Struggling to sit up, she wrapped her shivering arms around her knees. She feared the pain in her groin would force her to lie back down or, worse, to pass out, but she was terrified of what might happen if she retreated into unconsciousness. Her would-be rescuer was one man against three, after all. She bit her tongue until she tasted her own blood, then pushed her palms against the gritty dirt road and wrestled herself to her knees. Pale yellow flashes of light burst and faded before her eyes and she felt tears begin to carve thin streams through the dirt on her cheeks.

Hannah drew several stabilising breaths, then turned to watch her saviour battling her three assailants. She felt sorry she could not help him, but she was both surprised and delighted by what she saw: the big man, the one who had so deftly dragged the breast-grabber from his perch on her stomach, was winning handily. Two of the three would-be rapists were already motionless, their bodies sprawled in awkward, unnatural positions on the far side of the road. The third was hanging on the larger man's back, looking comically like a child getting a piggy-back ride; he held both arms firmly about her saviour's neck, trying with all his might to strangle his muscle-bound opponent.

While Hannah watched, the burly rescuer reached up with one hand and grasped the rapist's forearms, but he made no effort to pull them away; rather, it looked as if he was trying to keep them held firmly about his throat. Perhaps he was ensuring the impromptu acrobat would not decide to let go suddenly and beat a hasty retreat.

Then the bigger man reached around and placed the flat of his free palm against the small of the rider's back, a sort of clumsy, inside-out hug.

Transfixed by the curious struggle, like some ancient ritualistic dance, Hannah nearly forgot the pain in her gut and the swelling in her breasts. At first she couldn't work out what her grim-faced rescuer was planning to do, and she wondered how long he could remain standing with the man in black strangling him so ardently. Then his strategy became clear. Gripping his attacker's arms and back, the giant bent at the knees before leaping as far as he could into the air then, twisting, he brought the full force of his weight down on the smaller man's body. Whump! Whump! Their impact with the dirt road sounded like gas escaping through a pressure release valve. Hannah felt certain the third rapist was dead; surely no one could have survived a landing like that. She hoped it had Their impact with the dirt road sounded like gas escaping through a pressure release valve. Hannah felt certain the third rapist was dead; surely no one could have survived a landing like that. She hoped it had really really hurt. hurt.

Hannah was still seated in the middle of the road when her saviour rolled over, checked to be sure none of his opponents were conscious or maybe alive and pushed himself to his feet. He strode silently to where she was now kneeling and squatted down on his haunches. Hannah had a flashback to natural history programmes about the lives and habits of the great silverback mountain gorilla. The man, now motionless, stared at her as if waiting for her to try to escape. From the look of his clothes he was from the same Renaissance troupe.

'Oh my God,' she cried aloud, suddenly realising the powerful young man might have beaten the others away so he could have her for himself, 'please, don't hurt me, please.' The tears came again as she begged, 'Please, I didn't do anything to them, I didn't say anything, I just needed to get to a phone.'

Gingerly, she tried to slide backwards, beyond the silent giant's reach, but her legs failed. Shivering, she grasped at the loose sleeves of her coat and made a vain effort to cover the button and fly of her jeans with an improvised Gore-tex chastity belt.

'Not again,' she pleaded, 'not again. I can't take it-'

Churn didn't move. The girl wore no armour and he couldn't see any weapons, so she couldn't be a soldier. And those colours was she trying to attract attention to herself? She was so small, so helpless; she looked like something he had seen once in a picture, an illegal painting of sea nymphs hidden in a partisan's basement. He had heard stories of sea nymphs too, and their magical powers. They would attract sailors with their beauty and their bright colours, like this woman's bright colours, then they would lure the men out to sea, or into the waiting maw of some ravenous flesh-eating creature.

He reached out with one massive paw to feel the smooth texture of her odd white, blue and yellow shoes. They were the most strange and beautiful shoes he had ever seen; he thought they might shine even brighter if he dusted off some of the dirt that had built up on them. Brushing his fingers gently across their surface, Churn drew back suddenly when the young woman bellowed a terrified scream and kicked him hard across the chin.

Unfazed by the blow, the big Pragan backed away a few paces, hoping that would put the sea nymph more at ease. She continued to cry and carry on in her strange language, so Churn decided it was time to hand any further investigation over to Hoyt. He had beaten the soldiers; Hoyt could worry about communicating with the sea nymph. Churn searched the hillside for his friend; spotting Hoyt sitting complacently on a fallen log near the opposite side of the roadway, he gesticulated in a series of rapid signs.

'No, I don't think she is a sea nymph, Churn,' Hoyt Navarra replied calmly, 'but she's certainly not from around here.' He stood and came forward slowly so as not to alarm the already terrified young woman any further. 'And back away from her will you?' he chided; 'I'd kick at you too if you were hovering over me like the rutting Twinmoon.'

