I shook him again, but all he did was drool. Just great. Could things get any worse?

With nothing left to try, I slapped his face. He blinked and moaned. Then his eyes closed and opened several times in quick succession. He seemed to come out of his stupor enough to turn his head toward me.

“Can you stand?” I asked him.

“Not… real…” he mumbled.

“Of course I'm real. It's me—Oberon.”

“Imagining…”

I slapped his face again, just enough to sting. That seemed to bring him around a bit more.

“Look at me!” I said. “Can you stand, Dad? Do you need help walking?”

Mumbling, he shrugged away my hands. For a second he wobbled, but then he seemed to draw on inner reserves of strength. He straightened his back and stood rigidly upright, and an odd, slightly bewildered expression flickered across his face.

“Where… ?” he whispered.

“You're back at the Pattern,” I said. “Do you know how to get out?”

“The Pattern… yes…”

“Good. You do remember.” I turned and gazed along the shimmering path I had just walked. With all those twists and turns, it seemed a lot longer than I had first thought. “Is it easier when you're leaving?” I asked. “Can you walk? I'm not sure I can carry you back out.”

The faintest hiss of steel leaving a scabbard sent a shiver of alarm through me. Instantly, I threw myself to the left, tucking into a quick roll. I came up on the balls of my feet, fists ready.

I'd acted just in time—my father had drawn his sword and lunged at me. If I hadn't been fast, he would have run me through.

“Thellops!” he roared, advancing on my position. He had a half-crazed look in his eyes. “Never again!”

“Dad!” I cried, backing away desperately. Had he lost his mind? Didn't he recognize me? “It's Oberon—your son! Dad!”

Howling, he lunged again.

Fortunately, he barely had enough strength to hold his blade. Batting his sword aside with my arm, I closed fast and punched the side of his head as hard as I could. The force of my blow sent a shock of pain the length of my arm and sent him reeling.

That blow would have been enough to knock out or even kill a normal man. Not my father, though. Dazed, the tip of his sword dragging across the stone, he gave a low groan and rushed me again, slashing.

“Dad, look at me!” I said, dancing back to safety. Somehow, I held my temper. I knew he wasn't thinking clearly. I just had to make him understand.

Staggering back, he raised his sword with a grunt and seemed to be gathering his strength for another rush.

“Why are you doing this?” I demanded. “Think about it, Dad! Reason it out!”

Clutching the hilt of his sword with both hands now, he rushed straight at me. It was a clumsy move that no master swordsman in his right mind would have tried.

Dancing easily to one side, I gave him another punch to the head. He stumbled, then reeled back, slashing at me. He missed by several feet.

“Damn Thellops,” Dad muttered.

“What is Thellops?” I demanded. “Talk to me, Dad!”

Staggering, he almost fell. I took the opportunity to draw my own sword. He might be my father, but I wasn't taking any chances. I couldn't stand here and let him attack me again and again. It only took one lucky swing.

“Won't do,” he muttered. “Won't do.”

“What won't do?” I demanded.

Shaking his head, once more he charged straight at me.

This time we met with a clash of steel on steel. I had planned to disarm him quickly, but as our blades locked, his strength returned. He hurled me back with a powerful surge of his muscles, then launched into a blistering series of double-feints and lunging attacks that I barely managed to turn aside.

“Dad! Stop it!”

“No more tricks!” he cried.

“It isn't a trick! It's me, Oberon!”

“Thellops!”

Not that again. Backing away warily, I kept my gaze on the tip of his sword. It darted from side to side like a wasp looking to strike.

“I don't want to hurt you,” I said, “But if you keep this up, I'm going to have to!”

He feinted, then slashed at my head. I parried, giving way, then parried again as he pressed the attack. This time he used a complicated series of feints and thrusts. Even crazy, he was the greatest swordsman I had ever seen.

He got first blood. On a swift feint-and-riposte, he came in under my guard and nicked the back of my right wrist. I never saw it coming. A second later, he gashed my right forearm. Nothing life-threatening, but blood poured down my hand. In a few seconds I wouldn't be able to grip my sword properly.

He threw back his head and howled with laughter. If I fell down, would he think he'd won? I would have to keep that as a backup plan, in case he hit me again.

Before the blood ruined my grip, I switched sword-hands. Clearly I couldn't fight him on even terms. If I didn't do something fast, he'd kill me.

“This is your last chance,” I bluffed. “Put up your sword, or I won't hold myself back!”

“Thellops!” he growled. “Never again!”

So much for diplomacy.

He might be a better swordsman than I, but in the real world, I knew the best didn't always win. The smartest did. And if I couldn't out-think a madman, I didn't deserve to live.

He attacked again. I fell back before him, yielding ground quickly, concentrating on fighting defensively. There had to be a weakness in his attack. I just had to find and exploit it.

His sword blurred and darted, testing my defenses, trying to find a way past my guard. Still I parried frantically, retreating in slow circles. His every attack seemed perfect. He fell into a rhythm now: attack, rest, attack, rest.

The next time he paused to catch his breath, I took a moment to study him carefully. That's when I noticed the huge bruise purpling around his left eye—at exactly the spot I'd punched him twice. I figured the swelling must have cut into his field of vision. If I played to his left side, taking advantage of that injury…

He launched a blistering attack again. This time, though, I circling to my right. He kept blinking and shaking his head. The faster I circled, the more I noticed his pauses and hesitations.

He started to tire again. As he drew up short, his sword dropped out of position.

My turn.

I came in low and from the right, hitting him fast and hard. I hammered at his blind side. He reeled back, turning my sword frantically. Then I deliberately over-extended my reach, letting my sword's point drop. He never saw it coming—the swelling blinded him—and even if he had, I don't think he had the strength left to stop it.

My sword's point bit deep into his right foot. I jerked it free, and blood spurted.

Yowling, he slashed wildly. His blade whistled through the air, missing my eyes by inches. When he landed on his bad foot, his leg started to give way. He staggered and almost fell.

Got you! Leaping forward, I caught his frantically windmilling free hand, whirled, and heaved in one smooth motion. He sailed over my shoulder and landed flat on his back ten feet away. The breath whooshed from his lungs. He lay there stunned.

I leaped, pinning his sword-hand beneath my boot. He released his weapon, gasping. He couldn't move, could barely breathe. I kicked the sword away, sending it skittering twenty feet across the stony ground to the very edge of the Pattern.

“This is your last chance,” I said with more calmness than I felt. “Yield, Dad, and we'll have a drink and a laugh about it later.”

Tired and hurt as he was, he tried to throw me off. I had to give him credit for that—I wouldn't have had the heart to continue the fight. Unarmed, how could he hope to continue?

Suddenly he rolled to one side and made it to his feet in a convulsive movement. Before I could react, he whipped a knife from his belt.