"Tell me, Valdor," the pontiff began as he paced the floor as he spoke, "Is this plague of vampires that run our streets red with blood the fulfilling of the vision spoken of by John the Revelator?" The heavy-set man was clad in neatly pressed ivory robes and crimson beads, the high collar constricting tightly around his pudgy neck. He stood before Connar, large drops of sweat running down the sides of his cheeks. The council was beginning its third hour in the confines of the grand cathedral's great hall. Torches strained to light the room against the dark wood and towering walls. The sun had yet to break the gray, hazy morning sky, adding to the general gloomy mood of the gathering.

Connar stood before the rest of the seated council, his hands tied behind his back, the rough cords biting into his wrists and palms. The ruling clergy deemed it fit justice having charged Connar with heresy three times within the first hour of the council's convening. He imagined that if the tightening of the heavy ropes did not get the responses they were seeking, they might try other means to soften his testimony.

"Non...tis a plague of a different sort...not of this world, " Connar began with a shake of his head, his eyes diverted to the well-worn wooden floor before raising his gaze to those gathered. "There are no amounts of exorcisms, tortures or rites that ye can perform to overcome this evil. Ye cannot pray this devil back to hell."

"Blasphemy!" cried one of the clergy in the raised gallery, as he pointed an accusatory finger at Connar. With one look a guard was sent over to deliver a blow to the captive's midsection with the blunt end of a pike. "Ye underestimate God's power on earth!" the now enraged man exclaimed before angrily retaking his seat in the high-back chair.

Connar raised his eyes to him, drawing himself up and taking a gasping breath, "Tis not God's power I question, but those who claim to wield it." He knew it was coming, the second blow not having nearly the same impact as the first.

"Enough. Enough!" the large pontiff bellowed as he stepped between the guard and Connar. "This is getting us nowhere." He used a bit of cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow and rose-tinted cheeks. "The Valdor's reputation proceeds him. None should be surprised by his unbridled tongue and arrogance by now. Control yourselves!"

Another of the clergy rose to feet, bedecked in red robes and neatly coiffed hair, one of the many palace clergy sent to exert influence over the few thrones dotting the land. "This man is in league with the devil himself. It is a mockery to even include his vile tongue in these proceedings," he hissed, looking directly at Connar. "We should send him back to the fiery pit from whence he came."

Connar could only shake his head, the smirk returning to his lips, which soon caught the attention of the pontiff. "This amuses ye, Valdor" Do ye not believe in Hell?"

He looked at the pontiff standing before him, reading his gaze, trying to judge whether responding to the question was going to earn him more pummeling. He looked up to gallery of clergy, anger on some faces, indignation on others. But there were a few friendly faces in the gathering as well those with whom Connar had served in the not-so-distant past. It was for these that he chose to answer.

"The Hell ye imagine is nothing more than wives tales and fodder made to frighten children and the simple minded into compliance. The fiery pit that ye speak of does not exist."

The room erupted in clamoring shouts for the blasphemer to be put to death, for his remains to be scattered from one end of the city to the other. It took several minutes for the lead pontiff to restore order, bringing a new wave of sweat to his meaty face. It took several more minutes to stop the guards from their assault on the prisoner.

Connar was roughly helped back to his feet, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. The pontiff growled angrily at the guards holding their captive by the arms, "The next one of ye to strike this prisoner will find his head on a pike. Understood?" He looked from one guard to the next, the two large men lowered their head and nodded in unison. "Good. Now maybe we can proceed in more civil fashion,? his last words delivered directly to Connar. It was an invitation and a warning for Connar to choose his words wisely.

At long last, the heavy iron lock in the large oak door was turned, and Connar was pulled back into the grand hall, squinting his eyes and turning his head against the blaze of lights and candles now in the room. As his eyes adjusted he looked up to the gallery, hoping to see calmer countenances. What he saw was the fire of indignation. He noted that there were fewer clergy than before, any allies he might have once had in the room, had been purged from the gathering.

The pontiff was pacing the room once more, circling the spot where Connar stood, contemplating the Council's next move, his fingers interlaced and resting atop the roll of his white-robed stomach. The setting sun cast long shadows through the windows and across the floor, seemingly illuminating the area surrounding the Council's bound guest.

After circling in silence for what seemed an eternity, the pontiff stood before the gallery and turned to look at Connar, having decided that the proceedings would now continue.

"I have but a few questions for ye, Valdor. Answer them to our satisfaction, and ye will be free to go on your way," the pontiff articulated very carefully.

Connar did not respond in word, but simply gave a single nod of his head to invite the pontiff to continue.

The pontiff cleared his throat, his hand coming to rest on the ornate railing that separated the gallery of clergy from the area were he and Connar were standing. "We seek to understand why ye and a select few of the friars cannot support the doctrines that come from these peaceable councils and proceedings, and how it is that ye come think ye understand God's will better than we." The last statement coming as a direct challenge.

Silence punctuated the question before his voice rose in response. "Ye have the all the writings before ye, a vast library...a literal biblia, yet ye comprehend them not," Connar began, looking from one clergy to the next, his words delivered slow and deliberate. "And when the writ ceases to serve your purpose, ye have it altered to fall into agreement. Tis hardly the work of inspired men."

Angry murmurs seethed across the gallery, yet, miraculously none raised their voice in protest. The pontiff must have reached an agreement with the council as well which now directed their behavior.

The pontiff nodded, retaking his pace before the gallery once more, his hands now clasped behind his back. "Very well, Valdor. Ye have stated your position clearly enough."

He gestured with a wide sweep of his arm toward the gallery, "If ye will, please explain to the Council how ye think anyone can teach the people about heaven if there be, as ye claim, no hell."

Connar drew in a breath, squaring his shoulders to the gallery, ignoring the throbbing pain coming from his bound writs and hands. His voice carried steady, his gaze piercing as he spoke, "Ye have the scriptures right before ye, wherein do ye lack understanding" Do ye honestly believe that God would create a being with hooved foot and horned head and allow it power and dominion on His very footstool?"

He approached the gallery, to better look into their eyes, "Lucipher, a son of the morning, having fallen from God's presence, strives to make man miserable like unto himself. And how does he accomplish that?" Connar paused, giving the Council time to reflect upon his question before it was answered. "He does it by striving to separate man from God. Misery truly does love company. He has no flesh, nor blood...tis through us that Lucipher works his evil."

His voice was rising, not in anger but as a voice too long held silent, "When ye torture the innocent, enslave the meek...when ye seek to satisfy your own appetites and pleasures at the expense of others, tis then that ye become Satan's handmaidens...tis then that ye give your flesh to a different Master."

Whatever promises of decorum the Council had promised broke loose like a great wave crashing upon the sea shore. Connar was dragged away from the thrashing gallery by the guards as the pontiff pounded his fist on the railing, shouting above the other cries of anger, trying restore a semblance of order.

As the room eventually quieted once more, Connar did not wait for any more questions before speaking. He called out those gathered within the great hall, making his intentions clear, "I will work until the end of my days to rid the land of this fanged plague and evil seeping into the shadows of our world. God will decide my fate and hour of my final passing. By your words and actions, ye can make of me an ally...or enemy unlike any ye have ever known.?

"The Watchers were the sons of god (Genesis 6) sent from heaven to instruct the children of men; they fell after they descended to earth and cohabited with the daughters of men - for which act they were condemned and became fallen angels. But not all Watchers descended: those that remained are the holy Watchers of the Valiant order of God." - A Dictionary of Angels

* * * * *

The charred remains of the monastery at Montesoire rose like blackened fingers from the scarred earth, reaching heavenward for relief but finding none. Connar walked across the battlefield, the putrid stench of rotting flesh pushed up toward his face with every step. Shattered skulls and lifeless faces stared up at him, not all the bodies had been picked clean by the birds and predators. Blood, that once stood as crimson pools upon the ground had turned dark and stained the earth. He wondered how much of that blood was his own.

The questions asked of Eva and Eless by Melantha and her companion, Artsblood, returned him to Montesoire. Never in all his days and nights spend in Rhydin did he ever think he would hear talk of the Book of Enoch and the Watchers. There was no doubt that whatever version of the tales were had in Rhydin came from Connar's future, dug up and assembled piece by piece by time distanced historians. The once simple truths had been twisted into fantasy by the passage of time and the imaginations of men.

Connar walked slowly across the deserted monastery grounds, hoping beyond hope that a few books and scrolls remained hidden, protected from the fires and destruction. He pushed the blackened timbers aside, looking for the large stone covering a concealed stairway, his hands and face becoming increasingly smudged with ash and soot with the labor. Timber and frame were shoved aside until he reached the large, flat stones underneath.

As he strained at the heavy capstone, the air inside suddenly escaped like a hissing volcano, the extreme heat from the fire had heated the air underneath, and now it finally had its escape. He lit a torch and descended the narrow stairway, stepping past the robbed bodies of two monks who had remained behind to protect the secret library and had perished in a stone-walled oven.

He knew the records which he sought rather well. Connar had carried them from one protective sanctuary to another over the centuries. During the rise of the Holy Roman Empire, most of the sacred writings of Enoch and the Watchers had been destroyed, "for none could be greater than Caesar."

With the rise of Papal power and influence, Rome, too, had cause for the writings to be done away with. But the stories and legends were well known and their absence from the religious scrolls of the day would have been noticed. The legends were rewritten, altered - slowly, subtly, in such a way that, over time, no one noticed.

Under the flickering torchlight, Connar looked over the two tomes, one a scroll, the other a bound book. The former written by the hand of Enoch himself on a plain, faded surface, the other a beautifully transcribed manuscript, inked with brilliant colors, elaborate illustrations, and the tiny insignia of the monk responsible for the work. By altering just a few words and deleting others, the simple doctrine taught by Enoch had been transformed into a tale of fallen angels, sins against god, and giant men who spread plagues and famine across the land.

Connar did not know why Piper's father might be stirring tales older than the earth itself, nor from whence came the deacon's power and influence over his daughter. Connar knew the truth...not from having read it on the ink-stained page, but from having lived it over the centuries as a Son of Enoch, one of the Valdors, the Watchers of Righteousness.

I walked with a vampire...a notion as distant and foreign as touching fire and not getting burned.

Connar looked out over the city of Rhydin in the quiet still of the cold morning, concealed within the heavy gray of a hooded cloak, a steady breeze pushing the veil of clouds along their skyward journey.

The stroll the prior eve in the tavern with Tara had him questioning certain aspects of his life, of his purpose, his prejudices. In his world and time, he hunted vampires and became hunted in turn. They ran like rabid beasts, spreading death in their silent wake. It wasn't hatred nor fear that drove him to stand vigil in the darkness - it was no different than speaking out against the injustices forced upon the weak, the simple, the defenseless. He could not stand idly by and let an aberration of nature run its perverted course.

Yet not all those who turned to drinking blood were evil just because they were vampires - like Victor and Tara. Some maintained a level of humanity, of civility...even goodness. But then others took the powers of the undead and darkness to new levels of corruption and tyranny.

It was not unlike power in his own world. In the hands of the just, wealth and power were tools to lift others, while in the hands of those already turned evil by greed, wealth and power corrupted them even more, making them darker, sinister, less human. Perhaps it was the same with vampires.

But it wasn't the notion of vampires and demonic beasts that kept him restless. Connar's biggest struggle lay deep inside himself. For century upon century there was only black and white, good and evil. He never had to question his actions, his motives, nor to which side of the line he would stand. Yet, let him pass through a portal, step into another realm, and all was turned upside down. There was no black, no white...only a sea of grayness...where goodness was laughed upon and ridiculed while darkness and the power it afforded were accepted, lauded, condoned.

The irony and hypocrisy ate away at him every moment there. How a gathering of people could raise their voices and their might against evil one night and then sit idly by, chatting and drinking while that same darkness sits calmly in their very company, drinking, laughing, and scheming. It made he wonder what he might do if he ever came face to face with Piper's father.

He knew Eless could see that inner struggle in his gaze. He knew others felt it from his scathing words. Trying to remain standing with a foot in both worlds was tearing him asunder. It was only a matter of time before one of the worlds would emerge the victor.

King Richard I, the Duke of Normandy, and the man better known as Lionheart, had a striking presence. He was tall, handsome, of large build - a stark contrast to the pale, sickly people that he led. He conquered enemies as often with his charm as he did his mighty force. And, like most kings of his era, he had a darker, malicious side - ever jealous of his throne, his lands, and his rule.

The council that was now gathering on the eve before the army would set march once more for the Holy Land, talked and mingled as if they were celebrating a forgotten anniversary. Distant from their minds, or so it seemed, were thoughts of war, blood and the fiercesome army of Saladin.

Polite talk bantered about the large hall, eyes drifting ever so often to look upon one of Richard's more newly knighted - a man who kept mostly to himself. Long, black hair framed sun-darkened skin and hazel eyes that seemed to be set upon brooding.

His family was a known entity in the land, his great grandfather having fought alongside William the Conqueror in the battles with England - the Sword and the Hammer of France. But even in the same breath those stories were told, there were hushed whispers about the Valdor family, the mysterious coming and goings, their presence almost always associated with demons and darkness. Even at this place and time, Connar was held in high regard in some circles, yet hunted and despised in others.

The evening progressed on schedule. Plans were laid out, assignments given, captains giving their instructions, until, one by one, the knights parted, the soldiers set on their way to tend to their specific duties, leaving Richard and Connar alone in the chamber.

