Arlen pushed himself off the ground, wobbling as he did so. Once
on his knees he looked about: two armed guards, another man likely as
dangerous, and... dear gods... an entire encampment to back them up.

	"I can make this quick," said the hooded man, his would-be
executioner, speaking with confidence in his own skill. "Quick and
clean. You won't feel anything. You won't have time. Just hold that
pose, please."

	Unbelieving, the young man nodded his head.

	The winds of The North rushed over Arlen and, in his lack of
clothing, he trembled. The terror of the wind's screams mixed with those
from his dreams, and Arlen joined them in their cries with a melancholy
laugh. It's so perfect this way, he thought, so right.

	One asked, "What's so funny?"

	Arlen shook his head, cheeks wet with tears. "Like father, like
son," he half-whispered, letting them all in on the joke.

	The hooded man coughed. "Any last words?"

	"Yeah," Arlen twisted around to look at the thin man. "Go eat a
sandwich or something."

	The thin man smiled. "I will, thanks."

	The hooded man hefted his axe, angling it for the proper blow.

	Arlen stared into the white, his body feeling flush with anxiety,
as if it had been cued in on what was to come.

	And Wispy watched, intent but aloof.

	The signal was given. The axe fell.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                   The North
            A Tale of High Adventure
             And Low Temperatures

               Part 14: Cold War

      Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs)
            This Part by Doublemint

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


	(THE DAY PREVIOUS)


	Scarlet flames and bleeding eyes spilled from Arlen's mind as he
awoke with a shiver.

	"Guh! Huh!" He brushed away sweat from his brow. "Dream. Just a
dream... just the same damn dream."

	Arlen slumped back onto his bedroll, clinging to the impression of
his body's warmth as the veiled chill of The North ate at his face. For
a moment he weighed the benefits of wearing the snug sleeping hood
gifted to him by Grael, but the fear of suffocation cajoled Arlen into
braving the elements of The North that seeped into his tent.

	He tried to push the dream away but the guilt of a child chained
him, as it had these past nights. Fingering the sack of gold in his
right hand, Arlen stared up at the tent's plainness.

	Gods, he thought, just a few more weeks until Kaddegh looms. Until
I see home. Until I see mother. Until I see the girls. Just a few more
weeks of the cold and the snow. Gods, I'm going to die out here. No! I'm
going home. I have the gold. I'm going home. I have the gold....

	Arlen lay still, then, with a huff, he mournfully undid the bonds
of his bed and stood up. At once the cold ate at him, especially
savoring the "healed" bone of his right leg in its icy maw. Cursing both
The North and the incompetence of the doctor at his old orphanage, Arlen
dressed.

	A short time later Arlen broke camp, mounted his horse, and set
off in the general direction Iso. The sorry state of his food pack
preoccupied his thoughts. That city, he mulled, would be a problem. The
war, if there were one, would be an even bigger problem. He dropped his
hand to the hilt of his scimitar, hoping its familiar presence would
reassure him.

	He had gotten by well during his pursuit of the Dmitri and the
contract, but those had been quiet times. Now he knew such perversions
as runebeasts and Vadmir the Runesmith existed. He hoped, with a
vehemence that startled him, Brandt could put an end to that.

	Inside his vest, the sack of gold nibbled at the flesh of Arlen's
breast. He pressed on in silence.

	Shortly after midday, a thin line appeared on the horizon. As he
approached, Arlen picked out the characteristic patchwork of a
stonewall.

	A wall? Might this be, he hoped, a farm?

	Arlen's hopes were justified three-quarter hour later as he passed
along the stonewall and spotted both the telltale signs of a cultivated
landscape and the distant rising of grain silos. Further along he
spotted a break in the wall which led to an inroad. With the lightness
of his food stores in mind, Arlen turned his steed down the road.

	He passed unmolested along the outer regions, yet Arlen felt the
unmistakable impression of being observed. As he reached the nadir of a
depression in the road three men rose up from the brush, armed with bow
and arrows and carrying auxiliary weapons on their hips. "Ye there,"
called the leader, a graying man with mound of scar tissue where his
nose should have perched, "halt."

	Stiff with caution, Arlen bid his horse to pause. He then slowly
raised his gloved hands into the air, demonstrating his own lack of
ready weapon.

	"Identify yerself and yer intentions."

	"I am Arlen, son of Sophia, of Kaddegh. I travel alone. I come
with the intention to barter for food and other supplies, perhaps a
night's shelter as well."

	This seemed to satisfy the patrol's leader. "Aye, we have what ye
seek. First though, have ye seen any others on the road near our farm?"

	Arlen shook his head. "None," he answered truthfully. "I have
spotted no person, living or dead, for four days."

	"Four days? Around here? Surely ye must have spotted a trader or
two on the road."

	"In case you haven't noticed, there is a war brewing." Arlen
chuckled mirthfully. "It's not exactly the best time to be trading
wares."

	"Or for a lone rider to be about, eh? Especially towards Iso of
all places."

	 "I'm merely trying to make my way home to Kaddegh. And, speaking
plainly, I mean to avoid Iso like a herpes-laden whore."

	Behind Arlen, one of the two other bowman spoke up. "I think we
can trust him Uncle."

	The disfigured man leveled a wary gaze at Arlen. Grunting, he
relaxed his hold on the bow and arm. "Very well."

	Arlen smiled to himself. Then, reliving myriad incidents of his
mother slapping him upside the head for poor manners, added, "I thank
you, good sir." He turned to the youth at his rear. "And you as well."

	"Peter," said the mollified elder, "take Master Arlen to the
house, will ye."

	The young man, no more than three or four years Arlen's elder,
nodded dutifully. "Yes, Uncle."


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	The farmhouse and adjacent buildings proved to be no more than a
short while away. Peter took Arlen's mount and offered it to a farm
hand. He then took the brothel guard towards the rear of the house.
There, situated atop a tree stump, sat a middle-aged man studying a
paper written in chicken scratch.

	"Father?" The old man looked up at his boy, then towards the
stranger. "We have a visitor, Arlen of Kaddegh."

	The man twisted towards the house. "DEAR, WE HAVE A VISITOR! BRING
REFRESHMENTS!" He looked back at his son. "So what does he want?"

	"Supplies for travel, room and board for the night."

	"Hmm." The patriarch mulled this prospect. He looked towards
Arlen. "All right, I'm game. What can you offer me in return for my good
will?"


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	They reached an agreement that was fair for both parties. Arlen
paid one and a quarter Gold Sovereigns for a bed, two meals, new
supplies, and the advice of the patriarch on which routes would be the
wisest to take to avoid Iso and the trouble emanating from it. The
metallic currency was a good investment for the farmer, who had his eye
on the brewing conflict. But the most important payment proved to be the
tidings Arlen brought with him.

	"Prince Dmitri AND Prince Tiroth," choked out Peter, "dead?
Truly?"

	"Yes," assured Arlen, "and treachery was involved."

	"Oh no," whispered the patriarch despairingly. "No. No. No. No.
No."

	Arlen was taken to his room where he was allowed to rest until
supper. Later he was waken and offered a bath of well water, which he
accepted.

