurred together quickly in his memory, although Max suspected that the Master could remember all of them. He was good at things like that. "The Defender and the Acolyte will give us a demonstration of some of their gifts," Raban announced. "You may ask questions later."

"Assuming they really are the Defender and the Acolyte," one of the Southern councillors muttered in a supercilious voice, and several others agreed.

''I'll let you be the judge of that," Raban agreed placidly, and Max knew he was risking a lot on them. If he and the Master let the Protector down, he would lose face and power in the council, and all Raban had to go on was the word of his son and Dare, who had given him reports of their skill. Raban had not taken time for a private demonstration to verify their claims. Max knew he wouldn't want to be the one to call Dare a liar, but neither would he want to take as big a chance as Raban was taking now. On the other hand, maybe Raban could sense the Master's abilities. People with no experience at judging such things could often tell there was something special about the Master. Maybe Raban could too. He'd have to be a good judge of people to rule well.

McAllister stepped into the midst of the circle. "My assistant fought a mur-wolf yesterday with a knife and killed it," he said in such matter of fact tones that only the most suspicious of men would doubt him, and there were awed gasps. "He sustained a minor arm wound," McAllister continued, "so we will give you only a shortened version of our demonstration today. I think you'll find it interesting. Please stay back at the edges of the room, and be assured that the smoke will not harm you." Pausing after this tantalizing bit of information he said, "Come on, Max. Practice routine."

They went through a series of throws and falls, which the spectators enjoyed vocally with cheers and catcalls. When McAllister was satisfied that they could recognize something of the basic fighting skills, he set up a tightrope, running it across a corner of the room about four feet off the floor and swung himself up easily, running lightly and effortlessly back and forth. Dismounting with a flip, he gestured to Max, who grimaced to himself and stepped forward. He'd never liked the tightrope routine, but hours of practice had developed him into a competent performer, and he completed the routine with assurance, if not with the flourish the Master had managed. That drew appreciative comments from the crowd.

McAllister could be a showman if he had to be. He reached into his pocket and removed a shuriken, then two more. Before anyone could react, he flung them in quick succession to land in a triangular pattern on the back of the nearest door. They hung there quivering while gasps and murmurs echoed from the councillors. 'Wheels of death' had been a part of the prophecy, and for the Master to produce them now was exactly what was needed. Max could feel the mood of the group beginning to swing from skepticism to cautious support.

McAllister had still more tricks up his sleeve. He produced a smoke bomb and flung it down before him. When the smoke cleared, he had vanished without a trace. He waited just long enough for the crowd to realize he was gone before he reappeared high up one of the walls in an alcove. When they discovered him there, the crowd burst into spontaneous applause, thumping on the tables with their fists and with flagons, and whistling between their teeth. McAllister came down with a flip in a dismount that would have given him a gold medal in the Olympics gymnastics competition. Before the applause could die away, he threw another smoke bomb and vanished again. This time, the crowd had an idea what to expect, and they looked around hastily, trying to discover where the Defender had gone. When the smoke cleared, there was no trace of him, and Max stood alone in the center of the room grinning, while they sought the Master. Raban laughed heartily when McAllister emerged from amid the crowd of rulers, doffing a red priest's cloak that had been hanging on the back of the door.

"Are you convinced?" Raban asked.

"Convinced he knows his tricks," Thiel said in a strong voice. "But we're talking about a sorceress, Rab. You've fought against me a time or two, and I trust your word, but I don't know about anyone, prophecy or no, taking on that witch woman and surviving. If she keeps coming, we'll go under and she won't be very tolerant of anyone who's fought against her."

"Then you'll have to surrender Yere to her, Thiel, because she's killed the leader of every nation she's defeated so far. I'd rather go down fighting than take a chance I'll live as a slave."

"Well said, laddie," one of the other councillors--the one from Cerrina, north and east of the Protectorate--agreed. "I like a good fight, and I don't like what Serralla's doing to our world. These two are strangers here and they'll go home when they're done, but if they want to fight for us, I say let them. I don't want to go under. We're desperate, Thiel. I don't think we've got the luxury of saying no."

