A light fog dusted the landscape, the heavy moisture of the early morning air clinging to broad leaves and narrow blades of grass, shedding water across Connar?s boots as he walked through the meadow. He welcomed the long walk, the brief escape from that which he left behind and the knowledge of what might lie ahead.

The mystical portals between his world and Rhydin seemed to more numerous, or perhaps he had just become better at locating them. Of late, his passages through them had exacted a price from his body, his last journey across the chasm causing him to cough up blood for the better part of the night. Whether the physical toll could be attributed to the dark forces erecting the portals, or to his having made too many forays from realm to realm he could not know. Connar had essayed to destroy any portals he discovered, but it was a losing battle, akin to herding ants with a toothpick.

The meadow eventually gave way to a rutted dirt road as the morning sun crested higher into the sky. Connar shifted the weight of the pack across his shoulder and back, the strap biting into his shoulder. He was now having second thoughts about leaving his armor behind, the shoulder plates could have proven useful at present as a barrier against the leather strap.

Other than a lone sword sheathed at his side and a chainmaille vest worn under a loose-fitting shirt, he had abandoned all other weapons and armor. In addition to wanting to travel more light of foot, Connar had also resolved himself to the notion that he could not prevail his will or wishes by sword and force any longer.

He squinted up at the sun as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow, the noon-day sun having effectively scorched any remnants of moisture from the air. His boots kicked up dust as he moved along the dirt road, the faint jagged lines of thatched rooftops just now visible off in the distance. As he drew near the village a soft breeze moved gently into his face, turning his lips in a smile.

The pleasant walk and reflection upon happier days came to an abrupt end as Connar halted in mid-stride, turning his head to the side and burying his face in the crook of his arm to escape the wretched stench of death and disease suddenly stagnating the air.

Much can be learned about a person?s life ? how they lived, how they loved and were loved ? all can be discerned by witnessing how they accept death when it knocks upon the door of their mortality. Some gnash and wail, crying in protestations with their last breath. Others are so racked by fear, fear of the unknown, fear for what might await their immortal soul, fear of nothingness, that they spend their last moments in wide-eyed panic. Death may very well be the next great adventure, but tis one that few travelers welcome with open arms, nor one that many wish to face alone.

The moon had just crested over the treeline, shining brightly in the cloudless night sky, providing a natural spotlight on the small dwelling. No light came from within, no smoke issued from the top of the chimney stack.

In a collapsed straw bed that wreaked of vomit and urine he lay, his body trembling from a fever-induced chill, the thinning blanket doing little against the cold gripping his body from within. Dull eyes peered out from the darkness of the room as rats scurried across the floor, every sound causing him to jerk his head from one direction to the other, the disease having long since taken sight from him. His rail-thin body jerked as his lungs rasped out fluid-filled coughs. Beads of cold sweat collected at his temples as he laid his head back against the straw bed. He was resigned to his fate as his parched lips offered a silent prayer, the same as in previous nights, that this eve might be his last.

The door to the small hutch creaked open, causing him to sit up quickly, breath coming to his lungs with a struggle, his voice barely audible over the rustle of wind and the scurrying of rats as moonlight filled the room. ?Who?who is there?? he choked out between coughs. ?There is but death here.?

The intruder continued through the room, his pleading doing nothing to slow the approach. The rustle of fabric and metal could be heard next to his bed as a quiet voice issued forth in the darkness, ?Peace be to ye, friend, I mean ye no harm,? the last words spoken as the stranger placed a warm hand to his feeble arm.

More rustling and rummaging followed and he could feel something cool pressed into his hand. ?This is water, drink it slowly.? He was too weak, too sick to offer any resistance, nor to warn the stranger of the rampant disease devouring his body from within. The cup was lifted to his lips as he eagerly took a drink, days having passed since he last had anything to moisten his lips and throat. Water trickled past the corners of his mouth, running down his neck as his body trembled, too weak to hold himself steady.

The stranger helped him lie back on the bed, a cool wet cloth pressed to his forehead. He felt the weight of another blanket covering his body and then the stranger could be heard moving through the room, attending to unseen tasks. The smell of smoke filled the room followed by the glowing warmth of a fire coming from the small hearth.

He knew he must have the look of death written plainly upon his visage, his cheeks and eyes felt sunken. Every breath was a struggle. He reasoned that he had but one lung working now. It would only be a matter of time before fluid overtook the other.

The stranger moved back to his bedside, using a warm moistened cloth to wipe the dried vomit and grime from his face, hands and arms, stopping several times to rinse the cloth clean in warm water. He tried to speak to speak while he was tended to, but he had neither to force nor sufficient air in his lungs to accomplish the task. Only the stranger?s voice would fill the room. ?There?ye are looking better already,? said as the stranger patted him on the shoulder softly.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. He couldn?t tell whether he was fighting sleep or the cold grip of death, but each time he awoke, he could hear the stranger?s voice speaking softly to him, giving him a reassuring pat on the hand and changing the wet cloth covering his forehead.

A calm peace comforted him as he closed his eyes, the steady presence of the stranger?s voice filling the room. He could even feel a weak smile coming to his lips as he succumbed to the rest beckoning to him. For the first time in weeks he was actually looking forward to the coming morning.

The sun crested slowing over the distant horizon, casting long shadows and shafts of golden light across the ground. It would be yet another peaceful, beautiful day. A few stones sat atop the mound of fresh, dark soil covering the grave.

?Safe travels, ami,? an accented voice offered in parting salute before adjusting the pack across his shoulders and back, retaking his journey once again.

As the door to the small home creaked ajar, a frail woman sat up in bed, turning to look in the direction of the door. Her long, dark hair pulled back behind her head, tied loosely in place by a red ribbon ? a feeble attempt at maintaining some sense of humanity while sickness ravaged her body. The mother spotted her child as a sense of relief filled her countenance. The look in her eyes quickly changed when a large shadow covered the floor behind her daughter. She reached out to her child as if to shield her from the intruder, her voice calling weakly, ?Michelle, come quickly.?

Michelle, for her part, was nearly skipping as she neared her mother, the smile on her face quickly vanishing as she recognized the fear in her mother?s voice. She turned to look behind her, as Connar came into view. She took her mother?s hand in hers and smiled, ?It?s fine, mother. He?s come to help.?

Connar stopped in place, seeing the fear and apprehension on the woman?s face and in her voice. His empty hands were clearly visible, not wanting the woman to think he concealed a weapon, not that any robber would need one, given the woman?s frail health. As she looked at him, her natural beauty shone through even in her weakened state. Large brown eyes looked up at him through heavy, dark lashes. Her lips lacked their normal dark pink coloring, but were full and nicely shaped. She tried to sit up and pull her daughter close to her, but Michelle was already at Connar?s side, clutching his hand and trying to pull him toward her mother?s bed.

He remained in place, in spite of the persistent tugging, choosing instead to address the girl?s mother, ?I mean ye and your daughter no harm, m?lady. I met your daughter in the marketplace and, upon hearing of your dire plight, offered to help in any way I could.? He paused a moment, looking at Michelle who was nodding in agreement and smiling to her mother as he spoke. ?My name is Connar, Connar Valdor.?

The woman seemed to ease a little, though caution prevailed in her features and in her voice, ?Ye can understand if I do not fully trust your intentions, monsieur,? she spoke in a clear delicate voice, ?but there are many who would take no thought to rob the sick and defenseless.? She brushed the long locks of black hair from her cheek as she tried to sit up, only to fall back, too weak to maintain the position for more than a few seconds. She looked at her daughter, cupping the child?s cheek in her palm, her voice sounding more desperate than before, ?Did ye get the tonic, Elle??

The girl nearly beamed as she proudly announced, ?We don?t need to buy the tonic, mere. Monsieur Valdor says ye don?t need it to get well. He?s a doctor.?

?Wait a moment,? Connar began, ?I never said I was a doctor, that was your doing, Michelle.? He smiled at the girl, and tapped lightly on the hat perched upon her head. He looked down at the girl?s mother. The look of apprehension had returned to her face. ?I may not be formally trained in medicine, m?lady, but I think I can help. I have seen this before. Can I see what ye have left of the tonic??

The woman looked from Connar to her daughter, being too tired or desperate to offer any more resistance. She nodded in the direction of the pantry as she motioned with her hand, ?Fetch the bottle, Elle.?

Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled, a singular cry over the darkening sky heralding the death of yet another victim of the merciless plague. An equitable killer, no respecter of wealth, class or status, the disease took whomever it pleased.

The door to the small cottage swung open as the fading echo from the bell resonated in the air. Michelle?s small frame darted into the room, running straightway to her mother?s bedside where she was gathered up in awaiting arms. The child looked across the room at Connar in the protective clutches of her mother, looking at him with newfound suspicion.

Connar hesitated a moment, looking at the mother and child before moving to the door which Michelle had left ajar. He though the girl might have been frightened by the sounding of the church bell and the coming nightfall ? at least that was what he wanted to believe. The sudden sense of malaise running through his core told him otherwise.

As he began to push the door closed, his gaze still fixed on Michelle and Veronique, the movement of the door was stopped abruptly as a heavy-set figure pushed his way into the room. The long flowing robe and gold sash tied about a rounded waist identified him at a glance as the town cleric. Deep-set blue eyes peered out from a gaunt face at Connar, giving the priest the look of a bulldog on the prowl. Michelle curled her body into a tight ball in her mother?s arms as the priest looked in their direction for a brief moment before squaring his stance in front of Connar, beads of sweat beginning to form along a hairless brow, chest heaving with each drawn and exhaled breath beneath the robes.

Connar took a step back, not sure from whence came the source of this confrontation, trying to keep his voice and posture from being defensive. ?Is there something amiss, Frere??

?Don?t ye address me is such a manner, for I am not your ?brother,?? The priest said angrily as he closed the space between he and Connar, driving a pointed finger into the taller man?s chest as he spoke. ?What am I to think when this small child informs me that an angel sent from God had come to heal her mother??

Connar glanced quickly over at Michelle and her mother before another jab at his chest drew his attention back to the portly man in front of him. ?I make no claim of angelic ministry, I assure ye, the child makes that assumption on her own.?

?Do not dare to cower behind the child, monsieur!? the cleric continued to press Connar back as the verbal lashing issued forth. ?Heaven only knows what ye might have had a mind to do had I not come across this poor lass in the marketplace. Do ye deny that ye said ye could heal her mother? None can heal save those given the grace and power by God in heaven above.?