Richard's voice boomed and echoed off the cold stone walls as he paced the room, "I know ye sent word to Saladin of our coming, Connar. What say ye?"

Connar raised his gaze to look upon the King, his voice low and calm, "I did not give any word to Saladin that he wouldn't already know by now, sire." Connar paused, looking at Richard who stood before him now. "I told him ye were coming...and that I would not be with your army...nor his."

The King was doing his best to bridle the rising anger in his voice as he stared eye to eye with the defiant knight. "Ye are in no position to deny me your service, Sir Connar. As a knight ye are compelled to defend your King and his interests, whatever and wherever they may be."

Connar's palms rested upon the steel hilts at his side, a relaxed pose, but one that also afforded him ready access to his weapons. His brows narrowed as he chided Richard, "This isn't like the other crusades, and ye know it at your core. Your army is mostly made of mercenaries...men paid to go to battle. Greed powers their steps. Your pride drives them forward. They will corrupt every land they cross, taking no thought about the lives they trample under their feet. God will not be with ye...nor will I."

Color raced to the King's cheeks, nostrils flaring as he drew in deep breaths and pushed his crested chest against the outspoken knight, "Ye will either draw your sword in battle or draw your remaining breaths in chains. The choice is yours."

The cold winter rain fell from the sky like icy needles, stinging the exposed flesh, streaking it in thin crimson rivulets of blood and water. Connar raised his eyes from the carnage at his feet; mangled flesh of the once high and mighty now laid low. His warning to the crusading army not only going unheeded, but serving to fuel the rage within the knights and soldiers.

A bounty had been placed on the Valdor's head - the hunter had become the hunted. Not only was the army seeking him out of the shadows, but in every new town and hamlet along the route, desperate mercenaries and greedy thrill-seekers had been enlisted in the cause on the promise of a handsome reward from the hand of a king.

The rain, though chilling to the bone, afforded him the opportunity to clean his wounds and wash the blood and grime from his garments. The falling water was also his temporary respite from his darkened world. As he closed his eyes, bowing his head in nature's shower, his mind drifted back to simpler days, to precious moments of peace, warmth and rest, to silken fabrics and soft perfumes.

Connar had stayed away from the Rhydinian realm and Inn for many days. Portals were growing harder to find, and he wasn't free to openly search for them. Moreover, his growing wounds and scars were more difficult to conceal. He knew those he cared for most would certainly feel the weight of the fatigue and despair of battle he carried with him.

The loud crack of thunder, like a dragon's roar, lifted his gaze skyward as the early morning sun strained to break the stormy night's grip on the horizon. Connar was hungry, tired, and cold - his all-too-familiar traveling companions. As the landscape continued to narrow toward the coastline, he was running out of places to hide.

The army would soon take to the sea for the last leg on their journey to the Holy Land. If Richard and his captains stayed true to form, they would see port as their best chance to trap their prey - assuming the Valdor was foolish enough to continue his solo siege of the army upon the turbulent waters of the Mediterranean.

The gray steed labored hard under the weight of its rider and the long, relentless journey that begin with the sun's rising. Now, as the afternoon sun cut through the hazy sky, the horse's hide burned against the saddle, its sides heaving to draw air into its lungs. Though but a beast, the horse could sense the urgency which drove its master, and neither had rested during the blazing journey across the southernmost part of France. Connar had shed every unnecessary weight, including his cloak and chainmaille in order to lighten the load carried by the horse.

They had been following the Gulf of Lyon since descending the Alps, and now, as Connar turned the horse northward, black smoke could be seen climbing skyward. The sight of the thick cloud darkening the sky twisted him from within. Connar snapped the reins, driving his heels into the horse, urging him forward at a full gallop.

* * *

Beziers, nestled in the heart of the Languedoc, was a thriving hamlet with some 20,000 inhabitants. They were a peace-loving, tolerant people, and had not seen the threat of war in centuries. The large stone walls which fortified the city now were overrun with moss and vines. A small religious sect had found refuge within the open arms of Beziers and had followed their divergent christian precepts in relative obscurity.

The Cathars, as they were known, were but 200 strong, but word of their heretical teachings had caught the attention of Rome. The blood-lust and power-mongering once reserved for the Crusades in the Holy Land were now directed inwards. Dissension, no matter how peaceful its voice, would not be tolerated.

An army of some 3,000 ruthless crusaders were assembled to march on Beziers and drive the Cathars to extinction. The Cistercian abbot-commander, Arnaud Amaury, was a vicious man, whose love of terror and killing was unmatched, even for a senior churchman. It was he who was responsible for the mass burning alive of many heretics and many fair women at Casseneuil. As his army approached the unsuspecting village, Amaury was asked by one of his captains how they would know the Cathars from among those within the city walls. "C'dite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius," was his response; "Kill them all. God will recognize his own."

* * *

As Connar powered through the crumbling stone wall, which once stood as the entrance to Beziers, the horse under him collapsed, having given its all to deliver in haste the rider to his destination. Connar's body struck the ground with the force of the falling animal behind him, his arm, and shoulder, though braced for impact, were unable to cushion the fall. A flash of light and a moment of searing pain, then all went black.

.

How can I look upon this devastation and not be enraged" What is stopping me even now from pursuing the assailing army and reaping my own destruction' What keeps me from taking the fight to Rome" Why not strike the snake at its head" Wherein lies justice" For the milliards slain, where is the voice that speaks for them' Where is their justice" Am I the only one who hears their cries coming from this bloody crust of earth"

Tis with little effort that one remains faithful to a cause when surrounded by peace and calm. Tis easy to love when one is encircled by its warm embrace. Tis when facing the raging storm, when all the world is crashing down, when the depths of hatred and sorrow swell high over head - tis in those moments that true belief and faith are measured.

How can I tread the fine line between God's will and the depravity of a fallen world" What solace is there for the anger seething inside" When the stench of death no longer fills the air, when the memory of this place is gone in but a generation, will their sacrifice have been for naught' Why do I feel the blood of this slaughter on my hands"

What has changed" When has the sight of death and devastation fallen so hard upon thy heart' Ye have seen it afore, death has shadowed the steps of thine entire existence. Why now does it cause ye to doubt and wonder?

I have lost my way...

The howling of wolves snapped Connar from the torrent of thoughts besieging his head. He opened his eyes to a starlit sky, the black curtain of night having fallen. He pushed up off the ground, rising unsteadily to his feet.

The scavengers had come to feast upon the carrion of human remains. Yet with a feast laid out before them, yellow eyes turned their attention to the lone man now standing upright among them. Guttural growls came from all sides, snarling and gnashing as the circle around the wounded warrior drew slowly tighter. The only sound heard from the living prey was the scrape of honed steel across cobblestone as his blade was lifted from the ground.

.

Days passed like salt through an open wound. The nights were even worse. Connar sat alone in the darkened chapel once more, as he had on so many previous occasions. Head bowed, hands clasped and pressed to his heavy brow. Whether he slept or was seeking divine guidance, the thin cleric in long, brown robes dared not to break the silence. He waited patiently at the head of the chapel, as a worn wooden cross was slowly polished under his fingers.

As though he could sense the friar's nervousness, Connar looked up, a heavy hazel gaze cast across the empty room. The friar approached rather tentatively, collecting his thoughts as he neared the medieval knight. "I...um...I've been putting some thought into this quest of yours; to raise an army against the Church..." He hesitated, not wanting to anger his guest. "...but I fear that ye are becoming the very thing ye have sworn to fight against. Ye wait here night after night, yet none come to take up your banner. Perhaps this isn't the right time to chase your death wish."

Connar sat back, the newly fashioned crimson tunic trimmed in silver laying neatly over a long-sleeved black shirt - the tattered and bloodied rags left from the skirmish at the inn had long since been discarded. Though the outer shell looked clean and whole, the scars and wounds from the battle wore at him, limiting his ability to move and breathe without considerable effort and pain. He hid his injuries under the veil of fatigue and brooding. Connar nodded slowly at the friar's words, offering a terse rebuttal in a tired voice that matched his expression, "The graveyards are full of people who didn't have time to die, frere."

The cleric nodded, raising the candelabra in his hand a bit higher, casting flickering light beyond where Connar sat. "Aye...but ye must know..." The friar was only able to get a few words out before the door at the back of the chapel behind Connar burst open in a clatter of iron, wood and rusty hinges. A handful of solders appeared in the door, in white tunics emblazoned with red crosses, weapons drawn and at the ready. At the same moment, more soldiers moved into the room through the two doors on either edge of the chapel's alter and began to cautiously move through the wooden pews toward the cleric and his guest.

Connar rose to his feet and turned to face the soldiers behind him. Frere Jean-marie raised his voice as he backed away from Connar, "I was promised there would be no violence in my church. This is sacred ground and I demand that my request be honored!" The candelabra shook in his hands as he looked nervously from side to side.

A large sack was passed forward to the soldier leading the others. He glared at Connar under his knight's helm as he emptied the contents of the heavy sack. Eight bloodied heads rolled across the floor, to horrified shriek of the cleric. The soldier tossed the sack at Connar, but the heavy air kept the empty sack from reaching its target. "These are the heads of those who would have followed ye, Valdor. They died as traitors to the crown and to the Church. Their souls now rot in hell. God, nor the devil himself can spare ye from sharing their fate."

Connar cast an angry look of betrayal to the friar who was now desperately scanning all the pews for an exit as the soldiers were slowly closing in. The sound of honed steel sang its slow, pitched tone as it was drawn from its scabbard, reverberating in the quieted cathedral. Sword in hand, Connar stepped out into the narrow aisle-way between the pews, the dismembered heads at now his feet. His deliberate gaze looked from one end of the room to the other before settling upon the soldier leading the band of commissioned assassins. The Valdor's voice echoed off the cold stone walls, leaving no doubt as to his intentions, "When next ye open your eyes and find yourself in that hell of which ye speak, send word to the devil that I next come for him."

Feather-light voices drifted among the darkened stillness, calling as a whisper into the raging storm.

"Wake up....wake up, sir....it's time to wake up." "What do ye suppose he is dreaming about?" "I don't know, but look at his arms, his face...the scars. I would dare say if he dreams at all, it would be nightmares."

"Catherine! Anna! How many times must I ask of ye to leave the man alone?" The young women's father bellowed out to them from the adjoining room, giving the ladies a startle. "It was a mistake bringing him here. We should have left him where he was found. The man shouldn't even be alive. No good can come of this," the bearded man looked over at his daughters as they entered the room, the anger in his voice replaced by genuine concern, "...nothing good at all."

Connar emerged from the shadowy depths of the Chateau de Loche as the morning sun cast its light across the abandoned ruins. Blood streaked his face and arms, ribbons of wet crimson cut across his tunic and the steel blade in his hand. His night's work completed; another lair of night crawlers would fail to emerge with the setting sun.

The small gathering of friars and clergy fell silent when they caught sight of their warrior emerging from the crumbling castle keep, a castle that had become more a crypt of late, the countryside having been ravaged for months by a marauding band of vampires who had made their home in the bellows of the castle.

Connar was greeted by silence as he parted the group of clergy, no words exchanged, only fleeting glances for they feared this warrior nearly as much as the vampires he was summoned to vanquish.

The blade was wiped clean across his tunic before it was sheathed. Connar took hold of the reins of his horse just as a tentative voice creaked out from the group of clergy behind him. He turned to look as a brown-robed friar approached, hands clasped within the large sleeves extending far past his pudgy fingers.

"If I might enquire, Lord"we would ask of thee a question?" the friar bowed his head as he stopped in front of Connar, only raising his eyes as his query ended.

The friar cleared his throat knotted with nervousness before continuing, "We would know, sir, how it is that the Lord's crucifix and holy water have a staying affect upon only some of the night creatures but not all?" The friar took a few steps back upon completing his mission, as if Connar was prone to exploding when agitated.

Connar looked from the friar to the other clergy behind him, who were now making their slow approach so as not to miss any of the sage warrior's answer. Connar looked past them to the castle ruins, fleeting visions of the night's battle fresh on his mind.

"There are realms, worlds which ye cannot fathom that lie beyond the reach of your eyes and imagination?" Connar began slowly. "Even under these mortal skies crawl creatures of myth and legend " some real, some yet to be realized. I know not where the creatures called vampires have their origin, but they plague more than just this realm."

"Yes, yes"we have heard such stories and legends?" Connar interrupted the friar before the intrepid holy man could get much more past his mouth.

"Christian mortals of this world who, by choice or compulsion, become part of the vampire creed are yet affected by their former faith and belief. Vampiracy is the devil's attempt to circumvent the Christ and attain immortality, forced to seek after life's blood and not the Savior's redeeming blood."

The gathering remained still and held their silence as the weight of his words settled upon them. One of the robed clergy called out to Connar in protest, "But surely, the Lord's Cross has power over all."

Connar shook his head slowly, "There is no power in sticks of wood nor iron shaped to form a cross. Tis the faith behind them, the faith of those holding those emblems wherein the true power lies. To the unbeliever, the crucifix is but a symbol of the tool used to put thieves, traitors and political enemies of Rome to death."

"Is that why ye do not wear the Lord's cross around your neck warrior" Are ye above redemption or allegiance?" the clergy's tone nearly accusatory.

Connar turned and pulled himself onto the horse's saddle, pulling at the reins to turn the horse about. The group of clergy had to stumble back to avoid being side swiped by the horse's flanks. He returned to face the group once more, his gaze searing though the settling dust, "Ask yourself that very question when that cross around your neck fails to produce enough faith to keep the blood in your body at a vampire's fangs. I know wherein my faith resides".do ye??