	Dinner was a lavish yet somber affair. A siege mentality had
settled over the farm. Most everyone in the countryside was holed up at
their residence, armed with swords in one hand and pitchforks in the
other. The news Arlen brought with him was not encouraging.

	"Damn Sala and their 'nobility'! With Dmitri dead, war's coming
for certain," Peter pronounced. "Only question is how bad it'll be."

	"'How bad it will be'?" The disfigured uncle echoed ruefully,
rubbing his nose (or lack thereof) in Peter's face. "All war's bad, boy.
The only question is if we'll make it through alive and in decent
shape."

	The roar of a runebeast filled Arlen's memory. "I wish you all
good tidings in the future," he said.

	The patriarch raised his glass. "And to you as well, Master
Arlen."

	The uncle raised his glass. "Hear hear. To King Petroyv and his
sons."

	"To the future," chimed in another.

	"Hear, hear," they all proclaimed, then tipped their glasses back
and drank for the future.

	It was a good last supper.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Accepting an offer of a smoke with the men, a habit Arlen forever
associated with the reek of fornication, Arlen retired to bed for the
night. His dreams were at first filled with blood and fire, but they
gave way to visions of finely etched sheets of black parchment and the
clanging of metal forging. The tone was ominous and oppressive, each
ring of hammer and anvil resonating from the top of his straw-colored
hair to the calloused bottoms of his feet, the ruffling of each page
cutting at his soul. Semilucid, Arlen tried grabbing both the curl of
metal and the paper flashing before him; the feeling of inner disquiet
was overwhelming. Arlen dreamed of awakening and then did awake, body
heavy with exhaustion.

	Unable and unwilling to return to dreaming's embrace, Arlen rested
quietly as the farm stirred to life in the pre-dawn hours. Soon he
ventured outside, first for the air and then to tend to his mount.
Satisfied, he returned to the farmhouse for breakfast, which was a
smaller affair than the previous night's feast, but was pleasantly more
upbeat. The fears of the family and work hands seemed somewhat submerged
in the immediate prospects of a day's labor, and their heartiness rubbed
off on Arlen.

	"Thanks again," Arlen shook the patriarch's hand cheerfully.

	The older man grinned and nodded. "It was our pleasure." He added
after a laugh, "The gold helped out too."

	Arlen turned to the man's wife. "The meals were divine, madam."

	"Flatterer," she said with a blush.

	Peter escorted Arlen to the property's boarder. "Take care, Arlen.
Stop by if you ever come up north again."

	"I mean no disrespect," the brothel guard began, "when I say I
hope to never go north again. Or leave Kaddegh for that matter."

	"That saddens me."

	"Well," he replied, "if you're ever in Kaddegh, look me up."

	"I will. If I do, that is." A pause. "Come down there, that is."

	Arlen grinned. "Right. Remember: Madam Sophia's Bordello. It's
right next to Ri's Jelly Emporium, you can't miss it."

	Peter looked at Arlen quizzically, at a loss. Finally he simply
said, "Fare well, Arlen."

	"Fare well, Peter."



	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	"I," Arlen pronounced, "am bored."

	It was too true. The company he kept this last night reminded
Arlen of his loss of companionship. Traveling alone wasn't merely
dangerous, it was boring. One had to keep alert for threats all the
time, even while asleep. The only company he kept was the sky (night and
day), the sun, and the white. And it wasn't even a peaceful white, like
the frosting on the rocky plains surrounding Kaddegh. No. The North was
a twisting, tenuous white as mind-warping as anything his sister Annore
sniffed from that rag and bottle of hers.

	And the difficulties hadn't even begun. During his pursuit of
Dmitri and his men, he would occasionally lose track of time. At first,
it was a few minutes. But minutes became hours and hours soon turned
into days. By the time he had arrived at Iso he had felt numb to the
world. Nothing quite like realizing the sun's rising instead of setting,
he thought to himself, eh Arlen?

	Feeling the stirrings of his bladder, Arlen dismounted and
answered nature's call. After relieving himself in the middle of a
depressingly monotonous snowfield, he brushed snow atop his business and
turned back to his journey.

	That's when he spotted the smoke.

	Arlen turned towards the northwest and watched a pillar of blue-
gray smoke flitter up into the expansive sky.

	That's a lot of smoke, he thought to himself. Too much smoke.

	"Oh damn it all."

	Arlen sprinted back to his ride, mounted, and urged the beast back
towards the trodden trial it had laid for itself. Even at a decent clip,
it took him a good half hour to make it to the stonewall where he had
parted ways with Peter. Slowly, he halted his mount. Arlen stopped to
plan his next course of action.

	"Idiot. Idiot," he chided himself. "If they got past the patrols
what good can you do them? You'll just get yourself killed."

	More smoke rose in the distance, a new fire lit.

	"That's right," he said to himself, reaching into his pack for the
hunting bow he had purchased in Sala and its companion quiver. "Just
going to run off to my doom." He exhaled slowly. "Again."

	Arlen spurred his mount to action. "Heeya!"


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Arlen encountered little resistance as he explored the farm's
outer boarders. Peter and his uncle did not meet him at the downturn but
a straggling raider did. The man appeared engrossed in looting a fallen
body and did not notice Arlen's approach until it was too late but
gasped as an arrow struck him in the side. Before he could rise, a
finely polished scimitar slid into the man's neck, firmly severing the
femoral artery. A splash of warm blood coated Arlen's arm as he regarded
the kill below him.

	"What in Vogtisk's Hell?"

	The twitching corpse, the corpse of a raider, was that of a man
dressed in the armor of Sala solder. At least a reasonable facsimile,
Arlen decided as he noted the shoddy chain mail that had allowed his
arrow to strike the man. Real chain mail, along with a full suit of
armor, would have given the raider a fighting chance. At close range,
Arlen could note how the pieces of armor didn't all seem to work
together as a single unit.

	"A patchwork soldier," he mused.

	Looking past the raider, Arlen immediately identified the dead
body that had been looted. It was the uncle, the scarred old man.
Several arrows stuck out of his body at all angles and there appeared to
be a thrust wound in his chest. Arlen retrieved his arrow from the dead
raider and turned back on the path towards the farm. His pace was slower
this time, deliberate.

	He rode with a quiet, dutiful mind.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Arlen dismounted and crept along the final leg of the trail to the
clearing of the farm proper. Hiding in the brush, he surveyed the area.

	The harvested fields were empty, save for the ever-present blanket
of snow. The raiders and surviving farmers alike were congregated by the
silos. The raiders had killed several of the men and had dragged their
bodies away. The surviving farmers were between the nearest silo and
Arlen himself, likely rounded up for... what? Slaughter? Ransom?
Intimidation? Arlen shook his head. He didn't know.

	Arlen also didn't know what to do. It had all seemed logical when
he stormed in here, but now, seeing the number of raiders, he knew there
was nothing he could do. He figured he'd be able to take one or two out
with his bow (if he was having a REALLY good day, which he wasn't so
far) and a few more with his sword depending on their skill. But in the
end, he would be overwhelmed.

	But could he really retreat now?

