It was a bird rookery, part of an efficient yet decayed building on the western shores of Lake Sala. Here messenger birds of varying speeds and endurance levels were housed by the Royal Postal Service. Once of the earmarks of the Salian Kingdom in The North was its letter couriers, distinct long-billed pigeons sporting puffed red plumage. An hour previous one such bird had returned to its roost, carrying with it a message of distinct importance. So delicate was the scribed message that the King had slipped out of his castle-fortress in the pre-dawn hours and traveled with minimal escort to that eyesore building on the shores of his ancestral lake. A little after four, King Petroyv strode purposefully into the smallest (by size) and most expensive (by bird) of the post office. A stationed officer directed his liege to a narrow doorway hidden in the far darkness, where, an instant later, the King thundered through. Insider was a smaller chamber, housing several men and, atop a pedestal in the center, a caged bird. "Where is it?" Trioth, Crown Prince of Sala, stepped forward with the item of inquiry. "Here, Father." Petroyv snapped the letter from his son's fingers and stalked to a nearby torch for better light. The paper was tinged red and black with dried gore, and, as was his custom when nervous or upset, he unconsciously read it aloud. It read: Petroyv, I have recovered your son as per our contract. However, if your wish your beloved son returned "unmarked" you must now fulfill my requests. For Dmitri's safe return I demand the Stewardship of Bifrost, five thousand Gold Sovereigns, and an public Oath on the grave of your forefathers that no shall come to me so long as I live. If these demands are not met then your son shall *still* return to Sala, but as the captain the legions that will end your dynasty's reign. Do not attempt any trickery or deceit; already the ranks of my forces swell and my skills grow. At the first sight of Salian soldiers I will have my beasts tear apart your boy and consume his tender flesh. Enclose your reply in the body of this message's courier. Runemaster Svarog The king breathed out slowly, and then crushed the blood-stained letter with a single gloved hand. Trioth averted his gaze, unable to withstand the awful emotion radiating from the king's eyes. "Father, you know what we must do." Petroyv brooded silently. "We can't possibly give this... this madman anything he demands. The gold may be easily replaced, but what of Bifrost? Our kingdom would be forfeit without trade from the Norsemen and their raiders to the east. And to demand a Sacred Oath? How can we even expec-" "Silence." Biting back a hazy mix of fear and anger, Trioth stepped away. The king stepped away from the fire and approached the cage in the center of the room. Inside a cruel parody of a bird, its once radiant feathers dull and sporting maggots, now rested on unnatural forelimbs. The King of Sala took in the sight of this ill messenger for a long while, then turned to his son. "Send a reply stating we will provide the gold and the Oath, but-" "Father!" "Hold your tongue boy!" the king yelled at his eldest son. Then, regaining his composure, continued, "-but I find the demand of Stewardship of Bifrost unacceptable. Offer him something fitting, perhaps Bothnia." Trioth glared at his father, disbelief at his father's actions alone held back another angry outburst. The king lowered his gaze to the floor. "Assemble a team of riders, dressed for speed first, battle second. Have them take the bird to the western plains and release the creature, then follow it to its master." All the men in the chamber, even Trioth, eyed the king suspiciously. Was he thinking of...? "Find this Svarog, dispatch anything or anyone under his command, find my Dmitri, and then bring the fool to me..." Fire not of logic burned behind the king's eyes as he looked up to his eldest. With the audible strain of stretching leather he closed both fists into a fighting stance. "...bring the fool to me, for he will *PAY* for his insolence!" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The North A Tale of High Adventure And Low Temperatures Part 5: Whiteout Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs) Written by Doublemint - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It was an auxiliary building, no more than a hut really, just off the main workshop; sparsely decorated on the outside but lovingly maintained within. The owner of Kyril's Forge had once called it home, as did his father; only Nakita, mother to Cyril and widow to the late Kyril, still lived their. She was a woman well into middle age; her hair sported more white hairs than blond, but Nakita lacked the frailty of her more traditional contemporaries. Still an instructor at the workshop, her arms displayed the muscles and scars that were characteristic of the profession. Her hands, which age had yet to render unsteady, continued to detail both metalwork as well as the more 'exotic' aspects of her trade. Now, however, her hands