Salvar: Winter's Heart

[Closed]

He sighed into his tented hands and looked around.

The faint flickering light of the lone candle bathed the small, bare boned room with an amber glow, casting long shadows that made the room feel darker than it actually was. A small three legged stool, a thin pallet and a small writing table that was barely more than a stool itself made up the furnishings in the room, highlighting the spartan nature of its occupant.

Eyes the color of raging storm clouds took in the quaint furniture, the lone candle, the rough hewn stone that made up the walls, the rough wood door that stood haphazardly in an equally haphazard doorway and slowly blinked. A faint sound of an inhaled breath and a slight shift in body weight that made the figures bones creak were the only sounds to fill the room for a long while. Finally there came a knock on the door, jarring the figure out of his silent contemplation and deep rooted brooding.

He briefly contemplated pretending not to have heard the knock but the thought was quickly banished as the knock came a second time, more forcefully and heavy this time.

"Father," a faint, light voice called from the far side. "Father, are you awake?"

He sighed silently and slowly stood, brushing his robes free of dust and dirt that had long accumulated on the bare floor of the room. "Yes," he replied to the voice, his deep baritone bass echoing loudly within even though he hadn't raised his voice much above a whisper.

There was a clank and a heavy grating noise as the door latch was sprung and the door slowly opened. A brighter amber glow flooded into the room as a five armed candelabrum was thrust into the small space, followed in short order by a slight of frame boy who was no more than nine years of age. Dressed in the light brown robes of an alter boy, the young child quickly cast his pale green eyes about the room, finding nothing amiss as they alighted on his frame and then rose to meet his own gray eyes.

"Father," the boy said in his faint, light child voice. "There are petitioners here who wish to speak with the Lord." He bowed his head at the last, silently giving a prayer to his Lord in reverence, as was the custom. Then he returned his gaze up into the gray eyes, waiting expectantly.

The gray eyed man smiled kindly, his cheeks dimpling as he strode forward to rest a large, calloused but gentle hand on the boys shoulder. "Then we shall go to them child," he said in his larger than life voice, applying gentle pressure to the boys shoulder to direct him from the room. Together the two figures, one short with pale brown robes, the other a towering figure of nearly eight feet dressed in darker brown, almost black robes, departed the room swiftly. The door grated loudly behind them as it swung shut, the latch clanking loudly as it snapped into place. The lone candle flickered momentarily, threatening to go out before the flame strengthened once more. A long moment passed in the now empty, silent room before the sound of the latch unlocking and the door opening once again filled the space with noise. The tall robed figure stepped in briefly, just long enough to blow the candle out. A thin wisp of smoke curled up away from the stick as the door swung shut and latched once more.

The petitioners were of a mixed sort. Ranging from the bleary eyed dead gaze of a beggar, to the bright, alert eyes of a young man, full of vigor and undaunted by the size of the world around him. The gray eyed man smiled kindly to all of them, sixteen total men and women and approached each in turn, offering kind and gentle words before directing each to take a seat in amongst the great rows of pews.

There were forty rows of pews placed in two columns within the great vaulted hall of the Grenatte Monastery. Each pew was nearly thirty feet long and both columns were spaced fifteen feet apart, with nearly ten more feet of room on each side before the carved granite walls. Spaced almost six feet apart, the pews stretched so far back into the great hall that even with all the candles, lamps and torches lit beneath its ceiling, the a far ends of the hall were forever cast into permanent shadow.

All along the walls stood visages of the great Eternal Sway; the great and omnipotent force of beings that the people of Salvar worshiped on a near daily basis. Gold wreathed statues of great saints and martyrs filled tall niches and crowded alcoves and balconies up and down the walls of the great hall, their golden skin casting flickering reflections and retractions around the room in a dazzling display of golden light. Suspended from the ceiling were ten great chandeliers, their dozens of arms draped with golden and diamond encrusted chains, the great candles as of yet unlit and unable to dispel the gloom of the vast room. Though they were unlit, the nature of their gold encrusted arms helped to reflect light around the room, brightening it in a way that would otherwise be impossible.