	"Let this be a lesson to you, Iso scum, so-called 'citizens' of
the Salian Kingdom," loudly proclaimed a raider clad in sergeant's
armor, as if putting on a show. "King Petroyv spares no love, no mercy
for those who would exploit his beloved sons' deaths."

	The mournful cries of the womenfolk and the young children filled
the air.

	From his alcove, at distance of twelve yards or so from the
bellowing raider, Arlen could easily make out the ruddy cheeks that
framed the man's wicked smile.

	"That is why he has proclaimed, for the treachery
of Iso and its people, a sentence of *death* upon you to be carried out
immedi-

	The raider's face misted with gore as an arrow shot through his
left eye and shredded his brain.

	-ately."

	The 'sergeant' kneeled over.

	"Oh shit," Arlen cursed himself, starring at the bow and lack of
arrow in his hands.

	A flight of arrows rained down on the general area of brush he had
concealed himself in. Fortunately, none hit him. As the startled archers
scrambled to reload, Arlen turned tail and sprinted down the trail. One
of the horseback raiders spotted him and set off in pursuit, two of his
fellows joined him.

	Arlen called out to his mount. However, as he had only procured
the animal during his stay in Sala, he hadn't the time to learn its
commands. Thus, at a depressing distance, the horse stayed still.

	"Horsy! Come on, horsy! GET OVER HERE, HORSEY!"

	An errant arrow glanced Arlen's right thigh, drawing a shallow
flesh wound with enough force to knock the brothel guard to his knees.
"Agh!"

	Scrambling from the ground with muddy breeches, Arlen to see an
approaching armored horse rider. Hands shaking, Arlen readied the
hunting bow and shot off arrow after arrow at the approaching attacker.
Few shots connected and those that did strike home proved ineffective in
dissuading the attacker. Casting the bow and arrow aside, Arlen
retreated to the only trick up his sleeve.

	Faking a stumble, Arlen subtlety reached into his boot for a
throwing knife. Starring at the raider thundering down on him, he tried
to calm himself as he waited until the raider got closer. Closer.
Closer....

	The raider readied his spear. "Arrrrrrrgggghhhh!"

	With an ease borne from too many nights boozing in the bars with
pickpockets and slight-of-hand artists, Arlen whipped the knife at his
attacker's head. With a satisfying 'thunk', the raider deftly caught the
blade with his face. Dropping his spear, the dying man continued his
charge past Arlen and down the trail.

	Turning around, Arlen saw the second rider bearing down on him.
There was no time to do anything save raising his scimitar in a half-
assed defensive stance. The raider's own sword struck Arlen's and
knocked it from the young man's hands. Nearly trampled, Arlen
backtracked and tripped over himself. The brief sight of a jagged rock
filled his vision and then there was nothing.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	He was drowning! Water everywhere! Air! He needed air!

	...why?

	"Wake up," the voice, brittle enough to be cousin to snapping ice
and brother to breaking glass, commanded. "The bucket's out of water and
I'm out of patience."

	Arlen's eye fluttered opened, letting the afternoon sun in. The
light was overwhelming, painful. With a grimace, he closed them again.

	"Wake up," repeated the voice. Arlen did not comply. Suddenly he
became aware of sharp, cold metal pressing against his bare left breast.
"I'm only going to ask you one more time. Wake. Up."

	Arlen's eyes snapped open.

	Blinking away the glare of water and the flush of tears, the
straw-haired man became aware of his surroundings as they came into
focus. Standing above him, filling his vision was the thinnest man Arlen
had ever seen still breathing. Bone jutted out from every corner of the
man and what skin the man did have seemed painted on. Limp, dull black
hung down in a non-style on the man's head, like vermin clinging to the
rim of drowning bottle. He was bare-chested but wore green wool pants
that were offensive to the whiteness of The North itself. A silver saber
hung daintily in his right hand, its tip directly over Arlen's heart.

	For a brief instant, Arlen would have sworn he had actually seen
the man's lung straining half-veiled under their coverings to supply
what limited air was needed to sustain this pale wisp of a man.

	"Good," that voice cheered, grating on Arlen's skin, causing a
terrific itch to run up his neck, "you're up."

	'Wispy' turned to someone outside Arlen's field of vision. "I'd
congratulate you on taking him alive but I know it was an accident he
lived. Still, thank you for not gutting him while he was unconscious."

	"Errr... you're welcome, sir."

	The bony man gestured with his free hand. "Once the valuables are
at a safe distant, take care of the expendables."

	Arlen heard the raider snap into a salute. "Sir. Yes, sir."

	Wispy looked back at Arlen. "Now then, we can introduce ourselves.
I am... oh my." The thin man stopped, his tongue poised on his front
teeth like a glistening yak ascending from the waters of a steaming
lake. "You're not going to tell me anything, are you? Not willingly
anyways. I can tell these things you know."

	Arlen's silence condemned him.

	The other man sighed. "Very well. Torture it is." He looked away
from Arlen and said, "Be a good dear and take the prisoner back to camp.
He is to receive the best of treatments." A lone bony index finger was
held up. "But be careful. Yes, be careful. This one is foxy, he is. Very
very dangerous. Be sure he doesn't murder you."

	"Sir."

	A gruff hand reached down and grabbed Arlen by the scruff of his
collar. The hand easily lifted the straw-haired young man up. The sudden
movement made Arlen dizzy and the taste of his half-digested breakfast
welled up in the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, he strove to
center himself. Fortunately, he kept the meal down.

	"Come on," said the nameless raider, propping the bound prisoner
on his feet. "You can either walk or you can ride. I will not carry
you."

	Arlen nodded dumbly, nauseated. "Right. Right."

	Slowly, Arlen and his guard made their way to the assembly of
horses near the farmhouse. When the thought came to him, Arlen turned
and glanced back to where the family was being held. Most of them had
disappeared, taken away hopefully. The only ones left where the elderly,
the children, and the badly injured. They were being led into one of the
silos at sword point. Strangely, they carried the bodies of the deceased
fighters, both homegrown and the two Arlen had killed, with them into
the silo. The children were weeping, as were many of the adults.

	"Wha... what's going on?"

	The guard tapped Arlen on the side with the blunt edge of his
sword. "Nothing. Eyes forward please."

	"Where are the others?"

	The guard was silent.

	As he regained his wits, Arlen lusted to know what was going to
happen. Trap them until the raiders could escape? But why leave their
dead comrades behind? In an attempt to widen his window to observe,
Arlen stayed his current pace even knowing he could manage better now
that he was fully roused. When he neared the brigade's horses, he began
to slow down. Another tap remedied him of this fakery.

	Screams filled the air.

	Arlen snapped about and the guard made no move to stop him. The
silo was aflame. Several of the raiders were ringing the burning silo,
preventing any possible escape. Over the roar of flames children
screamed for their parents and the adults scream for mercy for the
children.

	"What are you doing?!" Arlen moved towards the silo but his guard
grabbed his shoulder. "Stop! Stop it! STOP IT NOW! STOP! THEY'RE
CHILDREN FOR THE GODS' PITY! PLEASE! STOP PLEASE!"

	The guard kidney-punched Arlen, sending the screaming man
sprawling to the hard icy ground. "That's enough of that now," he said,
towering over Arlen.