The horse kicked up a heavy cloud of dust, obscuring the warrior from view until he was but a silhouette against the morning sun. Somewhere night was falling, blood was being spilt, and the undead were in need of a dose of true religion.

Whether in an attempt to establish itself among weaker people or to seek out refuge where light was oft scarce, the darkness plaguing lower Europe moved northward. The villages in the Vallachia province were isolated from each other by rugged mountains and deep, dark forests which seemed to stretch on forever. It was only by chance that the Valdor followed the trail of blood into this cold and foreboding corner of the medieval world.

The discovery of savagely mutilated bodies - two unfortunate travelers caught outside after dark followed a few days later by a lone drunken night watchman " terrified the villagers. More than a crazed murder or assassination, the corpses had been torn apart and their bodies drained of blood. However, as suddenly as the attacks had occurred, they stopped. The horror of the assaults was enough to keep any from venturing out after dark.

Icy rain mixed with snow fell like needles as Connar walked the cobblestone streets. It was several hours past nightfall and the streets were empty and quiet. A heavy darkness gripped the small hamlet. He could feel it upon his skin even through the heavy hooded cloak attempting to shield him from the assailing elements.

Though muffled by the hood over his head, the piercing wail of a woman's voice caught his breath. He turned quickly and began sprinting toward the source. The desperate cry came again as he was scaling a tall stone courtyard wall. When he reached the top he looked down onto a small courtyard surrounded on all sides by buildings with shuttered windows and darkened doorways. In the center, a leathery-winged beast was tearing away at its helpless prey, blood staining the cold cobblestones red.

The creature, distracted by its feast, turned too late to see the warrior and flash of steel descending from above. The blade cut through the creature, severing a wing and embedding itself deep into the shoulder. A spray of blood followed by a demonic shriek echoed off the stone walls and structures. A futile slash of claws raked the air in front of the Connar as his drew a second blade from its scabbard. He stepped past the bloodied claws reaching for him, and with a half turn and twist of his torso, the vampire's head was cleaved from its body, falling to the ground to join the quivering dismembered wing.

Connar lifted his gaze to the darkened, storm-filled heavens as he sheathed one weapon and retrieved the other from the creature's corpse. If retaliation hid in the shadows, it would come quickly. He set a knee to the ground next to the woman's torn body, her features barely recognizable. The vampire had torn open her throat, draining her as the blood gushed forth. In her futile effort to survive, her face and body had been shredded by razor-sharp claws. What remained of the poor soul lay lifeless and pale in the center of the courtyard.

"What the hell do you think you are doing"!" a voice bellowed from an opening door leading into the small courtyard. Connar rose to his feet yet clutching a bloodstained blade. The man, a magistrate from the appearance of his clothing, squared himself with Connar, his breath hot and tainted with the smell of alcohol, bellowed once more, "What have you done, you damned fool"!?

- - -

Connar had but a moment to decide which of the two pikes to deflect, opting for the honed point leveled at his head. He made an arcing sweep with his sword, knocking the closest pike away. The second guard advanced at the same moment, driving his pike into Connar's chest, the sharpened tip penetrating between the links of chainmaille underneath the tunic and shirt, burying itself in his flesh, but the better part of the pike's tip was impeded by the linked armor.

The force of the guard and pike drove Connar backwards until his back touched the stone wall behind him. At the very moment his progression was stayed, Connar snapped the wooden shaft of the pike with his arm, causing the guard to stumble out of control, headlong toward his target, carried forward by his weight. Connar struck the guard square in the jaw with the rounded steel hilt of his blade causing the bone to give an audible snap. The second fisted blow came just as quickly, sending the guard to the ground as blood pooled from his mouth and with the guarantee that the poor man would not be eating solid food for many weeks.

"One down, one to"." Before he could even finish the thought, the other guard had driven the point of his pike into Connar's shoulder, just below where the chainmaille protection ended. The sword fell from Connar's hand, clattering with a ring to the cobblestones. He placed his left hand on the pike and turned his body in an attempt to take the pressure off the point which was being driven deep into his flesh. The guard ripped the pike free, using a two-hand control of the weapon to strike Connar across the face with the heavy blunt end and then again with mid-section.

As he stumbled backwards once more, the guard was upon him, knocking him to the ground and pressing the wooden shaft across his throat. Both men gripped the weapon, trying to gain the advantage as they wrested for control.

Connar struck the guard across the face with his gauntleted forearm, followed by a savage elbow strike. He delivered yet another fisted blow as he forced the man to his back, the pike now in Connar's control. He leveled the point at the man's throat ready let the weapon carve its way to the man's death. As he looked into the guard's fearing gaze, Connar stopped, a rush of faces filling his mind, a vision that was at once new yet familiar. He leaned over the man, his life in his hands. "What is your name?"

The guard did not know if this intruder would kill him whether he answered or not, but he could not help but notice a shift in his expression, so he gave his reply, "Luder, Marek Luder."

Another flash of visions blinded his gaze, like seeing bits of light descending through a chandelier. Connar grabbed the man by the front of his collar, lifting his head from the ground and drawing it toward his own, his words urgent and succinct, "Take your family from this place. Go to the west. Your posterity has a work to perform. Ye must??

Before Connar could utter another word, a large clay vessel filled with frozen dirt crashed into his skull, causing him to drop the pike. The magistrate delivered a second blow, shattering the pot into shards and sending Connar in the blackness of unconsciousness.

Morning came to the sleepy Hungarian hamlet with a stinging crispness in the air. It had been a bitter cold night and frost crusted the ground and tree limbs. The simple peasant farmers slowly began to stir as the gray morning began. Fires were stoked once more to life and tables were set in preparation for a meager breakfast before the start of another work day.

The morning routine of one humble household was disrupted by a heavy knock at the door. The rumbling sound stopped all movement in the small, two-room abode. A middle-aged farmer parted the curtains and wiped frost off the thick glass pane in an attempt to discern who was calling at such an early hour. His wife soon joined him at the door, flour dusting her long skirt and apron. The knock came again, giving the couple a start. The farmer opened the door just a crack cautious at first. He stepped in front of his wife and then opened the door wide.

On their doorstep stood a mercenary, or so they gathered from the look of his clothing and armor. What was left of his tunic hung in tatters over his chest and shoulders, the chainmaille revealed underneath carried a faint glimmer in the hazy morning light. Dark, mangled hair framed a bruised and bloodied face.

"I return to you your daughter," the stranger began in a voice strained by wounds and fatigue, "I am sorry that I could not save her," he said as he extended the linen-covered body cradled in his arms.

The couple stared at him in surprise and disbelief, their gaze darting from his face to the body in his arms and back again. "You must be mistaken," the farmer began just as his wife moved past her husband to stand before the warrior. The small woman looked up into his clear hazel eyes then lifted the linen to look at the face of the victim in his arms.

"Alida"." The mother recognized her daughter even though the young woman's features had been ravaged by the vampire's attack. She let go of the linen, taking a step back, her hand moving to cover her mouth. The farmer did not have to look to confirm his child's identity, his wife's reaction was sufficient. He stepped aside, motioning to a wooden table in the middle of the small room.

The body was placed gently upon the table and the linen was tucked carefully back in place by the warrior before he stepped away. He turned to the couple, who now huddled at the head of the table, holding each other and looking on as the sad reality that their daughter was dead slowly took hold.

"I am sorry'so sorry that I could not have done more"tis my fault she is dead.? The farmer and his wife could not understand whether they were hearing contrition or a confession, nor what part this man played in their daughter's gruesome death. He gave them a lingering gaze then lowered his head and walked out of the home, leaving them alone with their daughter.

The couple stood in the open doorway watching the mercenary. He walked away with a heavy limp as his boots crunched the frozen ground, each step leaving a stain of red behind. One arm hung limp while the other was bent at the elbow and fingers pressed over his ribs. They continued to watch him until his silhouette disappeared into the ragged shadows at the forest?s edge.

- - - -

I'm tired of fighting An' closing my eyes I'm asking myself Why is it all my horizons Are so far away"

I look in the mirror Don't know who I see In my reflection A stranger is staring at me So far from home

Driven by duty By a power unseen Pushed into the darkness And now I struggle to breathe Yet the fight goes on

But over the mountains Across the sea I know they're waiting I hear them calling to me Calling my name

I'm fighting the darkness all around me Striking the night that surrounds me I'm losing the love That would rescue the state of my heart

Alone again. It's always the same I've just been marking my time Since the day I was born With no one to blame

The candle is burning It's way down low The darkness is coming I don't know which way to go Which way to go"

I'm fighting the darkness all around me Striking the night that surrounds me I'm fighting for the love That would rescue the state of my soul

"He's a spy, a demon"or worse, and I won't stand for his putrid presence a moment longer!" The small gathering of soldiers and mercenaries lead by an angry, red-faced Captain, pressed closer to the table where Connar sat alone in the receding shadows, his back pressed to the cold stone wall as he leaned back, taking casual sips of warm ale. He had the air of watching a bar fight unfolding before him instead of the approach of a lynch mob.

Andrus, the towering Slavic soldier who had befriended the Valdor since his arrival on the coasts of the Austmarr* months earlier, stepped through the crowd, placing himself between them and Connar's table, "For the love of God, men, ye are as drunken by your ghost stories as ye are by the mead and ale. Connar has fought with us, bled with us for so long now, how is it ye now question his intentions?"

"He's the devil!" a weathered soldier sputtered as he pushed forward, dagger in one hand as a bony, withered finger pointed at Connar. "I know this man"I was but a lad, but I was there when he butchered King Richard's army as?" His words cut off by Andrus, his deep voice bellowing.

"Do ye hear what ye are saying old man' King Richard" The Crusades" Connar would have to be older than ye are to have been there, to have done that which ye accuse him of." Andrus looked at the group, challenging their seething hatred and mob mentality.

"Ye know not of what ye speak nor the man ye are defending, Andrus," the leader of the Templar order barked, silencing the murmuring throng. The knight yet wore the tunic of the order, his graying head and beard matching his stoic presence. "The Valdor has been dogging the heels of the Templar order for years now. He was with Richard, he fought alongside the Bruce and the Scots. And now, as we gather in Gotland, here he is yet again."

The Templar knight's words ignited a roomful of angry voices once more while Andrus tried to restore order. All the while, Connar continued to drink of his ale, seemingly unmoved by the pending violence. In frustration, Andrus wielded his large battle axe and rendered to splinters a nearby table, causing the crowd to quiet and step back. His blonde braided beard swung beneath his chin as he glared at the gathering, "I'll hear no more of these fantasies and lies! I'll take the head of the next who dares to continue this madness!" The battle axe held in a white-knuckled death grip left no doubt that the soldier was not jesting.

After a palpable silence, Connar leaned forward, his voice calm, low and resolute, "Steady there, draugas, these men speak the truth."

All eyes turned to the Valdor and the room fell silent.

*Current day Baltic Sea

The Red Dragon Inn and the cares of the realm seemed so distant, but a part of his heart yearned to be there now. Connar took a swallow of ale, losing his gaze in the amber depths before lowering the mug to the table once more, letting his words and the ensuing silence settle upon the haggered and somewhat drunken mob. Andrus was the first to break the silence, his piercing blue eyes moving from the group to rest upon the ale-drinking Valdor. He sputtered at first and then burst out into full-chested laughter.

"Connar, ye are too much!" his words interspersed with laughter. "Demons" Sprites" Ye were promised in marriage to a fairy?" Andrus" last words causing the laughter to spread from him to the rest of the group who then continued to pile on with their own crude assessments of the fantastical tale spun by the Valdor.

Those few in the group who yet held firmly to the belief that Connar was evil and not to be trusted, looked on in disbelief as those about them joined in on the revelry and fun-making at the Valdor's expense. Connar leaned back, smiling as the accusations and teasing assaults continued, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders as the verbal jesting and jabbing continued unabated. The vocal detractors in the gathering looked about in disbelief as any sense of order was lost to them.

Eventually the crowd dispersed as Andrus offered to buy a round of drinks for all gathered, having not enjoyed such laughter in too many years to count. Connar was eventually left alone with the Templar Knight whose drawn sword hung gripped at his side, his graying temples pulsing with anger and blood. His voice growled lowly with each spoken word, "Your ruses are wasted on me, Valdor, but your time will surely come. We soon return sail for the new found land. If I so much as see your face, or hear your name spoken, ye shall next find yourself serving as the ship's anchor. I'll send ye to depths from which no magick nor fairies can claim your black soul." The Templar's blade cut through the air as he turned, sheathing the sword as he stormed from the room.

Connar raised the mug to his lips, the charlatan's smile falling from his face as he downed the last of the ale, left alone once more. His movements were slow, deliberate as the mug was returned with a soft thud to the table. His gaze looking far into the distance, beyond the reach of mortal eyes as he gave a soft voice to his sworn resolve, "So be it.?

Another day in this carnival of souls Another night's sands end as quickly as it goes The memories are shadows, ink on the page And I can't seem to find my way home

And it's almost like your heaven's trying everything Your heaven's trying everything to keep me out

All the places I've been and things I've seen A million stories that made up a million shattered dreams The faces of people I'll never see again And I can't seem to find my way home

'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to break me down 'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to keep me out

'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to break me down 'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything Your heaven's trying everything to break me down To break me down, to break me down

Your heaven's trying everything Your heaven's trying everything to break me down

- Far From Home lyrics by FFDP

I've seen angels fall from blinding heights and the chasams of hell gaped open wide to take them in.