Behind and above the gray eyed man stood the alter of the Sway, a behemoth of gold, amber and silver work, needing six squat legs to hold its bulk off the ground. It rested on a great dais, thirty grand and wide steps leading up to a base that was nearly twice as large as the alter itself. Draped across the alter was a great red and gold blanket, lined with great tassels and frills and so large that it nearly touched the floor on either side of the alter. Atop this blanket rested two massive candle holders, squat and powerful in gold and silver livery. Between these two holders rested a massive gold bound book; the Holy Text itself was filled with thousands upon thousands of legends, myths, morals, punishments, codes and rules as set down by the Eternal Sway so many hundreds of years ago. It was the edict of the common man to read these texts and offer their prayers to the Eternal Sway as often as he could, be it daily or once a week during one of the many great services offered by the church. Should he be unable to read these texts on his own, it was up to men like the gray eyed man to read the words of the book to them, so they might know and understand and believe in the sacred word.

Behind and beyond the great alter, suspended from the great vaulted ceiling, hung the very earthly visage of the Eternal Sway itself, the All-Seeing Eye. The great Eye gazed over the heads of those that would gather in the pews, ever watchful and ever aware of those lesser among men and their sins.

All told it was a very grandiose display of power and wealth, both uplifting and oppressive at once. Any man who entered into the monastery was all at once filled with immense awe and crushing guilt that it left many a soul blubbering and foaming in the crush of emotion.

The gray eyed man took it all in with only a brief glance, for he had seen it many times and had long since gotten used to the overbearing display. He had long ago gotten over its press and had since become immune to its touch. He turned solemnly from the last petitioner and after a brief pause to pray at the base of the steps leading up to the alter, ascended the grand steps to stand behind the alter and its resting text. He then lifted his arms in a grand gesture of beseechment and in a loud booming voice, commanded the powers of the Sway to heed his call in the name of those present. He then let his gaze settle on the first petitioner below him.

"Approach children," he called down in his great voice. "And I shall endeavor to hear the answers to your prayers."

The prayers were, unsurprisingly, very run of the mill type requests. Topics ranged from granting a farmer the good fortune of having a stable and productive planting season, to a merchant wishing for more customers and greater profits, and just about everything in between. In fact, the only heartfelt prayer that the gray eyed man thought was truly genuine in its self-sacrifice, was that of the beggar. The man was unwashed, covered in mites and fleas, missing more teeth then there were fingers on his gnarled and broken hands, draped in rags of every sort and weave and when he approached the alter, his back stooped and bent from years of destitute life, he simply smiled a gap toothed, crooked smile up at the gray eyed man and slipped a single grimy piece of silver up onto the alter.

"A prayer for those children that might not have a warm place to sleep this night," was all he said as he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, eyes flickering left and right, head bobbing as his body wobbled atop feet that had to have been broken more than a dozen times. The gray eyed man simply stared, his face calm but not harsh, and after a time slowly nodded.

"Your prayers have been heard child," he said in his deep voice as he reached out to slid the silver piece back toward the man. "But you need not pay to have them heard, the Sway are not out to rob you of your money." The beggar stared at the coin for a moment, still sucking on his lower lip, before slowly reaching out with a shaking hand and placing it atop the hand of the gray eyed man. His smile returned as he lifted his shaking gaze.

"I have no use for the coin," he said simply as he slowly pushed the hand and coin back onto the alter. "Please see that it is given to those who might need it more than I." Then he turned and swiftly descended the steps with an agility that went against the outward nature of his stooped frame. He paused only momentarily at the base of the steps, lifting his gaze to the Eye beyond that alter, before shuffling down the center aisle, disappearing into the inky darkness beyond.