	"YOU *coughcough* SICK BASTARDS, THEY'RE CHILDREN! CHILDREN!"

	"All right, that's it." So the boot came down, and darkness with
it.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	The head of his father floated before him, severed tendons
dangling freely like half-chewed sticks of jerky. The blood on his face
had dried and, in places where it was thin enough, brown flakes had
fallen away to reveal the skin beneath. This was not a pleasant sight;
the head's flesh had bruised and rotted. Worms and insects darted about
his father's mouth and had eaten away one the eyes. The remaining eye
was milky and shriveled, and beneath, Arlen suspected something was
stirring.

	MY SON....

	Arlen tore his sight away from the thing but wherever he turned it
appeared, almost as if the head was moving *him* about. Even shutting
his eyes did nothing to lessen its horror, for it was a thing of
darkness, and darkness not only surrounded Arlen, but bred itself within
him as well.

	KNOW THIS CHILD...

	An beetle's forelimb prodded behind the remaining eye, with a
pointed thrust it broke through the jellied flesh. Methodically, it
began to carve its way out.


	...THE DEATH OF THE SHALARI CLAN...

	Memories of fire and death and family filled the darkness
suffusing Arlen.

	...IS...

	One potato after another fell into the maw of the mechanical
monstrosity and its precision-crafted teeth pulped the taters into a
thick paste. A single man presided over the matter and he watched it
only absentmindedly.

	...ON...

	An itch ran up Arlen's neck, twisting the nerve endings into a
terrific knot. No scratching could undo it. No cutting could undo it.
Nothing his hands held could undo it.

	...YOUR...

	He was frozen in a web of ice. Fire could free him, but fire was
the enemy. Remember the Shalari Clan? Remember what I did? How they
burned? Don't you remember?

	....HEAD!

	"No! You're not-

	His father's head exploded into a cloud of insects. The swarm made
a beeline for him. Arlen clamped his hand over his face, trying to
protect himself. It was useless. The bugs stung him and bit him and ate
away at his flesh.

	What was he supposed to say? It so important. He had to say it or
it would eat away at him. Oh Gods, they were eating away at him, the
bugs. And now the words were too. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!
Chomp! Chomp!

	Arlen was consumed.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	He awoke to find himself in a small cell, or a large cage
depending on one's perspective, inside of a tent. His hands were no
longer bound but that mattered not; nothing was within arms reach
anyway. He longed to stand, to stretch, but there was barely enough room
to crouch within the cell. Not to mention both his ankles were secured
together with chains. Worse, he had been striped down to his
undergarments, leaving him well chilled. Probably for the best, no one
was in the tent with him. Outside the tent, he heard the rumblings of
men moving about.

	Forlornly, Arlen realized his pouch of gold was gone.

	Arlen sat alone for nearly an hour, waiting. Finally the thin man
and two of his soldiers appeared. Both men weren't dressed in the armor
of Salian soldier, like their comrades at the farm, but they wore plain
clothes with the signal of Iso, emblazoned on strip of cloth, wrapped
around their right arms. One of the men wore a black hood.

	"My my," said Wispy, brandishing the scroll which formalized the
compensation he received for Shalnay's broken contract, "this is
interesting. I haven't had this interesting a read for a long time.
Awake, that is. Not that I'd dream about something like this, oh no." He
appraised the parchment with a happy grin. "But really, the late prince
buying a whore for keeps? How-

	-interesting?" offered Arlen.

	The glee on Wispy's face died away. "Yes. Now that I know who and
what you are, you yourself are no longer of interest to me. And do you
know what that means?"

	Arlen glared at the bony man silently. After a long time he
realized the other man was actually expecting an answer. In turn, Arlen
grasped at straws, "It means you're going to let me go?"

	Wispy looked dumbfounded. "Actually, yes."

	"Well then you... wait. Let me go?"

	"Yes. Go. Go to Hell."

	At the sounding of the quip, the two men moved forwards. The
hooded one drew a fearsome blade from his side while the other
mechanically unlocked the tiny jail and retrieved the chain trailing
from Arlen's feet. Grabbing the young man's shoulders, he hauled Arlen
out of the cage and onto his feet. Arlen, for his part, spat upon and
cursed the guards and their leader, a sport that Wispy seemed to take
joy in.

	"Close that mouth," ordered the thin man.

	Arlen said, "No way you pigf-GAMPHF!" A dirty, calloused hand
clamped over Arlen's mouth, firmly clamping the jaw shut to avoid the
threat of that mouth's teeth.

	The thin man opened the way for the men to take Arlen away.
Dragging the jerking, squirming form out the tent, the quintet made
their towards the outskirts of the raiders' encampment. There was a
sparse patch of land with an odious black pockmark on the face of the
earth: a grave.

	The two men tossed Arlen beside that scar. The hooded man reached
for a huge axe while his comrade stood guard. The gaunt commander
watched over them all.

	Arlen pushed himself off the ground, wobbling as he did so. Once
on his knees he looked about: two armed guards, another man likely as
dangerous, and... dear gods... an entire encampment to back them up.

	"I can make this quick," said the hooded man, his would-be
executioner, speaking with confidence in his own skill. "Quick and
clean. You won't feel anything. You won't have time. Just hold that
pose, please."

	Unbelieving, the young man still nodded his head.

	The winds of The North rushed over Arlen and, in his lack of
clothing, he trembled. The terror of the wind's screams mixed with those
from his dreams and Arlen joined them in their cries with a melancholy
laugh. It's so perfect this way, he thought, so right.

	One asked, "What's so funny?"

	Arlen shook his head, cheeks wet with tears. "Like father, like
son," he half-whispered, letting them all in on the joke.

	The hooded man coughed. "Any last words?"

	"Yeah," Arlen twisted around to look at the thin man, Wispy. "Go
eat a sandwich or something."

	The thin man smiled. "I will, thanks."

	The hooded man hefted his axe, angling it for the proper blow.

	Arlen stared into the white, his body feeling flush with anxiety
as if it had been cued in on what was to come.

	And Wispy watched, intent but aloof.

	The signal was given. The axe fell.

	"STOP!" screamed Wispy, causing the executioner to swing wide and
send his instrument into the ground aside Arlen, who flinched at its
passing.

	The other guard looked at his commander. "Sir?"

	Wispy snapped, "_What_?"

	"Er...."

	"You," a bony finger unfolded and pointed at the other speaker,
"take the prisoner back to his cell. Tend to his needs. Food. Clothes."
A pause. "Whatever." Another pause. "And I want a constant guard around
him, two -no!- three guards."

	The guard stared blankly.

	"NOW!" he thundered.

	Wispy turned to the hooded man as a numb and shaken Arlen was
dragged to his feet. "Consider the order of execution rescinded."

	"Sir," grunted the hooded man.

	"Take the prisoner away." The thin man cast a probing glance at
Arlen. "We'll talk later, you and I."


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	"Well look who finally decided to get up," chided Sophia, his
adoptive mother.

	Arlen yawned groggily, thanking the gods for his fair hair and how
it let him pass for days as clean-shaven. If living in a whorehouse had
taught him anything, it was that too much work went into shaving for
such finite results.