I've seen the once righteous heed the siren's call and destroy what took lifetimes to build.

Lucifer was right. This mortal existence is hard...too hard. The strait and narrow way leaves in its wake an endless sea of casualties.

The wounded die not of mortal injuries, but of infections made of their own choices.

The grounds are bloodied and soiled with man's attempts to will the destiny of others; millenia upon millenia of corruption and evil heaped upon the weak and the innocent.

How many widows cry for the men left lifeless at my blade" How many orphans have I created upon this war-strewn land" Beyond the sands of the sea and the stars in the heavens.

But how many more would there be were I to stand idly by' Evil men reap their just rewards - the victims of their selfishness pay the ultimate price. Life is not fair. It never has been. No one, not even the gods in heaven, ever told us it would be.

One can no more compel a person to choose right than he can bid the sun cease its course across the sky. The choice is placed before him and will and will alone decides his fate.

Lucifer was right, but what the hell does he know? His vision is as limited as the man who thinks himself too insignificant to make a difference. Ye cannot pray the devil back to hell; ye must thrust him there, kicking and screaming.

I've traveled to a land across the seas, not yet discovered by the decrepit world. The norse ship that carried me there will never make its return voyage - I have seen to that. It's a land of many peoples, scattered across its face, and it will remain in its quiet slumber for a little while longer.

The world is getting smaller and my time and reason for being will soon be at its end.

Even the shadows lose their hold upon the light; one defined by the lack of the other. A return to familiar grounds with hopes of finding what the shadows had secreted away.

When I close my eyes I see her, no matter where I am. I can smell her perfume through these whispering pines, the shadows between us melting away in an instant. There is no more here, no more there.

I'm with her ghost again - it's always she who calls me back here again.

The horizon beckons. History is thirsty to claim its toll. The eyes, the faces, the voices all cry from the dust seeking justice, seeking to be heard.

I search for quiet; I search for peace, yet find none. Too many voices, too many years, too much blood spilt over the ages.

Where is my peace; where is my solace? I don't want an angel's life, but I tire of fighting with the devil.

Another battle calls and I must answer. Blood, steel, gunpowder and lead; breath the only difference between the living and the dead.

Dawn Feather and Swift Cry were on their feet and running down the hillside in an instant. In his limited grasp of their native language, Connar could only shout out the words for "be still," hoping to keep the sisters from dashing into danger. By the time he could get the words out, they were beyond hearing him. He cursed under his breath and peered over the ledge to the valley floor below. If the village was under siege, they would have certainly seen the advance of the attackers from their elevated view. But everything below was quiet and still - too much of both for him to feel at ease.

Connar scrambled down the hill through the brush, choosing a more direct route down than the serpentine trail the sisters had taken. Leafless limbs and branches grabbed at his clothing, but did little more than brush at him as he passed through - one of the advantages of buckskin over woven cloth. When he reached the valley floor, he headed away from the trail leading to camp, choosing instead to circle the perimeter to the spot where he had cached his sword. He did not want to rush into a fray with just a short-bladed knife. The fact that he was allowed to even carry a dull skinning knife like his was testament to the trust he had earned with the tribal elders. Connar would have to figure out a way of explaining his sword to Five Bears when that time came.

His swift, long strides landed with soft crunches on the dry leaves carpeting the ground. He surveyed as far as he could through the lodgepole tree trunks as he ran, but failed to see any attackers or cause for alarm. When he reached the base of a giant pine, he dropped to his knees and began clearing the ground beneath it of the needles and branches covering a large, flat stone. Gripping the edges, he pulled the stone back, revealing a long, narrow, stone-lined box. It was long enough to hold his sword along with a chainmaille vest, clothing bundles, cloaks and assorted small objects. As he rose to his feet, he pulled the oiled cloth that was wrapped about the blade and tossed it into the box before shoving the stone lid back in place. The ancient sword felt familiar and yet strange in his hand; he hadn't wielded the weapon in over a year.

Connar choose to continue his perimeter approach to the village. He neared a thick cluster of trees by the river, choosing to enter camp from the stream side, too narrow of a passage for a large army to advance through. As he sprinted, he looked ahead of him, catching glimpses of the village through the brambles. Everything looked in place, other than there was no one moving about.

He ran headlong into the last of the line of thick trees, choosing to duck and weave his way through the branches instead of cutting a path with his sword. It was only by chance that he heard the heavy crunch and breaking of a branch between his softer strides. The moment his feet touched the ground, he spun quickly, setting his back against one of the tree trunks. He drew the blade flat against his chest, readying to fly out and surprise the other person advancing toward the village. As he crouched and spun from his spot, an arching blade sliced the air just above his head, crashing into the tree trunk, sending bark, wood and splinters in every direction. Connar was held in motionless shock as he looked up at his bearded attacker. The large norseman grunted as he pried the battle axe out of the tree and readied to swing the massive blade once more.



-

Connar pulled his head up from the teepee floor, the thin layer of skins and furs providing a minimal barrier against the cold ground beneath. From the fading light visible through the top opening, he could see the day was waning into evening. Voices of the tribal council still argued in the teepee near where he was being held. He was in a make-shift jail - the door flap secured with Five Bears' knot. Any who were to undo it would suffer death for treason against the tribal council.

His arms were bound at the wrists behind his back, the blood from the cuts and scrapes on his head had finally stopped issuing blood - whether because of clotting or the cold, he couldn't be sure. The open gash from the norseman's axe still soaked his shoulder and arm with fresh blood. The tribal warriors had been overly aggressive taking him into their charge. After what the warriors had witnessed - Connar destroying a foreign combatant and rendering his body to black wasps - they feared he would turn his magick against them. He offered no resistance against their bodily attacks and blows as they beat him into submission.

The voices from the tribal council were hard for Connar to understand completely. His grasp of their language was still developing. Five Bears, the tribal leader, had always feared the Valdor since his arrival in the village nearly a year ago. He feared Connar's size, his intellect, and his unyielding will to serve the tribe and its people. Even as a captured slave, Five Bears marveled that Connar wanted nothing more than to serve the people. And after a time of trials and testing, the tribe loved him for it. The tribe feared Five Bears. He was a ruthless leader, commanding with brutality and swift punishment for any who crossed him or questioned his leadership. Now inside the tribal council, his voice was being raised loudest for the death of their captive. That there were so many in the council of elders who would defend Connar and bid for his life only served to fuel Five Bears' anger all the more.

Connar slowly lowered his body back down to the teepee floor, his head was spinning and he knew the loss of blood was weakening his body. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the voices, trying not to fall asleep, fearing that if he did so, he might never wake in the mortal flesh again.

-

Connar reached through the fur robe, finding her hands and holding them in his. In the dim light of the teepee, it was difficult for him to read her expression, but he could sense her fear.

Their voices were hushed as they spoke, not wanting to be discovered by any who might be prowling the camp in the late hours of the night. "Dawn Feather, I don't know where to begin nor how to tell you what it is you desire to know of me. I fear the more I tell you the less...the less human I may appear to be to you."

She gave his hands a tight squeeze. "I know you are mortal enough to nearly bleed to death. And if you don't tell me, I'll undo all my hard work on your shoulder and we'll see where that leads." Her tone wasn't playful, as it usually was during their conversations over the past many months.

He felt like he was in an ancient confessional, about to spill all his sins and secrets. He searched for the right way to begin, but the words failed. Even in his own mind before trying to translate it to her language, he did not know how to begin. The air hung in a heavy silence, broken only by their soft breaths.

"Connar...I know not why you struggle...why it divides you inside. Please, just tell me what that man was and how it is that you worked your medicine on him." Of the two sisters, Dawn Feather was always the most direct.

He nodded silently. Drawing a breath of the cool night air, he began slowly. "That was a Viking, or at least the decaying remains of one. He was a warrior from an older world across the great waters. He probably came here to your lands many, many years ago. And he died here as well."

"How is that possible, that the dead walk and fight?" Her grip on his hands tightening as she spoke.

"Do you recall the deer we found in the forest during the summer - how, though it lie dead upon the ground, it's flesh and limbs had movement?"

Dawn Feather nodded. "Yes, the deer was filled with maggots. They made the body move."

"Yes. There are powers, spirits in this world that can enter a body and cause it to move, to act, to fight. It's a dark and ugly power that only seeks to corrupt. It fights against your god and against my god."

She nodded slowly, with just a hint of understanding. "What about the black wasps...and the magick words you uttered?"

He thought for a moment, his answer no more than a guess. "I'm not sure about the wasps...their bodies could have been possessed as well...sent forth by their master to find a host...the Viking's body...that they could use for their bidding. No doubt they were also spies of my enemies...sent to find me...to hunt me down." His teeth clenched as the realization that evil had followed him to yet another realm and people...her people. His heart ached and his chin dropped to his chest as thoughts filled his eyes with tears.

The attachment she had felt for Connar was tempered by the supernatural display she had witnessed earlier that day. It filled her with doubt and fear. Where she might have embraced him, she could now only look upon him with sadness and sorrow.



-

Dreams failed to fill his mind while he tried to slumber. He drifted in and out of sleep for what what seemed hours on end, but judging from the moon's unshifting position in the night sky, it had been not nearly that long. Sounds would drift in and away from his ears, consciousness flickering on and off like a lantern's weak light. He could only bid the morning to come quickly, but the night seemingly desired his agony to linger on and on.

When he next awoke from a few minutes of sleep, he could hear soft sobs coming from inside the teepee. He raised up and peered through the darkness, spotting the shadowed form of Swift Cry, her knees drawn to her chest, long, dark hair hiding her face as her head rested on her knees. Her sobs were interspersed with shivers from the cold.

"A-ni-da-we-hi..." Connar whispered his nickname for her and she lifted her head, tears covering her cheeks. She was still sobbing and shivering, seemingly unable to catch her breath enough to speak. He raised his arm and the bear skin robe and she moved quickly to him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head against his chest. He pulled the robe around her, holding her tightly. Her long black hair was cold against his skin.

After several quiet minutes together, her sobbing subsided along with the shivering. She raised her head, looking up at him in the moonlit tent. "Is it true that you are leaving?" There were no secrets between the twin sisters.

He gave her a soft squeeze with the arm wrapped over her shoulder. "We shall see. There is much that has to transpire before that decision is made." He was lying to her. He couldn't bear to tell her the truth.

Swift Cry leaned her head back against his chest, "Take me with you. I would go where ever your path leads."

He smiled, kissing the top of her head. "And what if my path leads me to a world where all the eligible men are more grotesque than Five Bears?"

She looked up at him, punching him softly in the ribs. "Stop teasing me, Connar. I am serious." She saw the slight wince in his eyes and suddenly recalled how the war party had treated him the prior day. "Oh...I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I forgot..." she stammered as she placed her palm lightly over the area.

"It's okay, Swift Cry. I am fine. Cuts and bruises help remind me that I am yet alive - and fortunate to be so."

She looked at him, studying his expression. She was a gifted reader of people, their body language...she could sense what words did not reveal. "Why can't I come with you? I can help you, you know I can. I can help you mend the path with your woman."

He chuckled softly at her pleadings, especially the last part. "Oh, yes, I can see how that would work out in my favor."

She leaned back to get a better look at his face. "Connar, I am serious. In the stories of your travels, you often mention how lonely the path is...how you have made this epic journey on your own. I can help, you know I am a swift learner, that I am a skilled warrior..."

He placed a finger lightly to her lips, in her excitement, her voice had risen far above a whisper, "Shhhhh....you must not be discovered here...it would cut all of our travel plans quite short."

A shuffling sound outside the tent turned their heads together in the darkness, as breath left their lungs...and they waited.



-

Wild Dove moved straight past Connar, reaching down to grab her daughter by the wrist, jerking her to her feet. "You have said quite enough, Swift Cry. Go home. Now." Her command hushed, yet forceful. Swift Cry clutched the robe about her shoulders, looking back to her mother and then to Connar before she crawled out under the tent into to the chill of the night air.

Connar listened to her footsteps fade into the distance as her mother moved about the teepee, coming up behind him, her words short, "Fix yourself." Connar looked down at his buckskin shirt as it hung off his left shoulder and collected in blood-stained folds at his wrist. He reached with his right hand, pulling it up and over his wounded shoulder, placing the loose end in his teeth as he tried to align the the two ends of the eyeletted seam. He couldn't raise his left hand high enough to be of much use, so the arm hung at his side as he worked with slow progress, threading the thin leather strand in and out of each tiny eyelet cut into the deerskin.

After several moments, Wild Dove grunted her disgust and moved around to face Connar, taking the shirt ends and leather strand from him. "How can one who has lived as long as you have be so helpless at times," she scolded him through clenched teeth.

He looked at her as she mended the shirt. Wild Dove's quiet ways were only surpassed by her beauty. She could easily have passed as her daughters' sister. She stood taller than all the women in the village as well as a good number of the men. Her hazel eyes that sometimes looked green were enchanting. Her strong cheek bones were framed by shoulder-length braids of black hair, which she wove with tiny gray feathers dangling from the ends. In all his time in the village, he had spent very little of it around her. She was always watching him, guardfully, as he moved from prisoner, to slave, to a servant of the tribe, and finally to its guardian. He never knew whether she approved of the time he spent being tutored and taught in the ways of their people by her husband and daughters.

