The fog was thick, almost unnaturally so.  The mist swirled and danced, 
parting briefly to reveal trees and shrubs, strangly distorted in the
half-light.  The fog's clammy greyness encompassed everything around.  But
mostly it seemed to envelop Baran.  Baran *hated* this fog.  It made him
uneasy, unable to see anything clearly past ten feet or so.  It got into
his clothes and pack, dampening them.  And worst of all, it kept him from
seeing the path, which he had to stick to if he was going to reach Aldel by
dark.  As if it wasn't dark already.  As if he could even find work in Aldel,
what with it being so late in the year and all.  He cursed silently, and pulled
his cloak tighter about himself.
  Without warning, he heard a brief whirring sound, and ducked instinctively.
An arrow burst through the fog and imbedded itself into a nearby tree, mere
inches from his neck.  He very cautiously raised his head, and examined
the arrow.  Yellow and black fletching.  Orcs.  Damn.  He had been warned about
orc raiders on the path, but had hoped to avoid them.  Apparently not.  Warily,
he stood, gripping his walking staff tightly.  The polished hardwood, bound at
either end with gleaming metal, would make a decent weapon.  Hopefully.  He
listened closely, at first hearing nothing, then footsteps.  A half-dozen or
so, coming from several directions.  Heading towards him.  He could run, but
that would mean leaving the path, which could be worse than getting in a fight.
So it would be a fight.
  He knelt, leaning his staff against the tree.  He silently unhooked the
crossbow from his belt, and loaded it.  The orcs were closer now, the first two
visible as dim figures in the mist.  He took aim, sighted, and fired.  With a
quiet buzz, the bolt lept from the crossbow and embedded itself in the lead orc.
The orc shrieked once and dropped to the ground.  The others, realizing they'd
been located, let out a yell.  They advanced closer, becoming clearly visible.
Four to one odds, not good.  He could only hope to fell one quickly with a lucky
blow.  He quickly attached the crossbow back onto his belt, and grabbed his
staff as he stood.  The orcs came closer, eying Baran as warily as he eyed
them.  Leather armor and longswords on the orcs.  Cheap, but effective
armaments.
  One orc, presumably the leader, grunted something in orcish.  Then, in
badly accented tradespeak: "You trespasser.  Give us your possessions, or we
kill you." The orc stumbled a bit when saying "possessions", but Baran got the
general idea.  The other orcs grinned, yellow teeth showing, then waited
for Barad's answer.  He stood silently, gauging the situation.  "Human no
answer," the leader said.  "So you die, we take from corpse."
  The leader, no fool, gestured one of the other orcs forward.  The orc
stepped forward, confident.  Baran relaxed, slightly.  If they were going to
take him on one at a time...
  The orc swung his sword.  Baran, quicker and with a longer weapon, swung
his staff to block the blow.  He spun the staff around, and the orc doubled
over as the end of the staff hit him in the chest.  The orc staggered backwards,
gasping for breath.  Baran followed this up with another blow to the chest,
and then one to the side.  There was a satisfying *crunch*.  Perhaps a bone
was broken, perhaps not.  In any case, the orc was in no condition to fight.
The leader, seeing this might be a bit more difficult than expected, motioned
the other two forward.  Baran backed up, away from their advance, until he
felt a tree trunk at his back.
  The first orc charged, swinging his sword.  Baran moved his staff into a
blocking position.  The blow was hard enough to nick the wood, and Baran was
caught off balance.  The orc, seeing an advantage, moved forward to strike
again.  But Baran prevented his blow with a quick swing of the lower end of
the staff, catching the orc in the kneecap.  It shattered, dropping the orc to
the ground.  A bit more staff-work, and the third orc joined him there.
  Finally, only the leader was left.  He snarled, little pig-like red eyes
glinting, and lunged.  Baran's staff moved up to block, but he was winded, and
not quite fast enough.  The blade bit into his side.  If it were not for the
mail shirt beneath his cloak, the wound might have been fatal, instead of just
painful.  Baran's returning blow smashed into the leader's right hand.  The orc
howled with pain and surprise, as his weapon sailed off into the underbrush.  A
glance at Baran was enough to decide the leader.  He pursued his weapon, fleeing
into the underbrush, and was quickly lost in the mist.