Raban joined the Master and Max. "I'll have the two of you shown to your rooms now so you can rest. I'll let the council talk and they can make up a list of questions for you if they have them. I'm sure the two of you would be glad of a chance to spend time together to make your own decisions."

McAllister nodded, and Max knew he would be. So when Arran appeared at his side and said, "Let's go," the two of them followed him. He led them through a series of passages and up a flight of stone steps so old that hollows were worn in the treads, then down more passages. "I'll delegate a servant to show you the way around," Arran said. "It can be confusing for a newcomer. We've had these two rooms prepared for you. If you want anything, just ask." A servant leaped forward to open the nearest door, and Arran waved them in with a courtly gesture, pointing down the hall to the door of the second room. "I think it'll work," he said with a broad grin. "The demonstration went well. It was a good idea. I'd like to learn some of that. I don't suppose I could have a quick lesson, could I?"

"We'll see," McAllister temporized.

"I don't believe all this," said Max when the two of them were alone in McAllister's room. "It's crazy, right? We're in the Twilight Zone." He hummed a few bars of the theme.

McAllister smiled at him. "Skeptical, Max?"

"Well, yeah, aren't you? I mean, all of a sudden we're in some other dimension or something and they expect us to fight for them. It's crazy." He shook his head. "This kind of thing just doesn't happen. What's going on?"

"I know how you feel, Max," McAllister commented mildly. "At first I thought it was a dream too, but it's not. It's real. We don't understand everything in the universe yet."

"We sure don't," Max conceded. "I keep hoping I'll wake up but it's gone past that. So we're here and we have to fight. It doesn't say anywhere in the rules that we won't get killed. What happens if we just say, 'No thanks', and go home?"

"We don't know if they'll let us go home unless we do what they want us to," McAllister offered, testing the softness of the bed with a careful prod. It felt like a feather mattress. Too soft. He turned back to Max expectantly.

"Nah, Raban would," Max replied promptly. "You can tell that much." He shrugged. "I guess we can't take off, can we?"

"It isn't our fight," McAllister suggested, watching him closely. Max didn't disappoint him.

"When has that ever stopped us? They need help. It just seems like it'll be the hardest fight we've ever had. I think I know what I'm supposed to do. I catch myself planning it. But I don't see how you can stop Serralla. She already knows you've come and if she can reach you, doesn't that mean she knows where you are? How're you supposed to beat her? It doesn't make any sense. And all this magic!"

"Don't you believe in magic, Max?" McAllister grinned broadly at his befuddled pupil.

"I don't know what to believe. Okay, so they've got different rules here. But we've still got the same rules. Just because we're here doesn't mean we can do magic."

"We're speaking a different language because we're here," the Master pointed out. He clapped Max on the shoulder. "You're right, though. Being here won't give us magic skills even if it could give us the potential. Like everything else, skill in magic would take a lot of practice. I can't use magic to fight Serralla. She'd win if I did. I have to fight her on my terms."

"Does she know that?"

"I think so," replied McAllister. "Otherwise she wouldn't fear me--and she does."

"That's a big help," Max retorted skeptically. "The more dangerous she thinks you are, the harder she'll fight."

"Because that's what you do when you're scared?" McAllister asked fondly. "Don't worry, Max. A little fear's healthy, but if you start worrying about what might happen, you could freeze at the crisis."

"So how will you handle her? With ninja weapons?"

"Wheels of death?" McAllister asked, recalling the quotes from the prophecy. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't think I was brought here because of my fighting ability, Max. It was you they tested in the bar, not me. If either of us has to fight, it'll be you."

"But you're so much better than I am."

"And you're better at ninjutsu than anyone else in this world."

Max grinned at that. "Yeah, you're right," he realized, a cocky look on his face.

"Don't let it go to your head," McAllister warned him. "Just don't let the odds overwhelm you. You won't be going in alone. You'll have a magician at your back."

"Sure. Deep in enemy territory. I don't know how we'll get there in the first place without being spotted. Oh, wait a minute. Yes, I do."