Connar narrowed his eyes at the man, as he now stood firm, pushing the cleric?s hand away from his chest with a bit of force. ?If by ?healing? ye speak of taking alms on the promise that one afflicted can buy God?s blessings and health or, should they die, buy their salvation, then ye speak true. Only such as thee can claim such power. I only offered to help make the child?s mother well. Where be the evil in that??

The cleric was visibly shaking with anger, beads of sweat now dripping down the edges of his face, finding their way into the creases and folds of skin along the trek downward. ?What are alms freely given compared to the priceless faith that ye would rob them of?? the priest?s words hissing forth through clenched teeth. ?Ye are nothing but a demon sent here to do the devil?s work. I know who ye are, Valdor. Your reputation precedes your steps here.?

He pushed away from Connar, moving toward the woman and child as if to be their guardian and protector. ?The devil preserves this man?s life to do his evil bidding. Have ye asked from whence he comes or who he claims to be??

?We were just arriving at that subject, Father.? Veronique had not taken her eyes off of Connar the whole while the verbal exchange was taking place. Connar could not read the look in her gaze nor could he take anything from her tone.

New figures emerged from the darkness outside, crowding the small entryway. ?Is this the bastard, ?Elle?? came the call from the first man to enter the room as he looked from Michelle to Connar and back again. Connar recognized him from the marketplace as one of the tonic vendors. Michelle simply nodded her head as she tried to shrink away in her mother?s arms, fearful of the conflict she was convinced would soon follow.

The vendor was soon joined by three other men, each of them forming a tight circle around Connar, who had backed up to the cottage wall behind him, his eyes taking quick glances to his sheathed sword lying on the floor next to his pack far from his reach now.

The priest, who was beginning to feel upstaged, tried to press his way into the circle, ?This man is to be arrested and tried for his crimes against the church and God?? His words were cut short as the tonic vendor shoved the cleric to the ground.

?He?s none of your concern, padre. If ye know what is best, ye?ll get your fat carcass out of here right now.? The vendor had taken his eyes off of Connar only long enough to drive his point home to the cleric who was scrambling to his feet, muttering threats in latin and promises to be back with reinforcements as he scurried out of the cottage.

All eyes were back on Connar as the group of men tightened the space between them. The vendor took a fist of Connar?s shirt in his grasp and drew himself up to stare eye to eye with him. ?I have it on good authority that ye were meaning to rob me,? the vendor?s breath was heavy with alcohol as he spat his accusations at his captive.

Connar couldn?t help but notice Veronique, who did not seem to feel the least bit threatened by the gang of men now in her home. The man shook Connar by the shirt, as if to draw his attention back to the matter at hand. Connar turned to see the glint of a blade pointed at his midsection as he met the man?s gaze squarely. The vendor smirked as he continued to accost Connar. ?What, would ye rob me of my livelihood and think to bed my wife as well?I think NOT!? The last words delivered as the blade of the dagger was buried deep into Connar?s abdomen. The vendor twisted the blade free as Connar dropped to his knees, blood spilling through his fingers as they clutched at his stomach.

??I do not care what ye have to do. If he dies before morning, ye might very well share his fate!? the priest barked to a lone figure huddled over Connar?s body as it lie motionless on the cold dungeon floor. ?He will make a public confession of his evil allegiances and treason to God and the Church, and then pay whatever price is demanded for his actions, is that understood, doctor?? The priest stormed out of the cell, not awaiting a reply from the doctor, who simply nodded his head silently at the orders and began tending to his patient.

The doctor pried back Connar?s eyelid, the pupil responding slowly to the torch cascading orange light through the small window-less room. He began to mumble as he used a knife to cut away Connar?s shirt ? once ivory, now stained red with blood, ?Aye, aye?tis my lot to patch this bastard back together so ye can tear him apart again.? The doctor was looking at the open gash in Connar?s abdomen, shaking his head at the sight and the very real prospect that he would not be able to keep the prisoner alive until midnight, not to mention til morning.

The doctor?s assistant came in the room, a thin woman with honey-blond hair pulled back behind her neck and a light blue scarf covering her head. She was carrying a wooden pail of water, several towels, and a rolled leather sleeve holding medical implements. She gasped as she caught sight of the wound still issuing a thin trail of dark red blood. ?Mon dieu, doctor,? she exclaimed as she knelt next to the body waiting on his first orders.

?I know, I know, Sylvie,? the doctor said as he pushed back his sleeves and began arranging his crude medical tools on the floor. ?See what ye can do to clean the wound. I have to stop the bleeding somehow.?

Sylvie dipped one of the towels in the bucket of water and proceeded to wipe blood from Connar?s chest and abdomen, each press of the towel to area surrounding the wound caused the trickle of fresh blood to flow anew. She marveled at how many scars covered the torso of the prisoner, uttering out loud the thoughts running through her mind, ?How could one person have so many wounds?what sort of man is this??

The doctor had had the same thoughts, but not solely on account of the evidence of many scars and battle wounds, but because of the priest?s intense interest in keeping the prisoner alive. ?Perhaps he has lived a charmed life?up to now, Sylvie.?

He slid his fingers into the wound trying to follow the path of the blade that had pierced the flesh. ?There?s no putrid smell,? Sylvie said as she dabbed at the blood the doctor?s actions were forcing from the wound.

?Aye?how the blade missed cutting his entrails is a miracle?the same cannot be said for the stomache and spleen however,? the doctor said as he removed his hand and wiped the thick blood from his fingers and hand with a towel.

The pair began working on the prisoner using skills and experience learned over many years on medieval battlefields. After several hours the doctor stepped back from the body, now covered by a thin blanket, every towel and nearby cloth stained in blood. He stood looking down at the prisoner as Sylvie placed a moistened cloth over the motionless forehead. ?We?ve done all we can do. Tis in God?s hands now, Sylvie.?

Beggars, thieves and scoundrels are creatures of opportunity, making the most of any advantage shown them. Throw them behind bars, take away their freedom, and they become desperately opportunistic, risking their very lives to regain that which only they could throw away. As morning approached over a distant French skyline, just such an opportunity would present itself.

Arch Bishop Dubois had pulled the bulk of the dungeon guards from their posts and put them to work building up a platform for his holiness? grand spectacle. His expected quite the gathering as riders had been sent out early the previous evening, traveling in all directions, as far as Orleans, to spread news of the capture of one Connar Valdor. He had long evaded capture and had, on more than one occasion, survived where others would have surely perished. His constant appearance when demons, dragons, and beasts were abut only fueled the speculation that he had aligned himself with the devil himself. Moreover, this Valdor defied not only blatently defied the laws of the land, but dared to speak out against the church and its clergy. The prisoner was a prize beyond measure, and the ensuing execution would certainly rival his notoriety. The Bishop would be sure that the only lasting memory of this man would be the way left this world ? confessing his treason and begging for mercy.

The few guards left to watch over the prisoners in the dungeon had been ordered to give their full attention to Valdor and the doctor looking over his care. They were to make sure the doctor and his assistant did all in their power to keep their patient alive. The Bishop had made it known quite clearly that all would feel his wrath if the Valdor died prematurely.

The guards peered in through the cell door, crowding the opening to watch the doctor and his female assistant tend to the prisoner, who hadn?t stirred in several hours. The guards were so preoccupied that none heard the scurrying of bare feet moving up the corridor until it was too late for any to draw their weapons.

A dozen or so prisoners had loosed themselves from their crowded cell, no doubt a plan that was months in the works, only made easier by the recent distractions. They rushed the guards who were caught completely by surprise. The first guard to be reached had his skull crushed against the stone wall like an over-ripe mellon. The next two guards were pulled to the ground by gouging fingers and prying hands that tore at their flesh and muffled their cries for help. The remaining guard backed into Connar?s cell, frantically trying to pry his sword from its scabbard as wiry arms and hands pulled at his clothing and lunged at his face.

Sylvie and the doctor were dragging their patient back into the corner of the cell, trying to keep him from getting crushed by the several bodies pushing their way in to the small room. The lone guard managed to free his weapon slashing wildly with at the mob pressing in all around him. The blade struck several of the prisoners causing them to fall back in pain. The large guard pressed forward, hacking away as the prisoners retreated back out of the cell door. As he stepped out into the corridor, drawing in a deep breath to cry out ?au secours? a large iron kettle met him square, shattering his face and jaw, the force of the blow sending his body back into the cell, the sword clattering across the stone floor and sliding to a stop as blood sprayed across the ground.

The last of the guards silenced, the bulk of the surviving prisoners moved down the corridor to finish their escape. But three remained behind, their eyes on a new sandy-haired prize trembling in the corner of the cell ? esteeming her flesh to be worth more than their eminent freedom.

The doctor rose quickly to his, placing himself between the prisoners and Sylvie. The woman was clinging tightly to Connar?s arm, trying to shield herself from the eyes of the attackers. The scalpel in the doctor?s proved to be but a small deterrent to the advancing party of men. The larger man of the trio caught the doctor?s arm and yanked the shoulder from the socket then delivered a skull-crushing blow to the helpless man?s head. His body was tossed aside like a rag doll, landing in a pile on the stone floor. The man smiled a near toothless grin as bent over Connar?s body to grab Slyvie by the blouse, casting a glance at his two cohorts who were eagerly pressing toward her as well. His voice was low, loud and gruff, ?There be enough here for all of us, lads...? All the breath was scared from Sylvie?s chest as she could not muster enough to even scream. She looked up at sneering yellow eyes, her captor?s voice leaving no doubt of his intentions, ??But I?ll be getting mine first.?

Sylvie had been dragged to the center of the room as she fought against her attackers, her clothing being torn open as she cried out in protest. The large man pinned her to the floor as he sat across her, forcing his hands over her body and into the folds of her skirt. She clawed at the air, trying to hold back his arms and hands. The other two prisoners pressed in close, looking on in fiendish delight, waiting their turn for the feast of milky white flesh.

Her attacker was trying to loose the ties of his pants and hold her in place when she freed a hand to scratch her nails across his face. He reared back in pain, frustrated at the prey?s lack of cooperation and submission. He struck her hard across the face, sending her head back against the hard floor, her body falling limp. ?Now that is more to my liking, lass,? he sneered as he leaned over her, drawing his lips against her exposed flesh.