He looked down at his shoulder as her fingers brushed lightly over the healing stitches her daughter had placed there. She looked up at him, "If this is discovered, you are to tell them that it was I that mended your shoulder. Understood?" She didn't wait for an answer as she returned to threading the last of the shirt closed. The long gash in the shirt made by the Viking's axe blade hung open, revealing the skin underneath, but her reweaving of the material concealed the greater part of the stitches in his flesh.

She looked down, pulling at something tucked in the leather belt wrapped about her waist. "Turn around." She looked up when Connar hadn't moved. "I said, turn around!" Her stern words forced through red lips and white teeth. Connar turned his back to her, then slowly craned his head to look over his shoulder at her.

She grabbed one of his wrists and then the other, pulling them behind him. He offered no resistance to her efforts. She used the rope retrieved from the tent floor to bind his arms behind his back. Even though she believed in her heart that Connar would not flee in the night, she could not risk Five Bears thinking any had come to the captive's aid in the night. As she finished, her knots and bindings felt tighter than those of his jailors the previous day.

She tarried behind him a moment in silence before coming around to face him. As she looked up to his eyes, a single tear ran down her cheek. "I know not what spell you have cast over my family, why we care so much for one so dangerous to our way of life," her voice but a soft whisper in the darkness. "Five Bears has always sought for an excuse, any opportunity to take the girls. He lusted for me long ago, and now he has turned that lust upon Dawn Feather and Swift Cry. He would use your actions to justify taking them from our family and claiming them as his own."

Connar drew a breath, preparing to speak. Wild Dove drew her fingers to his lips, pressing them gently silent. "You don't understand what your coming to the village means, the ripples that now cannot be stayed. I feared one day that someone like you would come, that the life we knew would be changed forever more."

She slid her fingers slowly down from his lips, tracing a line from his chin to his ear and into his hair as another tear fell from her eyes.

"Wild Dove, I would die before Five Bears or any other could bring harm to the girls or to your family," Connar said, wishing his arms were free to hold her, to offer her comfort. He hesitated before sharing what he knew he must. "...But there is a greater wave of evil and blood coming across the great waters, carrying a far greater threat than that which you see in me."

She caressed his cheek softly, looking into his eyes, "I know. I have seen it...read it in the heavens." She raised up on her toes to press a warm, lingering kiss against his cheek, holding him there for moment before slowly withdrawing. She moved quietly toward the edge of the tent and the make-shift opening, looking back to him before slipping under, "It is not by chance that you were led to us. Your story is linked to ours, Connar-ki."



-

Five Bears awoke before the sunrise, pulling back the blankets and furs from where he slept. His wife curled in a ball away from him, her back and shoulders marked with bruises and scars. He knew she was pretending to sleep, but he had other things on his mind this morning. He pulled on his deerskin shirt and pants, then laced the tall moccasins over his shins. A heavy fur robe covered his neck and shoulders, all he needed against the cold.

He exited the teepee, taking up his bow and sheath of arrows. He was going to hunt in the early morning light. A good kill and fresh meat would put him in the right frame of mind for the gathering of the council later that morning. The village of teepees remained silent as he passed through, making his way toward the line of trees and deep forest beyond. A light mist shrouded the ground in a gray veil reducing visibility to a 100 meters or less. The thin coating of frost on the leaves gave a soft crunch as he stepped upon them. It was a good morning for a kill.

For his size, Five Bears could move swiftly and quietly through the forest. It was his size and brutality which led him to be the tribe's leader. Rival tribes feared to face him in battle. He showed no mercy, lusted for blood, and reveled in putting down any who would oppose him. The only prisoner that the tribe had ever been allowed to let live under Five Bear's reign was now tied up in a tent and awaiting his fate at the hands of the chief and the council. The mere fact that Connar had been allowed to live, not to mention thrive in his tribe, ached at Five Bears like a thorn in his foot. The more time this stranger spent among his people, the more they were drawn to him. Everyday Connar remained in his village, the hatred Five Bears felt for him grew.

On more than a few occasions, Five Bears had sent Connar to war against his enemies, arming the stranger with nothing more than a stone skinning knife. Each time he sent Connar, he wished to be sending him to a certain death, yet each and every time he returned - a bloodstained hero. The tribe began to believe that Connar had a medicine about him that preserved his life, made him invincible. Word of Connar's encounter with the Viking only served to rekindle the curiosity of the tribe.

Movement on the trail ahead him made Five Bears stop and draw an arrow into the bow's string. A shadow advanced in the fog moving steadily in his direction. The distance and gray mist made it difficult for Five Bears to discern the size and type of animal, but his arrow would find its mark soon enough. The mist and fog swirled in curls, as water slowly breaking over smooth stones in a river. A huge grizzly bear broke through the grayness. Five Bears could see each paw hit the ground, white teeth gnarling, the tensing of muscles and limbs as the animal moved towards him. Time slowed to a crawl as Five Bears watched in disbelief at the approaching predator. The nocked arrow trembled against the hardwood bow, the leather ties straining as he pulled the arrow back. His movements seemed slowed, deliberate. None of his efforts to move quickly were answered by his body.

As he focused on the slowed approach of the advancing bear, his vision blurred, the grizzly's shape swallowed in shadows and mist as it continued its run toward Five Bears. Another swirl of gray mists and darkness parted as a silver broadsword glinted forth in the hazy morning light. Five Bears reared back as he could now see Connar moving swiftly towards him, the mighty sword gripped in his hands as he ran towards him. Connar's teeth were bared, his body covered in cloth and metals that Five Bears had never seen before. As the mists parted behind Connar, Five Bears could see the ground strewn with the bodies that had fallen at the Valdor's hands. Hundreds upon thousands lie in a heaping wake as far as Five Bears could see.

Connar was near enough now that Five Bears could feel the anger and fire in his eyes. The broadsword was raised high above his head as the two foes were about to collide. Connar was swearing an oath trough a tightened jaw and clenched teeth as he bore down on him, but Five Bears was gripped in blackness and fear. He could not move. He could not breathe. The great blade was powering downward to strike him asunder and he could only watch in wide-eyed terror.

-

"You seem to attract the wrong kind of friends, Connar-ki. Perhaps you should consider life as a recluse."

Connar looked at the messenger, dressed in a brilliant white robe, as the two looked down upon the crevace where his body had been tossed. "Perhaps I just need more practice," he replied flatly. They surrounded in an aura of light, warm and comforting.

"What is it that draws you to remain in this world, Connar-ki" What is it about heaven that you find so unappealing?"

Connar's gaze moved from his own body, hung up in the tree limbs far below their feet to the robed messenger. "I have no voice for the choirs of angels," he began, looking the man from head to toe, "and I just can't get used to the idea of wearing robes all day."

A millennia of hearing Connar's sense of humor left the messenger's expression unchanged, his blue eyes framed by brilliant white hair carried the same message as his voice, "The time will come, and it is nigh at hand, that the choice to remain a servant of earth will no longer be yours. What then?"

Connar looked back down at his mortal form, hands still bound behind his back, cut and bleeding from the fall through the trees. He chose to answer the messenger's question with one of his own. "Did I die down there?"

"No. But you are near to the threshold. The knife miraculously missed any vital organs, but you are bleeding and will have to endure a handful of broken ribs and the customary cuts, gashes and bruises. It seems your body's will to stay earth-bound is as strong as that of your spirit."

Connar nodded slowly, "Getting down from the tree is going to be a bit of a challenge, what with my hands still tied and all."

The messenger shook his head, "We could arrange for a bear or cougar to help you out of the tree," he said rather matter-of-factly.

He turned to face messenger, a smile coming to Connar's lips, "Was that a jest' You're trying to be funny. Nicely done. It's about time."

Only the faintest hint of a smile rose to the messenger's lips as he looked down into the ravine, waving his hand slowly in a single pass over the ravine. Connar's body tumbled from the gnarl of tree limbs, falling the final 10 meters to the ground. "Add another cracked rib to the list of injuries."

Connar winced, seeing his body land on the ground. "Well, that will slow returning to work somewhat."

"Connar-ki, you are not the lone laborer on earth for God. There are others."

Connar stepped closer to the messenger, recalling the words Wild Dove had spoken, but before he could utter a word, the messenger, perceiving his thoughts, interjected, "No, not the women. They are...of a different line. I will leave it at that. You are the last of the Valdor, tis true, but others God has raised to do his will upon earth."

The messenger looked at Connar, "You need to be careful how your tread, Connar-ki. Your strayings from the path serve only you and your desires. It is your choice, where you go and what you do, but know that it is lost time that you cannot recover in this life or the next. No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other."

Connar looked away, back to his body and then to the horizon beyond, his voice low and sullen, "I know...I know."

The messenger smiled gently, placing his hand on Connar's shoulder, "Anekeli, you have been more than valiant in your service to the Kingdom, passing through many of mortality's tests and trials without faltering. In these, your last days on earth, perhaps you are facing the challenges of mortality and obedience that have long been foreign to you. Now, go. You are not out of mortal danger yet."

As Connar looked from the messenger to the ravine below, he felt his spirit speeding toward his body, the brilliant light fading into darkness.

-

The village stirred with activity as the mid-day sun strained to send its light and warmth through the heavy gray clouds. Five Bears and Yellow Claw, the tribal chiefs, were gathered in council along with most of the tribe's males. The camp was dividing, torn between the two leaders. As war chief, Five Bears knew the tribe's warriors would follow his lead. Yellow Claw, for his part, had been trying to find middle ground, as he always did in any confrontation among his people. He had lived to see many more seasons than any other in the tribe. His wisdom was earned from years of living and practice. But now he face a challenge in Five Bears that he was steadily losing.

Five Bears had forced a confession from Swift Cry and Dawn Feather, even though Wild Dove had come forward first, admitting to visiting Connar in the night to give him aid. All of the women denied freeing him, but their betrayal had tarnished any trust the council of elders may have placed in them. Five Bears had faced his accusers as well, as he tried to explain his absence from camp earlier that morning. He claimed that, when he heard no noises coming from inside the prisoner's tent, he cut the knot and found the teepee empty. Walking the perimeter, it was easy to see from the disturbed earth that the prisoner had crawled out under a weakened edge of the teepee frame. Five Bears insisted that upon discovering the prisoner gone, he set after him, hoping to track him down. When confronted about the blood on his clothing, he produced his hand, a fresh cut from the edge of his knife; a foolish accident in his moment of rage.

Now, hours later, the council remained in heated debate, each faction shouting over the other. The rest of the village, mostly the women and children, tried to go about their daily chores, though the majority were keeping close to the council teepee in order to hear better what was transpiring within. None could imagine, nor were they prepared for the war party quickly advancing upon their camp.

A small boy was gathering sticks on the edge of the campground, holding the bundle of twigs under one arm as he bent to pick up another. He would be the first fall. The lead Shaawanwaki reached him quickly, crushing the boy's tiny skull with a stone club as he ran past. The war party was well into the village before the first cry of alarm was heard. But the noise within the tribal council tent drowned out the first of many pleas for help. A panicked woman burst into the council, scared and out of breath, screaming only one word, "Shaawanwaki!"

The first three warriors to exit the council tent were met with vicious blows from war hatchets, their bodies piled up in the doorway. Shaawanwaki spear tips stabbed through the tent walls, striking several members of the council. Five Bears grabbed a spear as it was thrust through the animal hide, pulling the attacker against the wall where his knife blade was pressed. Five Bears slit the man and the tent open as he drove the knife upwards.

Stepping over the dying warrior, Five Bears looked at the carnage all around him. The Shaawanwaki were everywhere in countless numbers. He called out orders to his warriors and any of the men who managed to wield a weapon. There were easily five Shaawanwaki for every one of his men. They were caught unprepared. The anger and division that had so occupied their time these past days now heaped its vengeance on the tribe.

Yellow Claw emerged from the tent, clutching a large steel sword to his chest. In his younger years, he would have rejoiced to handle such a weapon, but now it only slowed his already feeble attempts to protect his people. A Shaawanwaki warrior, with a shorn head and face painted in black and white advanced toward Yellow Claw, ready to strike the old man down with a stone hammer. Yellow Claw hefted the blade, shakily aiming the tip at his attacker. Mid-stride, the Shaawanwaki stopped abruptly, arching his back in agony. He called out and then fell forward, a war axed buried in his spine. Yellow Claw raised his gaze from the dying man on the ground to see the an Aniyunwiya warrior with anger in his eyes and red warpaint across his face. Connar's stride did not slow as he bent down and pried the axe from the man's back, bone and flesh sheering as the weapon was pulled freed. Connar reached for his sword, shoving the axe handle into Yellow Claw's now empty hand.

Fury and rage swelled inside of Connar as he rushed into the middle of the fighting. No thoughts, no organized plan of attack. What was to unfold was carnal bloodshed, bone and sinew divided asunder as an unearthly fury was unleashed upon the Shaawanwaki.

-

Connar wandered the streets of RhyDin, not knowing where he was headed. He felt lost and confused. Visions of Eva fighting in the Outback flashed through his mind, stinging images of her injuries and bruises. He stood outside the structure daring not to venture in. There was no sport, no entertainment watching others mimic the conflict and strife that was all too real for him.

He saw the expression on the young Shaawankwaki's face just before he delivered the death blow. He saw Eva getting struck in the jaw and in the face. Both images blurred into one.