McAllister looked at him expectantly. Now that Max had dealt with his initial disbelief, he was starting to think. Max could be very inventive, in fact sometimes a little too inventive. McAllister masked an amused shudder at the thought of some of Max's previous stunts. That Max was slowly outgrowing his more outrageous ideas was a good thing. With a smile, McAllister remembered the times he had wondered if his earnest and hotheaded student wouldn't drive him to an early grave with some of his pranks. But Max went on improving, and this time he didn't look like someone whose schemes would create more troubles than they'd solve. "What do you have in mind?"

"Vesper told me that the priests aren't limited to any one country. What if Chel and I dressed up like priests? Maybe we wouldn't be questioned as much as we would otherwise. It might be the safest way to get through."

"Neither of you is really a priest though. What if you had to perform the ritual?"

"I could learn, I guess, if it isn't sacrilegious."

"Well, we'll see. Right now, let me take a look at your arm, then you can catch a nap until dinner. We're going to need our strength to make it through this alive."

"It's crazy. The whole thing is crazy, Father."

Raban looked at his son, who was sprawled on one of the settees in Raban's suite. He looked frustrated and excited at the same time, but he also looked relaxed, his tunic unlaced, and his boots loosened. "I've been to another world," he continued. "I can still hardly believe it. We brought back two men who are supposed to save our world. I wish I could see Serralla face to face, just for five minutes. I'd put a stop to her right away."

"Or she could kill you," Raban reminded him mildly.

"Her magic doesn't work on our line."

"Her troops are many and her ways need not include magic."

Arran grimaced. "I know. It just seems hard to depend on outworlders to save us. We've always handled our own problems before."

"Now you sound like Dare."

Arran's head jerked up and he stared at his father in offended dignity. "Dare! How do you cope with him, Father? I know he's your friend and you like him, but I can't understand why. Spending all that time with him drove me crazy."

"It's different with me," Raban said softly. "With him at my side, I'm complete. We're two parts of a whole, greater together than separate. He may not acknowledge it publicly, but he feels the same. He's the cynic to balance my dreams. I don't know why I'm drawn to him or he to me. It's just--I'm glad the two of you can look after each other because I don't want to do without either of you."

Arran shook his head. "I still don't get it. He treats everyone like he despises them. He acts so superior. It bothers me."

"If we're to talk of acting superior, son..."

The young man conceded his father's point with a wry grin. "I know what you're saying. But it's different with me. Dare makes me so angry."

"You make it easy for him, Arran. Part of it is that he feels compelled to protect you. He is your godfather, remember, and part of his duties include assuring your safety."

"I do know how to take care of myself."

"If he'd come back from the other world without you, he would have blamed himself no matter what he says. He feels an obligation to me--and you're my son. You can trust him."

"I'm not worried about that. It's not hard to trust him. It's hard to like him."

"I seem to recall a little boy who used to dog his footsteps."

Arran shook his head. "Yes, but I can recall a man who had patience with me and smiled occasionally. What happened to that man?"

"Too many things, son, and you know most of them. When he lost his wife and child, it was never satisfactorily explained. He believes, as we all do, that they were killed by magic, but there's no proof of it, or explanation. Even Chel didn't have an answer for him."

"He doesn't think we had anything to do with it?"

"Of course not." Raban shook his head. "You know our line is immune to magic. It can't be used against us and neither can we use it. That's been an advantage so far, but now we have to fight Serralla and for the first time it's a disadvantage."

"Not completely, though. She can't use her powers against us. As long as we've got magicians backing us, we're better off than most of our opponents. I don't see how McAllister can really help us. Wouldn't he be immune to magic too?"

"In a different way," Raban replied. "She can throw everything she's got against him, draining her power source. If we can coordinate our timing, he can distract her while Max and Chel find and destroy her power source. Then we have a chance of beating her by conventional means. By the time she could develop a new power source, the damage would be done. Chel says it takes years to hone one properly."

"Chel may be a fair court magician, and I like him, but I don't think he's a match for Serralla. What if we're underestimating her, Father?"

Raban poured out two glasses of ale and passed one to his son. "Then it won't matter what else happens, will it? The Protectorate will fall and all the other nations, and we can say goodbye to freedom and you and I will meet the same fate as every other ruler Serralla has vanquished. I don't intend to stop fighting because there's a chance we might lose, and I don't expect you to either."

"I'm not ready to give up," snapped Arran. "I went into another world for you, didn't I? You don't think I'd quit now?"