The sound of a steel blade being raked over the cobblestone floor caused the two onlookers to reluctantly turn to look from whence the strange noise came. One of the scoundrel?s eyes widened as a flash of silver sliced through the air, the tip of the blade cutting through his neck. Bony fingers reached up to the wide gash, blood gurgling out of the opening and spilling down his neck and chest. He fell to the ground as a fallen tree before any sound of warning could be made. The other prisoner was tugging frantically at his larger cell mate?s arm, who, for one, was none too happy to be distracted from the woman underneath him. ?What the hell is it, man?? he asked angrily, his eyes following the fixated open-mouth gaze of the smaller man.

Standing in the murky shadows of the cell, Connar stared down at the two men, a blood-stained blade in his fist. Instantly to his mind raced images of what had transpired while he had been unconscious, as if it were played out before him on a stage. He was visibly pale, and there was something less than steady in his posture. The large prisoner twisted about, rising to his feet and re-securing the drawstrings at his waist as he shoved the smaller prisoner at Connar, barking his commands, ?Get him!?

The prisoner stumbled forward by the force of the shove, falling straightway onto the outstretched sword in Connar?s grasp. The weight of the man?s dying body tore the weapon from Connar?s hand, forcing him to bend forward to try and retrieve the hilt. As he raised his head he was met by the pummeling fists of the hulking prisoner. A barrage of hard blows rocked Connar to his knees, unable to muster any defense against the onslaught. Large hands wrapped about his throat and began choking the air from the passageway. Connar reached up in desperation, his hands pulling at the vice-like grip on his neck. The man?s knee pressed into his chest, crushing him back against the floor. Connar looked up into the menacing yellow-eyes, now filled with exhilaration at the prospect of an easy kill.

Blood streamed from his nose as he fought in vain against the choke hold. Wisps of bright light flashed before his eyes as he struggled against the blackness pressing in all around him. Connar?s hands fell to his side just as the large hands around his neck broke their grip. The prisoner?s hands shot up quickly to his own throat as searing pain cut clear through his neck. He wheeled about on his knees to see the woman standing defiantly above him, his slick, blood-soaked fingers unable to remove the scalpel she had buried deep into his neck. The main artery severed, the color quickly faded from his face as he fell face first onto the stone floor, his eyes fixed wide open in shock and surprise.

Lifted by a spirits wind, a motionless body carried upon invisible waves, cresting towards some great unknown. Is it Heaven or will it be Hell, will angels sing or shall every ear catch the sounds of forgotten mercies? Lightness and dark, day and night, from the shadows every soul must crawl, to face one?s maker and account for the life once lived. ~ Babylonian invocation

Heavy eyelids blinked back the darkness, flashes of light striking deep into his skull. A soft voice came near accompanied by the scent of wild flowers. She begged him to remain still, her hand coming to rest on his forehead, the silhouette of her head, hair and shoulders shielding him from the light. He knew neither her voice nor her touch, and as yet, his eyes weren?t of much use.

Other senses where awakening from a deep sleep as well. He could feel the softness of the bed under his body, the wool blanket against his bare skin, the warmth and softness of her hand on his head. Muscles twitched and flexed, his feet and legs moved as if restrained by great weights. Her voice filled the air about him once again, angelic and soft, ?Ye have been gone quite a long while, ye needn?t rush things now. Waking up from where ye have been can be quite difficult, and painful.?

He drifted in and out of consciousness, each time opening his eyes and seeing more, feeling more. His muscles ached and his joints shot out in pain with each subtle movement. The woman was always there at his bedside to comfort him, to moisten his lips with water and calm him back to a restful state. He tried often to speak but could not move the words past the knot in his throat. Her palm rested against his cheek and he closed his eyes, drifting away once again into the darkness.

Brilliant flashes of lightening crashed over a blackened sky, thunder echoing its rolling chorus. Each bolt of light illuminating the Bishop?s chambers as he lie tossing and turning on his bed, caught in the torments of his own nightmares.

Beads of cold sweat rolled from his head as he saw visions of the bloodshed in the dungeon, the dismembered prisoners on display and the haunting image of the face of the innocent man, his only crime being that he faintly resembled the missing Valdor.

The Bishop rolled onto his back, caught somewhere between the consciousness and the dreams that gripped him. A deafening crackle of lighting crashed outside his room, his eyes opened wide to his eerily-lit room. He saw a brief glimpse of a shadow standing by his bed and sat up with a start, peering in vain through the darkness. Another flash of light would reveal an empty room. He eased himself back down onto his pillow, wiping the sweat from his face with the nape of his bed gown.

Thunder drummed in the distance and he hunkered down under the covers, letting go a long-held breath, resolved not to let the day?s events trouble him any longer. He peered out into the darkness of his room, as lighting flashed once again. A shadow fell over his bed in the flickering light to the crescendo of thunder. He looked up with the next flash of lightening to see a hooded figure standing at the edge of his bed, the hood lowered between the bursts of light and dark. When next the green light filled his room, the Bishop saw the face of the Valdor clear as noon day, his eyes glaring fiercely down at him, the cleric?s breath leaving his lungs as he exclaimed, ?Mon Dieu.?

When the Bishop failed to appear for morning prayers, the friars went to seek him from his chambers. Most had trouble sleeping the previous night on account of the passing storm and had even more difficulty rising for their morning routines. They entered the room with trepidation when the cleric did not respond to their calls through the door. They found the Bishop lying on his back in the bed, the covers pulled up to his neck. He looked to be yet asleep, but as they neared, they could see that his eyes were wide open, his skin a placid blue. His body bore no signs of injury nor foul play, his room was undisturbed, everything in its proper place.

Word of the Bishop?s death spread quickly through the hamlet and surrounding townships. When Sylvie learned of the news, that the Bishop had unexpectedly died in his sleep, she could only hang her head, wondering if this was only the beginning of a nightmare she had a hand in unleashing.

The wind beat hard against the mountainside, ocean waves pounding against the rocky shore below, driven by the howling gale. Connar sat in the protective cove of a line of large trees, leaning his back against the bark of a broad trunk. He watched the white foamy caps lifted from the waves as far as the eye could see toward the horizon.

He held the journal scroll in his hands, re-reading the passages covering details of his former life. The pages covered only the past few years, with brief mentions and recollections of events experienced over a lifetime that spanned centuries. Whether other journals existed or if this was all that remained of his past, he did not know. He learned of an ancient heart empty and yearning, and memories that might never be recovered. He read of travels across a weathered globe, battles fought and won?and others lost.

Connar was having a hard time believing what he read, though the handwriting he knew to be his. He wondered if it might have been created to plant lies and false ideas into a mind that was devoid of any memories of its own. The more he read, the darker the stories became. Despots and tyrants controlling the lands and oppressing the people?a people steeped in such fear and superstition that they dared not raise a hand or voice to defend themselves.

The writings then told of mysterious creatures lurking in darkened shadows, coming out under the cover of night to feed upon hapless victims. In pursuing the creatures he had passed through a portal leading to a forgotten or hidden realm, where blood-sucking beasts, hell-bent demons, and fanged dragons were the norm.

Connar set the journal to the ground, unable to discern whether these were tales of fantasy conjured by a sick and twisted mind, or if he had actually been to another world and time. Or had he simply gone mad and lost his mind and memories altogether.

He took up the parchment again, unable to resist the urge to read on. The center of the mysterious realm was a city, and within the city, a gathering place for wandering souls. The writings began to jump from event to event, as if written just to chronicle a hastened journey.

There were those he had met in the distant realm; Mercy Sangre, a stunning brunette with a trademark swagger and plumed hat. She had been a person of significance when he had first arrived. He read of his struggle to stay committed to the oaths of the Valdor despite the feelings he had for her.

There were large gaps in time, from one entry to the next. He had met a wind mage, one Shea of Greenstone. His time with her was bitter and sweet, near death battles with witches and demons followed by quiet, peaceful moments spent in each other?s embrace only to have the darkness of the realm come crashing down on them. He broke her heart more than once, whether duty bound or simply unable to love her as she needed.

Other names also appeared; the fair Erin of England; a hummingbird by the name of Tanneth; Des and Gav - amorous tavern keepers; the quiet and thoughtful Juleta; a fiery norsewoman and her cowboy companion; a sage dragon named Icer; a young, bubble-blowing tendress called Samantha; Kairee the splendiferous; power-hungry demons and lords; a darked-haired potter named Piper. There were others as well, but the page was torn and damaged by fire.

As he moved through the scroll, a chill ran down his spine as he read of evil spirits from his world embodied in the beasts of Rhydin, haunting his every step, robbing him of peace and solitude. He learned that through his actions and carelessness, he had opened his world and time to the beasts, dragons and demons, and how he resolved to rid the land of them, complicating his mission to the people he was meant to serve.

Upon his return to the mystic realm after a long absence, he had discovered many things had changed. Shea?s heart had been given a second chance by a dark-winged Victor. Try as they might, neither he nor the wind mage could let the past be the past. Connar had filled the emptiness inside by seeking out those that would disrupt the tender balance of light and darkness.

There were many notes and descriptions of portals, how they dotted the landscape, unseen by most. Connar pulled out the heavy metal talisman, the markings on the coin matching those drawn in the journal.

The final entry in the journal made mention of a beautiful empath named Elessaria, a tiny-framed woman with whom Connar had struck a friendship. The journal ended at the torn edges of the page. There had been more written, but the vendor had used the parchment as fodder for his campfire.

Connar rose slowly to his feet, the wind having shifted direction, blowing now down the coastline, as if nudging him to head in that direction. As his fingers pressed over the deep impressions in the metal coin, he reasoned that whatever truth, if any, held in the pages of the journal could be readily discerned by finding one of these portals.

?What have we here, mes amis?? Connar was jarred awake by the toe of a boot as he stared up into the bright morning sky, the grizzled faces of five armed men looking down at him. One among them was holding up the green soldier?s tunic Connar had been using as a blanket, the tunic matching the ones worn by the other men. ?Seems we may have found a deserter.? he said, leaning down to look at Connar, ?Ye best have a good reason for being away from your post. Even the best of reasons won?t save your back from the lashing post.?