  "That should teach you to pick on harmless travellers!" Barad shouted after
him.  He gripped his side.  He shouldn't have shouted, the wound couldn't take
the stress.  Ripping a strip of his tunic off, he bandaged it, then bent
to examine the corpses.  A pouch containing some silver, and a note in orcish
were the only things worth taking.  The note was unusual.  Baran knew most
orcs could barely speak competently, let alone read.  Perhaps he could get
it translated when he got to the city.  Which reminded him.
  He stood, and kicked the bodies off the path.  He would have burned or buried
them, but there was no time.  He might still make Aldel by nightfall.
                                  *****
  Eft slept fitfully in his room at the inn.  He had done nothing much that
day, only leaving the room a couple times to eat, and once to get a chain for
his crystal, so he could wear it around his neck.  But other than that, he had
done nothing but sleep and recuperate.  The sleep had not been easy, with his
wounded arm, but at least he had gotten some sleep.  Then, as night fell, he
was elsewhere.
  He turned his head, surveying the landscape.  It was a dark, featureless
plain, save to the south, where a tower could be sighted in the distance.
And all around him lay corpses.  Many were human.  Many were not.  Some
were strange, twisted creatures with fur or fangs or claws or wings.  Some
had insectoid eyes.  Some had no flesh or blood, just bones.  He shivered and
turned away.  And caught a glimpse of himself, and was shocked.  Something
was very odd here.  He was human, and tall, that was the first thing.  And
at his waist was a longsword, in a scabbard.  Eft could barely lift a longsword,
let alone use it competently.  And he was clad in gleaming mail.  He realized
someone was speaking, and turned.
  "Lord Nerro?"
  "So that's my name," thought Eft, "I wonder who he is, and where I am, and
what's going on.... Well... the only good way is to wait and watch, I suppose."
While he mused, he heard himself respond to the messenger: "Yes, lad?  How
goes our war?"
  "We have driven the Evil One's forces back, m'lord.  We should go to the tower
while we have the chance, before they regroup."
  Eft was still confused, but he seemed to have no choice but to follow along.
And besides he was speaking as this Lord Nerro again: "Come.  We ride now!"
  Other men, armed men, had ridden up as they had talked.  Eft turned to one,
holding a horse.  "We will take the tower, by the gods!  He will not go
unpunished!"  Eft found himself shouting, and shaking his fist.  Then he vaulted
into the saddle before Eft had a chance to speak.  Vaulted into the saddle?
As a halfling, he could barely reach the saddle, let alone vault into it.  But
he was on the horse, and riding already.  And what a horse!  Even to one who was
no judge of horses, this was a beauty.  A jet-black warhorse, with bridle and
other trappings of finest silver and leather.  The horse itself was young,
finely muscled, and well-trained.  "It's a good thing this Lord Nerro person
knows how to ride," Eft thought to himself, "Because I sure don't."  By the time
he was done admiring the horse, they were much closer to the tower.
  The tower was tall, and black.  Obsidian or some other stone perhaps.  There
was a single gate, and no defenses.  It seemed impossible to scale, but surely
the inhabitants could be starved out?  Perhaps not.  There was obviously magic,
or something mystical, involved in its creation.
  Eft realized the men were looking at him expectantly.  "Come out, vile cur!
You shall be punished for your crimes!  Surrender to us now, or we shall level
the tower to the ground, with you inside!"  He shouted, at the top of his lungs.
All fighting had ceased, and the sound spread out over the plain, disappearing
over the horizon.
  "Never!" came the reply from the tower.  The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
In fact, it was much like the voice of this body he was in now.  Perhaps the
person in the tower was related?  But the voice continued.  "Surely, dear
brother, we can negotiate?  I have many powers at my command, though you
have vanquished my army for now..."
  "I will not negotiate with a traitor and a coward!" Eft screamed.  "You
will received your just punishment, brother!"  Brother?  This was odder and
odder.
  He was suddenly aware of a pain in his hand.  He looked down.  The hand was
shrinking, back to halfing-size.  He glanced up.  The tower, the horizon, his
men... all dissolving.  He was in blackness.  He tried to stand up, and fell out
of his bed.  His bed?  It was all a dream?  How very, very strange.  But then
why did his hand still hurt?  He looked down.  He had been clenching his fist
around something.  The crystal.  He had been gripping it so tightly, he had
cut his palm.  He sighed, and removed the crystal from his neck.  He placed it
on the table beside him, turned the light off, and went back to bed.  There
were no more dreams that night.
                    **************
The man turned away from his chessboard.  A pawn move had been made, and
there were interesting developments afoot.  But he had yet to move a major
piece out to the center of the board.
                    **************