For a long moment the gray eyed man simply stared out into the blackness, the silver coin held lightly in his palm, as an icy calm descending down onto his shoulders as he realized what the strange donation symbolized. He silently wondered if he too would know when the time came with such certainty that he'd be able to gift his worldly possessions to someone who might need them. The thought, and many others like it, danced behind his eyes as he returned them to the young man who had just stepped up to the dais and was about the ascend the steps when a loud crash exploded from within the inky blackness beyond the last row of pews.

A great cacophony of yells and shouts followed the resounding crash as a large cluster of men burst into the light of the great hall, their voices raised in pleas of assistance as they stormed into the hall. They were all men of the nearby town, and all were armed and armored, and nearly all were covered in blood and gore. The gray eyed man took it all in in an instant, his eyes having seen the like many times before though no other soul would here would have known as such. He quickly stepped around from behind the alter and rushed down the steps to meet the men as they shambled, fell, crawled and were dragged by their fellows forward.

"What happened," the gray eyed man shouted over the din as he reached the group, his hands reaching out to support one fellow who looked nearer the verge of death than he was to falling down.

"Attacked," one man nearby breathed hoarsely as he fell heavily onto one of the nearby pews. "Kings army, attacked... town..." he wheezed as he slipped suddenly into unconsciousness. All around him his fellows were in various states of consciousness and life, all begging and pleading for help, and immediately the gray eyed man could see that at least two wouldn't last through the next half hour. He gently lay the man he was holding on the nearest pew and rose to turn to the petitioners.

"Brave souls, these men need our help and we must give it to them. Quickly now, fetch the other brothers of this order and find me items to wash and tend to these wounds." He spoke loudly, with authority and swiftly so as to dissuade those with faint hearts from fleeing. He moved quickly to gather the onlookers, pushing them toward a doorway that had just opened to reveal another brown robed man, his eyes wide with shock and fear as he took in the sight.

"Wha..." he asked behind a lifted hand.

"Do not dally," the gray eyed man said before the other could get more words out. "We must do what we can for these men, and quickly. Now, hurry to aid them." He finished shoving the other onlookers, their eyes wide and more than one with a pale face, toward the door way where the second robed man gathered them into a herd, his questions lost for the moment as he set to the task of his Order. The group quickly disappeared down the hall and after a brief moment individuals began streaming out, their arms filled with rolls of cloth or bundles of blankets, or wash basins or jugs filled with water.

The gray eyed man quickly began ushering people to key locations around the pews as more and more brown robed men and light brown robed boys began filing into the hall, their own arms filled with cloth, basins and water. Word had spread quickly throughout the monastery and they were all rapidly coming to task. The group of wounded and dying men were quickly sorted out amongst the pews, their cries of pain and anguish filling the once quiet great hall with noise and suffering.

The gray eyed man swiftly became lost in the din as he moved from man to man, tending wounds, or comforting those who he knew had no chance at more life. In the back of his mind though, thoughts and visions of the events that could have led to this disaster crashed and roared amongst one another, demanding resolution. He silently wondered if his time at this place was now, finally, drawing to a rapid close.

The work was hard, the mess was gargantuan, the sound horrifying and the screams deafening. These things though were easy enough to partition from his waking mind and largely ignore; it was the smell however, that he could not ignore. Try as he might, and mightily did he try, he could not banish the scent of death and life rapidly descending into death from his nostrils and it more than once caused him to gag and almost throw up.

They worked quickly, and with as many hands as could be spared. Some were sent out to ascertain what had truly happened down in the town, others were sent in the fastest wagons to acquire additional supplies from outlying villages near enough to the monastery that they might be able to lend aid. Still others were sent on fast horses to further flung villages and towns, more to spread warning of the supposed betrayal by the kings army than to gain more information. Those that were left dove head long into the task of saving as many of the stricken lives as could be saved.

Some though, try as they might, were too far into deaths arms to be brought back and those that did, blessedly died quickly and quietly. The rest, all in various states of wounding, were quickly partitioned out onto the pews and nearby floors, wherever space could be made for them. Soon every pew had at least one man laid out upon it, some with two, a small few with three, all depending on the severity of their wounds. The floor space between the rows was left clear, but the center aisle and outer aisles were lined head to toe with men, two wide all the way from the first row of pews to the far wall near the entrance of the hall. The gray eyed man counted just over one hundred fifty men laying within the monastery turned hospital. It was a rather unpleasant sight and one that he, not even a half day before, would have ever thought to have witnessed with the walls of this hall.