* * * *

The cell door opened and Connar was thrust inside, his ankles and wrists bound by shackles and chains. He rolled to a stop on the floor, the cold wet floor now stained by the blood from his back, the deep lash marks striping his skin still fresh and bleeding. Connar sat up, wincing at the pain, but saying nothing as the captain stood in the doorway, yelling the same threats Connar had heard all morning, ?Ye best find your voice, boy. Holding your silence will only get ye another visit to the lashing post on the hour, every hour til ye tell us who ye are and where ye come from.? The door slammed shut, the latch locked in place.

The captain?s shadow was still visible under the door, but he would hear nothing coming from the cell and eventually left the prisoner alone. Connar rubbed his wrists where the metal had cut into the skin, looking at the locks, wondering and silently wishing that he might have known, in his previous life, how to pick a lock.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit cell, the only light coming from a small slit in the thick stone wall high above his head. The small ?L? shaped cell appeared to be carved out a solid stone foundation. The ceiling, floor and walls were uneven, rough and chiseled. Connar rolled his legs under his body, resting upon his knees in an attempt to stand, the chains about his ankles impeding his upward movement. He fell back upon his knees, lowering his head to catch his breath and rest before he made another attempt.

As he knelt in the darkness, a voice spoke calmly from the darkness of the cell, ?I shall pray for ye as well, my son.? Connar looked up, seeking out the source of the voice. A shadow moved from the blackness, approaching Connar. He looked up from his knees, unable to stand nor make any defense for himself.

As he entered the small stream of light, Connar could see a small portly man wearing a long brown robe tied with a simple rope sash, his fat round head bald on top. He was older, perhaps having seen half a century of life, maybe more. The extra weight the man carried in his face and features made him look jolly and relatively harmless.

The man stopped before he could reach Connar, the chain tethering his ankle to the stone wall pulled taunt, causing the robed man to laugh, ?I?d nearly forgotten about that blasted chain on my leg.?

Connar rested back on his legs, the weight of his body on the rough edges of the stone floor cutting into his knees. The man smiled, adjusting his robe as he presented himself to Connar, ?Ye needn?t fear me, mon fils. My name is Brother Pierre, and I, like you, am a prisoner here.?

The friar smiled at Connar as the shirtless prisoner finally muscled his way to his feet. ?If ye can hobble your way over here, my son, there is a ledge we can sit upon. It?s far more comfortable than the floor, I assure ye.? The friar motioned with his head, inviting Connar to follow him toward the recessed part of the cell.

Connar remained still, looking around the cell, looking for any other cell mates or surprises the room might hold. He walked to where the friar was now seated, a small stone lip protruding from the stone wall. The friar patted the spot next to where he sat, ?Tis not much, but ye will find it is the most comfortable spot to be found.?

Connar hesitated a moment before shuffling over to the small ledge and carefully sitting upon it. He leaned back, trying not to make contact with the wall behind him. The friar folded his hands across his rounded belly and smiled up at his larger cell mate. ?It appears ye must have been the morning?s entertainment I could hear coming from the courtyard. Though, when I could hear no one crying out in pain, I thought the guards were merely breaking in a new set of lashing whips.?

He smiled, trying to draw some reaction from Connar, who simply looked down at the friar with a silent nod. The friar leaned back, looking at the ripped flesh on Connar?s back, his expression changing to one of shock and disgust. ?I cannot believe they would do this to one of their own?? He leaned forward again, smiling up at Connar. ?Well, the worst is past. They have had their sport and ye will be on your way back home soon enough?isn?t that so?um?I don?t believe I caught your name,? the friar chuckled as he offered his hand to Connar.

A shackled wrist met the friar?s extended hand and shook it politely then released it. Connar?s expression did not change, nor did any word leave his lips. Friar Pierre raised an eyebrow, stroking his double chin as he looked at Connar. ?Parlez-vous francais,? inquiring if he spoke French. He asked the same question in Spanish, German and Italian, to each Connar gave the same silent response.

The friar smiled, amused by the challenge. ?Well, I know that ye are not deaf, for ye heard my voice and followed my invitation to sit. And ye haven?t the look of a dumb mute, your eyes appear far too keen and searching to be locked to a silent mind. Ye will speak when good and ready, I am sure, but ye have naught to fear from me, as ye can see, I am not here of my own choosing, either.? He held up the length of chain binding his leg to the wall behind them.

Without word, Friar Pierre bowed his head and offered a vocal prayer, ?Dear Holy Father in heaven, I thank thee for preserving my life thus far. I thank thee for sending this young man to me, an answer to my prayers, that I might have someone to hear my voice after so many months in solitude. Thy will and grace are beyond measure.? The friar crossed himself, kissing the cross around his neck before looking up at Connar once again.

?Ye have no reason to trust me, mon ami, but I think, after hearing my tale, and how it is that we are in this cell together, ye might trust me enough to share your story with me.?

Without hesitation, the friar began speaking, telling his life story, how he had spent the better part of his life in the monastery, the bastard son of a woman who cooked and cleaned for the abbey. He had been well schooled by the monks, learning to read and write, and reason. He was a bright child and often found himself in trouble on account of his unbridled tongue and over-inquisitive mind. When the proper age, he officially joined the ranks of the monastery. He served the next 30 years copying ancient scripture from scrolls to books, learning from the hand of ancient prophets and disciples. The wisdom and beauty of the words of hope and enlightenment were precious to him. He would have worked at the transcribing task in peace and contentment until the end of his days, or so he thought.

At some point, not too many years past, doctrines and teachings which were once readily accepted were being changed, or outright removed as a result of the many conferences and concords. At first, the friar explained, the changes were excused as those needed on account of faulty translations, but as the changes became more and more drastic, truths once plain and precious were being contorted into something else altogether wrong.

?When pontiffs started ordering the confiscation of all ancient scripts, I finally blew my cork, so to speak,? the friar grinned. ?I took every scroll I could find and locked myself in the monastery library. I wasn?t going to let anyone take one more precious parchment away. As the soldiers began beating down the door I fled to the tower window and began tossing every writing I could reach out of the window. I reasoned that, God willing, some of his truths might be found by the villagers below and be preserved against the perversion happening within the church.? He chuckled again, his arms bouncing on his belly as he laughed, ?And that, my son, is how I ended up here.?

Connar nodded, amused by the story, feeling the friar to be genuine. To took a breath, as if to speak, when the door to the cell rattled open. Connar rose to his feet as two guards marched in, taking him by the arms and dragging him from the cell. The captain was waiting in the corridor, grabbing Connar by the face as he was brought out of the cell, drawing him nose to nose, ?Play time is over. Ye will tell us what we want to know, we are done being nice!?

The cell door slammed shut, leaving the friar alone once again. He bowed his head, offering a silent prayer as the footsteps faded off in the distance.

The guard pounded the heavy wooden door again with his boot, shouting at the friar through the cell door, ?I won?t be tellin? ye again, friar. Shut your pie hole! If I have to come in there, ye are going to be very sorry.?

Friar Pierre took another deep breath and kept right on singing, his voice ringing throughout the tiny stone-walled cell. ?Tu lumen, Tu splendor Patris, Tu spes perennis omnium; Intende quas fundunt preces Tui per orbem famuli.?

Keys could be heard fumbling through the lock as angry hands hastened to get the door open. ?Ye are in for now, friar. Ye best start prayin? quick!? The cell door swung ajar and the burly guard entered practically foaming at the mouth in anger. The friar squeaked out one last note before cowering back toward the wall, away from the approaching guard.

Pushing up his sleeves, the guard advanced toward the frightened friar who had moved as far away as the chain on his ankle would allow, choosing now to cower into a tight ball on the cold floor. The guard reached down, lifting Pierre by the chin, balling his fist and cocking it back, ?Let?s see how ye fare chanting with a broken jaw bone.?

He never heard the whirling chain and shackle slicing through the air, the heavy metal brace striking a blow into the side of the guard?s face before he could lay a knuckle on the priest. His body fell instantly limp landing in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The captain returned to the cell an hour later, as promised, anticipating to either hear the voice of his prisoner or to proceed with the extraction of the defiant man?s tongue. He opened the cell door torchlight in hand. His mouth fell agape at what he saw; a half-naked guard was tethered to the wall, the total length of chain bound his wrists and was wrapped about his throat, the chain passing through his mouth and broken jaw. The priest and the prisoner were nowhere to be found.

Outside in the courtyard, as the captain was making his grim discovery, a rather stout guard was marching a shackled prisoner at sword-point across the grounds. No one took second notice of the pair as they proceeded past the lashing post, and on through the commons area. They only received the occasional odd glance from passerbys when they continued their march down the village streets.

When they reached the outskirts of town, Connar took a fleeting look over his shoulder before letting the chains fall from his wrists and breaking out in a full run toward the treeline on the edge of the forest, the friar not far behind, his stubby legs pumping furiously to keep up.

?This is like digging for buried treasure,? Pierre laughed nervously as he raised his head for the hundredth time, scanning for any signs of the soldiers he was certain would be coming after them at any moment. He resumed digging again, pulling back layers of sand, not sure exactly for what they were looking.

Connar was shoving his hand through the sand near the remnants of a burnt out campfire. ?Merde, they have to be here somewhere?I just know it. The soldiers that took me left everything behind,? Connar mumbled as he continued the slow search.

His fingers stopped when they touched a familiar object, gripping it tightly and pulling the sheathed scroll from the sand, shaking it off and handing it to the friar. Pierre finished clearing away the sand, fingering the contents of the sheath carefully, knowing the shape and feel of the scroll underneath, ?A scroll! Now this is certainly worth coming back to fetch,? he beamed. He set the scroll carefully to the side, pressing his hands back into the sand, ?Now, what else do we yet lack??

Connar did not stop in his search, being hampered by his broken arm, able to only search a limited area at a time, ?We seek a coin, a talisman of sorts. Tis unlike any object or design ye have ever seen.?

?Don?t be so sure, my son. I?ve seen many a strange thing in my day,? the friar boasted as he continued sifting the sand. Pierre froze in place as he felt a round metal object in his hands, lifting it slowly from the sandy coverings and holding it up in the moonlight washing over the beach. He cleared his throat, catching Connar?s attention as he extended the coin to its owner, Pierre?s expression falling flat.

The coin was brushed off and dropped inside the fabric sheathing with the scroll. Connar pulled the drawstrings taunt with his teeth as he stood. He looked at the friar who had grown suddenly quiet, staring off into the distance. ?What is it, friar?? Connar asked, looking off in the same direction as Pierre.