Raban laughed. "I hope not. I wouldn't recognize you if you gave up."

His son smiled at him. "What next, Father? When do you want Max to leave?"

"It will have to be soon. Tomorrow I'll be in Council all day. We still have a lot of details to work out on the united army and our strategy. But I don't want to leave their departure any later than I must. The Council believes that McAllister and Max are really the Defender and the Acolyte, and that gives us an advantage. We'll send Max and Chel off the day after tomorrow. I want to be sure Max's arm is mending properly. Dagan can go with them. He's good in a fight, and they'll need his strength. But I can't send more or they'll be too conspicuous. I'm still not sure how we'll smuggle them into the Empire yet."

"They might have a few ideas of their own," mused Arran. "I wish I could go with them. I feel like I won't be doing anything, just standing around waiting for Serralla to attack."

"No, patience isn't your strong point. But when the time comes, the Defender will need you. We know you're immune to magic. We only assume the Defender is. I want somebody with him who can't be affected. I wish you could extend your null field to protect him. If there's a chance of that, we have to take it. And Dare will be there too. I can trust him to protect my interests."

"I'm not so sure I can," Arran replied. Then he shook his head. "No, he won't let you down. If it weren't for his loyalty to you, I think I'd hate the man."

"Could you really hate him?" Raban asked gravely, meeting his son's eyes, a regretful look in his own.

Arran shook his head violently. "No, maybe not. But I miss the man who helped raise me."

"That man's still there, son, trapped inside him. I'd give anything to bring him back. Sometimes when I'm alone with him, I see traces of the old Dare, but it never lasts long."

As if he recognized the hurt in his father's voice, Arran looked at him sharply then dropped his eyes. "I know. You went through it, too."

"It wasn't quite as bad for me. I still have you and your sister. Your mother died a natural death, one we could see coming. It doesn't make it easier, but at least we had time for our goodbyes. Lynet knew her time had come, and she went peacefully. I still miss her, of course, but it's easier than what Dare went through. When you or Sharna looks at me with your mother's eyes, that's a plus for me." He clapped his son affectionately on the shoulder. "But I know what it's like to lose a wife, so when I see how Dare is suffering, I can sympathize more easily. Imagine how I'd have reacted if you'd died when your mother did. Don't you think I might be inclined to be like Dare is now?"

"It's not your nature," Arran disagreed. "But I know what you mean. I'll try to be patient with him, but sometimes it's hard not to respond in kind."

"Try. For my sake."

Arran managed a reluctant smile, levering himself up from the settee. "All right, Father, I'll try. Right now, I'll go see if our guests need anything. I hope they can teach me a little of their style of fighting."

Raban laughed. "The last thing you need to learn is another way to fight."

Arran, the taller by some two inches, draped his arm around his father's shoulders. In private, the two were demonstrative, but in public they had to maintain a more formal manner as befitting their station. Now, with no one present, they could be at ease with each other.

Raban hugged his son fondly and let him go. "Learn to fight like them if you can," he urged reluctantly. "I wish we didn't need it but the more protection you have the better I'll like it. And tell our guests they'll dine at my table tonight. That'll be easier than deciding which of the Councillors to favor. At least they won't quarrel among themselves if none of them are placed there."

"I don't envy your job," Arran muttered.

"Someday it will all be yours."

"I needed to hear that."

That night Abarant Castle was full of festive lights and colors, as guests mingled in their ceremonial best trying to outdo each other in grandeur. Thiel of Yere made her stately way into the banquet hall surrounded by four bodyguards in Yerean crimson, faces painted with traditional geometric designs in black and white. The lady herself wore a flowing red gown, decked here and there with priceless jewels, holding the scepter of her office in one hand. Her black hair was piled in a knot atop her head, secured with a string of silver beads while another string looped down to dangle loosely below her chin. The jewel in her forehead was green tonight. Someone told Max that the stone was always the same but that she controlled its color by regulating her magic. Looking at the woman in all her exotic finery, Max believed it.

Jak's style was more primitive, his cloak of mur-wolf fur, brushed and treated to make it shine. He wore ceremonial daggers, one in a leg band, two at the waist and one strapped to each wrist, but in deference