He was just rising from attending to a young man of no more than twenty years, his leg gashed open from hip to knee, when a blood soaked hand and sleeve caught his robes, dragging him back down to his knees. It was the hand of a middle aged man, grey hairs just starting to streak his raven black hair, and from the look of his make shift uniform, was some kind of officer. His grip was iron hard as the gray eyed man tried to free his robes from the mans hand, and he could feel himself being dragged closer toward the man even as he struggled to free himself. The gray eyed man relented after a brief moment and knelt the rest of the way down to the wounded officer, leaning in close to the man as he did so. He saw the words forming on the mans lips more than he heard them.

"We fought them," he croaked out in a harsh whisper, his voice cracking as though it were drying up. The man swallowed a few times, struggling mightily as he did.

"We are free men," came another dry, croaking whisper. The gray eyed man laid a gentle hand against the mans shoulder, a reassuring touch amongst all the pain and suffering the man must be feeling.

"I know," he said, as softly and gently as he could. "You all fought well."

He gently squeezed again and made as to rise but the officers grip tightened and yanked him back down again. This time he was right up against the mans face and could feel his hot breaths, rapid and shallow, against his cheek.

"They," he croaked. "Are...sacking.....the...towhhhhhh..."

The last came out as a long gurgling rattle as the mans body tightened and then suddenly went limp, his hand falling open and away from the robes that it had so tightly grasped just a moment before.

The gray eyed man could only stare in mute shock at the now lifeless body beside him that had not moments before been full of life. Dying life, but life all the same. They officers gray-green eyes were all glazing over beneath the pall of death even as the living gray eyes watched. A grunt from his other side brought the gray eyed mans gaze away from the dead mans. It was the young man whose leg had been gashed open. He was staring in wide eyed shock down at the dead man, his face going pale as he took in the sight.

"H-h-he's t-t-telling the t-t-truth," he managed between rattling teeth. "About th-th-the t-t-town being s-s-sacked." He shifted his body as if he were trying to slide away from the dead mans.

"They are killing everyone," he said, his voice gaining strength even as his body did, pushing himself away from the dead man.

"They'll come here next," he cried, his voice gaining in strength and terror. "They'll kill us all here," he very nearly wailed as he reached the end of the pew.

"We must escape!"

A near by man in brown robes rushed to the lads side, wrapping his hands around the boys face, bringing it around to stare into his own eyes, his mouth working in whispered prayers and calming words. The boy was still vainly trying to escape but in his weakened and wounded state he could not put up much of a fight. A few long moments passed of him whimpering and crying before he finally calmed and quieted, but it was a fine line and one he could cross back over again without a moments notice. The brown robed man left his side after a moment and approached the gray eyed man.

"Do you think they are speaking the truth," he asked in hushed tones once he was near enough. "I've heard the battle does strange things to a man and that it can make you see or perceive things that aren't happening." His eyes flicked left and right, taking in the sight of all the wounded and dying around. "Could it be true, the kings army sacking -" His voice broke momentarily, but he quickly recovered. "Sacking the town? Those are simple farmers, merchants, good people, not fighters or murderers."

The gray eyed man was silent for a long moment, staring down into the eyes of the other. Finally he looked away and over all the wounded.

"I do not know, but I do think that perhaps what they said is true."

He was just turning back to give the other man more instructions when the great hall doors slammed open and another brown robed man fell running into the hall.

"The town," he nearly shrieked as he skidded ungracefully to a halt, pointing behind him, his eyes wild with what they had seen. "They are sacking and burning the town!"

They gray eyed man turned briefly to the other, a grim cast falling across face as the two of them took in the news.

"It is time then," was all the gray eyed man said as he spun on his heel and walked out from the between the pews.

