Chapter 2: Purpose Reforged

Was he floating? The sensation of weightlessness lead him to believe he was. His last memories, vague and fragmented, were of a sudden pain, and then falling. And then blackness. That sweet oblivion that again threatened to swallow him. Perhaps he was dying? He suspected he may be. But the calm indifference with which he accepted that fate would have horrified other men. Perhaps the darkness that now enveloped him, with its lack of pain and sorrow, was better than the life he had known before it. And he took comfort in knowing that the pain and misery he had known his whole life was finally coming to an end. And he let that wave of darkness wash over him once again.

There were hands holding onto him. Pulling him back from that comforting darkness. Didn’t they understand he had no desire to be saved? That this was the first time he had ever known this kind of peace? The fact that these hands were now trying to take that sense of comfort away from him was infuriating! How dare they take even this, small, simple thing from him?

His limbs refused to respond! The darkness held him in place even as these strange hands tried to pull him from it. Why couldn’t they understand that he did not welcome their help? There were voices. Distant and vague, but worming their way through that comforting blackness that held all of the misery at bay. “ ... can’t ‘old ‘im...” Good let go! Didn’t they realize this is what he wanted? “ ... lmost there Halfd...” Why did they care? Couldn’t they tell he had finally given up?

There was pain! A white hot eruption of agony from his left arm. The hands gripped him fiercely refusing to let him again succumb to that comforting blackness. A tormented scream. Was that his voice? Waves of fresh anguish exploded from his arm as a powerful arm wrapped around his chest. Why couldn’t these people just let him die? Fresh torture ripped through him as his body was bumped into something hard and unyielding. More screams rapidly tore the veil of blackness, and its soft, sibilant embrace of quiet nothingness from him.

More voices now. Coming clearer and more distinct. “ ... Brennan ‘elp us over ‘ere!” This time the sounds did not recede. These people, whoever they were, had torn him from that comforting darkness. And replaced it with fury! His eyes snapped open, the waning sunlight stinging them. And in that brief moment of exposure his plan solidified. The plain, yet pretty face of the woman next to him showed an instant of surprise, before turning to terror as the eyes of The Weapon bore into her.

A strangled gasp was all the sound she could mutter before the iron hard bands of his fingers clamped about her throat. Pain erupted again from his left arm, but The Weapon pushed that thought from his mind. A scuffling sound near his feet gave him his next point of attack. With a savage stomping motion he drove his heel into the shin of an as of yet unseen “rescuer” lashing out with all of the force his battered body could muster. A shout of pain and the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground allowed The Weapon to focus now on the woman held in his right hand.

Her face was pale, and slowly reddening as the vice like hand continued to tighten inexorably around her throat. Her slightly tapered brows, and expressive almond shaped eyes betrayed her Elven heritage. Though her features did not have the drastic, graven, look of a full blooded elf. Most likely she was a half breed much like him. Her hands fought against the iron hard muscles of his arm, trying desperately to loosen the hold he had on her.

“Let...” he tried to say. Forcing the words through the persona of The Weapon. “Let m ... Me...” His words were cut off as the unseen “rescuer” grabbed at his legs again. A word he did not understand was mumbled, and suddenly a whole new kind of pain was erupting through his entire body. It was as though every nerve in his beaten, bloody, body were suddenly alight all at once. It was a pain unlike any he had ever experienced. And for a heartbeat it felt like he was losing this fight. The Weapon roared inside of his head. He had faced enemies by the score and come out alive. The Weapon refused to allow simple pain to end this fight for him.

With a surge of super human willpower The Weapon once again divorced himself from the pain. Locking himself away with a snarl. Again he lashed out with his free left leg. Aiming at the weight settled on his now bleeding right. The thudding sound of the impact was accompanied by yet another grunt, as whoever it was was again driven off of him. His eyes locked onto the lavender colored orbs of the Half-Elven woman still in his grasp as his lips peeled away from his teeth in a grimace of pure determination. “Let ... Me ... Die...” he managed to rasp through his clenched teeth.

The stomping of boots on gravel to his left tore his attention away from the frantically struggling girl in his grip as a gnarled fist the size of a large stone grabbed the collar of his leather jerkin. With a strength that caught The Weapon completely by surprise, the enraged attacker pulled him completely about, only to come nose to nose with the strangest looking Dwarf he had ever seen. His head shaved, and beard trimmed down to almost nothing, the menacing red and blue tattoos that covered the right side of his face shown through the stubbly hair with shocking clarity. The Weapon had only a moment to register the blunt blocky features before they were split into a feral grin.