worked over only a teacup. "You're certain it was a man?" "'Was' being the opportune word, mother," Cyril replied darkly. "It is more a beast than a man when I saw it." Nakita nodded. "Could you identify any of the runes on its skin?" "No," he shook his head; "most were dull and calloused with growths when I looked. The ones I could make out were different from any I was taught." Cyril sat silently for a moment, and then put his cup down. He stared almost desperately into his mother's eyes. "Had you ever heard of such devilry? This warping of men into unnatural creatures?" Nakita sighed. "Your father was more knowledgeable of runes than I ever was; what secrets he kept in his mind he took to the grave. But as long as I knew him, he never practiced trade on the flesh of living things. I think the vary thought of such cruelty would have driven Kyril to rage." The smith nodded, then took a long sidewise glance at a hammer that sat disused on a nearby table. Nakita took note of her son's despondency. "He'll come back, Christov is smarter than to try anything foolish." "It's not his coming back that worries me; it's the condition he returns in that does." "All we can do is wait," she said, resting a hand on her son's. Cyril snorted darkly. "At least Christov's father doesn't know what's become of him." Nakita nodded in agreement. "Can you imagine the foolishness he attempt if he could know?" "All I can say is to thank goodness he's in Kaddegh for the next season." "Poor Brandt," Nakita thought aloud. "I can't help but wonder what he's up to right about now..." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= In a tent not far outside of Kyril's Forge another conversation was taking place. On one side sat the man known Serpent to Sergeant Grael and as Svarog to the King of Sala. On the other was a young redhead boy, no more than thirteen years of age. "These runes," inquired the smithing apprentice, "do you have a drawing or some other example I can follow?" "This is what I want," he presented a stack of designs. They were coarse, roughly cut sheets of paper. Oddly, the designs were white etchings scrawled onto black paper, quite the opposite of a normal metalwork design. Odder still most of the papers sported charred edges, as if they had been rescued from a fire at the last moment. "This will take time," he said, shuffling through the papers, comparing each and appraising each design. "Then get to work," snapped the wizard, "but remember that my patience... and my mercy... are not infinite." The boy nodded uneasily. "Right." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Just over a day's ride away, a makeshift icehouse melted in the morning's light. Inside that house, a twenty-something swordsman polished his blade carefully, having long since lost interest in the thirty-something man at his side. Arlen sighed as he admired his scimitar; the runebeast he just recently helped to dispatch had left a small nick on its surface. Not that he was overly careful with his weapon, just that he didn't relish the thought of going into battle with an unknown enemy with a damaged blade. He sighed. "NO!" screamed Brandt, his eyes snapping open. The swordsman jerked away in freight. "Yah!" Eyes darting about the wizard soon fixated on the man watching over him. Extending a warm hand, he grasped Arlen's nearest arm. "We've got to go!" the bed-bound man insisted. Arlen eyed the man with unease; if he was still in the grip of fever, he might try something rash. Without any real options, the swordsman decided to entertain the wizard's train of thought. "Go... where exactly?" "Kyril's Forge," the wizard pronounced dubiously, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Where?" he asked, not recalling the name. "Kyril's Forge," he repeated, and, fighting off the haze of sleep, then repeated again, "Kyril's Forge." "Look, I don't know anything about this Kyril's Forge, and your leg can't be healed enough for us to move. So why don't you lay back down, I'll get Katria to brew you some tea, and we can vote as a group on what to do later this after-GERK!" Brandt wrapped a single hand, well muscled from years of intricate runecrafting, around the young man's throat. "Chhaannn't... bweeeaath!" "He has my son," the wizard intoned, shaking the swordsman gently for good measure. "We leave *now*." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The world was getting smaller for Shalnay and there was nothing she could do about it. She had spent the better part of her life on a farm, not the communal sort that tended to orbit the lake cities but one titled to her family for two generations. Home had been only a modest size, nothing at all comparable to some of the nobles' estates, and the labor had been hard on everyone. Dimly, Shalnay recalled the day she had learned of the newest addition to the family. Not a new baby---mother was too old---but rather a child of age comparable to her own. His name was Dmitri and he was a prince (of suspect lineage) to throne Sala, a fact unimportant to Shalnay at the time; any playmate on her isolated homestead was welcome. He had been terminally shy at first, but friendship and goodwill changed that. Years past, children became adolescents, and Shalnay grew close to her three brothers, most of all the adopted one. If they had met any other time in their lives, and their differing social status didn'tinterfere, then perhaps love might have blossomed. Love did bloom between the two, but it was that of siblings, and, more importantly, friends. But all things must end, and one spring day a troop of soldiers came to retrieve Dmitri from his puesdo-exile. Tears were shed, most of all by Shalnay, to no effect; Dmitri left for the far-off capital and she had lost a brother. Sorrowful, she retreated into fieldwork. Minus Dmitri, her world contracted inward to her biological family. Years past, adolescents became adults, and Shalnay's father grew ill. The previous two winters had been hard, and burdensome taxes by the nobles strained her father's heart; one night in January, it finally gave out. Tears were shed, some by Shalnay, to no effect; father was dead and the family was in a bad way. But before the earth of father's grave frosted over, her uncle, an oily man was too many scars and too little hair, called in unpaid debts and stole the farm---home---away from Shalnay and her family. Months passed and her family was driven onto the streets of Sala. Her two brothers were lucky, gaining apprenticeships in tanning and weaponsmithing, but she and her mother were not. Even when times were good, which they weren't, few professions hired women; so, in a mix of desperation and hunger, they turned to the oldest profession. Shalnay was a young woman, a commodity always in demand, and made a (im)modest living. Her mother, gray from age and stress, found she herself was sought after only by men of a select taste. Little over a month had passed before one such customer went too far and her mother had died. It took selling herself into slavery, but she had laid her mother to rest in a grave beside her father. Minus her family, Shalnay's world shrank to include only herself. Just before her mother's unhappy end Shalnay overheard a customer ---a noble in the afterglow of 'passion'---talk of the Second Prince, a bastard son that some respected but most feared. Hopes raised, she and her mother made a desperate bid to get to Iso, but, lacking the funds, were stranded in the whorehouse. As luck would have it the merchant she sold herself to was bound for Kaddegh, which, though it wasn't exactly Iso, was closer to Dmitri than she could hope for in Iso. Months passed and hope faded, the owner of the brothel in Kaddegh had her under contract, and would not allow Shalnay to leave until that contract was fulfilled. She had little comfort, even among her fellow 'professionals', and each day passed as she worked over one man after another. Then one day, as if fate herself had rolled an even pair, Shalnay entered the work chamber to discover the nobleman she was to service was Dmitri. The shocked expression on her foster brother's face inspired shame in Shalnay's heart, something the young woman had forced herself not to feel for the better part of a year. In one excited hour (the first hour of her job which she could truthfully term as such) a sister explained to her prodigal brother the tragic events of the past years. It was more than she had ever dreamt of when Dmitri declared he'd buy out her contract, have his company escort her back to Sala, and reclaim the family farm from her despicable uncle. But nothing was ever simple; politics forced Dmitri to move slowly, hostile elements to hire a runesmith for protection. The matron of her former house of employment declared the sum paid on her contract insufficient, and thus moved to reclaim her employee. Iso had been little better, more of the calm before the storm; someone and several somethings attacked and carted Dmitri and Shalnay off into the wilderness. Then... Then that... bastard... Sprawled on the floor of the tent, Shalnay whimpered quietly. All that was left was left in the world was the tent, the serpent, and her brother, who now understood just what she had fallen to. "Shalnay!" Dmitri exclaimed in whisper. "Shalnay! Please listen to me; you need to work on your bonds, they aren't as tight as mine. I can't get out unless you help me!" Shalnay shut her eyes, not wanting to her anything more. There was no escape from this life, this pain. Dmitri should have understood that by now. The world was too small for her, closing in on Shalnay from all sides. The south wind, its voice lowered to a gentle pitch, affirmed this as it sped over the tent. As time would soon tell, neither would be content with the present world. Not forever... =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The troops gathered in the courtyard below, preparing for long, hard ride into possible battle. Every preparation was being taking, and each officer was suited in a special riding suit made of light