"Time?" The second man called out, confusion painting his face even as his body carried him toward the third, wild eyed man that had just burst in. Many other brown robed men were already beginning to cluster around the third man, all of them at once demanding answers and asking questions of him.

As the gray eyed man left the great hall through one of the near by side doors he could hear the sounds of rising panic as those conscious of the wounded were beginning to realize the truth of the third mans words. Death it seemed, was quite finished taking out its toll upon them and their families.

The screaming grew in earnest as the gray eyed man disappeared into the halls.

The halls were deafeningly silent as the gray eyed man moved through them, his long strides taking him through doorways and around corners as swift as a blowing wind. He reached his destination a short time later, a rather unassuming door that when opened revealed an equally unassuming small room beyond. It was nothing more than a glorified storage closet really but it stored something the gray eyed man held near and dear to his very soul. Propped in the right corner closest to the door itself was his dwarven great sword; a massive blade that was almost two hands thick with a square blade that came to an abrupt and sharp point and flat, two finger thick cross guard. Sitting on the ground beside it was a bundle of bleach white cloth, tightly rolled and bound together by several pieces of twine. The gray eyed man bent to retrieve his items, shuffling into the room as he did so. Kicking the door closed with the heel of one foot he quickly set about relieving himself of his blood soaked brown robes. As he slid the robes up over his head and off of him and momentarily closed his eyes and concentrated, pulling up a mental image of a tall white hair individual and after the briefest of moments, reopened his eyes.

Jordhan looked down at his bleach white form and sighed. Two years, he thought to himself as he examined his bleach white arms and hands. Two long, quiet, relaxing years and it happens like this. He shook his head as he bent to retrieve his white robes and pull them over his shoulders. As he settled them into place on his body his hand slipped into one of the many pockets lining the inside of the robe and fished out a small round metallic object that was unnaturally warm to the touch. He silently pressed a single button on it shiny surface and listened for the tell tale whirring click noise that signaled that the device was working. The sound reached his ears moments later and he nodded before slipping the device back into the pocket from whence it came. He then bent to ball up his discarded robes, placing them in a far corner of the small room, before grabbing his sword and hefting it as he exited the room.

Out in the hall he was startled to see that the small alter boy that had earlier come to retrieve him from his daily meditation, was standing where at the intersection where another hall met the one he was in. The boy, normally rather reserved and as far as Jordhan could tell, fearless, was now staring up into his smokey gray eyes in abject terror, as though he were seeing a great demon sprout from the ground and breathe fire. Perhaps, Jordhan thought distantly. That's exactly what the poor boy thinks he sees. Jordhan did the only thing he could think to do in that moment.

"Boy," he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The voice was the same he had been using for his entire stay here in the monastery and the familiar sound jarred the boy visibly as he suddenly found himself conflicted with what he was hearing and what he was seeing. "What are you doing down here?"

The young lad swallowed visibly and, in spite the wide eyed look of terror splayed across his face, pulled his small frame taller and gazed as purposefully up into Jordhan's eyes as he could manage. "The Bishop was asking for you..." He paused at that last, as if unsure as whether or not to include the honorary title now that the man whom he thought to find was now replaced with this towering visage of a man that barely resembled the man he had once been.

"Where might I find him?" Jordhan asked, not really wishing to get into the task of trying to calm this terrified boy or explain why he had so suddenly changed.

The boy simply lifted a shaking hand, pointing up the hall to his left. "That way..." was all he said, and all Jordhan needed to hear besides.

Jordhan swept by the boy in a flurry of white robes and just before he disappeared into the darkness of the long corridor, paused to look back at the boy.

"Leave this place boy," he said softly, just loud enough to be heard. "You will not wish to see what happens next." Then he turned, hurrying away, not bothering to look back over his shoulder again as the darkness swallowed his seemingly glowing white form.