“Aw’right now lad. We’ve ‘ad quite ‘nuff o dat now.” He said in an almost jovial manner. Of course this was an instant before the second boulder shaped fast came crashing into his jaw. In an instant that same comforting blackness he had wished to escape into, wrapped itself about his consciousness once again.

Lord Ishidar stood in front of the large writing desk within his private offices, settled securely in the keep overlooking the city of Halmas. On the desk, gleaming wickedly in the subdued light of the lamps spread strategically around the room, were a pair of beautifully crafted crescent bladed daggers. They were masterfully made, the scintillating wave patterns showing the numerous times the steel had been folded during the forging process. The gently curved blades were only sharpened on the inside of the crescent. They were clearly designed with a unique fighting style in mind for their use.

Lord Ishidar allowed his eyes to wander down the elegant weapons, past the almost nondescript cross guard and the sturdy leather wrapped handle to the pommel of the weapons. Emblazoned on the heavy bronze nut was a sigil unlike any he could find in any of the books of heraldry in his library. He stared at the design once again, wondering why it seemed so familiar. A pair of towers flanking and slightly above a pair of crossed swords one with its hilt up, the other down. With a growl of frustration Lord Ishidar tore his eyes from the weapons and let them flow to the wall at the back of his large office.

A beautifully illustrated map of the Kingdom of Verseric was displayed across most of it’s face. The names and borders of their neighbors both friendly and unfriendly surrounding her from the North West and South. But it was to the eastern borders that his eyes were drawn. To the Northeast situated between Verseric and the huge inland sea known as Mrynn’s Tears was the vast stretch of grass lands known as The Steppes of the Thundermares. Wild and untameable, just like the savage people that inhabited them. The Steppes were the home to The Thundermares, an unknown number of nomadic horsemen living in seven distinct tribes, though they called themselves The Herd.

As much as it rankled Lord Ishidar to share a border with a people who, while paying brief homage to The Risen God, still practiced an archaic form of paganism and venerated Equus the great Astral Horse spawned by The Old Gods. He still had to grudgingly respect their fierce warrior spirit, and admit if only to himself, that if it weren’t for The Herd, his entire kingdom might have been swallowed up centuries ago. Because only a madman would try to move an army across their lands. And that truth had served as a buffer between Verseric, and a much darker threat that shared a border with both.

Directly to the south of The Steppes, and sharing the Eastern border of Verseric itself, stood The Dead Lands. Steeped in rugged, nearly impassible mountains, the blasted landscape of The Dead Lands had never been fully mapped. Most teams sent in were either never seen again, while those that returned had either been driven mad by the horrors that awaited beyond the mountains of The Demon’s Grasp, or refused to speak for fear of calling those terrors down upon them. The rumors of a kingdom of debased worshipers of The Fallen hidden deep within those wastes had persisted for nearly five hundred years. And every year since they had begun to filter into the border regions, skirmishes had broken out along that border. Beasts born of darkness, the undead under the sway of foul magics, and men, who knew neither fear or pain, willing and capable of committing heinous atrocities against any and all they came across. All had been faced, and beaten back by Lord Ishidar’s family. And the only thing, he knew, holding them back from overrunning the entire kingdom were those nomadic horsemen of The Herd.

The doors to his office slowly swung open, breaking Lord Ishidar’s bitter revelry, as his eyes swept to his left, to see Gorion walk carefully into the room. His arms were burdened down with a further pile of scrolls, and several leather bound tomes bulged the satchel bag slung over his shoulder. The enormous man moved with a hurried step more commonly associated with someone of much lesser stature. And were it not for the ever serious manner, nearly to the point of maniacal zeal, with which Lord Ishidar had watched him training, this personal idiosyncrasy would have been amusing. But now, with all that had happened, they simply reminded him that not all is as it would appear.

“Apologies My Lord.” Gorion said in his oily whisper of a voice, as he placed the scrolls down upon the large desk. “You didn’t seem to be having any luck with the heraldry of the Nobility. So I thought perhaps I should look in other directions.” his enormous hands spread scrolls across the table. Lord Ishidar noticed immediately that they bore the seals of clerical iconography.