The friar rose to his feet, sand falling freely from his monk?s robe. His voice matched his flat expression, ?I?ve seen those markings before. They are the harbinger of darkness and death.?

After they had secluded themselves to the shelter of the forest once again, Connar began reading to the friar from the scrolls and parchments, from beginning to end. Pierre sat in stunned silence as Connar read the ancient characters containing the writings of a man who had been preserved by God?s hand to perform a curious mission on earth. Tales of a mortal who had descended into a nether-realm of darkness and light only to emerge an enemy of a people he was meant to serve.

Pierre cleared his voice as Connar stopped reading from the scroll, the friar looking from the scroll to Connar?s face as he spoke, ?Were I to have only heard the tales, I would not have believed a word.? He looked Connar square in the eyes, the friar?s expression looking older, wiser in the bright moonlight. ?But to see ye read from pages of characters long-since forgotten?the only way ye could know of their meaning would be for ye to have learned them in your youth ? however long ago that may have been.?

Connar looked down at the scroll, holding the parchment up to the friar?s view, ?Ye know these characters?this writing??

The friar nodded, looking at the inky black writings, ?I?ve seen but a few of the characters, the only surviving writings known to exist?tis the ancient Adamic.? He looked up at Connar, ?It has never been read, nor spoken in thousands of years?until now. Ye can trust, with a surety, mon ami, that ye are the man of which ye read.?

The friar was stirred from a deep sleep as Connar shook him by the shoulder. The dark-haired warrior was kneeling next to the cleric, his hazel eyes staring out into the blackness. Pierre blinked back the sleep bidding his eyes to stay closed. When he moved to voice his protestations over being awakened before dawn, Connar cupped a hand over the friar?s mouth.

In a hushed voice Connar quieted the friar, ?Shhhhh?we?re being hunted.? Connar slowly removed his hand, scanning the shadowed treeline below the outcropping in the mountainside where they had made camp. The moon had fallen below the horizon in anticipation of sun?s eventual rising in the east, leaving the mountainside and forest in total darkness.

Using hand signals only, Connar motioned to the friar to be silent and to remain still. Pierre watched as Connar seemed to glide silently over the ground, moving to take up the guard?s sword in his right hand while keeping the injured left arm tucked against his body. Connar cautiously peered over rock outcropping sheltering their camp before climbing to the top, keeping his silhouette as low as possible. The friar looked up, his eyes widening with fear as Connar dropped silently from the boulder and disappeared into the blackness below.

Minutes passed like hours as Pierre nervously scanned left and right, unable to discern any movement in the darkness stretching out below him. Even the tall forest trees seemed to melt together in the blackness. He crawled upon his knees, creeping toward the rock ledge expecting to see Connar standing on the ground below, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Pierre swallowed hard, his mouth and throat had gone dry. He tried to moisten his lips with his tongue to no avail. The air all around him felt suddenly heavy and ominous, his mouth gaped open as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. The normally loose and open collar of his monks robe now seemed to be constricting his fat neck. He spun around and sat upon the ground, leaning his back against the boulders as his fingers pried at the nape of the robe. It was at that moment that he first saw the two silhouettes standing on the rocks above him.

?There might just be enough there for both of us,? a female?s voice hissed eerily in the darkness.

Another voice spoke, low and gutteral in a polished English accent, ?I don?t know about that, my dear. I am quite famished tonight.

The friar could only look up in horror as large black wings spread out above him blocking out the star-filled sky. He tried to scramble backwards, but was penned in by the boulders all around him.

The female landed on the ground first, taking hold of the friar by the robe, lifting him effortlessly off the ground, white fangs bared and red eyes glaring as she held the cleric in the air, ?Going somewhere, padre? We just might need you to pronounce a blessing on this meal.? She licked her blood-red lips as her last comment elicited a hearty laugh from her companion.

The tips of his sandaled toes barely touching the ground as he hung in the air, Pierre couldn?t muster even a simple plea for help. The male creature landed behind the female, his large, black wings folding behind his back as he spoke, ?Ladies first, my love.? She turned to look her companion, her long black hair flowing in the breeze. She gave him a sensual grin, pleasure filling her features.

By the time she noticed the shadow descending rapidly from the rocks behind them, it was too late to voice a warning. A flash of steel fell from the sky, slicing through the air, driven by momentum and gravity, the blade severing the head of her companion in one fluid motion. The creature?s body dropped, the head rolling to a stop at the female?s feet as the headless creature?s wings twitched and beat against the ground. She let out an anguished cry and dropped the cleric, looking up at the sword-wielding mortal standing before her.

A freshly-honed blade, now dripping with streaks of crimson, spun in his hand as Connar looked upon the creature, her fangs bared, tears and anger welling up in her eyes. He questioned whether these were the creatures he had written of in his journal, or some other beast spawned of Hell. She was both beautiful and terrorizing to look upon, part woman and part fierce, blood-thirsty animal.

The female creature circled him slowly, her wings flexing from her back. In an instant she could sense his open wounds, feel the broken and battered limbs of her adversary, bringing a fiendish grin to her deep red lips. ?Foolish mortal! I shall take my time devouring you.?

Come to me, little mortal
I can bring you to heaven's portal
There'll be no sorrow, there'll be no pain
Feelings of joy will fill your brain

Come to me, sweet human thing
Give me your heart and I'll make it sing
Forget your fears, leave them behind
Forget the troubles of your kind

Come to me... yes, that's right
Now hold still, it's no good to fight
I'll take your blood, and leave you dying
Didn?t you realize I could be lying?

~ Solinquair



Connar had no qualms, no hesitation at striking this woman, this creature prowling around him, taking her life in defense of his own. He was certain he had done so before. He had no exact recollection, but the way he instinctively tracked the beast with his eyes, the way the sword felt in his hand, the tensing of muscle and tendon, all testified to him that he had walked this path many times in his forgotten past.

And yet, the deadly beauty was part of the illusion, bait for the trap. Long black hair framed a flawless face, full red lips, piercing eyes. She was every bit a woman, her black dress hugging her body tightly, a plunging neckline revealing more flesh and curves. Were it not for the brilliant white fangs and the large wings protruding from her back, she might be just another lovely vixen. Connar sensed there was something corrupted and decayed under the smooth fleshy fa?ade.

She stopped pacing, her eyes burning into Connar?s as she spoke, the blood lust rising in her voice, ?Time to die, mortal.?

He had no time to react as she flew at him at blinding speed. Connar flinched back as nails raked across his neck and chest, ripping through flesh and fabric leaving streaks of crimson. His blade struck out at the darkness, hitting nothing but air. She was safely past him, standing a few meters off, licking her fingertips with delight.

Again the creature blew past him in a rush of wind and wings, nails harrowing his face and neck, dropping Connar to one knee. He raised his head up, glaring up at the woman as she licked fresh blood from her nails. She was toying with him, a savage game of cat and mouse. She taunted him as she drew her finger down over her pouting bottom lip, ?Am I too much for you, mortal??

Connar burst from the ground, lunging at the creature, the blade in his hand cutting a swath through the air in front of him. She spun quickly away from the attack, the blade only managing to tear a gash in the midriff of her gown. As his momentum carried him past, she drove her nails into Connar?s back lifting him by the torn flesh and slamming him violently to the ground.

As he rolled to his feet coiling his legs to spring at her again, blood dripping from the claw marks in his face and neck, she raced towards him, driving her booted foot into his side, sending his body crashing into the boulders.

He struggled to shake off the blackness and stars dancing in his head sensing her approach once again. He thrust the sword out blindly as he rose to his feet, his back pressed against the rocky enclosure. She seemed oblivious to the blade as it nicked her shoulder. Her arm fended off the blow, claws biting into the flesh in his arm in a violent collision, the weapon being knocked free to clamor against the rocks.

Long slender fingers wrapped tightly around his throat, lifting his feet from the ground. His body was hurled backwards slamming into the large boulders. He slumped to the ground unable to mount any defense. A vice-like grip took him by the left arm, squeezing the broken bones and lifting him up again. He growled out in pain, swinging at her with a balled fist, only to be driven back into the rocks once again, his head and body nearly bashed from consciousness.

The fight and struggle all but gone from her prey, she pressed her body against his, holding him in place. Her tongue drew across his neck and along the side of his face, lapping seductively at the trail of blood. She drew her lips against his ear, her breath hot on his flesh, ?It will all be over soon, mortal.?

She tilted his head to the side, more fully exposing his neck, blood rushing through the veins from his pounding heart. She moistened her lips with her tongue as she lowered her lips and fangs to the feast. As his flesh was pierced she moaned in anticipation of the ecstasy soon to follow.

The slow moan turned to a shriek as she pulled her head back looking down as a sword punched through her chest, the blade tip driven into Connar?s shoulder. Blood rushed to her mouth as she spun around, her large leathery wings knocking the friar to the ground.

Her features began to rapidly deteriorate as she tried to retrieve the blade protruding from her chest. Her bony fingers wrapped around the tip of the blade essaying to push it out only to see it driven more fully through her body. She should feel the weight of Connar?s hand and the force of his body on the blade as the hilt was crushed into her back.

Her life energy flowed out in streaks of crimson from her chest. She dropped to her knees feeling the heavy blackness sinking around her from all sides ? the second, lasting death. Blood coughed from her mouth as she clawed the ground, all hope of survival gone?gone until she felt the blade pulled free from her body. The wound began to close almost instantly, the flesh of her body rejuvenating once again. She snarled as she hissed over blood-stained lips, ?Foolish mortal??

She turned in time to see the streak of steel and one last look at the mortal wielding the sword that would remove her head from its shoulders.

Connar sat upon the boulder, having worked off the last bit of rabbit meat and tosssed the bone aside. The newly acquired black cloak draped over his shoulders covered an equally new-to-him black shirt. Were it not for the flickering light of the campfire, Connar would be difficult to see against the black backdrop of night sky. What was left of his former shirt had been torn into strips by the friar and wrapped tightly around Connar?s numerous scratches, cuts and wounds. The bindings on his face and neck itched something terrible, but Pierre had threatened to lash his arms to his sides if he kept tugging at the bandages, so Connar left them alone for now.