The Bishop was waiting for him when he emerged from the halls beyond the great hall. He was a short, squat man with a great pot belly and a squashed looking face that seemed to be drawn into a perpetual sneer of distaste. His robes were decked with red and silver livery, gold encrusted chains and gilding; all proclaiming him to be the Most Venerable, Most Pious, Most Just Bishop Kir te No'muun of the Grenatte Monastery of the Eternal Sway.

The man was a pig; perverted to his core and no more venerable, pious or just than even the most uncorruptable of Robber Barons. He daily drowned himself in the very best meats and cheeses, fruits of the vine, vegetables and ales of only the greatest make and brew. He daily took into his arms the bodies of small children, all boys, to slate his insatiable thirst for perversion. Jordhan grimaced as the images of those boys disappearing into this mans chambers night after night, some scared, many just nervous, a select few a little anxious of excited, only to have them emerge the next morning with pale, hollow gazes that stared off into the distance blankly, their body movements wooden as they let themselves be guided away from the grinning fool of a man that stood in the doorway. The pig would then lift his gaze, as he so often did when he knew Jordhan had been watching, laugh softly as he looked straight into the storms brewing within his gray eyes and slowly swing his great chambers door shut.

Long had Jordhan suffered the tasks of this man, watched quietly as this man abused his power, his peoples charity and his religions wealth. He had watched quietly, and despite all his anger and hate toward the man, would continue to do as such. He tried to rationalize it in his mind that the fat fool wasn't worth his time, not worth the edge of his blade through his gut but something in the back of his mind would always reject the thought and he was left wondering exactly what it was he was waiting for.

Now though, the usual sneer was absent from the Bishop's face, replaced instead by a look of pale horror as his beady black eyes took in the carnage littering his great hall. He turned when he heard Jordhan emerge from the hall and after only a brief moment of startlement at his new form, began spitting questions in his tiny, squeaky voice.

"What blasphemy is this? What has been let into the sacred Hall of the Sway? What are you doing dressed in those robes? What have you done with your hair?" His gaze flickered to the great blade, then back up into Jordhan's eyes. "Why are you armed?"

Jordhan let the questions slide away from his mind as he waited for the man to finish his barrage and then smiled. The fat fool must have seen something he didn't like in that smile because his face turned a beet red and his body began quivering with what Jordhan could only assume was rage. His mouth opened to begin demanding answers once more but before he could utter a word Jordhan reached out, grasping a hold of the mans thick neck. A very satisfying squawk escaped the mans open mouth as Jordhan drew both the man and himself together at once.

"The only reason you are still alive right now Kir," Jordhan said quietly, his voice dripping with veiled menace. "Is because there are witnesses and you are far too important a man at the moment to be found disemboweled, your gut splayed across the floor in an every expanding flower, your sex snipped from you fat, drooping body and stuffed down your throat so that you can suffocate on the filth you've for so long been filling the hearts and minds and souls of the young and uncorrupted with." The mans face was turning purple and Jordhan realized suddenly that his hand had been clenching tighter and tighter around the mans fat rolls as he had spoke. He released the fool abruptly and the man crumpled to the floor like a dropped sack of potatoes, he form quivering and wheezing as the air returned to his lungs. Jordhan slowly crouched down beside the man. "I want you to understand Kir that one day, very soon, I will return to this place and I will do to you the most unimaginable things." Jordhan leaned in even closer, until he was nearly touching the mans fat, sweat covered face. "And if you aren't here, I will find you. And I will. End. You." Then Jordhan smiled and rose to his feet, stepping over the quivering form at his feet.

He was surprised to see that no one had witnessed the encounter, or else had and was studiously looking the other way. It didn't matter to him anymore though, as he was done pretending to like this place and right now he had more pressing matters to attend to. Like finding out why the Kings Army was here and why it was slaughtering an entire town.

There was an audible click within the back of his head as the device in his pocket finally finished its boot and connection protocols and his ear was suddenly filled with the static of an open connection.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice said from out of the static. "The prodigal son returns. Come crawling back to beg for our forgiveness?" Jordhan sensed more than heard the laughter in the voice and couldn't help but smile himself.