As Churn complied, they could see the strangely clad woman calm noticeably. Stepping near his burly companion, the young healer smiled and asked, 'How badly are you hurt?'

The three-second translation delay was down to about one second now, but Hannah still answered in wavering English, 'I don't think so ... I don't think so ... my stomach hurts and my eye is sore, but otherwise, I guess I'm all right.'

Hoyt rubbed his palm thoughtfully across his chin, knelt beside her and offered a wineskin filled with water. 'Here. Have something to drink. We'll try to talk when you're ready.'

'Thank you.' Hannah uncorked the skin and drank every drop. She passed the empty skin back and asked, 'Can you tell me where I am ... where this is? I haven't been able to figure out-'

'Can you understand me?' Hoyt interrupted loudly, then cursed himself when the strange woman cringed and sidled away another two or three paces. He indicated his chest and said, 'My name is Hoyt Navarra. This-' he clapped a hand on the back of one of Churn's tree-trunk calves, 'this is Churn Prellis.'

'I'm Hannah Sorenson,' she said. She did did understand them, but was dumbfounded as to how. She was making out the words almost as quickly as they were spoken now. understand them, but was dumbfounded as to how. She was making out the words almost as quickly as they were spoken now.

'Hannah ...'

'Sorenson.'

'Soren-son.' Hoyt tried it out. 'Hannah Soren-son. Hannah Soren-son, do you understand me? What I'm saying?'

'I do,' Hannah replied, but from the look in the strange man's face, Hoyt's face, she wasn't certain he could understand her. She nodded instead. Maybe, since she could understand understand this weird guttural language, she could speak it if she tried? this weird guttural language, she could speak it if she tried? God knows how, though God knows how, though, she thought, but let's give it a go. but let's give it a go. She closed her eyes and took a calming breath, then let the awkward words come on their own. She closed her eyes and took a calming breath, then let the awkward words come on their own.

'Is this better?' she offered in broken Pragan.

Hoyt beamed. 'Excellent! So you speak Pragan. We were worried ... well, I I was worried. Churn here manages to do just fine without any language at all any language you might read or see scribbled on a piece of parchment, anyway.' was worried. Churn here manages to do just fine without any language at all any language you might read or see scribbled on a piece of parchment, anyway.'

'Where are we?' Hannah climbed painfully to her feet, swaying slightly, but determined to have this conversation standing up so she could break and run if things began to deteriorate.

'Well, we're in a valley near the Pragan city of Southport,' Hoyt said as he reached into a satchel at his belt and withdrew something which turned out to be several pieces of dried fruit. Handing them to her, he went on, 'It's not much of a town, but the harbour remains busy and that keeps interesting goods and people moving through on a regular basis.'

'Pragan?'

'Right. Praga. This is Praga.' Hoyt was confused by her question, but gestured in a semi-circle as if the entire nation was at his fingertips. 'Have you been unconscious for some time? Sick or something? I ask only because Praga is a big place and most people know when they arrive in it.'

One of the Malakasians began to stir, groaning and rolling onto his side. Churn moved quickly across the road and summarily kicked the soldier back into unconsciousness.

Hannah winced, and looked at Churn with a mixture of gratitude and terror. 'Do you know them?'

'What? This crew? No!' Hoyt laughed. ''But they're all the same when you get right down to it. So knowing one is knowing them all, rutting dry humpers.' Embarrassed at his off-colour language, he added with a sniff, 'Sorry.'

'But I thought-'

'Thought what?' The young healer looked interested.

'I thought from the way you were dressed that you and they might be part of the same ... I don't know, troupe?'

'Troupe?' Hoyt cast Hannah a sidelong glance. 'Those are members of the Malakasian Army, the occupation force that patrols the entire nation of Praga in fact, every land in Eldarn, for that matter making sure there is no resistance to the royal rule of the great Prince Malagon ... the horsecock.' His eyes narrowed. 'How can you not know this?'

Hannah's breathing was shallow. It was was something supernatural. It had been going on too long to be a dream. She had gone somewhere, been dropped somewhere. Steven and Mark were here. That had to be it. Her heart pounded a high-stepping tarantella. something supernatural. It had been going on too long to be a dream. She had gone somewhere, been dropped somewhere. Steven and Mark were here. That had to be it. Her heart pounded a high-stepping tarantella.

How was she going to get home? Two moons. How was she going to find Steven? The strange mediaeval costumes ... would there be phones, buses, planes, any of those things she needed?

She shuddered, then squared her aching shoulders and muttered, 'No. I suppose I haven't.'