He thought of their last conversation, how she thought he was making advances on her. It pained his heart to hear her words repeated in his mind. He thought of the others who maligned his way of being, of acting. The accusations of piety and stubbornness because he would not change his ways to theirs - to act as everyone else. The taunts and mocking voices returned in an ear-splitting chorus.

Connar closed his eyes, trying to find a bearing, anything to help him right his course. The scent of Freeshia wafted to his nose, enveloping him in sudden light and warmth. He could see her coming to him, gold hair flowing over blue silk. He smiled, extending his hand to her. As he opened his eyes, she was gone, seeing only the darkened alleyways and empty passages.

He reach for the sword at this waist, seeking the familiarity of his hand resting on the hilt, but his grip met only the cold air swirling about him. He looked down, his sword was gone, the scabbard empty. He looked to the ground and the area round about, but there was nothing save wet cobblestones all around.

Connar looked down at his crisp, white shirt, seeking the pendant that hung around his neck. It too was gone. Thinking the pendant had fallen, he patted the shirt, but each press of his hand left a red stain that continued to spread across the cloth as blood issued from unseen wounds.

His eyes turned skyward, to the starless night sky as he dropped to his knees. He began to plead to his god, but no sounds left his lips and all was black again.



-

Connar sat alone in the teepee, looking down at the sword resting on the fur and blanketed floor. He ran his fingers along the edges; the blade was long overdue for a sharpening, it looked as battered and neglected as he felt. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, lifting the long sword and pivoting it, causing a sharp pain to radiate from his wrist. He returned the weapon to the floor and raised his palm closer to his face, looking at the affected area. It was still swollen and sensitive to the touch. He pushed down over the area with his fingers until they touched the bone underneath, the pain pulsing out once more. "A doctor would probably tell me it was broken or fractured, but I'd probably be too blunt to listen," he muttered under his breath.

He picked up the supple leather that had been wrapped around the sword when Yellow Claw presented it to him earlier. It was tanned Elk or deer skin, the inside prepared to be soft like cloth while the outside had been tanned, smooth and tough. Yellow Claw had given him the knife Five Bears had gutted him with the morning the Shaawankwaki attacked the village, explaining that the knife belonged to him whose blood stained its surface. It was a trade of sorts. He pulled it from its sheath, pushing the sharp tip through the large piece of animal skin, cutting the material into several long strips which were three fingers wide. He took one of these strips and began wrapping his wrist, slow turns of the soft leather starting just below his palm and raising to meet his forearm and back down again. The act of wrapping his wrists had become an oft repeated ritual for him, signifying a change in the wind, a return to his labors. It gave him time to ponder upon Yellow Claw's invitation to become the tribe's war chief, to think about RhyDin. A second pass of the leather straps over the first layer strengthened and tightened the wrappings. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fists as he slowly rotated his hands, looking at the leather covering both wrists. The pain was still there, but dulled, smothered in the familiar feel of the wrappings.

Connar stood slowly, pulling the heavy fur robe about his shoulders, as he tucked a few items into the belt tied about his waist. Lastly, he lifted the sword from the ground, gripping it by the hilt as he pushed the tent flap open and stepped outside. It had snowed the past two days, covering the ground in a soft white blanket which rose nearly the entire height of his moccasin boots. He squinted as the sun's light bounced off the snow into his eyes. He pulled the fur collar of the robe up to his ears and face, trying to gain a little more protection against the cold air.

Trudging through the snow caused him to take longer than normal to reach the overlook, the place he frequented often with Swift Cry and Dawn Feather. He thought of them constantly, wondering what became of them. He resisted the nagging thoughts that somehow they or their mother had something to do with the Shaawankwaki raid on the village. He had no reason to think this, but his mind always went there, and that vexed him terribly. If there was a connection, he tried to console himself with the notion that they did it to rid the tribe of the tyranny of Five Bears. He clung to this rationalization as a feeble attempt of clouding the otherwise tender memories he had of the sisters.

When he reached the overlook, Connar brushed the snow from a large log and sat down, laying his sword across his lap. He took a honing stone from his belt and began the slow process of sharpening the edges of the blade. This too, had become a ritual for him, more time to think, to sharpen his focus. His movements were slow, deliberate, like an artist who had perfected a craft. As the rough and dull edges submitted to the will of the honing, they became sharp, shiny and smooth, reclaiming their intended form. The sun moved across the sky as he continued his maticulous attention to the tiniest of imperfections on the edges. It made him think of the way his life was much like the sword; worn at times, nicked and dulled by the stones he broke his body and will against, by his rebellions and stubbornness. He could see God's hands sharpening him repeatedly over the ages, returning him to his intended purpose.

He used a cloth the wipe the sword clean, drawing his thumb lightly along each of the edges, satisfied that they were as they should be - sharp and lethal. He drew a long leather cord from his belt, looking at it in the bright sunlight. It was stained a dark red, dyed from his own blood. He had cut the leather from his tattered clothing, creating several long, thin, ribbon-like strips. Connar untied the two feathers from the thin braid of hair alongside his head. These he tied into the crimson ribbons which were then secured around the hilt of the sword. The contrast was striking; the long white feathers with flecks of tan and black tips hanging off the end of a forged weapon - heavy steel with a singular purpose. He lifted the weapon, looking at a metaphor of his life - born into a world of strife and conflict, but wanting only peace and harmony?and to belong.

Connar returned to the village, standing at its edge, looking at the pointed teepees, smoke rising in thin lines from the tops into the blue winter sky. He loved these people, their peaceful ways, their connection to both heaven and earth. He rotated the sword in his hand, pointing the weapon at his feet. Wrapping both hands around the hilt, he drove the tip of the sword deep into the frozen, snow-covered ground. As he let go of the handle, it swayed gently back and forth, reverberating from the forced applied to the steel. A light winter breeze fluttered the feathers and crimson cords. He ran his fingers under one of the feathers, reinforcing a tactile memory. He pulled the heavy fur up higher on his shoulders, turning his back to the village as headed into the forest, leaving the sword behind, a symbol to all that this people would ever be under the watchful eye of its guardian.





-

Stirred from his sleep by a rather unsettling dream, Fr're Pascal wandered the halls of the quiet Abbaye de Baume, his black robe dusting the ground behind his sandaled feet while the candle in his hands sent long streams of golden light flickering before him. He checked the doors and windows along the exterior as he made his way through each corner of the tiny monastery. The walk gave his mind time to let go of the ghastly visions his dream had planted there. Given the long years of war the country had been in with England, dreams of battles and bloodshed were not new to him. But this dream was different, very different.

He looked up the winding staircase of the building's lone tower leading to the library. It was dark as was the rest of the abbey. He turned to head back to his room and stopped. An impression, a thought, came to his mind, telling him to mount the stairs and visit the library. He shook off the notion. The last thing he needed was the 56-step hike up the narrow stone staircase. He knew he would find the library quiet and dark, its treasured contents safe and secure. The thought came again. And a third time, causing Pascal to turn slowly on his heels and start the trek up the steep stairwell.

As he neared the top, he could see a faint light sneaking out beneath library's arched wooded door. "Now who could be up at this hour wasting candle light?" the monk grumbled under his breath. He pushed the door open, and peered cautiously into the study. The largest of the wooden tables in the room was covered by opened books and countless unrolled scrolls. Candles dotted the table, burning precariously close to many of the ancient parchments. Above one of the larger tomes, a dark-haired man was busily reading the text beneath his nose, his finger dragged slowly under each word passing before his eyes. The man did not look up until Frere Pascal's voice broke the silence hanging heavy in the room.

"My dear brother, you are wearing out the candles and your eyesight studying at this late hour. Can this not wait until morning?" the monk asked as he approached the table. The man across from him raised his gaze, bright hazel eyes cast back the flicker of the candlelight. Pascal stopped as he immediately was made aware that the man was not a member of the Benedictine community. On any other occasion, Pascal would have fled quickly, calling out "au secours" and awakening every soul, living or dead, in the abbey. But the same impression that had bid him come library now bid him to stay.

Connar looked at the monk, trying to recall where he had left his cloak and weapons. He had no intention of using them, he was more concerned of frightening the poor man by the sight of them. To his surprise, the monk sat down across from him, looking over the books and scrolls. All the texts were biblical in nature, but covering nearly every language and tongue; scrolls from the prophets of the Old Testament in Hebrew, Greek texts of the apostles, and countless pages opened to the Latin.

"You are doing some very heavy reading, my brother," the monk said as he pulled a particular scroll for closer inspection. He raised his gaze to his dark-haired guest. "You can read Chaldee?" he asked, pointing a finger to a very old parchment.

Connar nodded slowly. "Oui"and Aramaic, as is that particular script."

The monk looked down at the parchment, holding it to the candlelight for closer inspection before looking across the large wooden table to Connar. "So it is." He smiled softly, waggling his fingers over the mass of scripture covering the table. He wanted to ask how it was that one so young looking and so far removed from scholarly pursuits could grasp so many different languages and then seek to be immersed in religious script, but he knew that prying so soon would only scare off the newfound guest. "And did you?uh"find that which you came seeking, mon fr're?"

Connar gave another slow nod, closing the latin book before him, careful not to crease or fold any of the pages. "I came searching for solace"and to hear God's voice again. I had long been avoiding doing so, but it was time."

The monk was intrigued, immensely so, and it showed on his face. He folded his robed arms on the table in front of him, leaning towards Connar. His voice and expression was genuine. "And what cause have you to avoid seeking out your Heavenly Father's voice" You do know this isn't a confessional and I'm not in a position to absolve your sins." He smiled, his round eyes sparkling in the light.

The trailing thought made Connar chuckle and smile. "Aye. I am aware of where I am and would not wish to burden you with my troubles and cares. I will be on my way. I do not want to cause any more disturbance than I already have." As Connar moved to stand, the monk, with a simple smile and wave of his hand, bid him to retake his seat.

"Please, you are a welcome guest here. Talk with me a while. I am curious to know what knowledge and solace you found here tonight. Did any of these ancient writings speak to your soul?"

Connar smiled and reached for one of the Hebrew scrolls, sliding it in front of the monk. Pascal turned the parchment, reading what characters he could with his limited grasp of the language and in the wavering light in the room. "Ah, King David. Judging from the warrior's look you carry, I would guess you would enjoy the stories of Goliath, the many victories in battle, or slaying a lion perhaps?"

His countenance softened as Connar gave a slow shake of his head, his gaze diverted down to the table. "I find the story of Bathsheba to be the most in line with my struggles." The monk was not expecting the story of David's sin against God as he lusted for the wife of Uriah in the biblical account of the King. The smile following the monk's question was disarming. "Rest assured, mon fr're, that I am not guilty of any great sin, at least not by mortal standards. You needn't worry about me tainting your ears nor the abbey with my horrific deeds," Connar said with a nod and smile.

The monk's voice was calm, honest in its tone as he spoke. "Do tell, mon ami, and perhaps just in listening, I can help shed some of the burden you carry in your heart and in your soul."



-

Even war-torn hearts can be softened at Christmastime, especially if it serves their cause or saves needed resources. In this case, the prisoner exchange between France and England did both: the two armies would rather use their meager supplies to feed their own than to send down the gullets of their respective prisoners.

They were led out into the gray daylight morning, their clothes and visages in tatters. One among them trailed behind with a limp that told of a final beating at the hands of the captors, a ratholed blanked draped over his head. As the group of men were led to the wagon that would carry them back to the French side of the war, he looked back at his former tormentors, lowering the covering to his shoulders. He canted his head to them as the wagon pulled away, the hint of a smile teasing at his lips as he spoke: "Thank you, gentlemen, for your hospitality. I hope someday to be able to repay you all in kind."

The reins snapped and the wagon jerked into motion as the first flakes of Christmas snow began to fall.

-

Connar sat down on the small bench under the porch, seeking protection from the drizzling sleet falling from the graying sky. He shuffled through the pile of weapons, trying to find one that was worth the effort of sharpening. The metal had been severely neglected, the edges dull, corroded and marred with signs of battle and abuse. He hefted a sword by the hilt, tilting the pitted blade in the waning light, raising his gaze to the guard posted nearby. The guard lowered his pike toward his prisoner, "Don't get any foolish ideas, dog."

Connar rested the blade across his knees and gave the guard a nod. He took up the whetstone and spat upon the metal surface, picking an edge to begin the long process of riving the dead weapon.

The day passed by unnoticed as he worked away at the weapons. He only became aware of the passing hours as one guard would relieve another of his post guarding the prisoner. The sleet had stopped, but the air remained damp and cold. Connar looked up at the newest guard. "I need water."

The guard scoffed, tapping Connar with the butt of the pike. "Captain said no food until he gives word."

Connar shook his head. "Tis not for me drink. The rain has stopped and I can't work up spit anymore to whet the stone. Captain wants this trash heap sharpened. Do you want me to tell him I couldn't do it because you couldn't fetch me a bucket of water?"

The guard gave a moment's thought to the request before grunting his displeasure and heading off to the garrison door. Connar looked out over the small empty courtyard and the outer wall just meters away. He looked from his hands to the shackles at his feet. Where would you run, Connar" How long can you keep running" The sounds of the approaching guard snapped him from his thoughts. The guard set a small wooden bucket at Connar's feet, the water sloshing from side to side.

The guard retook his post and the prisoner resumed honing the blades at his feet.

The approaching nightfall was making it difficult to see what he was doing, slowing his progress as he had to rely on more and more on feel. The small table behind Connar had several of the newly sharpened weapons sitting to one side. The rust was gone, the metal cleaned, but far from battle ready. The guard on night watch pulled the last weapon from Connar's hand and tossed it to the ground. "That's enough for now. I'm going to find out where you'll be spending the night. Don't move." The guard gave Connar a stern look before heading off toward the flickering lights of the garrison.