"Perhaps," he said as a smile played across his own face. "One day I may ask for your forgiveness, but for now I have come crawling back, as you so eloquently put it, to ask for a favor."

The voice suddenly turned serious in his mind. "What is it Jor?"

Jordhan couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh you know Pac, the same ol' same ol'. Death, destruction and the occasional bout of extreme heroism."

There was a whoop from the other end and Jordhan could see in his minds eyes the sudden excitement on the far end of the comm. "Ohhh baby, we're back!"

The sounds of laughter filled Jordhan's ear as he quickly made his way out of the great hall, past the dead and the dying, the confused and the terrified and out into the gathering storm of life and death to come.

Outside the wind whipped through the massive courtyard like a vengeful spirit on an all hollows eve with a full moon high over head. Great roiling black thunder heads, seeming to boil and writhe as though alive, hung in the sky to the east, their great black depths occasionally pierced by a brilliant white and blue flash of lightning. Even further to the east, far below the rolling clouds, the world was shrouded in a great black fog, the inky blackness seeming to stick and ooze across the landscape as the storm flew west. To the north stretched the great barren Tundra, a vast and seemingly endless tract of frozen death and waste. Beyond that still lay the Frozen Sea, an aptly named body of water as it only rarely thawed and even then, only enough to prevent a grown man from standing upon its surface lest he fall into the frigid waters below. Far to the west and ever so slightly north lay the great mountain ranges, great towering peaks of jagged rock and steep cliffs inhabited by numerous small tribes of feral men, hardy orcs and the great snow Trolls. Stretching out beyond to the south lay the great pine forests and rolling hills that made up Salvar. Deep, dark and cold beyond measure, those great lands were at the same time the heart and the dagger that was the great northern country.

Jordhan took it all in in a sweeping glance as he made his way swiftly across the courtyard. He had seen much of this land already, some it needed to be seen only once and some parts even less than that. It was a vast, inhospitable land that only catered to the strongest among men, and even then with only a fleeting interest and always with a knife pressed to their throats. He reached the far side of the courtyard quickly, ducking swiftly into a squat structure laid hard against the wall of the monastery, happy to be out of the biting wind.

Shaking himself vigoursly to banish the remaining cold that had seeped so rapidly into his flesh and bone Jordhan pulled the small metallic device from within his pocket and set it gently down onto the floor before him.

"Pac," he said softly to the air around him, conscious in the back of his mind that to anyone passing nearby and happening to catch glimpse of him would see a strange robed man speaking to the air before him like some mad man. It brought a small, fleeting smile to his face as he pictured that scene, but the image was quickly dashed from his mind as the communicator in his ear crackled to life.

"Still here Jor," Pacalle na Shi'Nuthl replied with barely contained glee. Jordhan couldn't help but leech some of that giddiness from the man, but swiftly quashed the feeling as he set his mind to the task at hand.

"First," he said in a serious tone. "Where are you?"

There was a brief silence on the far end and although Jordhan couldn't hear any background noise, long years of sitting where Pac was sitting now and doing what he was no doubt now doing, filled in the voids of sound. There was a soft click and then an electronic whine as the console at his finger tips woke, followed by the soft beeping noise as electronic buttons were brushed and activated. There was a series of rapid beeps and clicks as the great machine plotted the necessary information on the screen and then silence just before he keyed up the communicator.

"It looks like," Pac said in a quiet, distracted voice as he looked over the information playing across his screen. "We're approximately four hundred kilometers above the northern pole of this planet, about sixteen hundred kilometers straight line from your current position."

Jordhan smiled to himself; just because he had told them to leave didn't mean that they had, and by the sounds of it, had been keeping relatively close tabs on him the whole time.

"You never were one to listen to sound reason Pac," Jordhan said after the other had finished speaking. Pac laughed on the other end, knowing where the barb was directed without having to ask.

"Come now Jor, surely you know me better than that."

This time Jordhan did laugh, a quiet exhalation of air from his nose as he smiled broadly.