“Is this some new form of madness?” He demanded as he snatched one of the heavy rolls of parchment off of his desk. “These are the Coats of Arms of the Holy Orders!” he said in an accusing tone, as his voice rose in anger. “The Church would never sanction what was unleashed in my home! You would do well to...” His rant was cut short as his eyes scanned the thick leather bound tome clutched tightly to the enormous man’s chest.

The illuminated medallion at the center of the cover suddenly made the blood freeze within Lord Ishidar’s chest. The embossed icon, raised in stark relief against the tarnished silver, made whatever argument he had thought to voice, die on his lips. The crossed swords. One tip pointed up, one down. The very idea of what that implied forced dread and uncertainty to creep into his heart. A heart that, for all of his life, had been buoyed by the knowledge that the Church was the one institution he could trust unconditionally, shrunk back from the ramifications of that medallion.

“What book is this?” Lord Ishidar asked, the very real fear in his heart unable to be disguised in his voice. His haunted eyes roamed over the filigree covered binding of the book, almost refusing to look at the medallion again for fear of having his worst suspicions confirmed.

“The Complete History of the Militant Orders; My Lord.” Gorion said, the obsequious fawning tone in his voice told Lord Ishidar more than the cringing posture, that the huge man had been cowed by his ire. “I ... I th ... thought only to br ... to bring you...” his stammering

“Leave me.” Lord Ishidar said in a tense whisper as he placed the large tome upon the center of his desk. “Yes My Lord” he answered with a slight tremble in his voice, as he bowed low from his hips. Lord Ishidar, concentrating so intently on the large leather bound tome, completely ignored him as he slowly closed the large door behind him.

It was several hours later, as the sun began to descend toward the western horizon, that Lord Ishidar finally emerged from his study. His usually placid features set in a grimace of stern determination as he strode down the corridor. “Prepare my personal guard, and and summon the Arch-Priest from the basilica. We ride for Saint Verenier’s Monastery.” He ordered brusquely as he stormed past the tall lean form of Gorion. “The Acolytes of The Blood Rose have some questions to answer!” He finished as he turned and stormed down the hall toward the courtyard, never noticing the sinister smile that slowly spread across Gorion’s face.

The comforting darkness surrounding him was a bliss unlike any he had ever known. The lack of sensation, the complete absence of pain, was a luxury he never knew could have existed. But from somewhere deep within him, deeper even than the dispassionate pitiless persona of The Weapon, came a single nagging thought. Sayne had a promise to keep. And Sayne knew that as long as he allowed the comfort of this stifling darkness to envelope him, that promise could never be kept. Despite the way he had been raised, and conditioned Sayne understood what it meant to have a sense of honor. The value of a promise kept had been shown to him at the hands of his only friend, Brother Simon. A man whom had no tie to him other than a friendship forged of their shared servitude, that had somehow kept Sayne from losing what was left of his identity to the darkness that was The Weapon.

The only thing Sayne had that he was free to give, was his word. And knowing he had a promise to keep tore his mind away from the comforting black abyss that was slowly swallowing him. Slowly, and with every ounce of will he could muster, Sayne crawled back from that brink, his mind finally coming back under his own control. And with it came fresh waves of agony. His left shoulder and side screamed at him as thunderous detonations of searing pain blasted into him. It was only through his years of “conditioning” at the hands of The Imperium, and his sadistic handlers, that Sayne found the strength not to scream out at the pain assaulting his body as he drew himself back into the world of consciousness.

Barely cracking an eye open Sayne began taking in his surroundings, and the people who sat near him deeply in discussion. Directly to his right, a strongly built man with a light olive skin tone sat on a fallen log. He wore a knee length vest of supple leather, and from all that Sayne could see carried only a medium length knife as a weapon. Currently he was scowling across Sayne at someone to his left, as he nursed an eye that was bruised and swollen nearly closed. The swelling marred a series of intricate tattoos decorating his face, even as he applied a wet rag to his eye trying to bring the swelling down.

“I’m telling you Syrai,” the man said, his voice slightly slurred, “whoever he is, he should not have been able to fight us like he did.” His voice took a chilly, slightly frightened tone as his one good eye cast a cautious glance in Sayne’s direction. “You’ve seen his wounds. No one normal can fight like that, carrying those kinds of injuries. I say we just leave him. Even if Nathan can heal him enough to keep him alive, he’s too dangerous!”