Connar turned on the bench, drawing the tattered blanket back over his shoulders. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the wooden table. His head soon followed.

-

The morning sun found the French stronghold busy with activity. Soldiers were bustling in nearly every corner as news of the previous night's invasion spread. The captain was just getting word himself.

"...a dozen of them, Captain, sir. It appears that they scaled the outer wall. Monfrere was on watch. The English killed him, sir."

The captain was securing his belt and scabbard about his waist as the soldier revealed the events of the previous night. "And you mean to tell me this Connar dispatched the entire band himself?"

The soldier blinked..."Aye, Captain, sir. None made it much farther than where the man had been at work sharpening blades."

The captain placed his cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp as the pair began to walk in haste toward the courtyard. "And none in our company even stirred" I should have the lot of you whipped! Where is he now" Has he been recaptured?"

The answer came readily to the captain, as he entered the courtyard and found his prisoner sitting on the bench, honing stone in hand, at work on the pile of weapons at his feet.

-

The sun was struggling to pierce the heavy gray clouds lining the afternoon sky. Connar was shadow sparring with a freshly honed sword. It was an older blade, but it had taken to the honing stone quite well. Now the blade looked fresh and renewed as it sliced through the air. Connar gripped the hilt in both hands and countered quickly from left to right, dragging the broadside of the blade against the winter air and gravity. As he tightened his grip for a downward strike, the hilt and handle crumbled in his hands, the leather and wire binding the pieces together seeming to dissolve in his fists. "Merde," he muttered under his breath as he bent down to retrieve the pieces.

"You really shouldn't swear," a voice called out from behind him. He turned to see the young girl, carrying her small basket of eggs.

He set the broken pieces to the table and wiped his hands on the edges of his heavy gray tunic. "You're right, mademoiselle. I am sorry."

"I've heard far worse on my journeys here. Soldiers are a foul-mouthed lot." She was clutching the handle of the basket with both hands in front of her.

Connar gave a pensive nod, having seen the depravity that warfare can bring out in men. The strife and struggle for life seemed to draw out the worst in humanity"and sometimes its best. "Well, there are some places best avoided by women and girls, especially a garrison."

"I'm no child, sir. I can handle myself around soldiers. I just don't think I should have to lower my standards, tis all." Her answers, as always, were firm and resolute.

Connar offered a smile. "I commend you for your integrity, mademoiselle. You should always be an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in faith."

She looked at him, seemingly surprised by his choice of words. She held the silence for several moments, studying his face. "You know the scriptures" Do you know how to read?" Her questions came rapidly, one after the other.

He gave a slow nod. "Aye. I know how to read, and I have, on occasion, read scripture."

"I cannot read," she offered, almost ashamedly.

"And yet, you seem at no loss for the knowledge of the words of God. There are many who can read but for whom truth is far removed."

She gave a few silent nods, lost in her own thoughts, before she turned to head toward the garrison kitchen, leaving Connar alone in the courtyard once more.

-

He stood in an open field, arms outstretched and head looking skyward as a gentle rain fell from heaven. He closed his eyes as the water fell in heavy drops and then a stronger stream. He opened his eyes to a waterfall cascading over him, the roar of the ocean pounding steadily in the distance. He pushed his fingers through his hair, combing back the wet, black mass, but his fingers stuck, mired in something thicker than water. He glanced down at his hands seeing them covered in blood as the water crashing overhead turned red. Distant shrieks grew stronger with each beat of his heart, which also grew louder and louder in his head.

He woke to the sensation of water being poured onto his face. He raised a hand and turned his head away from the drizzle of water. He wiped away the mixture of sticky blood and water from his eyes, the gash across his forehead still issuing a stream of blood. His entire head ached and pounded, reminding him of how he ended up bloody and lying on the floor.

As he propped himself up on one elbow, he squinted up at the captain, who poured the last of the water from the cup onto Connar. He was crouched over him, staring down intently at the battered prisoner. Connar looked about the room as best he could through his obscured vision. The girl was gone and only a few soldiers remained in the barracks.

As he looked back to the garrison captain, he was met with a stern question that matched the look on the man's face hovering over him.

"Who are you?"

-

The guards assigned to escort Connar to the river to help him, in the captain's words, "clean up," trusted their captive even less. They tied his wrists together with rope and led him to the water's edge. The bank was muddy and cold; the blue, cloudless sky made it look warmer than it actually was. Connar knelt, lowering his face to the murky, slow-moving water, dipping his hands in and bringing the water to his face. He winced at the stinging as the cold water met the open gash and cuts on his face. With each subsequent dip, more of the dried and sticky blood washed away in the river.

He tried to work out the blood matting his hair to his neck and shoulder, but the ropes binding his hands made it cumbersome at best. He looked to the guards behind him, holding up his bound hands. "This would be much easier if my hands were free."

The larger of the two guards stepped up behind Connar, looking down at him as he set his pike-axe to the ground. "The captain said to get you cleaned up, he didn't say how."

Without warning, the guard grabbed Connar by the shoulders and plunged him into the water, shoving his head and chest completely under. Connar struggled against the weight of the man as his face was pressed against the smooth rocks and sand at the bottom. He knew the fight would be in vain and simply relaxed his body and resisted the growing urgency to take a breath.

The guards" laughter could be heard as he was finally yanked from the river, the rush of air to his lungs was joined by the water, causing him to cough violently. The guards pulled him backwards away from the bank, dragging him up to the roadside, where he lay on his back, trying to regain his breath. The blood that was once coating his hair and face had been washed down into the gray tunic mixing with a fresh coating of mud and debris, making him look dirtier than before.

"On your feet!" the guard bellowed, pulling Connar up by the rope binding his wrists and dragging him back toward the stronghold. When they arrived at the courtyard, they returned Connar to his post: the small table and bench just outside the barracks. Exhausted and cold, Connar laid back on the small bench, drawing his hands to his chest. He closed his eyes against the bright sun, as a slow trickle of blood and water crawling across his forehead and into his hair. He tried to imagine he was somewhere else'somewhere warm with the soft scents of freesia nearby.

He struggled to remain conscious as he slowed his breathing. Whether because of the blows to his head or the loss of blood, he felt himself drifting between memories and daydreams.

Connar was seeing, reliving in vivid details, events he had long-since forgotten or ignored: His first entry into RhyDin, the conflicts encountered as he slowly and painfully learned the workings of this strange world. He was with Shea, recalling with clarity the time they spent together, fighting common foes, building family ties and sharing moments of intimacy. He had forgotten or pushed from memory the times they had slept by each other, wrapped in each other's arms. He hadn't known her carnally, but he felt pangs of guilt for the hypocrisy Eless must feel towards him as he treats her differently. Where Shea was a needed balm for his worries, struggles and sorrow, Elessaria was his soul " a reminder of godly love, of wholeness and purity. It was different, somehow. He was different.

He had left RhyDin, detained for far too long in his world, only to return to find he had been presumed dead. Shea had found another to whom she would wed " a vampire no less. Connar had died, or nearly so, in his world, being quickened from death as he had for millennia. But he returned to RhyDin changed, with a renewed sense of himself, his history and his vows. He had to cast away his past, letting Shea pursue a path he could not understand. Connar filled his nights hunting blood-seeking shadows in his world while his former love was making a new life with one herself. He had shut it all out " all the memories, the tenderness, the good and the bad and moved on as best he could.

He felt a surge of emotions as he saw anew the terrors and strife of his world, the massacre at Beziers, the bloodshed and loss at Montresore. He saw wave after wave of iron bars, chains, stone and dungeon walls that had long held him over the many, many years.

Flashes of RhyDin with its living shadows and cold, empty streets rushed to view. He saw the faces of the men who had taken a piece of Eless's heart " each time leaving him watching from a distant shore as she drifted out of his life.

He had lost his sense of purpose and direction as his world fell deeper into war and decay. His returns to RhyDin were equally filled with worry and complete sense of helplessness at stopping the evil encroaching into the empath's realm. He was sinking, falling deeper and deeper into sadness and despair " though only in his thoughts, his body and mind were making it real. He struggled to breathe and move as he fought to surface from the blackness and awaken into the light once more.

-

Connar opened his eyes slowly to the taunting of the guards who had gathered about the small bench where he was laying on his back. He sat up, wiping at the tear stains on his cheeks with the back of his hands, which were still bound by the rope.

"Ahhh"the poor lamb is awake. Are you going to cry more for us?" One of the guards jeered at him, to the delight of the small group of soldiers encircling Connar.

"Who knew we had a weepy woman in our midst, eh gars" If the farm girl doesn't come back, mayhaps we could have a turn with this one." The taunt was followed with a hard shove to Connar's chest.

Up to that point, Connar had been looking at the ground and to his wet and soiled tunic. As he was jarred by the shove, he glared up at the men, speaking through a clenched teeth. "You've had your fun, lads. Now, you best move on before someone gets hurt."

"Is that a threat, maggot?" The guard asked as he grabbed Connar by the neck of the tunic, pulling him up from the bench and drawing his face up to his. The man's breath smelled of rancid fish and goat cheese, adding to the insult.

"It's not a threat, tis a promise. Lache-moi or die." Connar said, holding ground.

The men erupted in a chorus of cheers and taunts, wanting nothing more than to see the guard named Gimont fight the stranger in their company. They were lusting for blood to be spilt. For his part, Connar had no fuse left to burn. His sense of helpless frustration was already surging into rage.

"You want me to let you go, do you?" Gimont snarled into Connar's face. "I'll let you go when I'm good and ready?"

Gimont reared back and threw a meaty fist at Connar's head. The man was large, which made his moves slow and clumsy. Connar ducked under the arm as the blow sailed over his head, the momentum twisting Gimont's torso around, dropping his nose toward the ground. Connar drove straight up with a forceful burst from his legs. The crown of Connar's head struck Gimont's face, the crunch of nose cartilage and bone easily heard by the circle of men.

Gimont fell to his knees, hands clutching his face. Connar grabbed the man's head driving it fiercely toward his knee, the blow shattering the rest of Gimont's eye socket. As the man's body began to go limp, Connar yanked Gimont's head back and in the same motion struck his greasy jaw with an open palm. The twisting motion sent Gimont's head turning violently past his shoulder, snapping his neck, the body falling in a heap to the ground.

Connar began prying a hand free of the ropes binding his wrists as he stared at the circle of men. The courtyard grew deathly silent as last of the ropes fell to the ground.

-

The courtyard was empty; no guards, no soldiers milling about, just Connar and the corpse at his feet. Connar raised his gaze, searching out the wall encasing the courtyard, the sentry towers and the dark windows of the upper chambers which looked down to where he stood. All was quiet and still. He had the creeping suspicion that he was prey in a trap about to be loosed. His first instinct would be to wait it out " let the trouble come to him. This time, however, he was in a different state of mind and in no mood for proving his resolve.

"To hell with this," he grumbled, stooping down to relieve the fallen guard of his broadsword, side blade and scabbards. He pulled the belt over his head and onto his shoulder, cinching the broadsword across his back. The long knife was secured in the scabbard at his waist. He took one last look at the doors and windows facing the courtyard, the hairs of his neck standing on end, but nothing moved nor shifted.

He started with hastened strides toward the main gate leading out into the hamlet of Vaucouleurs. As he reached the large iron gate, the Captain and several guards stepped out to block his passage. He pressed a hand into Connar's chest as stayed his progress, "Where do you think you are you going?"

Connar looked past the man to the guards behind him, quietly accessing which would fall first if it came to a fight. He squared his glare to the Captain, his hand falling to the hilt of the knife at his side. "I'm leaving. I've had enough of your games and this wretched war."

The Captain shook his head, his hand moving to rest on Connar's shoulder, as if they were long-lost comrades. "You can't do that. We march against the English at Verneuil in a matter of days. Every man is needed, even you."

"You must be mad," Connar replied, pushing the Captain's hand from off his shoulder. "You failed to secure the city four years ago when your forces were much greater than they are now. It's a fool's mission."

"We have allies now that we did not have then," the Captain explained. "Tis the last place the English would expect us to attack."

"It will be the last place you attack," Connar said dryly. "I will not fight for you, nor any advance so ill-advised. Now, step aside. I am through playing at your games."

"Connar," the Captain began to plead, "I knew you not from Adam. I had to test you, to try your mettle. You passed, mon ami, you passed."

Connar shoved his way past the Captain and through the line of guards behind him. "I may have passed, but you failed"you all failed."

The Captain raised a hand to stay his guards from detaining Connar. The group of men watched him walk away, broadsword on his back, brooding on his mind. The Captain folded his arms across his crested chest, a wry smile coming to his lips.

-

Elessaria"mon Elessaria"

The winter ocean waves crashed in echoes upon the shore, providing a distant cadence for his thoughts as he spoke her name. Connar had retreated to the distant western coast, devoid of people and the trivial matters they fought and warred over, trying to quiet his mind and still the restlessness stirring within him. He sat among the rocks resting his hands upon the hilt of his sword - the tip buried in the crevices at his feet. He looked out over the gray, cold horizon, watching the relentless rows of waves crest and fall upon the sand before him. He felt the weight of the ages upon his shoulders; the long days of work and toil pressing down.