but weather-hardened fabric. Above them the Crown Prince of Sala, Deputy Commander of the Salian Army, watched the rescue mission assemble to find his half-brother. "Bastard." "Thinking of Dmitri again?" Trioth, his train of thought disturbed, twisted to his right with a start and was instantly caught in the indomitable gaze of a glacier. The glacier was a woman, dressed in light cotton clothing both laughable and dangerous even to the most hardened of The North's citizens. She did not resemble anything commonly found in Sala or even in the Empire itself; her features were white, the color of mother's milk and of fresh-fallen snow, and presented nothing extraordinary save their utter plainness. Stark gray hair, gifted by nature rather than time, sat atop the woman's head and fell unadorned around her neck. Her figure, pleasing to the eye, was firm from a lifetime of rigorous training and assorted battles. One feature above all others stood out on this exotic woman: her eyes; twin wells of flinty blue ice, the sort spoken of in legends concerning the farthest north of The North. She was Princess Ann, wife of Trioth, and future Queen of Sala. Trioth, among trusted company, fell to ease. He did not chide himself for his reaction to his wife's unanticipated arrival; Ann, with her experience in shadowing and tracking, had made a hobby of teasing/testing her bridegroom's abilities in order to make time. Her de-facto captivity in Sala was one of the few things he let his heart feel genuine sympathy towards; thus he let his wife have her idiosyncrasies, they were one of the things he loved about Ann. The Prince turned back towards the courtyard, letting his thoughts flow back to the subject at hand. "My brother doesn't understand what's at stake," he declared with unrestrained bitterness. "If Iso were to gain its independence, then what? Every corner of the kingdom will be demanding independence, with each petty tribe clamoring for ancestral 'rights' denied to them by _us_. Within a generation Sala will be a shadow of its former glory, a dog among nations, like Iso or Kaddegh." Ann tapped her fingers as Trioth spoke. Once he finished, she asked the obvious question. "Like my people?" In the courtyard below, a solider tripped and jammed his foot into a storage crate. The rotten wood gave way and several small maces poured out, much to the offending soldier's dismay. Three horses, situated near the tumbling instruments of death, howled at the sudden clamor. Prince Trioth made a mental note to chew out someone from weapons maintenance. Princess Ann, meanwhile, lightly chuckled in amusement at Salian incompetence. "Tell me," he turned to the albino, "is your Matriarch's severed head adorning a wall in father's castle?" "My mother---*our* mother---is still very much alive." "Despite wishes to the contrary," the prince moaned, more than half-seriously. "Mother is like a bear," declared the albino, "a slow, unstoppable thing that even the stoutest maiden would not---could not---budge on a simple, matter-of-fact issue." "That and she's fat." Ann, playfully punching her husband harder than family honor demanded, retorted, "That's _muscle_, dear." Trioth laughed grimly, but the gathering of soldiers distracted his and his wife's attention. The harsh barks of the group captain, boasting of honor and duty to the crown, laid a sullen pall on the conversation. As the speech droned on, Princess Ann took note of the disquiet expression spreading over Trioth's features. Per her social traditions, she forced the discussion onward with an evenhanded rumination. "I wonder, will we be holding this month's feast in your brother's honor... or his memory?" "That's entirely up to the damnable Runesmith," he spat, again consumed with inner fury at the wizard's betrayal. "Is it now?" The group captain finished his speech with a roar, thumping a gloved hand again his light armor, his chest adorned with a crowned argent swan on a red field. Trioth tore his eyes towards his wife's, all the while feeling his cheeks glower red with anger. That fiery anger was smothered as it clashed against a mountain of ice, an indelible thing dating back past the dawn of the world. "..." The prince flinched and turned away. Ann extended a hand to Trioth, resting it on the warrior's right sleeve. "Whatever happens in the days ahead, we can still anticipate good tidings for the celebrations next May." "May?" he burst, thrown off by the odd comment. "What's to celebrate then, besides the latest wet season?" "Just the birth of our child." Trioth blinked. "Wh-what?" The Crown Prince stared at his wife, taking in the small smile that highlighted her face. A wave of strange emotion washed over Trioth, and he suddenly found himself laughing merrily. The soldiers in the courtyard below stared upwards in a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort as their liege roared in happiness, scooped his wife into his arms, and proceeded to half-dance half-waddle around on the archway. Mercifully, before either future parent realized their very public outburst, the group captain quietly led his troops out of the courtyard and into the snowfields beyond the city wall. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The wind gnawed at Arlen's face, replacing the redness of blood with that of bluster. Inexperienced to the harsher conditions in the North, the region to which his native Kaddegh comfortably bordered, he had wrapped his head cloth incorrectly. Once moist with sweat and saline, his cheeks grew to numbness and his eyes gained a reptilian feel. The brothel guard still felt the runesmith's parental grip on his throat, and so stifled a number of pointed remarks about his discomfort. Finally, however, his skin's noticeable stiffness provoked a self- preserving request. "Wizard... can we take a break?" Brandt said nothing, instead devoting his attention to the equipment-laden mule lagging behind himself. When the younger man broached the subject again, Brandt huffed, "We have to keep moving," in a terse reply. "I know, I know... but," Arlen commented, eyeing the wizards tense body, "I can't fight a Runebeast, let alone a treacherous runesmith, if I'm not able to sit-up straight." To this Katria shot an angry glare at the brothel guard, chilling him further in the midday air. "Kyril's Forge is still the better part of a day's ride," the wizard said derisively, as if explaining himself to an uncomprehending child. "If we are to find Serpent before he can accomplish whatever devilry he's planning, we need to move." "A definite strategy, wizard," said Grael from atop his battle horse, as puffs of breath escaped his armored collar, "save a moment's consideration for our mounts." Arlen and Katria murmured agreements. Brandt raised an eyebrow at this remark, which Grael soon expanded upon. "We have ridden hard since the breakfast hour, and I fear the horses cannot compete with your own relentless energy." Arlen watched Brandt's eyes dip down to his stead's thundering chest, then glance to the wary mule he held tethered with rope. Everyone's beast of burden showed signs of wariness, save the armor- hardened horse under Grael's command. "Very well," grumbled Brandt, gesturing to a patch of trees ahead, "we'll rest there." "Excellent," stated the Sergeant. Three hundred feet and half an hour later, Grael approached the wizard. Under an ice-laden evergreen, the two discussed, of all things, the weather. The armored man shook his head. "There's an ill wind in the air." "Not unusual for this time of year," countered Brandt, patting his mule as it chowed on exposed grass. "This is when the night storms tend to come off the plains to the south, or is the weather different for Sala in The North than the rest of us?" "I mean no disrespect wizard," grumbled Grael, "but I've ridden across these lands my entire life. The night storms shouldn't arrive till late November, a month away at least. Besides, they aren't called 'night' storms without a reason. No, this is something different, something unnatural..." Brandt peered into the distance. "It shouldn't pose a problem for us, should it?" "I don't know." "Either way," the wizard said, leading his mule back to the rest of the group, "we need to get moving." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The coils were twisted and wrapped around one another, eventually pooling into themselves to form the business end of a branding rod. The pattern formed made one's eyes water, irritating the senses on some basic level. "Well?" The man known as Serpent nodded. "Yes... fine work." The wizard eyed the boy. "How long will the others take?" "Not as long," Christov replied, "seeing as the designs aren't as intricate. A few hours at most." "Good, good," he smiled, slashing the iron through the air. "I've already picked out a bitch to test this out on. You can watch if you want..." Christov frowned unhappily but said nothing. Under the wizard's guidance, he returned to his labors. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The process of dislocating one's thumb is fairly simple in theory; all someone must do is 1) have a moderate tolerance for pain, 2) possess a knowledge of one's own joints and their workings, and, most importantly, 3) be properly motivated. Prince Dmitri of Sala had all three of these qualities, but putting theory into practice proved to be difficult. Not for any lack of trying, but forcing joints into an unnatural position years after watching (not performing) the technique for the last time left the prince in a difficult situation. The blood seeping onto the tent's floor attested to that fact. "Geerrr!" the young man growled, working both wrists against the sharp metallic bindings that restrained him. Three days worth of unwavering assaults upon his bonds had rendered his wrists into little more than raw canyons of pink ooze. In the back of his mind, Dmitri laughed darkly at the thought of slipping out of the restraints by using the lubrication his body provided. Pain and frustration were close companions now, closer than his