Pierre looked up at Connar all dressed in black, the tailored clothing giving him an aristocratic appearance. Were it not for the bandages and bruises, one might mistake Connar for a nobleman. ?I must say, mon fils, ye look practically transformed.?

Connar shook his head with a smirk, ?Tis only because ye aren?t accustomed to seeing me anything but half naked and bleeding.? He looked up toward the moon, its light partially obscured by a thin veil of clouds. His thoughts raced back over the encounter with the vampires, wondering how many times he may have had similar encounters in his past life. He thought of the names and faces described in the pages of his journal wondering if these creatures were mutations from his own world or travelers from Rhydin.

Pierre had learned to recognize the wandering gaze on Connar?s face, those times when his companion was searching for answers of a past life from a book with blank pages. The friar moved around the small enclosure to where he would bed down for the remainder of the night. As he laid down on his back he brought Connar back to the here and now, ?Ye really should try to get some rest, we?ve a full-day?s travel ahead of us on the morrow.?

Sleep was the last thing on Connar?s mind. He was wide awake, his senses alert and responsive to every subtle movement or sound in the darkness around them. Whether this was on account of having slept most of the previous day or simply because of the warm meal in his gut, he couldn?t say. He looked down at the friar as he spoke, ?Sleep if ye must, friar, I?ve the moon and stars to keep me company.?

The friar scoffed, ?That and the memories captured in your scrolls. I suspect when ye look skyward at night, tis not the moon ye see.? He rolled to his side, curling into a ball and then abandoning it as he rolled to his other side in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. He gave up the search and returned to his back, looking up to see Connar chuckling at his plight. He sat up and tossed a small log on the fire sending a small stream of bright sparks into the night air.

The hot red embers made Connar think of the vampire woman?s eyes, how they seared him to the very core. She was part fantasy and part nightmare. He wondered how many like her he might have known, how many he might have slain. Then another thought suddenly came to mind as he turned his gaze from the fire to the friar, ?Tis not the first time that ye have seen creatures such as those we slew, is it, friar??

Pierre looked up slowly, the subject he had hoped to avoid suddenly brought to the forefront. ?I have seen many of their kind casting their shadows over the land. Blood and death follow in their footsteps.? He thought back on the stories from the journal Connar had read to him, ?Though I would venture to say your encounters with them have been far more?? he paused, searching for the right word, ??they were far more intimate than any I have experienced.?

Connar cast his eyes toward the ground, haunted by fleeting memories, by glimpses of people and places, unable to discern fact from fantasy. ?I may never know that for certain, friar. The answers lay in a place and time hidden from all, including me.?

The friar shook his head slowly, unable to contain the long-guarded secrets, ?They are not hidden to all, mon ami, especially if ye know where to look and what to look for.?

Connar slid slowly from the boulder, his feet meeting the ground gingerly as he moved to sit across from Pierre, ?These openings, the portals written of in the scrolls, ye have seen them??

Pierre nodded, looking Connar in the eyes, seeing the anticipation written on the warrior?s face. ?What is it ye seek on the other side of the portal? Ye must ask yourself what ye hope to find there.?

?Answers. I seek answers, friar. There is one being there I must find,? the words fell off of Connar?s tongue as if he had been waiting an eternity to utter them.

The friar diverted his gaze to the flames dancing in the fire, now regretting having divulged anything at all. Connar was in no condition to travel anywhere, least of all to a realm that presented more dangers than the friar could possibly imagine. ?I fear ye will only find emptiness and death there.?

Connar rose slowly to his feet, the black cloak rippling in the rising breeze as he looked out into the darkness surrounding them. He spoke, his voice was sharp and cutting, ?Emptiness and death are all that has greeted me here, friar.?

The morning was cold and gray, the sun?s rays unable to penetrate the heavy curtain blanketing the sky. Connar?s gaze was fixed on the ground before him, watching the toes of his boots pick a path through the rutted and stony road climbing up the mountainside. The hood of the black cloak was drawn over his head, giving him a measure of protection against the chill.

Further up the road Pierre waited for Connar to catch up, the third such time he had to do so this morning. He rested against a large boulder until Connar neared. Pierre stood up as his traveling companion continued past, his pace slowed by injury, but steady none the less. The friar walked behind Connar, picking up where they had last left their argument.

?Ye see? Ye are not even able to keep pace with an over-weight aged cleric.? The friar huffed between strides up the hill. He wouldn?t admit it, but the relentless incline of the hill was about to do him in. He had been pressing himself as hard as possible to demonstrate that his stubborn companion was not fit to venture anywhere but the monastery in Montesoire, and they were still another good day?s journey away, even if they walked non-stop until nightfall. The fact that Connar never varied in his pace nor stopped to rest only served to frustrate the friar all the more. Pierre continued to press the issue, even though thus far, Connar had remained silent, secluded within the shadows of the cloak. ?What would ye do if ye had to flee from a dragon or some other unspeakable demon in this realm of yours? Eh, what then??

Connar turned to face the friar, walking backwards as he peered down at the man through the black shroud of the hood, ?Tis simple, friar, I wouldn?t flee.? Without another word Connar spun around and continued up the road. Pierre could only shake his head and continue the march.

The monastery at Montesoire rose from the mountainside like a mirage. On a plateau perched on the edge of the small mountain, a collection of small structures and buildings huddled around a modest medieval chapel at the center. There were no gates, no guarded walls, nothing to keep out intruders nor imprison any from within. Pierre and Connar entered the monastery through a large stone archway, seemingly unnoticed by any of the robed monks busily moving to and fro the commons.

Pierre led Connar across a modest courtyard toward the chapel, not a thing was out of place, no debris left lying on the ground. In a word, the grounds were immaculate. Pierre turned to look at Connar as they reached the large oak door of the chapel, ?Let me do the talking, d?accord??

Before Connar could utter a word in protest, Pierre had rapped loudly with the huge iron door knockers. Almost instantly the large door swung ajar and the two men were ushered in by hooded monks standing at the ready. Pierre crossed himself as they proceeded down the open chapel, the ornate glass windows illuminating the interior floors with a kalidescope of colors.

They were met by a group of clerics led by a tall and stately priest wearing the same simple robe as Pierre and all the other monks, though, somehow, the simple garb looked more regal upon this man. He opened his arms and greeted the friar warmly, ?Welcome, welcome brother Pierre. We have long awaited your return.?

Pierre returned the greeting in kind, genuinely pleased to be among friends. ?Thank ye, Father Guillaume. This is a welcome sight, indeed. One that I had not even dared to dream of for fear it might not come to fruition.?

Father Guillaume smiled with a nod, looking from Pierre to his hooded companion, before meeting Pierre?s gaze once again. ?Aye, we had received word that you had run afoul of the brethren at Mere de Dieu, though I can?t say that the news came as much of a surprise.? There was a tinge of sarcasm in his tone before the cleric changed the subject, turning his eyes to Connar. ?And who is this guest you have escorted within our walls, brother Pierre??

Pierre bowed his head slightly as he passed a quick glance at Connar then looked back to Father Guillaume. ?Your Holiness, this is?? He paused ever so briefly, wanting to choose his words carefully, ?This is a nobleman from the North who comes seeking protection and enlightenment from within these walls. I have taken him under my wing, so to speak. In exchange for the sanctuary he may receive from thee, his has chosen, of his own free will, to take a vow of silence, as a sign of his penance and mended ways.? Pierre turned to look cautiously back at Connar as his announcement concluded.

Father Guillaume stepped toward Connar, reaching out and carefully lowering the black hood shrouding the stranger?s face. Bandages still clung to the wounds on his face and neck giving homage to the brutality he had received, but clear hazel eyes stared back at the cleric. ?Is this so, my son? Does brother Pierre speak truth??

Connar could almost hear Pierre trying to gulp down a swallow of dry spittle. With a simple nod his head, Connar affirmed the vow to Father Guillaume, who seemed to beam with pleasure. ?Wonderful, wonderful. I bid you welcome to Montesoire and pray you will find God and the answers you might seek within our peaceful walls.? Connar gave Pierre a look that could not be adequately translated into words even if he could speak.

In short order, Connar and Pierre were escorted to one of the adjoining structures to simple, clean chambers where a fresh change of clothing lay folded on the beds; robes matching those worn by all within Montesoire?s walls. The room also held a large wash basin with steam rising from the water within. Pierre smiled, looking from Connar to their cleric escorts, ?I fear it has been far too many days since my friend has had a chance to bathe. From his odor, he might need more than just a basin of water in which to get clean.?

Connar could only narrow his eyebrows in protest at Pierre as he was led by the clerics down a long corridor and then down flights of stone steps. With each descent the air became heavier and moist. They emerged into a large cavern with steam rising from a pool of water at the center. There was a heavy sulfur odor hanging in the misty air. Connar was helped out of his clothing and bandages and led into the water, none of the clerics speaking a word as they left their guest to soak in the natural hot spring. As Connar rested his head back against the smooth stone edge of the pool, he closed his eyes and vowed, before sleep overtook him, that he would thank Pierre somehow.

Pierre moved slowly down the corridor leading toward Connar?s chambers, his sandaled feet shuffling along the simple tile floor. At this late hour he was the only monk yet stirring. He stood just outside the door collecting his thoughts and steeling his resolve. He wasn?t sure if Connar would even answer the knock on the door. For some time, Connar and Pierre had not spoken of Rhydin, they had barely spoken to each other at all. Connar had been seen less and less in the commons of the monastery, though the candlelight from his window could be seen flickering late into the evening just as it did this night.

The friar had consoled himself with the notion that his stubbornness in not helping Connar was for his own good. The head-strong man was not fully healed and in no position to face the fury the outside world held for him. News filtered through Montesoire from time to time that the search for the Valdor had not relented since his escape months ago. Bounties had increased to levels that would make his capturer a wealthy individual. But the news was just that; news of the outside world that mattered little to those within the peaceful seclusion of the monastery.

In all the time since they first arrived, Pierre had never divulged the name of his guest to Father Guillaume nor to any other person. It was the practice of the monastery to not ask nor care who sought sanctuary within their walls as long as his heart was sincere and intentions pure. Pierre never even spoke the name aloud, not wanting to intrude upon the escape and rest Connar was enjoying in his new-found life.

The friar knocked a little harder on the door the second time, and was answered by silence once again. He turned the handle of the door slowly, peering in as the door opened, ?Are ye sleeping, mon ami??

