Chapter 1

He could feel the nip of the cool, windy morning air that smelt of snow. It was late fall and the animal herds had been on the move, telling him that snow was near.

He awoke to find himself on a ledge with a sheath knife, the clothes on his back, and his boots. No wallet, money, identification, food or water. Nothing. He did not know where he was exactly, how he got there, or why he was there. He was guessing by the cycles of the sun that it had been five days since he found himself in this predicament.

All he knew was that he was in some high country with winter coming on, and knew from some deep sense; he needed to get to a lower elevation quickly if he were to survive….

He had been born in the 20th Century, in the Rocky Mountains, when man was still trying to fly to the moon. He completed high school and two years of college and later joined the Army. While in the Army he was sent off to far away lands and helped a desert country win their land back from a murderous tyrant.

For some reason he knew that world was not now and if so was this all a dream?
The chill in his bones told him it was not. The herd animals that looked like deer from a distance looked like none he had seen before. The fish he had caught and later ate looked familiar enough, but something was just not right. It was the air. Its smell was just too clean. As a boy growing up he spent many hours in the mountains and new how fresh the air was but this was super fresh. So fresh he wondered how in an industrialized world the air could be so clean even here. He shrugs off his thoughts as delusions, believing there has to be some sense to all this as he continues his trek downward.

After a few days of travel by foot he sees a glint of light in a distant meadow, like the flash of light from the windshield of a car when the sun hits it just right. He studies the landscape in front of him looking for anything that may look like a road and decides that given the distance and foliage cover he is too far away to tell. However, it gives him hope that answers are near.

For two more days he travels in the direction of the flash of light. On the morning of the third day he tops a small ridge and looks down in the valley below. What he sees throws him into complete disbelief. He finds the remains of a great battle. Bodies litter the field, next to horses and mules, all bathed in blood or burnt from fire. Wooden carts and other wagons were overturned and strewn about. He rubs his eyes, feeling the miles he has traveled on foot and his exhaustive efforts to get here. He looks again. Wait. Could that have been a ballista, and that a catapult? What is going on? This can’t be real. The familiar smell of death and burnt flesh hits his nose. He remembered those smells from his service in the desert. Once you got them in your head you never forget those smells. One can recognize it on the wind for miles before you get to it, as well as the odor of human waste and diesel fuel burning.

Regardless of where he was, he needed provision and if in this world the sword ruled then he needed to arm himself. Since there were plenty for the taking he may as well help himself to the spoils left on the battlefield.

On his way down into the meadow he found a long branch that he could easily fashion into a staff. From his previous vantage point of the meadow he knew he was going to need it to beat the vultures back that were feeding on the carcasses below. He also found a limb that could be used as a club in case wild dogs, wolves or the like got too near to him.

It was near nightfall when he had made it down to the valley floor, so he found a protected place to bed down for the evening and make a dinner of once cooked fish. In the morning he readied himself for the tasks at hand. It is never fun coming behind death. It is sickening and requires a certain detachment to walk through and not lose every thing your insides may still be holding. But what must be done, must be done. He needed to outfit himself with what ever survival tools he could find left laying not to far away. He was also hopeful to find clues to where he may be.

As he left his campsite and neared the battlefield he could hear the vultures cawing and tearing away at anything that could be ripped off. He was mindful of the fact that he may end up dinner himself depending on the frenzy of the birds and what ever else may be afoot.

Walking in and around the field the vultures barely took notice of his presence and he could find no sign of other’s in the area. He found the battlefield looked a lot like a scene from the movie “Braveheart” or “Gladiator”. These guys were definitely some medieval warriors. Hand to hand combat with archers far away, shooting flaming arrows after the catapults launched barrels of what ever flammables they could make. As a warrior one could only hope to die on the hilt of a sword rather than be burned to death.

He had a thing about wearing the amour of a dead man. Not sure why that was. Call it superstition. Hover he did take up a nice long sword, axe, dagger, a backpack and some other provisions. He did find a long bow and several quivers of arrows. He would certainly have to practice with these; they sure were not like the compound bows back home. He searched and searched but could not find any scrolls, maps or notes that may give him any hints. Then he remembered that if the history of these people were like the history of his own, then most of them couldn’t write or read anyway.

He decided to skirt the battle field again looking for the heaviest beaten path away. He did this in hope that this would lead him in the direction of the victors and lead him to answers. It was obvious that it had been several days since any one alive was here so he didn’t think he needed to worry about security patrols for a few days. He knew an individual could move faster than an army so it would be awhile before he should see anyone. So off he went.