sister... no, he shook his head, chiding himself for thinking that ill thought. "d-dmitri." Perhaps, the man suggested to himself, it would be better dislocate the shoulders and bring his hand to the front of his body. Then something use something sharp to- "Dmitri!" The prince turned his head, surprised at the long absent sound of his sister's voice. "shalnay?" The woman in question seemingly stared past her brother. "Your hands..." "yes?" he whispered, hoping that no one and nothing heard his sister's raised voice. "what is it?" "Your hands are bleeding." Dmitri frowned in confusion at the question, and then became aware of the dampness at his waistline. Sure enough, a distinct redness had stained his once fine clothing, soaked through to the front side of his shirt. He looked back at Shalnay. "it's not that bad, really. most of the blood is old." "Why are you hurt?" The prince blinked at the question, unsure of the proper response. "well... i have been, you know, trying to get out of my restraints." Shalnay nodded. "I see." The silence that slipped into the conversation lasted several seconds before Dmitri, ceasing on the opportunity, tried to retain his sister's attention. "shalnay, listen to me," he began. "we need to get away from that... devil... and the only way we can is if we get out of these bindings." "what's the point?" "I'm sorry?" he replied, voice raised in anger at the (in his opinion) stupidity of the question. "We won't get far; he'll just catch us. Besides, he can have one of those things kill us if we get too rowdy." Dmitri grimaced. "listen to yourself! 'if we get too rowdy' indeed! do you want him to violate you again like some whore?" Shalnay turned her eyes away from Dmitri's. "But that's what I am." "a whore?" "Yes." "shalnay," he whispered urgently. "Shalnay," he repeated, loud enough to catch the young woman's attention. "You are *not* a whore." "Yes I am." "No," he stressed, "you aren't." Listlessly, she countered, "How am I not a whore?" "Because you only did what you had to do to survive. That's what we all do, whether it be stealing food or being a prostitute or rubbing your wrist raw trying to escape bondage." He shook his head, unable to stiffle the emotion rising in his chest. "You did nothing wrong because you were trying to survive against daunting odds. And what that... that *BASTARD* did to you does not make you a whore." Tears gathered Shalnay, but she said nothing. "You're strong Shalnay, a survivor. I couldn't have done what you had to do, and so now I need your strength." "How?" "Your feet," he motioned with his head, "aren't bound that tightly. If you can work the ropes enough, you might be able to slip your feet out." She nodded deliberately. "Right." Dmitri sighed; letting going a volume of air he had been unaware of restraining. With renewed vigor, he returned to working his restraints. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "Done," said Christov, feeling pride even under the current situation. "Yes, your work is most excellent," the runesmith Svarog nodded. Then paused as he reached for a nearby knife. "So excellent in fact that I've decided I can't let you go." "Wh-what!" the boy yelled. "We had a deal." Dashing forward, Serpent landed a single focused blow to the boy's head. Grabbing the smith so as to prevent further injury while he crashed to the ground, he laid the boy down on the floor. Diligently, the wizard removed the boy's protective vest and the shirt underneath. Running a hand across the lad's hairless chest, he traced a line down it's middle. A moment later Serpent took the knife at his side and plunged it into Christov's tender flesh. Drawing the blade upwards he sliced away along the shoulders in a 'Y' pattern. Pulling away the skin, fat, and muscle, the runesmith whistled a happy tune to himself. "Now let's see... the backbone's connect to the rib bone," he traced a finger across the ribs, "and the rib bone's connected to the... sternum." With a smile on his face and a song in his heart, he went to work. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The group rode into the ruins that were once the outer boundary of Kyril's Forge. Traveling in silence, they followed the knowledgeable lead of Brandt. At the center of the burned-out settlement the group came upon a woman staring off into the distance. The look on her face as she saw Brandt approach was one of disbelief. "Brandt?" she asked, face growing pale. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Kaddegh?" "Where's Christov?" he demanded, bringing his horse to a halt. "Brandt..." "Christov! Where are you boy?" A set of doors to the center compound opened, emitting a young well-muscled man. "Mother, what's all the... commotion?" Brandt glared at Cyril. "Where's my boy? WHERE IS HE?" Cyril looked to his mother, then back to the irate wizard. "He's... on assignment with a runesmith." Brandt seethed, "What... type... of runesmith?" "A young man, wearing a feathered cap," suggested Grael, eager to restrain the group's impromptu leader. "Little muscle but well-toned, and looks vaguely reptilian. Travels with a strange beast." Cyril frowned. "Yes. Do you know of this man?" "Too well," huffed Grael. "How could you send my boy with that man?" "We-" "IDIOT! You-" "QUIET!" roared Grael, waiting for the requested silence. A sharp glare at Brandt later, he turned back to Cyril. "This man has kidnapped two person, a man and a woman. One of them is a prince of Sala." Nakita blinked. "What?" "We didn't know," explained Cyril. "We couldn't have known." "When did the man come here?" asked Arlen, rubbing his forehead. "Last evening, a little before sundown. He came from the northeast," the smith pointed in the indicated direction. Brandt turned to back to his fellow travelers. "There's still an hour till sunset; we need to move." Nakita stepped forward to Brandt and grasped his hand. "You look exhausted... at least rest for a few minutes." "Your horses look wary from travel," added Cyril, "and the least we can do is to provide you with fresh mounts." Brandt, his anger dulled away at the sight of his near-collapsed horse, reluctantly agreed. "...Very well." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= In the fading light of the forge, Serpent carefully tied off the last of the stitching holding Christov's flesh together. By now, the life had drained away from the boy's eyes, replaced by something duller and more basic. His work finished, Serpent sat back and attentively waited for his latest experiment to stir from its slumber. He needn't wait long for the redheaded boy soon began to twitch and lurch to his feet, like a marionette in the hands of a fresh owner. The boy stood at attention, staring indistinctly at the runesmith who had just carved out his chest. Serpent stood, approached the boy that had once been Christov, and studied him from all angles. He then stepped back and thought aloud to himself, "Now this was something I wasn't sure would work." He then added with a smile, "Then again, who am I to argue with the results?" The boy turned to the sheepskin by the tent entrance, retrieved a metal branding rod, and offered it to his master. "Yes," Svarog said, "you do fine work." Christov, drool escaping slowly from the side of his mouth, stared blindly at the runesmith. "I agree," the older man said, patting the boy on his shoulder, "we do need a trial run, don't we?" A nod. "I know just the girl..." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= With a final push, Shalnay worked her other foot out of its restraint, ending hours of agonizing cramps. Free to move about, the farmgirl huddled down by the tent pole that her hand restraints connected with. This time around, with the aid of eyesight, she loosed the ropes binding her wrists with greater speed. Quickly, the woman rushed to the aid of her brother; using a boot knife concealed in Dmitri's left boot, she sprang the metal chain's lock after several minutes of sweaty fumbling. Freed from many days' captivity, the two embraced happily. "Christov!" barked a voice. "Follow master!" Shalnay stood wordlessly, greedily grasping the pocketknife in one hand. Dmitri looked up at his sister. "No, stop." "Why?" "We won't stop him with just that, but I have a plan..." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Serpent slipped into the tent, carrying in one hand a red-hot branding rod. With great satisfaction he stood over the stretched form of his recent conquest. "I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better." He raised the brand ominously. "It's rare I get to meet a whore of such delicate constitution." The runesmith took a step forward and his groin instantly met with the sudden onslaught of Shalnay's foot. A moan escaped his lips and the man instinctively brought his hands to gentiles. The brands fell to the floor with a hiss. An instant latter Dmitri tackled his foe, springing unexpectedly from his resting spot. But before he could slice open Serpent's throat, the wizard regained his senses and struck at the prince. Throwing off the prince with a sudden burst of strength, he quickly moved to his feet. Dmitri, for his part, regained his balance and moved to keep the wizard away from his sister but a force halted his assault. Twisting about, he glimpsed the unknown figure of an adolescent boy. The boy was unusually strong for his age and the two crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. "Naughty girl," hissed the wizard, composing himself, "did you- GUH!" Shalnay pulled harder on the length of rope encircling Serpent's neck, her knuckles turning white as she poured her cup of anger. For an instant it seemed as if the day was won, but the wizard, as he dropped to his knees, grabbed fistfuls of the farmgirl's unkempt hair. Jerking his arms forward, he managed to flip Shalnay over himself, ending her death grip on his airway. Growling, he moved to pick up the still-hot brand. Desperate and angry, Shalnay grabbed her brother's fallen knife and stabbed at the wizard, managing to slice open his leg below the