Sayne slowly let his barely opened eyes scan the small clearing in which he had been lain. To his right and tending the small fire, sat the dwarf that had so handily laid him low. Again Sayne was struck by the highly unusual appearance of the short, heavily muscled creature. His head was shaven clean, the uniform coloration of his skin showing this as his normal appearance. While his beard, usually a point of pride amongst his race, was mostly just a rough fiery red stubble. With wild red and blue tattoos forming a complex series of knot work designs on the right side of his face.

Before Sayne had the chance to continue his scan of the clearing the dwarf grunted. “Yah know Brennan, ‘fore we took ye in, most folks’a said tha same ‘bout yerself.” His blocky features twisting into a rough, seamed smile as he cast his eyes back at the dark featured man. “An’ not many o’ them woulda been wrong, now would they?” he said, his voice sounding like a rumble from deep within his powerfully muscled chest.

A crystal tinkle of a laugh caught Sayne’s ear from further off to his right. Just beyond the stocky figure of the dwarf, sitting on a bleached snag of dead fall a slim woman with chestnut colored hair, and delicately sculpted features true to those with the mixed heritage of Elves and Man. Her gently swept brows covered hugely expressive violet eyes. High, fine cheek bones supported a face slightly more round than a true elf, and her pert nose was just slightly more broad than the delicately shaped feature that would be seen on a full blooded elf. Sayne had seen more beautiful women, both in his time outside of the monastery, and in the artwork and literature that he had been exposed to through his friendship with Brother Simon.

And yet, for some reason, her mere presence there caused a heat to blossom within Sayne. The smile playing across her face brought all of the pieces of her face together. It took her, in Sayne’s mind, from just pretty, to heart stoppingly beautiful. And it was all he could do to keep himself from choking in shock when her eyes quickly darted in his direction before shooting back to her friends.

“Halfdane’s got a point Brennan.” She said, a slight smile passing across her face. “When we found you, you were running for your life from that band of Witch Hunters for...”

“I know why they were chasing me Syrai!” Brennan snapped, cutting her off. “And just because a group of bigots thought they could be my judge, jury, and executioner,” he continued, his voice raised slightly in anger, “Doesn’t make me wrong about this. He is dangerous.”

Seeing no reason to continue his ploy, Sayne rolled to his left and, ignoring the fresh pain that washed over his entire body, sat upright. The surprised gasps from the people surrounding him, gave him a moment to take stock of his body. The wounds to his leg, right shoulder, and side were still there as expected, though surprisingly, wrapped in cloth. His left shoulder sported the broken shaft of a crossbow bolt. The wooden projectile sat at such an angle so as to prevent his shoulder from moving within the joint.

Ignoring the startled protests of everyone in the clearing, Sayne clenched his jaw and reached for the bolt with his right hand. The explosion of agony that coursed through him tore a growl of intense pain through his clenched teeth, as he savagely wrenched the broken shaft out of his shoulder. The pain nearly caused Sayne to swoon, and that moment of distraction caused him to miss the dwarf, Halfdane launching his body at him.

The collision of the powerfully muscled body into his own brought with it fresh waves of agony, and the scream that tore itself out of Sayne was hoarse, and guttural. Halfdane, moving with a speed the defied his stocky stature, scrambled over the prone form of Sayne as he worked to keep him from moving by grabbing the armored leather vest he still wore.

“Alright lad. Ain’t no need ta...”

“I don’t want to have to hurt you.” Sayne said, his gravelly voice cutting across Halfdane’s words, and silencing the others. They were shocked, not by what he had said but, by the unworldly calm with which he said it.

Halfdane laughed in surprise, “Hoho! Ya can try boy. But I would’n’a rec’mend...” His words were cut off as Sayne’s right hand suddenly latched onto his wrist with a grip like steel, and his legs whipped up to clamp themselves around the dwarf’s neck. The shocked look on Halfdane’s face lasted all of a second, before Sayne wrenched on his wrist, at the same instant that he pivoted his hips. Sayne, his training so deeply ingrained into him, somehow managed to ignore the fresh agony that exploded through his wounds, as he whipsawed his hips down while rolling his shoulders.

With a surprised shout Halfdane’s face slammed into the soft loam of the forest clearing even as Sayne swung his legs up and over his chest, using the momentum to spin him back to a crouch. Taking a deep breath Sayne lunged towards the trees, thinking to make a clean escape from the clearing. He was steps from the trees when his route of escape was cut off as Brennan barked a sharp exclamation, as he clapped both hands together in a gesture of finality. Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky blowing a smoking hole in the ground only feet in front of Sayne.