"Now," Pac said in a more serious tone. "Why would you need to know where I am?"

Jordhan paused momentarily, drawing his arms into his robe sleeves to hug his forearms as he shivered from both the cold and anticipation.

"Because Pac," he said after a moment. "I need eyes on a situation brewing to the south of me."

"Oh?" Pac asked, his interest piqued at the possibility of excitement. "Well, that shouldn't be too hard to accomplish."

"I thought as much," Jordhan said softly as he stared at the small metallic object on the floor in front of him. "How long will it take for you to get into position to see?"

There was a long silence on the other end as Pac pressed buttons, dragged digital levers across screens, spread charts and minimized others, running through all the calculations and numbers. He finally came back on the comm after a few minutes.

"Two hours if everything goes smoothly," he said with confidence. "Another four after that before we can get one hundred percent clarity of readings and intel, should you require it." He sighed heavily as he shifted; this much could be heard through the comm as Jordhan listened. "By then the ship will have become fully operational and the crew will have woken from cryo, at which point we'll be able to lend any and all available assistance you might require."

Jordhan blinked at that last. "Crew?"

He could almost see with his minds eye the other man blink slowly, a dumbfounded look on his face. "Yes?" He said after a moment, his voice reflecting the confused look on his face. "You didn't think that it was only those seven of us that found you on that mountain side?"

Jordhan smirked. "A small part of me thought as much, yes."

Pac laughed on the other end, a sad laugh with forced mirth. "Jor, you have been missing for more than eight thousand years. You have become a legend that few of our people remember, a myth amongst myths."

Jordhan sighed at that last; he had just wanted peace and now he was a legend. Not to mention his constant bad luck of getting mixed up in other peoples problems, such as this new mess here in the northern reaches of Salvar. Try as he might though, he had never been one to let the innocent die by the hand of wicked or unguided. After a moment he keyed the mic.

"How many then?"

"This is a fully equipped cruiser with a full compliment of crew and weapons, plus an additional detachment of soldiers should things get dicey."

"How many Pac?" Jordhan asked again, more serious this time.

"872 warriors and 1347 non-combatants," Pac said after a moment, his voice deadly serious.

"Shit," Jordhan said under his breath.

"You were our leader Jor," Pac said almost as quietly. "You were lost; we invested everything we had to find you. Without you we became lost." The last was barely more than a whisper. Jordhan could feel the sorrow in the mans voice and breast.

A long silence stretched between the two of them.

"I'm sorry Pac," Jordhan finally said. "I should have... I..."

"No," Pac said with force. "No, I've reviewed the tapes, I've seen what happened to you. No one blames you Jor, but everyone was still lost and afraid all the same."

"I..." Jordhan couldn't get the words out. He had abandoned them, and not just during a time of peace either, but a time of great strife in their culture and history. He hadn't let him bother him before now, but being confronted by this truth suddenly brought it screaming to the front and it slammed him hard in the chest.

"Pac," he said softly. "Thank you. Thank you for not giving up."

Jordhan could feel the other man smile sadly.

"What are friends for, Jor?"

Jordhan smiled. "For making their other half feel guilty at every possible moment," he said around a chuckle.

"You're damn fucking right," Pac said behind his own chuckle. "Now, I have a lot of work to do to get everything moving up here. I will call you when we are nearing completion. You don't go and do something stupid in the mean time now, you hear?"

Jordhan laughed aloud this time. "Oh come on now Pac, you know me, I would never!"

Pac laughed as he rose from his seat. "That's exactly what I'm worried about!"

The link was severed then and Jordhan was left alone in the dark of the small building, the wind howling and rattling every board in its passing, the ghosts of his past suddenly filling the void in his soul that he hadn't known was there. Or, perhaps he knew it had been there all along and just hadn't wished to look down into its dark depths. His arms snaked deeper into his robes as he stared into the distance, his gaze unintentionally lifting to the northern sky where his brethren and family hung suspended in the deep, empty void of space.