"Did that cat just jump out of a painting and talk to us?" Jam asked. "It did," Gord said. He was finding this harder to accept than his travel through time and space to this world. "In English," he added, even though he didn't know which language he expected a cat to speak. To add to his confusion, he recognized the music in the background: 'Welcome to the Jungle'. "The music is there to comfort you," the cat said. "But I know the fact I am talking is disconcerting to the recently spawned. I am called Britny, the wisest, most metal cat in the kingdom of Balladria and beyond."

  "What do you want from us?" Jam asked. He was massaging his mohawk cut, clearly a nervous habit. "We won't be your goats. I don't bleat for anyone. Never again!"

  "Goats?" the cat said. "No. No. I was sent here to welcome you. The Mortal that I Deign to Put Up With will arrive soon. She is busy communicating with a pea plant. I am but a comforting voice for your transition into this new realm. I know that people in your world worship cats, and so I am here to radiate grace and calmness like the feline goddess that I am." She gestured with a paw. "Sit. Eat. You must be hungry."

  Gord saw no reason not to sit, so he sat. Jam sat also and tried a bit of the mutton. "Where are we?" Gord asked.

  "Metaloria." The name meant nothing to Gord—he'd travelled the world and so knew the globe well. He would have especially remembered any place in his world that was called Metaloria. "Tell us what you want from us."

  "Tuna," Britny said. "But I always want tuna. As I said, your questions will soon be answered. Do you feel a sense of calm now? The last batch of spawners were all wide-eyed and breathless. But you look at rest."

  "I am calm," Gord said. Though he felt a little like he was hallucinating. "We are calm." Jam nodded quickly. He had moved on to chunks of white cheese.

  "Good," Britny said. "I have been a resounding success. I must go now. Tuna calls." She leapt from the table and into the painting and was gone. Now it was a painting of a cat again.

  "What just happened?" Jam asked.

  "I don't know if I can make sense of it," Gord admitted.

  A glowing outline of a door appeared in the wall, and opened. And with no further fuss, or trumpets, or even a crackling sound, a woman walked in. She was not tall nor short, which put her right in the area of medium-tall and medium-sized, and Gord guessed her to be in her early forties. She had a small green Robin Hood-style hat with pointy ears on either side of it. But they were cute pointy ears, he decided. And her hair was blonde and long, with one line of grey above her forehead. Her locks had been feathered in a way that reminded him of Farrah Fawcett, a childhood crush of his. He had that poster memorized. This woman wore a green shirt with the words Hugs For Those About To Rock on it. Over that shirt was a green leather half-jacket studded with metal. An oversized black leather belt with a snakehead buckle hugged her hips. Which were covered in very comfortable-looking, almost jean-like pants. She clutched a twisty wooden staff in her hands. She wasn't strikingly beautiful like a movie star, but what made her beautiful to him was that she walked in with a straight back and a strong sense of who she was.

  The woman stopped in front of them. She looked from Gord to Jam and back again.

  "It's… It's a greet to honor you," Gord said. "Uh… it's great to meet you, Your Honor." Ugh. He could charge an enemy position without hesitation, but complimenting an attractive woman was as sweat inducing as defusing a bomb.

  "You spawners will show me the deep respect I deserve by bowing before me," a male voice commanded.

  It had come from the woman.

  What kind of world is this? Gord wondered. He took a step back, unsure whether he could reconcile what he was hearing with what he was seeing. Maybe in this world, women had men's voices and men had women's voices. Panic fluttered in his heart.

  Jam rolled off the chair, fell to his knees and became one with the floor.

  Gord stood tall. "I don't kneel."

  "Oh." The woman slapped the top of her wooden staff, which Gord noticed she was holding near her mouth like it was a microphone. He also saw that she was wearing green lipstick. "Sorry," she said, this time with a pleasantly raspy feminine tone. "I forgot I had set this to Deeply Impressive Male Rock God Voice. It is sad that spawners, mortal men, elves and others respond more positively to commands from a male voice than they do a female one."

  "You never met Sergeant Kress," he said, picturing the six-foot woman who could both out-press, out-dance and out-punch him. "Her voice could sink an aircraft carrier."