His heart and soul were torn between two worlds - between two loves. Finding a deep, abiding love in RhyDin was a blessing and a curse. His time spent living with one foot in both realms was soon coming to an end; he could feel it at his core and it ached away any peace he once had. He was at the doorstep - on the threshold of leaving his world, his oaths and his gods behind. He was walking to the gallows, willing to face a death sentence to be with her - if only for a short time; to accept damnation in the name of love and fleeting happiness.

He was so lost without her - so lost that it was impossible for him to find himself any more. Millenia of wandering, warring and serving had failed to define him the way being with her did. He had once been in love with his world; his service and devotion to it unchallenged. Even through the dark, bitter and lonely times, he was able to see the light, to draw strength from the thought that things would get better - that he could, once again, find a place where his service and life mattered. Her love shone a brilliant light into the void in his heart - an emptiness that he had long forgotten or never knew was there. Now awakened, it consumed him daily - illuminating the hate and despair all around him. His patience for his fellowman grew short, while his anger quickened - turning him into death?s merchant at the drop of a coin.

He couldn't pray as he once did for comfort and solace. He knew the answers were not what his heart wanted to hear nor what his soul could bear. He wished he could be as cold as stone so that he could not feel the pain, so that the sting of the falling mists would be but a distant memory.

-

"Be gone, Graeven. I tire of your games. Leave me be." Connar set the tip of the blade into the sand, resting his hand on the hilt as he turned his gaze back to the fire.

Graeven wasn't finished with his pitch just yet. "It isn't that far fetched, Connar. You don't even have to fully turn vampire. Just a bite and a few drops of your blood and immortality is yours. Isn't that what you want?"

Connar glared up at the figure before him, clad in black from head to toe; this creature who had followed him from one realm to the next. "I may be a fool, Graeven, but I'm not fool enough for that."

The anger began to rise in the host as Graeven stepped toward the fire, his voice causing the flames to grow brighter. "And how it is so different from the hope of immortality which you so desperately cling to' You can buy your freedom with a few drops of your blood or be bound to die like every other mortal: alone, afraid and miserable. If you won't do it for you'do it for her."

"Your petty attempts to sell lies and dreams are wasted on me," Connar said as he slowly rose to his feet, the sword gripped tightly in his hand.

Graeven stepped away from the fire, his eyes beginning to glow an amber red. "Either way, Connar, you're damned. If you leave your calling for her, your soul is no better off than ours. If you stay, you'll spend an eternity missing her and wondering if you made the right choice. No matter what you do, you'll be in hell one way or another."

"BE GONE!" Connar yelled as he kicked sand at Graeven, but the host vanished in a swirl of black smoke before the scattered grains returned to the ground.

-

"Crec que est' respirant?"

Accented words in foreign tongues wafted in and out like the waves of the sea.

"Vost' va a apunyalar- amb aquesta cosa."

Connar rolled onto his back, the bright morning sun blinding his eyes. He lifted a tired arm, draping it across his eyes as he felt the continued prodding at his side with the fisherman's gaffing spear.

"You see" I told you he wasn't dead."

"You thought it was a beached fish when we landed, not a man?" The three Spaniards laughed.

"Please'stop...stabbing me?" The words rasping out from Connar's throat in broken Catalan.

He could feel his body being lifted from the wet sand by his arms, his feet dragging beneath him.

"Let's just get him back to the ship. It's going to be hard enough as it is rowing against the tide," ordered the sailor walking ahead of the two charged with getting Connar to the tiny rowboat moored on the beach.

"Si"but we'll have one more body swabbing the decks"less work for us in the long haul," the stout man holding one of Connar's arms proclaimed to the delight of his companions.

Connar squinted against the sun, seeing a large sailing ship anchored out in the bay. He reasoned they must have seen his fire in the night and waited until dawn to investigate. He ran his tongue over his teeth, not detecting any fangs. He was wearing his gray tunic, the visions of the previous night having vanished with the rising sun. He struggled to get his limbs to respond, to move at his will. "Si us plau"please"let me be. I'm not getting on your boat."

The three men laughed as they reached the water's edge, the sea foam rising up to Connar's knees. "You're in no position to make such demands, cuc."

He knew the men were simply following orders, but the thought of being enslaved at sea was more than he could bear. As they neared the small row boat, he slowly balled his hands into fists. "Please, don't make me kill you.?

The sailor leading the party turned to face Connar, reaching out and grabbing him by the throat. He was prepared to end the argument then and there, but the fury burning anew in his captive's eyes gave him cause to believe the threat was real.

-

"I've never set eyes upon one as angry and seething as he?"

"Nor have I. He hasn't moved from the corner of the cell since his arrival. I fear to go near him, lest he tear out my throat with his teeth?"

The two Burgundian guards continued their quiet fretting as they kept watch over their prisoner - a prisoner who would not speak, but only stared into the blackness, his eyes ablaze with fiery indignation. The shackles hanging about his wrists and ankles were of little comfort to those charged with keeping him captive. His naked flesh bore fresh wounds from the interrogation at the hands of Bishop de Cauchon and those who had condemned the young maiden to death. They wanted to get a confession from his lips; they needed a scapegoat. They reasoned he had had something to do with her victories, not angels or edicts from God. He gave them only an angry, silent gaze throughout the days of questioning, accusations and physical assaults.

It was only a matter of time; he would find the opportunity to strike them all down. The merciless crimes that surrounded him had finally won and vanquished his soul. He was inconsolable. He cared not for his own life nor how he left this world. When the crevices in the stone floor pooled with his blood, he'd take his fight and his rage to Heaven.

The sun had yet to crest the eastern horizon, but the dungeon was astir with activity. Guards and soldiers were combing the grounds, searching the shadows, while the Captain stared slack jawed at an empty prison cell. The iron bars were intact. The door still locked and secure, but the small cell was empty. A set of shackles mocked him from the center of the cold stone floor, the only remaining sign of the prisoner who once wore them.

"I've seen man's notion of freedom, Andor-ki. God's newly-appointed chosen ones exercise their freedom to enslave and oppress another." Connar looked up from the sword at his feet to the messenger standing before him. "I've seen the people who are to be conquered next. I am drawn to them more than those in Gallia."

Andor was accustomed to his brother's penchant for the dramatic; his way of seeing only black and white; good or evil. He was principled to a fault. "Men are free to use what the Father gifts to them, Connar-ki, you know that. God won't force men to be good nor protect those who honor and serve him from trials and adversity. Each nation and people have their rise and fall, but nothing passes without the Father's will."

Connar slumped in his kneeling position, chest crestfallen and his head dropping as he closed his eyes. "I know the covenants I have made, Andor-ki, but the world I serve has become so fat with itself, so hurtful and bitter, that I no longer feel I have a place here. The very lives I try to serve spit it back into my face."

"And yet, you won't come home"you'd rather stay in your miserableness than finish your work and come home. Or do you suffer earth's injustices so that you can tarry in that other realm' Do you truly love her more than us" And what of her" Death will come for you, and she will be left alone forever. Would you be made a liar in two worlds, Connar-ki?"

Andor's questions cut to the bone. A tear streaked down his cheek, as Connar looked up at his brother, reality setting in once more. "I will die protecting the king, won't I" And when I do, I won't be allowed to come back " it will all end?" His words trailed off along with his ability to speak over the pain his was feeling.

Andor squeezed Connar's shoulder, trying to reassure him. "Only God knows that, Connar-ki. You've never worried about death before, why start now??

The messengers watched as the remaining robbers were engaged by Connar. Most lie dead or dying on the rocky ground. A small group was retreating away on horseback. Connar had cuts and gashes on his shoulders, hands and arms, but otherwise suffered no serious injury.

One of the messengers stepped up next to Andor as they surveyed the scene before them. "He wasn't supposed to survive, Andor-ki. We did not follow the mission we were given."

Andor looked at his companion then back to looking at Connar, the lone warrior cleaning his blade on the tunic of one of the fallen. "We gave him nor more and no less assistance than we were commanded. He survived on his own. Connar has, over the course of his service on earth?" he paused, reflecting on the right choice of words?"become very skilled at his craft, brethren. He lives or dies on his own accord, as he has always done."

The messengers saw Connar looking about the area for his pack, and not seeing it, looked toward the escaping marauders. "Merde?" he grumbled as he sprinted toward one of the abandoned horses, pulling himself onto the saddle by the reins and spurring the animal speeding after the fleeing group in the distance.

Andor could only smile with a slow shake of his head. As the messengers became enveloped in growing light signalling their imminent departure, he said aloud the words the others were thinking as well: ?If we have learned anything from watching him serve, Connar-ki will always be about his mission in his own way and in his own time. God help those who stand in his way."

I am a liar.

Draped in the red tunic of my enemy, I yield only weightless oaths as I guard the very men whose lives I despise. I push those who might be friends away so that I can keep my enemies closer. It's an empty existence.

I've taken lives over and over again. Innocent men, warmongers, soldiers, and thieves. Their faces blur like crumbling gray stones crowding an ancient cemetery.

I am a liar. My whole life has been a lie. I am a spy and a fraud.

Those who think they know me only know the story woven about my existence to protect the lie, to preserve the mission.

My life is empty and cold. I've traded the broadsword for a sabre, plated armor for layers of fabric and leather. One century of warfare and deceit rolls into another, and another. Cannon fire and musket balls slay men from afar. Killing, once personal and visceral, is now indiscriminate and cowardly.

I've fled from honor and duty before. I think of doing it again. And yet I fear falling into depths from which I cannot escape and destroying the hope and love in others as I tumble. I fear starting a cycle that has no end and no purpose.

And yet I need it so....so very badly. -

I question why I share what I do of my life with Elessaria. In the moments when I am with her, I can't control my thoughts or what escapes to my lips. I fear I burden her already troubled heart and spirit with the travails of my world and time. In my greed, I seek to lighten the weight I feel by sharing them with her. I think she yearns to visit my world, but she does not understand how vile and debase my world is compared to Rhydin. The evil men do to the weak and to each other defies words. To let her think it is otherwise is foolishness on my part–wreckless and selfish.

Telling her about the signs, the gathering of the Templars, pains me now. It was a secret I had been carrying for months; a fate I knew I must soon face. I first saw the ancient marking when I visited the stone memorial for Jean d'Arc on the banks of the river Seine. The young maiden had been burned at the stake. The English, who orchestrated her capture, ordered the executioner to scatter her ashes so that her remains could not be revered by the people. To the executioner's dismay, Jeanne's heart would not burn no matter how many attempts he made. He scattered her ashes and threw her heart into the waters of the river. There, the Maiden of Orleans became one with the heart of France.

After being freed from my captors, I crafted a simple stone marker where her heart was cast into the river. Whenever I am able, I visit the place by the river to remember her. Even now, my heart breaks to think upon her memory and what she had endured in God's name. It draws me to my knees and weakens my faith. It was there, on her small stone memorial, that I first saw the mark of a circle and line–the sign of a Templar gathering. The mark was intended for me to discover; it wasn't random.

And now, I have to pretend with her that all will be well when I know in my heart I am headed into a trap. I wrestle to understand who, after century upon century, would know my past lives, my history, and loyalties. And why do they seek me now? I have made friends of the shadows to conceal my true self, using lies to cover my tracks. There is a day a reckoning on the horizon, and I fear that I may have sealed the same fate upon Elessaria - the keeper of my heart.

"Being a Musketeer must make your family very proud, Devabriel." The bear-of-a-blacksmith had taken a tour of the freshly cleaned shop and was now hovering over Connar again. "And one of the Cardinal's Musketeers no less. A high honor indeed. Your skills with weapons and your allegiance to the king surpassed only by your devotion to the church."

Connar stopped the sharpening motion of the wet stone as he was pulling it midway up the blade. He looked up at the giant of a man before him and crooked an eyebrow. "Are you mocking me, Brossard?" His tone was flat.

Brossard gave a deep belly laugh. "Did I touch a nerve, mon ami" I wouldn't want to ruffle any of your feathers while you're taking an edge to your sword. It would be a shame if you were to cut yourself."

"Oh, I'm sure my comfort and safety are high on your list of concerns for the day." Connar leaned the blade against the bench and used the rag on his lap to clean the sweat and sooty residue from his hands.

"There are many men, hundreds even, who would do almost anything to be one of the Cardinal's Musketeers, but you, you wear the tunic with such disdain and disgust."

"I must have missed the lessons on being jovial at charm school." He looked up at Brossard, offering a barb of his own. "Though I hear ignorant bliss comes with layers of blubber. Have you ever seen a sad whale?"

"Ohhh...now who's being nasty?" The playful tone had faded from Brossard's voice. "God has blessed you beyond most, wherein is the reason for the contempt in your eyes" I'd love to know before I break your jaw and make it difficult for you to speak the answer."

Connar rose slowly to his feet, having to crane his neck to look at the blacksmith's fleshy chin. "Have you ever seen a trapped animal, Brossard; have you ever come upon a wolf with its leg caught in an iron clamp" Would you call the look in the wolf's eyes contempt?"

Brossard pushed his fingers against Connar's chest. "I don't see any chains on you; there are no irons binding your legs. Is being a Musketeer not living up to the dreams of a poor country boy or whatever hell hole you climbed out of?"

He could feel his jaw tightening and the sweat running cold as it trickled down his temples. He wasn't inclined to fight the behemoth blacksmith; the last thing he needed was a week in the infirmary. "Not all chains are made of iron, Brossard. The strongest links are the ones we create for ourselves. I fight against a prison of my own making."

-