	"I saved you breakfast," his mother said, offering a hotplate
covered with a lid. "Though by now it would better be called lunch."

	Arlen laughed humorlessly. "Har har, mother. And a good morning to
you to." He sat down, picked up a fork, and lifted the lid to reveal
congealed egg-somethings, cheese, bread, and cooled slab of charred
pink-something. He looked up with his eyes suddenly awake. "You... you
made breakfast for me?"

	"I have been known to cook. It's not like we could always afford a
cook."

	"But you never cook for me."

	His mother shrugged. "I thought you could use a home cooked meal
after dealing with that rowdy lot last night. You did well to police
those nobles."

	"Oh." A pause. "Well, thanks. Thank you."

	"You're welcome." His mother nodded. "So, did you happen to
overhear where the prince's party was headed?"

	Arlen frowned in concentration. "Iso, I think. Sala maybe."

	"Which do you think?"

	"Iso. That is where Dmitri's been exiled to, right? Or was it
Bifrost?"

	The matron 'hmmm'ed. "I see."

	A scoop of pink-something disappeared into Arlen's mouth. "Why do
you ask?"

	His mother regarded him calmly. "You did do a headcount last
night, didn't you?"

	He nodded, chewing. "Of course."

	"And?"

	"And?"

	"Everyone was accounted for?"

	"Yeah. Why?"

	"Even the new arrivals?"

	Arlen stared at his mother. "Something the matter?"

	"We're short one."

	A frown. "We are? Who?"

	"Shalnay."

	"The pity case?"

	"The vary same."

	"Damn contract cases," he grunted, prying apart the mass of eggs
on his plate. "Well, she can't have run far. I'll round up the eunuchs
after this and we'll go talk to the constable. He owes us more than a
few favors."

	"I'm afraid that won't be enough. She ran away with the prince."

	Arlen threw his fork onto his plate. "Damnation. I thought Dmitri
a decent john."

	"As did I," his mother murmured in agreement. "In fact, he even
offered to buy out her contract last night."

	"Really?"

	"Yes. Of course I told him no. It's not as if he has the gold on
hand to compensate for a pretty face like Shalnay. Hell, she's still
rather fresh compared to most standards. I'd have been a fool to sell
her."

	"I totally agree. So what are you planning to do?"

	Silence fell on the table. Arlen looked up, curious. Sophia
steeled her face as she spoke. "You need to go get her."

	Arlen gagged. Sputtering, he cleared his throat. "Excuse
*couhcough* me?"

	"I can't trust any of the eunuchs with this; they might run off or
be bought off. You've met the prince; he'll recognize you as the
brothel's representative. Hopefully. So when you catch up with him
either bring Shalnay back or ask for a hefty compensation"

	"But-

	"Look. You care about this business, right? We can't have a girl
running off. It sets a bad precedent."

	"But-

	His mother put a hand over her heart. "I trust you, son. You've
always been a good boy. Now be a good boy and eat you're breakfast."

	Arlen frowned. "But I've already eaten."

	"Eat your breakfast boy."

	"But-

	His mother's voice took on a manly air. "Are you even awake? Hey,
wake up!"


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	"Hey boy," the voice, a fine male timber, called, "wake up or I'll
have to eat this myself."

	Arlen opened his eyes. The world swirled into focus. He was back
in his cage and, crouching beside, was a guard holding two bowls.
"Morning."

	"Sure." He pressed the two bowls through the bars. "Here. I even
threw in a special treat."

	Arlen retrieved the bowls with his hands, which had been untied
following his stay of execution. The larger bowl held a quantity of
clean water. Inside the other bowl was gruel, but it was topped by a
hexagon-ish green fruit with intricate blue swirls on its skin.
Norsefruit.

	The brothel guard looked over to his captor. "Why?"

	The guard grinned. "Hell, anyone who put an arrow through
Bledegg's eye with a crappy hunting bow deserves a reward."

	"Huh?"

	"Bledegg hated us archers. Said we didn't have the balls for
*real* combat. Pfff! But the fact he ended up dying by arrow fills my
heart with glee."

	The arrow-strewn corpse of the noseless farmer flashed through
Arlen's mind. "Thanks," he said flatly.

	The guard's grin faded. "Sure... sure."

	Finding himself ravished with hunger and thirst, Arlen dug into
the meal. Biting out a portion of the sweet norsefruit, he used it as a
scoop for the gruel. Too soon he was finished and the archer-guard took
his dishes away.

	At a loss, Arlen studied his surroundings once again. Inside the
tent was a curious mixture of Iso banners, older Salian Kingdom banners,
and fresh crimson flags with a familiar signal emblazoned on them. Where
had he seen it? The compensation papers for Shalnay flashed through his
mind. They were important. Why?

	Prince Dmitri's Royal Seal.

	"What the hell are you guys doing?" he blurted out.

	One of the guards deigned to respond. "Make a living, I suppose.
Uphold a cause too."

	"A cause?" Arlen looked between the three men in the tent. "What
'cause' would that be? Burning farms? Killing old men and murdering
children?"

	One of the guards, who looked no older than Arlen save for the
eyes of soldier, said, "Independence. Freedom from Salian tyranny.
Things you Kaddegh louts don't need to worry yourselves with."

	"Excuse me, we're part of the same kingdom."

	The archer-guard shook his head. "Look, everyone knows Kaddegh is
a city just like Iso. It just happens to be-

	"Strategically unimportant?" the teen-guard cut in.

	-farther away from the hub cities than most."

	"Yeah, but that's not important. Iso is- excuse me, you're all
from Iso, right?"

	They all nodded.

	"Right. Anyway, Iso is one city. You're going to have the entire
Salian Kingdom coming down on you.

	"I wouldn't be so sure of that," chimed in the teen-guard, who was
silenced by glares from the other two guards.

	Arlen continued. "Trust me, I was in Sala not a week past. Hell,
it looks like they've been looking for an excuse to crush you for
awhile."

	"Obviously Sala is afraid of us," said the teen-guard naively.

	Arlen shook his head. "Sure kid." Poor bastards, he thought.

	"Well-

	"I think we've said enough," announced the third guard, a one-
armed elder with a loaded crossbow perched on his lap. "As has the
prisoner."

	Archer-guard nodded. "I agree."

	"Come on," taunted Arlen, "you can at least tell me you names.
Mine's Arlen."

	He was met by a wall of silence.

	"Fine. Be that way." And he slumped against the bars of his cage.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	The next few hours passed in relative silence. As new guards
rotated onto duty Arlen was able to hit them up with casual chit chat
but nothing stronger. Apparently, word had been spread to not discuss
ideology or current events with the prisoner. Arlen, though uneasy in
his cage, thought this to be a good/bad development. Good because if
they were going to kill him they wouldn't mind their tongues. Bad
because it kept him in a state alternating between boredom and tension.

	After lunch, Arlen fell into a light slumber.

	He was in the past, fighting that first runebeast with Grael and
Katria. As in reality, his sword slashes made little difference against
the creature's glowing, bubbly flesh. But here it seemed the thing was
closing in on him from all sides, caging him with its cancerous flesh.
Suddenly a mouth appeared, bursting out of a shoulder blade, and. it.
ROARED.