As he stepped into the room, Connar was tightening leather gauntlets about his wrists and forearms. He was dressed in black, from shoulder to foot, though not the same clothing he was wearing when he arrived at Montesoire. The ties at the neck of the loose black shirt hung open revealing the glint of chainmaille armor underneath.

Pierre?s mouth hung open as he stared at Connar in utter shock and surprise. He could hardly get the words out of his mouth, ?What is this?what are ye doing?.have ye gone mad??

Connar gave the friar a quick glance then returned his attention back to his preparations. Pierre walked around the bed, staring down at the array of clothing, wares and weapons laid out upon the covers. Connar?s intentions, although unspoken, were obvious, ?Ye can?t leave?it isn?t permitted?ye will never be able to return,? the friar?s voice cracked as he spoke.

For the first time since they arrived at Montesoire, Connar?s voice was heard within the walls of the monastery, ?If they didn?t believe anyone would ever leave, why would they keep a room stock-piled with all the clothing and wares collected from their guests??

Pierre stood in stunned silence, suddenly realizing where all the items on display had come from, ?Ye are not allowed access to that room nor any other in that building. Ye know that full well. Ye set at risk everything?if the trespass is discovered, ye shall be expelled and never allowed within these walls again.?

?Do I look as if I have any intention on staying, friar?? Connar strapped a wide leather belt around his waist, securing the scabbard to his side. He lifted a finely honed sword from the bed and slid it into the scabbard. ?Did ye know they had a well-stocked armory as well, friar? An odd find for a peace-loving monastery, wouldn?t ye say? But this place is full of surprises.?

The friar shook his head in disbelief, as if he could clear the nightmare from his mind. ?Where will ye go? There is no place on earth where ye won?t be shunned, hunted, and hated.?

?Who said anything about staying on earth??

Pierre?s voice grew louder, more agitated, ?Ye arrogant pissiare. Do ye think ye can just wander out of this place without any guide or direction and just stumble upon one of those god-forsaken portals by accident??

?It will not be any accident, friar, in that ye can rest assured. Someone quite knowledgeable on the matter has shown me the way.? Connar glared at the friar as he took out a crumpled piece of parchment, the edges torn, as if ripped from a book, and tossed it at Pierre.

The friar bent down and retrieved the crumpled page, unfolding it as he straightened. In an instant he recognized the writing on the page and knew what it contained for it was written by his own hand. ?Ye had no right, no right! Is nothing sacred to ye, man? Ye have violated nearly every law and governance in this God-fearing place! He looked at Connar, anger and betrayal rising to his plump features.

?Don?t ye dare preach to me about laws and honor, friar, for ye know not of what ye speak. Why don?t ye tell me the real reason why ye did not want to help me? Were ye afraid that I would discover that ye once called Rhydin home??

Connar fastened the black cloak around his shoulders, pulling the hood over his head and face as he walked past Pierre, tossing his monk?s robe at the speechless friar who was seated on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands.

The chambers and corridor fell silent, the echoes of booted footfalls long since subsided. Pierre moved slowly to the window looking out over the courtyard below. A tall black silhouette strode out in the darkness, long measured strides carrying the figure through the compound. The friar dropped his head, bringing the crucifix to his lips, his voice barely above a whisper, ?May God see ye safely to your journey?s end?wherever that may be.?

Connar stared up defiantly as the raging wolf held him pinned to the ground, the animal?s snout dripping blood and drool, its razor-sharp claws pressed into Connar?s chest and shoulders by the massive weight of the beast. Connar tilted his head slightly to one side, exposing the flesh and jugular, ?Go on, take a good, deep bite and become again the true creature ye are inside.?

The great wolf growled angrily curling back its lips to expose a mouthful of white teeth and fangs. Its breath was hot on Connar?s neck, but the mortal did not flinch nor give the beast any satisfaction in its victory.

The animal hesitated, lifting its head slightly, giving Connar the opening he was waiting for. He balled his fist and delivered a forceful blow to the wolf?s snout, snapping the animal?s head back. Another series of blows smashed into the side of the creature?s head, driving it to the side. Connar shifted under the weight of the animal able to free the long silver dagger at his side. The blade was raised quickly under the wolf?s neck at the chin, the point piercing the heavy brown hide causing the animal to crane its head as far back as possible to avoid a deeper wound and having the blade driven up through its jaw.

Connar moved out from beneath the beast, crouching low against the ground, keeping the snarling snout at bay with the tip of the blade. He stared into the wolf?s eyes, anger raging in his own and in his voice, ?Is this what ye feared? Is this why ye kept to your secrets, Pierre??

The wolf diverted its gaze, dropping its pointed ears in submission, ?I had hoped it wouldn?t come to this.? Connar cautiously lowered the dagger and the wolf backed off, drops of crimson falling from its mouth, this time from his own blood, as he moved toward the shadows.

Connar gathered up his sword and rose to his feet, keeping a cautious eye toward the shadows where the wolf had hidden itself. After several moments of silence, he sheathed both weapons and brushed what dirt he could from his clothing. The claw marks across his face and neck stung and the fang punctures in his arm continued to bleed.

As Connar wiped at the blood trickling down his hands, Pierre emerged from the shadows, his face bruised and blood staining his swollen lips. His brown robe brushed the ground as he approached Connar with caution, ?Ye have no idea what real dangers lie on the other side of the portal. And I could not risk having ye disturb what I have spent so many years protecting. I am sorry.?

In the writings he had found at Montesoire, Connar had learned of Pierre?s true nature and how he had escaped the enslavement of a changeling in Rhydin, trading in fangs and fur for a monk?s robe and a mortal?s life. Connar walked past the cleric, giving him a sidelong glance, ?Spare me the sermon, friar. Ye found your peace here, far from your true realm, now allow me to do the same.?

Pierre watched as Connar walked toward the mausoleum opening, hanging his head in sadness, ?Ye will not find peace there, mon fils, but death, darkness and sorrow." As Connar stepped into the darkened archway of the crypt, Pierre called after him, ?Ye may no longer have the protection ye once enjoyed as a Valdor. Ye are walking to your death!?

Moments later, a flash of brilliant light emerged from deep within the mausoleum then darkness and silence reigned in the cemetery once again.

The sun was making a feeble effort to peek out over the cloud-covered sky, a light dusting of snow covering the ground, rooftops and trees. Connar nudged the horse into a steady trot out of the city, passing the Red Dragon Inn as the quiet town yet slumbered.

He pushed north, along a narrow coastline trail, following a route he had plotted out on a map the night before. He needed to put some distance between himself and the city, and the shadows from his journal that come to life at the Inn, reminding him of how much he once stood to gain and how much he had lost.

The melodic plodding of the hooves gave a cadence to his wandering thoughts, which started out innocent enough, but soon turned bitter and hurtful. There was fatigue and frustration jading clearer thinking. His silent thoughts soon turned to vocal pleas sent out along the isolated trail.

?I don?t believe any of it?to have spent century upon century serving a god who now sees fit to leave me blinded and abandoned, to struggle and fail, to be isolated and alone in not one world but two realms? Tis a boatload of tripe?a fantasy that no longer holds its appeal.?

He slid from the saddle, leaving the horse to wander freely as he paced the shoreline, teeth clenched, a firm grip around the scroll comprising his ancient journal. He pulled it open, quickly reading over the parchments that he knew all to well. There was nothing new to be found there, only reminders of his failures, loves lost to some imagined duty and forgotten oaths.

He cast his eyes skyward, his voice growing loud, laced with anger, ?If thou no longer have use for me, then I no longer have need of thee!? Connar hurled the heavy scroll in the air, the parchments unraveling, tearing at the force, falling piece by piece into the crashing waves, to be consumed by the sea.

The setting sun gave a deep, purple cast to the emerging nighttime sky as Connar crouched in the darkness, his back to the large stone wall. Gone was the cloak, shirt and other rainments of a civilized traveler replaced by dark chainmaille, heavy gauntlets, and shoulder armor. None that would see him, sword drawn, would mistake his intentions.

As he awaited the cover nightfall would provide, his mind drifted back to his last conversation at the Inn with Asha Ave Enai?



?There is an urgent task needing my attention, Asha, the less ye know about it the better off ye are. When completed, I will be back...it could be over rather quickly? Tis my hope, at least.?

He pulled the cloak over his shoulders, securing it in place before slipping his hands into the leather gloves, snugging them over the heavy gauntlets secured about his forearms.

?Secrets, secrets...? Asha shook her head. ?I will not compromise you. Nor will I keep you with more idle chat when you have said that you must go.? Her eyes narrowed slightly at him, not with malice... but perhaps with concern. She repeated, ?Safe journey, Connar. I shall ask that Barbades guide your travels.?

Connar looked at her, matching her gaze, ?If Barbades be your god, I'd rather not have any such involved.?

Her expression smoothed. ?So be it, but He may decide to watch over you nonetheless.?

As he stepped away from the table, Connar looked from the hearth back to Asha, his voice low, somber, ?He may not like what he sees...?


- - - - - -


Now, as he rose from the crouch, the time for waiting over, he couldn?t keep from wondering whether he was awakening from a dream or descending deeper into a nightmare of his own making.

The hardest fought battles are not between gilded knight and brazen foe, but lie within the deepest recesses of the heart, where wars are waged, not for titles, wealth or lands, but for the integrity of the soul. ~ Danius IV



Neither the wolf nor the woman knew how long Connar had been cached in the shadows, nor how much he might have overheard of their conspiring conversation. The mere fact that the mortal was here in this place at this time could only mean that he was here to complete the mission. The large brown wolf bristled its fur as it stared at Connar, red eyes warily trained upon the human?s wielded weapons.

As the woman turned her hood fell back to her shoulders, honey-blond hair tumbling out as the hood dropped. Mystic blue eyes stared back at Connar as she stepped away from the wolf.

?Sylive?? Her name rolled off his tongue more in shock than as a question. He recognized her right away ? the woman who had nursed him back from death?s doorstep. She, who had risked her own life to rescue his, now stood before him on this darkest of nights. ?What?what are ye doing here?with him?? His gaze darted quickly to the wolf.

?Connar, oh Connar?I have been searching all over for you?? Sylvie?s voice was soft, silk-like on the cold night air. ?Ever since the night you left, finding you again has occupied my every waking hour. I should never have sent you out alone.?