  "She sounds formidable," the Farrah-Fawcett haired woman said.

  Jam, who was still face down, raised a hand. "Are we allowed to get up now?"

  "Yes, yes," the woman said. "I meant the whole 'falling on your knees thing' as a joke. I am told by my cat that I don't have a brilliant sense of humour."

  Jam stood in a gangly manner. "It was really hilarious," he said. "I mean it; it was so hilarious. Like Jackass-level hilarity. It was—"

  "What is your name?" Gord asked before Jam could continue any further down that road of comparisons.

  She stood a little straighter but still had to look up at Gord. "My name is Lita," she said. "Lita Fjord, the Great Green Witch of the Vale of Silent Lucidity in the land of Balladria."

  It was an odd-sounding and long name, and he wasn't sure what a vale was. He jammed a thumb at Jam. "Why did you bring the two of us here? We were both at a concert and enjoying the greatest band in the world."

  "Second greatest after DeathFace Blitzkrieg," Jam interjected, then after a venomous glance from Gord, he added, "judging from an article I read in Kerrang. Not necessarily my opinion."

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  "People are allowed to have wrong opinions," Gord said.

  "I don't know what art form you two are arguing about," Lita said. "But it is impressive how quickly you've adjusted to the fact that you're in a completely different world. I believe Britny was a calming influence." The torchlight was bright enough to show that she had green eyes that matched her green hat and green shirt and green lipstick. "Most spawners take a long period to come to terms with spawning in Metaloria. Some never do and end up writing diaries of madmen. Or madwomen."

  "I try to always land on my feet," Gord said. "Which reminds me: we were going to land in another place that I think was quite far away, and then we were pulled here."

  "You saw that other room too?" Jam said. "I thought it was a dream. I mean, there was a hot babe there. And some jerk and—"

  "Let our friend Lita answer," Gord said. Jam nodded, looking her up and down. He seemed to spend far too much time staring at her hat, Gord thought. He might get into trouble for that. Women were sensitive about men staring at their hats. He'd once told a French female gendarme that the way she wore her hat reminded him of his mom, and he immediately learned several new French swear words.

  "Yes," Lita said. "You were summoned to a death-dealing dungeon designed by a horrible wizard named Blayre. I intercepted his summons and transported you here."

  "Why?" he asked.

  "A dear friend has tasked me to keep an eye on Blayre. I was hoping you would tell me his intentions with all these spawners."

  "I know nothing about this wizard," Gord said.

  "I know nothing, too," Jam added. "Other than his name is Blayre, which I've just learned."

  "I am not surprised." Lita leaned on her staff. It looked like it was alive, judging by the small leaves and vines wrapped around it, as green as if they were growing from the ground. There were several violet flowers at the top. "By meeting you and assessing your skills, I may guess what kind of horrid and destructive plan he has in his devious brainpan. What are your skills?"

  "I play guitar." Jam began running his fingers across an air guitar, making what he might have believed were cool rock faces. "In a band. Sometimes they let me play solos, if our lead guitarist, BB Winters, is sick."

  "So you are a minstrel?" Lita said. "Do you make a living from it?"

  "Uh … we just practice in my mom's garage," Jam replied. "She lets us turn the volume up only to three because of her migraines."

  "Ah, you are a minstrel in waiting."

  "Oh, wow," Jam said. "That might be a perfect name for our band—The Minstrels in Waiting."

  "And you?" She pointed at Gord. "What is your name and your background?"

  "Gord is my name. I was in the military."

  "You're a soldier?" She drew herself up higher and cocked an eyebrow. He liked that she seemed to be impressed by his career. He did his best to suck in his gut. "Are you a commander? How many wars? What weapons are you adept with?"

  Gord cleared his throat. "I'm a sergeant, and we trained with many weapons, though few would be familiar to you—judging by the medieval appearance of this world."

  "Are you skilled with the curved scorpions sword?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Or a two-handed triumph broadsword?"

  He shook his head.

  "How about a kick axe?"

  "I've never used a kick axe. It sounds painful."

  "Can you sing or play an instrument?"

  He shook his head. "I'm not very musical. I sometimes thump things."