	"Gah!" Arlen snapped awake, hitting his head on the bars that
formed the ceiling of his cage. He cast a confused look about until the
last day came back to him.

	Arlen looked over at one of the guards on duty, a slovenly man who
was likely serving in a logistical fashion, and asked, "Man, how long
was I out?"

	"A quarter hour," the man replied skittishly. "Perhaps a tad long
either way."

	Arlen rubbed his head absentmindly. "Thanks. Thanks." He studied
the guard. "What's got up your butt?"

	"Nothing," the man snapped.

	The prisoner looked evenly about his tent. All the guards within
seemed on-edge. "Right."

	Arlen sat back and massaged his right leg. The bandage for the
arrow wound would need changing soon. While flexing the leg to achieve a
more comfortable position, he gasped in pain. After letting it subsided
he looked at the guard who had been on-duty the longest. "Say," he
started, pressing his face against the cage's bars, "I could *really*
use the latrine right now.

	"Can you hold it another hour?"

	"Would I be asking if I could?"

	The guard sighed, and then stood up. "Fine. But no funny
business."

	"I'll be good." He thrust his hands through the bars. "Now let's
go."


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Standing up had felt brilliant, but soon it was back into the cage
for Arlen. Time passed slowly until dinner, a hardy soup and more water,
arrived. Most of the while he spent time just talking to the guards,
even if they never talked back.

	"Say, I have to say that chain mail of your looks very manly on
you, what with the blood of children stained upon it. Can you tell me
the trader you bartered it from?"

	"Oh I wouldn't do that. He _obviously_ has a better hand than you
do. I mean, what can you possibly do with all those aces? Besides win.
Meh heh heh...."

	"Thirty-five mugs, ahem, of ale on the wall, thirty-five mugs of
ale *coughcough* on the *cough* wall. Take one down, passing it around.
*huffhack* Thirty-four mugs of ale on the wall...."

	So it went.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Near sundown, a stream of men entered the tent, coming to and
from, taking out the Iso banners and the crimson flags and replacing
them with battle worn Salian emblems and other memorabilia of the
Kingdom. None of the men responded to Arlen's taunts, so he sat back
content to merely watch them work. Curiously, towards the end, many of
the raiders suddenly bore black scarves tied around their upper arms.
The scarves displayed the crest of Dmitri stitched on with red
threading.

	A half hour after the ant labor ended, Arlen's guard changed from
three soldier/raiders to two non-combatants. The reason why was revealed
by the thundering of horses and men moving away from the camp.

	As before, the guards wouldn't respond to Arlen's taunts. They did
however, provide him with a blanket. Wrapping it about himself, the
brothel guard drifted into dreamless sleep.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	The door to his cage opened and a large hand gripped Arlen,
shaking him awake. It was his would-be executioner, though Arlen didn't
recognize him without the black hood. Had he, Arlen would have been
unimpressed with the man's plainness.

	"Commander wants to see you." The man reversed and started
walking. "Follow me. Don't stray."

	The threat implicit, Arlen scrambled to follow as best he could in
his leg irons.

	Exiting the tent, the prisoner noted the starlit sky, wishing he
had time to discern his location, to learn the comfort of 'where'.
Turning his attention back towards more earthly matter, Arlen looked
about the camp. No fire burned but, by the light of moon, he was able to
discern the absence of the departed raiders.

	"Keep up. The Commander doesn't like to wait."

	He was led to a non-descript tent on the opposite side of the
encampment. Arlen, who pondered the lack of guards, failed to notice
several men drifting about on an outer parameter. The executioner
stopped at the entrance, announced the arrival of the prisoner, and
motioned for Arlen to enter.

	"Go."

	Hesitantly at first, then filled with a false bravado, Arlen
entered the darkness of the tent.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Sitting at a large, round table was the Commander, the thin man
Arlen had taken to thinking of as Wispy. He was pouring himself over a
set of maps and, oddly, black parchment with white lettering on it. He
was shirtless as before but wore brown pants this time, held up by a
length of coarse rope. An unearthly silver glow, which lit a narrow
portion of the tent, emanated from a plate in the center of the table.
Shattered bones sat atop the plate and upon those bones were intricate
carvings. Runes, Arlen realized with a shiver.

	Arlen stared. Waiting. When he moved to speak, he was preempted by
his host. "Sit."

	Arlen sat on a nearby stool. He dangled his chained feet
mindlessly. "So-

	"One moment, please." The gaunt man made a random squiggle at the
corner of a map of Iso. "Right," he looked up at his guest. "Have you
been treated well?"

	Eyeing the manic glow written on Wispy's face, Arlen decided
earnestness was best. "My legs hurt from being locked in the cage. The
food's decent though."

	A nod. "Well, we're a little short on room at the moment, and
likely to be more so in the near future. I can't chance your escape so
you'll have to bear with it a little longer."

	Arlen digested this bit of info. "So."

	"I suppose your wondering why I saved you life?"

	Considering you ordered it end in the first place, thought Arlen,
no. Still.... "Yes."

	The thin man reached for the black papers. Once in hand he began
to carefully ruffle through them. "I will reveal that matter to you, in
due time. First though I'd like to discuss your parentage. You would
not, perchance, be adopted?"

	Arlen frowned. "What's that got to do with-

	"I knew it!" A bony fist pumped into the air. "Ha!" Wispy stopped
his search of the papers, apparently finding his query. "How
interesting." The thin man's empty eyes danced between the paper and
Arlen himself. "'The Receptacle'... how very interesting."

	"Excuse me, Commander Wispy," Arlen said, "but I don't even know
your name."

	The thin man looked up. "'Commander Wispy'? Has a nice ring to it,
no? Why not use that nickname for now. You're the important one after
all."

	"...All right."

	"Speaking of names," began Wispy, licking his pale lips, "have you
ever... heard... of a runemaster that works with the flesh of men?"

	Arlen's body seized up.

	Wispy's bony face exploded with delight. "You have! You have,
haven't you! Oh," he began, his voice brittle yet sweet, "I envy you.
You've met my-

	"vadmir?" Arlen whispered. "You know," he said weakly, "Vad-

	"Stop." The thin man commanded Arlen, his voice heavy with a
disapproving, fatherly lilt. Without thinking, the brothel guard
complied. "Do _not_ speak His name. We are not worthy to speak His
name."

	Arlen stared dumbly. "What? V-

	The long, silver dagger rose up from beneath the table, gripped in
the unwavery hand of the thin man. "What did I just say? I said 'we are
not worthy to speak His name', of which part did you not understand?"

	"I understood perfectly what-

	"Good." Wispy lowered the dagger but still kept it in Arlen's line
of sight. "Then don't say it. That would be... disrespectful."

	Arlen took this in stride. "Sure."

	"Good." Wispy nodded, then looked down at the hand that held the
dark sheets of paper. He quivered. "Now we can get down to business."

	"And what would that be?"

	The thin man, dagger in hand, stood up and began to make his way
towards Arlen. "You don't know it, but you're a very noteworthy figure
in my Master's eyes. Valuable. Not something He wants out and about with
the war."