knee. A boot to the head later, Shalnay dropped the knife and crumpled to the ground. "Bitch!" the runesmith snapped, pinning the farmgirl to the ground with a muddy boot. The tent flap opened. In the entryway, squatting to fit its hulking frame through the narrow enclosure was the last remaining runebeast. Even with its body nearly plugging the entryway, howling winds carrying wet snow darted into the tent. "Go back outside!" barked the runesmith. "I can take care of these fools myself. "Muuurrrrrrr..." Serpent frowned. "What did you say?" The runebeast rocked from side to side, the etchings on its skin taking new life. Its throaty voice exclaiming, "Muurrrrrdeerrrrr..." "Go back! I command you!" The icy gales moaned in the air, rustling everything not pinned down to the ground. "Vaaaaadessssssh," hissed the beast, grabbing hold of the tent's walls with both clawed hands. "Muurrrrrdeerrrrr!" With a roar, the runebeast tore away the tent wall, collapsing the tent forwards. A sudden updraft allowed the monster to raise the tent into the air, foundations and all, after which it tossed the shelter away into the winds. Without the protection, wind and snow consumed the four humans. "Muurrrrdeerrrrrer!" the runebeast screamed from eleven new mouths as well as its original one. Extending a clawed hand it plucked Serpent off Shalnay and hoisted him into the air. Amazed and alarmed, the wizard thrust forward with his sole weapon: the branding iron. Burning into the creature's flesh, it overwrote several of the smaller runes that glowed under the runebeast's epidermis. Hurling the wizard into a nearby snow bank, the monster threw its head back and deafened all with its twelve simultaneous roars. The winds howled, snow filled the air, and the world grew white. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The wind roared around the group, carrying on their gales both the cries of regret at lives cut short and the vows of revenge against the man who perverted those lives to an evil end. The voice came rapidly, with a heated anger betraying the nature of the snow storm. Visibility was cut with twenty hand spans, and without the glowing runes in Katria and Brandt's' hands that indicated True North the group would have been totally lost. As the four moved through the newborn drifts of snow Arlen, chilled to the bone by failing equipment, collapsed atop his horse. "Brandt!" screamed Katria. "Something's wrong with Arlen." Grael approached the boy and studied his pale face; he grimaced. "Fool. He didn't take care of his survival gear." Grael turned to the two others. "The boy's suffering from exposure; we need to get him back to the village or he'll die!" Brandt looked unsure for a moment, and then began to turn his horse around. An unearthly roar echoed through the air. "That's him!" yelled Brandt. "We're right outside their camp!" "We have to go back!" Grael screamed at the wizard, instilling in his voice as much authority as he could muster. "The boy is ill!" Brandt, "He's my son! I can't leave him!" And he turned and drove into the storm. A moment later, he was lost in the white atmosphere. Grael dismounted and handed his horse's reins, as well as the reins of Arlen's horse, to Katria. He clamped a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "Get him back!" he yelled in her ear. "I'll find the wizard!" Her face cloaked in whiteness, Katria nodded numbly to the warrior. Grael turned away and trudged into the whiteness, following the wispy remains of Brandt's footsteps. The warrior's form, dimly visible in the onslaught of snow, was soon lost to all human perceptible. Katria, with the reins of Grael's mount wrapped around her free hand, turned her stead about and kicked it onwards to Kyril's Forge. All around them, the winds of vengeance howled. ============================================================= Author's Notes: It was an adventure to write this adventure, but I really don't wanna talk about that. They following are just some points I wanted to add to the chapter. *I've given Serpent/Vadesh another name (Svarog). This is because no one outside the group of heros calls him Serpent, and also that Vadesh is supposed to be his secret name. In addition, since he's demanding land from the King of Sala, he can't just call himself Runesmith or Wizard. *Princess Ann, the wife of Trioth. Ann provides a counterpoint to Trioth, making him more of a real person. She's a pseudo-albino and princess to one of the conquered tribes that Sala rules. Think of her as Xena meets Margaret Thatcher. *The Storm/whiteout is the ghost(s) from chapter 3 and provides a plot device for the ending. Since not every person Serpent will kill/maim throughout the story can come back as an all-powerful storm, their vengeance could vary as far as the story requires (poisoning, horse losing shoe, general bad luck, ect.). Think along the lines of the movie "Final Destination". Thanks to my pre-readers, Schneeble and Sharyna Tran, for reading. Apologies for my lateness. Tired, need sleep. ~END PART