'Where are you from, then?' asked Hoyt curiously, before realising that he and Churn might have stumbled into a dangerous situation. His dreams of the fat Malakasian galleon and her rich cargo began to fade.

'Denver, Colorado,' said Hannah quietly. 'I'm from the United States of America.'

Hoyt was not surprised the names were unfamiliar to him; Churn obviously had no idea where Denvercolorado Denvercolorado was either. Shaking his head ruefully, Hoyt realised he would have been more surprised if Hannah had named a city he did know. was either. Shaking his head ruefully, Hoyt realised he would have been more surprised if Hannah had named a city he did know.

'Well, then ...' He tried to sound reassuring. 'We need to go somewhere safe and talk.'

'Can you help me?'

'For a time, yes, but I think eventually we will need to get you to someone with a bit more clout in situations such as these.' He thought of Alen Jasper, and the curious man's knowledge of many strange and wonderful things.

'Is he far from here?'

'Not really, no, but we have to make a few stops first.' Hoyt looked sadly up the hillside. He would have to find a new hiding place for his library.

'Why?'

'We'll need to change your clothes for a start, and we must have travel supplies.' He turned to Churn. 'Are they dead?'

Churn signed, 'I think one of them is.'

'Demonshit.' Hoyt spat angrily in the dirt near the Malakasian bodies. 'Well, we can't just kill the other two ... all right, all right, we'll have to hurry, that's all.'

'What's wrong?' Hannah did not like the look on the lanky young man's face: as if he'd just discovered all his carefully laid plans had gone awry. She thought for a moment of bolting, sprinting back the way she had come, to the grove of trees atop the hill. She felt her face flush with fight-or-flight adrenalin.

'Flight, for Christ's sake, go with flight,' Hannah whispered to herself, but she hesitated. There was nothing in that grove, no wardrobe or magic doorway, no curiously stitched tapestry or magic carpet waiting to take her back to Idaho Springs. She had to trust these strangers; they had already saved her life.

Hoyt regained control of his features. 'Nothing's wrong. It's just that one of those fellows might be dead.' Seeing Hannah cringe, he softened. 'Oh, don't worry. It's all right. They were going to kill you eventually. Our problem is that the other two will be awake before too long and that might make for some difficult travel conditions, especially if they give a description of you to the officer in charge. Granted, they probably weren't supposed to be out here, and they most certainly were not supposed to be raping young women, but even so, killing them tends to upset the officer corps. The other two may keep their mouths shut for a while, but they won't be able to cover up their friend's murder sorry, untimely death untimely death for very long.' He tried diligently not to alarm her further. 'So we need to get into town in a hurry. There are a few places we can hide for a few days while we change the way you look, but eventually we'll need to make our way north.' for very long.' He tried diligently not to alarm her further. 'So we need to get into town in a hurry. There are a few places we can hide for a few days while we change the way you look, but eventually we'll need to make our way north.'

Hannah had no idea what Hoyt meant by difficult travel conditions difficult travel conditions, but the notion that the Malawhomevers were an occupation army, and that the dead and wounded soldiers because that's what they were, soldiers soldiers on the road were Malawhomevers, was not lost on her. 'So, what will the Mala-' She paused, trying out the unfamiliar word. on the road were Malawhomevers, was not lost on her. 'So, what will the Mala-' She paused, trying out the unfamiliar word.

'-kasians, Malakasians,' Hoyt filled in the gap.

'So what will the Malakasians do when they discover one of their soldiers has been killed?' She avoided eye contact with Churn.

'Close the roads, shut down the ports, round up anyone accused of separatist activities, tighten their stranglehold on the farmers and merchants who deal in critical goods and services and-' Hoyt chose his words carefully, '-uh, maybe make a public example of a few of us.'

Hannah did not need help understanding the Pragan's sugarcoated explanation. 'So, there will be public hangings, beatings, grim retaliatory measures?'

'Something like that, yes.'

Hannah sighed nervously. 'All right then, let's go.'

'Um, first, I need you to put this on,' he said and handed her what looked like an over-tunic. It was much too large, but it did cover her shirt and jacket. 'And here, tie your hair up with this.' Hoyt drew a section of brown homespun cloth from his belt. 'I promise it's clean ... well, it was clean recently.'

Despite the tension threatening to close her throat, Hannah had to stifle a laugh as she gathered up her hair and tucked it beneath the makeshift scarf. 'How's that?'

Churn grunted his approval and Hoyt nodded. 'Better ... certainly a good deal uglier.'

Hannah pouted in mock dismay.

'Oh, no, that's what we want,' he said, reaching out to offer his arm. 'Shall we?'

Together, the unlikely trio began making their way quickly towards Southport.