	Wispy stood behind Arlen, outside his eyesight. A cold fear crept
up the younger man's back, spreading a frost over every nerve it passed.
Fighting the weakness in his voice, Arlen asked, "What's going to happen
to me?"

	"Something wonderful," the thin man whispered, resting the sharp
length of his dagger across the brothel guard's neck, "depending on how
open you are."

	With a measured flick of his wrist, Wispy's dagger cut across the
back of Arlen's neck and everything went white, like snow. Like The
North.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Arlen opened his eyes. Tent filled his vision. His whole body felt
stiff. Shakily, he reached behind his neck to feel for blood. There was
none.

	"COMMANDER!" screamed a raider. "Commander Farren! Please wake!
They're getting angry!"

	Arlen shot up, attention turned to his thin captor.

	Wispy lay sprawled at odd angles, his body even more perverted
looking than normal. He seemed, Arlen mused, like a torn rag doll.
Several raiders tended to their leader.

	"wha... what's going... on?"

	"THANK JOTAN!" cried one of the men, his sentiment shared by the
others. "Please sir, you must control them before they-

	"I control them still," the thin man, Wispy, Commander Farren,
snapped dryly. "And if you don't keep your voice down I will feel
compelled to graduate you to the ranks of the faithful."

	All the men flinched at this; a few took a half step backwards.

	"I meant no offense, Commander," groveled the one.

	Wispy's face strained, as if containing his anger before a
sensitive yet misbehaving child. "I'm sure." He took notice of Arlen
and, with a sudden paleness, gestured at him. "Take the prisoner back to
his cage. Gag him. And resume the watch over him, this time with five
men. Armed men. He's far too valuable to risk."

	The raiders saluted. "Sir!"

	"Why did they call you Farren?!" Arlen stood up and threw himself
away from the raiders. "You're not Farren! He's dead! They're all
*dead*!"

	A fist found its way into Arlen's gut. "Ooof!"

	"That's enough out of you," commanded his attacker.

	"Don't harm him! I need my gift preserved!"

	The attacker trembled. "My deepest apologies, sir."

	Two of the men held Arlen's arms, restraining him, and a third his
legs. A fourth man untied his black scarf to fashion a gagged.

	"Why did they call you Farren? WHY DID THEY CALL YOU FAR-REN?!"

	Wispy nursed a stunned hand, the one that had held his dagger.
"It's my *name*. And no one was using it anyways. More importantly, it
is His gift to me."

	"THIEF!" cried Arlen, his mind flooded with the terrors and
treasures of childhood. "TH--OPF!" A gag tightened over his mouth,
shutting of his vent for rage.

	"I'll deal with you tomorrow," declared Commander 'Farren'. "Right
now I need to take care of more pressing matters."

	 Kicking, twisting, and writhing, Arlen was carted off back to his
cage.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Time passed in a froth of anger for Arlen, unflagging hatred
taking up residence in his brain.

	The childhood Arlen had repressed, shunned at every instance until
it occupied no more than the smallest, loneliest portion of his mind
seemed now to infect his every sense. He could taste blood. He could
smell cooking flesh. He could see the ruin of Shalari Clan. He could
hear again the words of his father.

	And he felt numb.

	Slowly, as the moon fell and the rising of the sun neared, Arlen
collected himself. The long, ungainly tendrils of his past curled
themselves into a single mass, one he could not seal away any longer but
at least put to rest for the moment.

	As the hours passed Arlen became aware of the return of the
vanished troops. A good cheer seemed to infect the atmosphere as they
entered the camp. The joy of triumph, Arlen realized. Cries of
"Victory!", "Iso!", and "For Dmitri!" filled the air.

	Breakfast was not served. Nor wore any of the guards, who had not
rotated out all night, forthcoming. Only at midmorning did one have the
presence of mind to provide a bedpan for Arlen, which he utilized,
despite the humiliation.

	A massager arrived. He handed a slip of paper to another who, upon
reading it, spurred his fellows to action. The cage was opened and
Arlen, though reserved now merely to watch events unfolded, was handled
with the greatest of care. Two men carried him by both his head and his
chained feet, making Arlen feel as if he was a pig on a stick.

	Carted outside, Arlen immediately noticed the influx of people in
the camp. Not the soldiers who had been off fighting but new men, aged
from first beard to gray beard, as well as a scattering of women. All of
whom were dressed in peasant garb.

	Though he was transported near the outskirts of the camp (to avoid
upsetting the newcomers, perhaps?), Arlen became aware of a large crowd
and a speaker who was rallying their devotion. With a start he became
aware that the speaker was Wispy.

	"-why should we stand for this terror? Who among you would stand
back as Salian soldiers raided your farms? Stole your grain? Slaughtered
your livestock? Killed your families before your vary eyes?"

	The guards slowed their pace, wanting to escape notice as they
approached the place where the crowd overflowed into the outer portion
of the camp. In-between clearings of tents, Arlen spotted Wispy, still
garbed in his mad prophet attire, whipping up the crowd of Iso folk.

	"Ladies and gentlemen." He slicked back his sweaty hair. "No. You
are the good people. Yes you are. You aren't the pampered royalty who
live off our *taxes*, the nobles who never *worked* a day in their
lives. Hell no! You're the good people of Iso."

	The crowd cheered for themselves.

	"My good people let me present a brave young man: a man who fought
against Salian oppression, a man who defended his family against their
raids, a man who we should all aspire to imitate."

	The crowd cheered and then the unseen guest stepped forward to
speak.

	"My good people-

	Arlen's froze. That was Peter's voice. He hadn't been killed after
all! He had escaped! Arlen strained to hear his words.

	-they took nothing, nothing save my family. I died that day! While
my cousins and I fought Sala's mercenaries in the forest, their soldiers
burned my family in our own silos! And in their name I come here today
to tell you we must never let our families be endangered by the whim's
of the nobility or their king. THEY started this war but, damn it, WE'RE
going to FINISH IT!"

	The crowd erupted in applause.

	If there was more said, Arlen was ignorant of it. His captors had
circumvented the crowd and now were carrying him into the countryside,
towards an outcropping of trees a fair distance from camp. Meanwhile the
mob broke out into a rousing chant that started as "FINISH IT!" but
mutated into "FINISH THEM!".

	Before he had time to recover from being stunned, Arlen entered
the forest.


	=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


	Arlen heard them before he saw them.

	"Isur's preserve us," one of his guards hissed.

	The men dusted a patch of earth to rest Arlen on, one a safe
distance from their 'allies'. His newfound vantage point merely
confirmed what had tightened his heart.

	There were five of them, misshapen forms born of the evil of men.
Born of men. Two were hulks with distended limbs and gangly jaws,
huffing in the cold. Two more were lanky, agile looking creatures with
vicious ridges running up their arms at all angles. The last was the
most manlike and easily the worst of the lot. This one wore the shreds
of a Salian soldier's uniform over his translucent skin and possessed a
look of cunning in its bulbous lilac eyes. Atop its shoulders were
perched two birds, also sporting runes carved on their flesh.

	Runebeasts all.