Connar looked from the woman to the wolf and back again, his expression not changing, the firm grip on the weapons not lessoning. ?And how is it that ye find yourself keeping company with the likes of him?? he asked as his blade was pointed in the direction of the wolf, a hint of disdain carried in his voice.

Sylvie looked from Connar to the wolf, but Pierre would not return the gaze, his eyes were fixed solely on the mortal. She stepped forward, approaching Connar slowly, trying to earn his trust with each word and step, ?There is none that I did not ask as to your wellbeing and whereabouts, Connar. Pierre told me he knew where you could be found. That is why I am here.?

Pierre paced forward, shifting from wolf to his human form in the passing of but a few steps. He appeared as the robed, humble, rotund friar Connar first met in the bowels of the dungeon so many months ago. The friar was not about to let Sylvie trap him in to being the villain, ?Connar, mon ami, we both know why ye are here?the mission ye have accepted to fulfill is known to us all.?

Sylvie spun around, a fiery gaze cast back to the friar as he continued his march forward. He matched her gaze with one of his own as she spoke through clenched teeth, ?Have you lost your mind??

Before Pierre could get in a word of argument to the contrary, the ground all about them shook, the boulders and rocks studding the ground dislodged from their places. Connar hunched down, looking in all directions, sensing an eminent attack. Pierre had been knocked from his feet and was struggling to even sit upon the ground. Sylvie wasn?t fairing much better, having taken hold of a large boulder just to keep from falling.

As quickly as it had started, the trembling subsided, filling the air with a heavy silence. From the midst of the shadows a figure emerged, long strides moving it toward the group. Connar recognized the long robe, the flowing mane of gray hair and the piercing eyes as the Being from the meadow?the god of the distant realm. The Being?s voice was not loud, but it seemed to shake the very foundation under Connar?s feet. ?I was beginning to think you weren?t coming, Connar.?

Connar?s gaze darted from the Being standing squarely a few meters in front of him to Pierre, who was still struggling to return to his feet, then to Sylvie whose back was pressed against a boulder. The Being spoke, recapturing Connar?s attention and gaze once again, ?When your mission is completed, Connar, everything will be as you desire.? To Connar?s mind flashed a vivid recollection of their meeting in the meadow, the promises made by the Being, and the image of the one Connar was to kill.

As Connar drew to his full height, sword and dagger gripped tightly in his fists, the Being smiled stepping aside, motioning Connar to proceed forward, ?What is it that you are waiting for, Connar? Why do I sense a hesitation??

Connar stared into the Being?s eyes holding the gaze before looking to Pierre, who was brushing the dust and dirt from the simple brown robe. ?He sent me to take your life, friar,? Connar once again pointed the steel blade at Pierre as he spoke.

Pierre?s eyes grew wide as he looked at Connar, his words coming as a complete surprise. He looked at Sylvie, who?s gaze seemed to mimic his own. When the friar looked at the Being, the shocked look had given way to anger, Pierre?s voice turning to a low gutteral growl, ?I should have known??

The Being looked at Connar and then to Pierre, caught off-guard by the turn of events. Before any words could stammer from his lips, the large brown wolf was bearing down on the Being, teeth bared and snarling. Gnashing fangs ripped at the ivory robe and shirt as the wolf knocked the Being to the ground, claws digging into clothing and flesh as the rage was unleashed in full on its victim.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Connar sheathed the dagger and raced to Sylvie, taking her by the hand and running with her up the trail and toward the distant lights of Montesoire.


- - -

Connar did not see the first volley of arrows sail through the nighttime air striking their intended beastly target. Graeven lurched as his chest and shoulders were pierced, his fanged mouth roaring in pain at the assault, clawed hands ripping the embedded arrows from its leathery flesh.

Connar could feel his body free-falling to the ground, unable to do anything to prevent a crushing blow with the hardened soil. As he lay motionless upon the ground, a flash of brilliant white light washed over him followed rapidly by a nauseating rush of heat and weight. He groaned against the sensation feeling as though his head might explode. He could suddenly feel his strength slowly returning, being able to muster enough energy to rise up upon his knees. As he opened his eyes the bright light dissipated and he saw his entire life rush past as if on a light-speed procession. Connar squeezed his eyes shut and opened them slowly, the blurriness fading, the visions gone.

He raised his head and could see a small army of a dozen soldiers engaging the beast, led by Father Guillaume who was wearing gold battle armor and wielding a brilliant sword. Connar took up his own sword and stood slowly to his feet, his limbs heavy, as if awakening from a deep sleep. As he surged forward, he gained strength and momentum with each step, until he was running at break-neck speed toward Graeven?s massive back.

The vampire beast heard the footsteps too late. Graeven turned just as Connar?s blade was slicing down into its shoulder, severing the large wing and biting deep into the flesh. The beast spun around, knocking Connar to the ground with a hard, backhanded blow to the chest. Dark blood gushed from the blade?s wound as black clawed fingers reached for Connar?s sword embedded in the creature?s shoulder.

Another volley of arrows rained down from the blackened sky and Graeven shielded himself with a wave of fire causing Guillaume?s soldiers to pull back so as not to be consumed by flames. The creature turned to see Connar rising to his feet, the long dagger drawn from its sheath, blood running from the mortal?s face and lips.

Graeven snarled as he sent another blast in the direction of the army as he held Connar?s sword in its grasp. Connar narrowed his angry gaze at the creature locking his eyes with the red-eyed monster. As he spoke, Connar?s voice was an echo from the past, ?Anek vitai renostrum anorem, falek??

The creature?s eyes grew wide, its mouth gaping open as the words issued forth from Connar?s lips. ?NO! It is not possible?you?re dead Valdor?it is not possible!?

Connar held his outstretched palm toward Graeven and spoke through clenched teeth, ?I bound your spirit into that corrupted flesh and the undoing rests in my hands as well?? Connar?s voice shifted to the ancient tongue once more. ?Minae osor deliv yenari?? the words causing Graeven to writhe in anger and lunge at Connar.


Connar ducked as the sword went slashing over his head. He reared back and then drove the dagger into Graeven?s chest as their bodies collided. As claws and fangs raked at his flesh, Connar pushed the dagger until the long blade was driven all the way to the hilt, blood spewing freely from the creature?s chest as the weapon pierced the black heart of the beast.

Graeven lurched onto his back, clutching at the dagger as his vampire host slowly transformed to its mortal state. Connar knelt over the creature, leaning his weight onto the blade as he stared into Graeven?s shifting eyes. ?As goes this flesh, so shall ye go, Graeven.?

Naked hands now reached up toward Connar?s throat trying in vain to take hold. Blood streamed from Graeven?s bare chest, his mouth also filling with blood, causing him to gurgle and struggle to fill his lungs with air. Connar pushed the hands away as he pressed his palm against Graeven?s head, ?Nalek forti amenim?anemim pae?Your reign of terror is over, Graeven.?

As the last words fell from Connar?s lips, Graeven?s body fell limp, his eyes wide and lifeless. Connar stood up and started backing away from the fallen foe as its body began to tremble on the ground. Shards of light shot out from Graeven?s body in all directions as it continued to shake. A sudden violent blast filled the area with light, knocking Connar onto his back as a chorus of a hundred voices screamed out and then fell silent.

When Connar slowly opened his eyes he saw Father Guillaume standing over him, a smile playing upon his stately features. He extended a gloved hand to Connar, helping him to his feet. ?Welcome back, Valdor, welcome back.?


- - -

?Ye can?t go home Connar?there be naught for ye there?nor here.? Connar spun about to face the direction the voice was coming from, hand dropping to the hilt at his side, light snow beginning to fall, adding to the dusting already on the ground. A pair of red eyes glowed in darkness in the midst of the leaf-barren trees.

He had walked some distance from the Red Dragon Inn nearly reaching the edge of the city where civilization gave way to the unruly forest and rugged climes. Connar peered out from the shelter of the hood, the moonlight cascading dark shadows on the white, snow-covered ground. Whatever was tracking him could have attacked without warning long before now.

?Home is where the heart lay, or have ye not heard?? Connar directed the sharp rebuke to the red glowing eyes looking back at him, the sword partially drawn from its sheath beneath the covering of the cloak.

A large brown wolf streaked in gray emerged from the darkness, favoring a front paw with a staggered limp. It entered the trail, circling Connar slowly. The mortal turned in like fashion to keep the savage creature in front of him. ?There is no home in that heart of yours, Connar, for no man can serve God and mammon, certainly not ye.?

The wolf stopped to face Connar squarely, its fur bristled at its neck and massive shoulders. Blood dripped from its black lips, more crimson marks streaked the brown and gray fur. Connar glared through the hood at the wolf, his voice lowering to match the threatening tone of the creature, ?Is it not also written; Judge not lest ye be judged as well?? He paused, pushing the hood back to drop to his shoulders, wanting there to be no mistake as to the seriousness of his message. ?I am growing weary of all that seem to think they know my heart and motives better than I.?

The wolf nodded slowly, white fangs bared as he spoke, ?So, tell me, Connar, where would ye have your remains buried ? here in Rhydin where the few friends, if any, might pay them respects or would they be interred on earth where none would morn your passing or care of your fate??

Connar scoffed, not sure whether he was being threatened or merely tested, ?Is this your new career, Pierre? Have ye turned mortician now? I?ll save ye the trouble of wondering about my bones, for there will be nothing to be buried at my passing?ye know that as well as do I.? He glared back down at the wolf, biting words spoken through clenched teeth, ?The spell is broken, mon ami. I know who I am?what I have always been.?

Pierre snarled, ?When ye were not found among Guillaume and the Guardians, I figured something had changed. Tis a pity though, I thought I had ye practically trained to be a respectable person?washed of the haughty pride that was the bane of your pitiful existence.?

He shook his head and laughed, looking at the wolf with disdain, ?Ye wouldn?t be the first to fail at such a reformation, and likely not the last to try.? The sword was drawn cleanly from the sheath and pointed straight down at Pierre, ?I won?t have ye dogging my heels any longer.?

The wolf hesitated a moment before lowering his head. ?As ye wish, Valdor.? The red eyes remained fixed on Connar as Pierre backed slowly into the shadows and seclusion of the forest until the beast could be seen nor heard any longer.

The sword was sheathed and the hood pulled back over his head as Connar walked away, heading toward the faint glowing lights of the nameless inn on the edge of town.

- - -