GAREC'S FARM

The morning ride was hard on the Coloradoans, even though Steven considered himself a bit of a horseman. He was more tired than he remembered being since college and nodded off several times as they rode north through the forests and small towns that lined the Estrad River. The morning sun brought dappled colour to the forest floor and thick ferns shone bright green where sunlight reached them through the dense foliage. Cresting a hill, Steven caught a glimpse of Riverend Palace in the distance, an abandoned and ramshackle monument to Ronan history.

Versen led the group along paths he found easily, as if he had known them his whole life; Gilmour brought up the rear just behind Mark. Garec was riding in front of Steven, and when the path widened slightly, he pulled alongside.

'You haven't had much sleep in several days I'd guess.'

'You're right,' Steven said as he fought off another yawn. 'I'm not certain I'll make a full day on this horse.'

'We won't ride a full day today,' the young Ronan answered. 'We all need rest, and I must warn my parents and sisters, so we'll be stopping at my family's farm. It's not far now.'

'Thank God. Maybe I can get some sleep then.'

'That'll be fine.' Garec reached across and patted Steven's horse gently along the neck. 'What do you think of her?'

'She's wonderful,' Steven said as he ran one hand up the horse's mane and started patting her vigorously. The mare responded with a toss of her head and a pleasant whinny. 'Did you choose her?'

'I did,' Garec answered proudly.

'You've got a great eye for horses.'

'I don't know about that. She did take to you very quickly, though, didn't she?'

'Yes, she did,' Steven said reflectively. He peered at his watch: it was already noon in Idaho Springs, but it had only been daylight here in Rona for four hours.

'What is that thing?' Garec asked, curiously eyeing Steven's wrist.

'It's called a watch,' Steven replied, and briefly explained the instrument and how it worked. 'As far as I can tell, you have about four fewer "hours" in your day than we have in Colorado.' He used the English term, because he still could not think of a Ronan equivalent. Unfastening the watch, he offered it to Garec.

' ''Hours"?' He turned the instrument over between his fingers and observed as the second hand made half a revolution.

'Yes, hours. An hour is one of twenty-four equal portions of one Colorado day,' Steven explained, then added, 'and those figures listed around the outer edge represent our number system.'

Garec was fascinated; he endeavoured to find parallels in Ronan time. 'Your hour is similar to our aven then. There are eight in each day, two from dawn to midday, two between midday and sundown, two from sundown to middlenight and two between middlenight and dawn.'

Steven did the calculations in his head. 'So an aven is about two and a half hours, assuming there are twenty hours in a Ronan day.' He showed Garec how to chart one aven on the face of his watch.

'That's very interesting, Steven Taylor.' Garec handed back the timepiece.

'Oh, that's okay.' He waved one hand dismissively at the bowman. 'You keep it.'

Garec grinned like a schoolboy. 'Thank you, Steven Taylor. Thank you very much.' He attached the watch to his wrist before adding, 'You keep the horse.'

Now it was Steven's turn to grin. 'Are you kidding?' He ran his hand gently through the animal's mane. 'Garec, this is too much. I can't take this horse.'

'Well, I can't keep her,' Garec told him, motioning to his own mount. 'Rennie would be jealous.'

'What's this one's name?'

'We'll call her whatever you wish, Steven Taylor,' Garec said, matter-of-factly.

'It's just Steven, Garec.' He thought for a moment before asking, 'Can we call her Howard?'

'Howard it shall be, Steven Taylor. Sorry, "just Steven".' Garec laughed.

Mark, meanwhile, was having a less than easy time with his own mount, a strong-willed animal that would have baulked at commands from an experienced rider. Mark attempted to employ the simple rules Steven had taught him in the orchard, but by midday, when the horse yet again wandered from the path to crop the greenery, he realised the independent-minded beast wasn't going to pay any attention to him no matter what he did. Finally, Sallax rode alongside and, with a withering look, took the reins from Mark and led the animal himself. Mark was left to balance in the horribly uncomfortable saddle, shattered from two nights without sleep, aching from the awkward motion of the horse's unfamiliar gait and desperately embarrassed at his inability to control the wretched animal.

By now the only thing keeping Mark awake was the irregular rhythm of the animal's tread and the throbbing pain in his thighs and lower back. He had tried resting his head on the horse's neck, but whenever he started to drift off to sleep, the horse would jerk about or shake its head and Mark would nearly fall from the saddle. Eventually he decided to sit up straight and welcome the pain as his only distraction from the overwhelming fatigue.

Gilmour trotted forward and touched Mark gently on the forearm. 'Excuse me, my friend,' he whispered, waking Mark from his nearly delusional reverie. 'If you lean forward slightly and use the stirrups to lift your weight just a fraction with each step, you'll find the rhythm begins to make some sense. It will alleviate the strain on your back.' He demonstrated what he meant, then fell back alongside.