	"Don't make any sudden movements or loud noises," cautioned a
guard, his voice tinted with pity for Arlen's fate and fear for his own
self. "Don't provoke them. They've been... trained... by the Commander."

	Arlen gazed at the creatures, sleepy-looking things, save for the
fifth, who seemed to be attentively awaiting their creator's return. A
single, dying runebeast had once almost taken Arlen and his former
companions out, not two weeks ago. There were five here. Seven, really.
Healthy looking all, Arlen mused, if you can call anything like them
healthy.

	The brothel guard looked up at his escorts. "That's it, isn't it?"
His breath was short, labored. "This is how that wisp orders you around.
Obey or die... or worse."

	They didn't respond.

	"Why?" he asked. "Why go through with _this_? What could possibly
be worth it?"

	The reply was short and feeble. "Iso."

	Arlen shut his eyes.

	Time passed swiftly, despite the growls and chirps of the
runebeasts. The majority of Arlen's fear subsided as five, ten, and
finally twenty minutes passed without his life ending. Still, the
unnaturalness ate at him. The men too. Calm was impossible.

	When the monsters began rousing, Arlen shivered despite himself.
Looking about he searched for the source of their... ecstasy? Delight?
Fear? He came up with their creator, who stepped forward barefooted, and
with, of all things, Arlen's scimitar at his side.

	"Hello!" greeted Wispy, giving the beasts a little wave. "You're
all ratcheted up to go, right? Right?"

	Energetic grunts and chirps filled air.

	The thin man smiled. "Excellent." He turned to his human soldiers.
"You are dismissed."

	"Sir," came the general reply.

	The men turned and made their way back to camp with all due haste,
eager to escape the presence of the things that were to be their army's
war machines. One man, a shorthaired fellow with a face full of scars,
took a long look at Arlen. The fellow shook his head ever so slightly,
turned, and moved to catch up with his comrades.

	Arlen, bound hand and foot, was alone with Wispy and his
creations.

	Trying to salvage something, the prisoner spoke up. "So, did he
teach you how to do it?" Arlen narrowed his gaze. "Teach you how to
pervert men."

	Wispy smiled thoughtfully. "In a way. I have known my Master's
face only once. Long ago, when I was but a feeble runesmith with
childish dreams of glory, he gifted me with these." Overturning his
hands, the thing man showed off his palms to Arlen. Both palms featured
delicate runecarvings, shaped along the natural flow of the skin. "I no
longer know his body but I do know his hands, his dreams. That's how he
comes to me. We are together, him and I, in the dream. His mind guides
my hands, performing the delicate work of runesmithing, much like a
thoughtful master would guide his marionette in a dance."

	Wispy paused, his face alight with momentary nervousness. "You
can't comprehend the feeling," the thin man said, sharing his experience
with another for the first time. "It's better than any food or drink or
woman could ever be, his hands working though mine."

	The runesmith turned to regard his toy monsters. "These are the
freshest, the best. I'm not as good as he; true runesmithing isn't a
secondhand affair. No. I never will be able to do as I wish for him. But
I do... admire... him. I think I even love him." Wispy turned to Arlen
and on his face was the most genuine expression the young man had ever
seen. "And if I can do even this _one_ thing for him, bring about his
works for all the world to know, then it will all be worth it. All the
sacrifice. Your's. Mine. Their's."

	"You're insane."

	"No," the thin man contended. "I just know what I want in the
world. Just like those pitiful farmers do now."

	"You killed their families. Burned their farms."

	"I gave them needed motivation."

	"And what happens when they find out that you did it? Some among
their families, those they believe dead, still live.  I heard you
ordered them taken away, the 'valuables' you called them. And then there
are the raiders. All it'll take is one slip-up, one guilty conscious."

	"Oaths and runes, my good child. Should one man attempt to broach
the issue of those days they will fall over dead, mouths agape. And
these are scoundrels we speak of; good coin heals all wounds with their
kind. No one will talk. No one will know."

	"The families-

	"Taken care of."

	Arlen frowned. "How-

	The runebeasts grunted.

	"No...."

	Wispy strode over to Arlen and picked up the younger, thicker man.
"I think you know better than to try and harm me," he cooed, untying and
unlocking Arlen's bonds. "Good," and with that Wispy petted Arlen's neck
lovingly. The brothel guard flinched and drew away. "The Master's
Receptacle. How will it be when he sees you again? Will he even
recognize you after all these years?"

	Arlen stared at Wispy, bewildered.

	"Come," the thin man beckoned. "We must get you into your
harness."

	"'Harness'?"

	"Of course. You didn't think I'd expect you to journey to the
Master's aid slung over one of these beast's shoulders, did you?"

	Arlen's voice was cold. "I'm not going anywhere."

	Wispy hunched forward. "Oh," he whispered conspiratorially, "but
you are."

	"No. I'm not."

	The thin man's face contorted in distaste. "The Master needs our
help. His dreams tell me so. A very bad man, THE very bad man, has found
him."

	"Good."

	"You and my beasts must go to his aid quickly! Something terrible
could happen!"

	Slowly. "I don't think you understand. I hope your 'Master'
suffers a long and painful 'something terrible' before his head is
placed on a pike."

	Blood rushed to the thin man's face, more blood than Arlen thought
contained in the man's whole body. By some wordless deed, he called one
of the beasts, the fifth and greatest among them. The beast and Arlen
stared each other down, both determined to carry out their implicit will
until the end of ends.

	And then runebeast punched Arlen in the head.

	"Right," said Wispy, eyeing the unconscious man. "You know what to
do," he added to his lilac-eyed beast.

	Methodically, the beast retrieved the harness from the brush,
secured it to one of its hulking brethren, and strapped Arlen into it.

	"Take this," its fashioner instructed, offering the stained
scimitar. "It might come in handy somehow." To which the beast again
nodded.

	"Go."

	And the group scurried into the forest, headed towards the center
of the Salian Kingdom's hub, to wherever their master's Master laid in
peril.

	Commander 'Farren' watched them depart. "I am my Master's proxy,"
he said to himself, "and I have work to do."

	And so he went to war.


========================================================

Author's Notes

	God this felt good.

	I haven't written for Impro in a while. I hadn't realized how much
I missed it. There's something satisfying about looking at what others
have written, dissecting their words and metaphors, searching for
guiding clues to the plot. Impro reminds me of those multi-volume epics
I read, the ones with years between installments. Pouring over the text,
looking for what the author is really saying: that's Improfanfic. We are
not only WRITERS here but READERS as well.

	I hope I can read The North to its natural conclusion. I want to
know about Arlen's past, Brandt's son, Shalnay's future, Ann's life,
Wispy/Farren's plans, (the REAL) Farren & company's mercenary job, King
Petroyv's heartbreak, Christov's fate, Katria's development, Grael's
task, and the Iso-Sala War.

	Most of all I want to know about The North.

	And only YOU can help me know.




	Thanks to Segev Stormlord, Nick Callahan, and Joyce (Ann) Hawkins
for prereading. Your advice was vital to the development of this part.
Special thanks to Schneeble for introducing me to The North with his
wonderful starter. Props for Calculus, by far the most efficient
administrator I've worked with so far.


3/24/2004