  The woman nodded. "And the others who Blayre summoned, do you know them and their skill sets?"

  "Well," Gord said. There was something about her green eyes and her voice and her Farrah Fawcett hair that was becoming more and more trustworthy. So he decided he would let her know why he wanted to be back in that dungeon. "One spawner was my niece. As far as her skills are concerned, she is in her first year of university taking biology. It's the study of plants."

  "So, she's studying to be a druid?" Lita pointed her staff at him, as if to encourage an answer.

  "We call them biologists in our world," Gord said. "She's very smart."

  "She sounds incredible." Jam had moved closer, looking up at Gord with a glow that reminded him of privates who wanted a cushy assignment. "I think smart women are so cool. I mean, they get jobs and they just get it. And she likes heavy metal, so we have a lot in common. It's too bad I didn't end up in that room with her. Except for the horrible danger part. What was her name?"

  "Her name is Kim, and she doesn't like heavy metal." He paused long enough to let those words sink in. They were meant to discourage Jam, and there was the slightest disappointment in the statement, too. He had spent many hours playing the classics to her, his sacred metal duty, but she had developed her own taste in music. In fact, she was addicted to K-pop. At least it wasn't country. "She was kind enough to come see Anvil with me. And she doesn't have any other skills." He knew Kim took karate; he had helped her spar and train for several meets. She'd given him a black eye and even deeper respect. He didn't mention it because it was still important to keep some of his cards close to his chest.

  "And the other spawner?" Lita asked.

  "I don't know him," Gord said. "He was standing next to us in the crowd. All I could tell you is he was five feet eleven with dark hair. And he wore a plaid shirt."

  Lita nodded, perhaps pretending she knew what sort of shirt that was.

  "Well, then," she said. "That is all I need from you—you are free. I don't know whether you'll be able to adjust to this new world. Many spawners ask whether there are things called phones here, which I understand is a glowing device that talks to you, but there are no phones. Well, with that wisdom imparted, I will send you on your way." She raised her hand in what Gord recognized as the devil horns signal. "May the gods of rock and goddesses of metal look upon you kindly with their furrowed metal brows."

  As cool as the gesture and words were, and Gord had so many questions about it all, he raised his hand. "You can't just let us go," he said. "I need to get back to—"

  "I have a question that I really want to ask. It may seem odd because I've been worried that I'm hallucinating. Which I've done before. Including once when I thought a girl and I were dating. Anyway, I have a… a query."

  "Which is?" Lita said patiently.

  "Why do the two of you have glowing numbers and words above your heads?" He pointed from above her head to above Gord. "Oh, and me too." He pointed up.

  "You need to repeat your question carefully," Lita said. The serious tone in her voice got Gord's attention.

  "Hey, sure," Jam said. "I'll be totally careful. So, Dudette, why is there a number above your head? It's a 259. And He has an 18. And mine…" He squinted again. "Is a 10. The lower the number, the better, I hope. It's not IQ, right?"

  Gord had tensed, because with each "careful" word Jam had said, Lita's fingers had been tightening on her staff. There was the slightest narrowing of her eyes, and he knew that look all too well: It was an indicator that an opponent was about to take a shot. Either with a gun, a fist, or a knife. Spotting that 'tell' had saved his life several times.

  "Whatever you are thinking of doing—don't," Gord said, keeping his voice non-threatening but steady. "He's just a confused kid."

  Lita looked like she wanted to burn holes through him.

  "Is someone thinking of doing something?" Jam asked. He pointed a few inches above Lita's head. "It says you're a Class 8 Druidess Worldgrower and a Lightbearer and that you're half-elven. That's a half-elf, right? But what's the other half…." He still hadn't dropped his finger. "Hey, whoa, why are your numbers turning red?"

  Lita snapped back her staff and swung it forward. A red, swirling, lasso-like energy shot out and wrapped around Jam's neck. She lifted him up and he jittered and shook as if he were being hung by a Tazer wire.

  "He's got rainbow vision," she said, her voice calm, as if she were reciting a recipe. "It's the most horrible and dangerous of gifts. Only the truest of hearts will do good with it. The rest must be destroyed."