Fire. Dark flames rose up, illuminating the bloody sky. All around him he could hear screams, and 
smell the stench of flesh burning. He could not understand it. What was happening? Why was it so hot? 
His flesh felt like it was burning, burning along side of the other hideously screaming human pillars of 
flame. He could see how the skin blackened and peeled away, the fire then consuming what was inside. 
He watched as the faces of people he once knew, their expressions locked in features of nightmarish 
terror...the faces twisted, blackened and shriveling to reveal the grotesquely grinning skulls underneath. 
Eyes scorched and melting in their sockets, weeping tears of blood and flame glared up at him. Desperate, 
angry hands burning, burning until the bones showed, reached out for him.

Why are you not touched by the flame, the burning corpses seemed to ask. Are you a demon? 
Did you cause the flames?

He was unable to move even as the lurching corpses moved forward, an army of burning flesh 
reaching out with blazing hands. A strange tinkling sound started up from beyond the flames. It seemed 
to move with a strangely metallic rhythm, almost as if it were trying to play out a melody, to which it no 
longer had the capabilities to, but was trying to nonetheless. The uneven metallic sound frightened him. 
He did not know why.

The lurching corpses, the dancing flames...they all seemed to move in time to the dreadful 
rhythm, as if acting out some grotesque musical from hell.

Why, why, why? The corpses seemed to moan. Why? Why us? Why not you? Is it because you 
caused the flames?

It wasn't me! he tried to say. I would never murder my own clan!

Silhouetted against the red sky, illuminated by the bloody flames, yet untouched by them, stood 
a young man. He looked up tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

Farran.

The grief and tears in his eyes seemed unnatural on his face. Farran whose eyes always had 
reflected an unusual but gentle, peaceful quality now looked wild and torn with anguish. The familiar, 
gentle smile which so often played across his features was now a mere mockery of what it was--a smile 
bordering upon the edges of insanity. The tinkling music continued, almost as if in mockery of Farran's 
pain.

Farran clutched an object almost lovingly in his arms. "Brother...why have you betrayed us?" he 
whispered. "You are the one. Father, mother... EVERYONE died because of you!"

"NO!" he screamed. "It's not my fault!" The sorrow and hurt in Farran's voice felt worse than a 
knife to the heart. It choked him, not letting him breathe. He felt as if he would rather die than face the 
pain in his brother's voice again.

The bloody shadows shifted just enough for him to see what Farran was cradling in his arms. It 
was a head. The head of his father.

Dead eyes rolled wildly in bleeding sockets and focused on him. Cracked lips crusted with dirt and 
dried blood parted, to reveal jagged, broken teeth stained with red. He could not move, he could no 
longer cry out. He could only stare at the living head of a dead man, black blood dripping form the loose 
severed tendons soaking into Farran's tunic. 

"My son..." the head croaked out. "Know this child...the death of the Shalari clan is on your head!" 
The head burst into a horrible screaming laughter and dark blood spurted out of his mouth. 

ON YOUR HEAD! The burning corpses screamed silently. OUR DEATHS ARE ON YOUR HEAD!

On your head! laughed Farran still clutching the head, with the same silence of the corpses, tears 
streaming down his cheeks. You will never be rid of the blood!

He screamed as the corpses finally reached him, moving sickening in time to the insane music, 
and clutching him in an embrace of fire, covering him in flames, which burned, consuming his flesh, his 
bones and then his soul...

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

                              The North
                       A Tale of High Adventure
                         And Low Temperatures

                        Part 10: Winter's Darkness Comes

                  Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs)
                          Written by Miko-chan

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


He awoke with a strangled cry. For a few moments he sat, drenched with sweat and gasping for 
air. The night air was chill and the night sky was unusually clear, cold brilliant pinpoints of white light 
scattered upon the vast expanse of black.

Why did he dream of that? It had been so long--nearly a decade had passed since he had last 
seen the end of the Shalari Clan in his dreams. He wasn't even sure what was real anymore. Reality and 
years of guilt had merged, overlapping and corrupting the true memories--that and the instinctive 
response of his mind to block out the worst of the mental trauma. He did not even remember what his 
family had called him back then. 

He had realized sometime ago that he couldn't even remember what his family had looked liked 
anymore. His father, Farran--everyone--they had only been half-formed shadows and suggestions in his 
mind. But he remembered Farran's smile. His gentle special smile, one he only reserved for his youngest 
brother. The smile that soothed and comforted, the smile that praised and encouraged.

Strange. He had not thought about his real family for so many years. Most of the time it seemed 
to him that they had never existed, only like the fragments of barely remembered childhood tales in the 
back of his mind. He did not remember much of the traumatic first year he spent with the woman who had 
picked his limp body from the burnt ruins of the village nor of how she had slowly helped his nearly insane 
young mind to recover. Thinking back, he remembered only a haze of endless self-loathing, grief and the 
ever-prominent desperate wish for it all to end.

Even now, a decade and a half later, thinking about the Shalari clan made him feel sick. Had it 
really been his fault then, as his childhood dreams had accused him? Or was it because he had been the 
lone survivor of the devastation, which had overtaken and completely destroyed his clan?

Arlen unsheathed his scimitar and set to work polishing the curved blade, forcing the remnants of 
the dreams from his mind. There was only an hour or so before dawn left and he might as well get ready 
to resume his journey to back to Kaddegh.

He had left Sala three days ago, in spite of his better judgment. Leaving Katria and the young 
boy Christov at the castle. They would be well looked after, wouldn't they? Better than he could ever have 
done. Arlen cursed under his breath. They were not his responsibility! He had only met them by chance on 
the road! But then why did he feel such anxiety at leaving them behind?

Katria had practically given him the boot anyway--refusing to speak to him and even avoiding his 
company as much as she could! Where could he stay then? He could not remain at Sala! Unlike Katria and 
Shalnay who, considering their obvious relationship with one of the dead princes and the fact that Katria 
had been charged with the custody of Christov, had been offered shelter at the Salian castle. And who was 
he? A brothel guard--an occupation usually reserved for eunuchs! Of course they had implicitly hinted that 
the faster a disreputable wretch like him left the better.

Arlen sheathed his sword and stood up. The first hints of dawn were breaking in the dim sky. It 
was time to head back to ancient Kaddegh.

===

Death.

She had never thought that it could happen, not to him, not yet. They say that we all have to 
face the inevitable eventually, but are any of us truly aware of it? Of the emptiness it leaves behind, the 
feeling for wanting someone so much, hoping against hope, reaching out with all your heart and soul--yet 
to grasp nothing, nothing but phantoms of promises that will never be kept, of a future that will never 
come true...

It had been three weeks since Dimitri's death and Katria still could not believe that he was truly 
gone. She slept a lot these days, finding comfort in the death-like oblivion. And sometimes she would 
dream. And in those dreams, she would be waiting in a little room at Iso. She knew that it was Iso 
because she could see the rich tapestries depicting scenes of hunters and animals, some of legendary 
heroes of war, all woven and embroidered by the skillful weavers Iso was famous for. The complex 
combinations of colors and threads had often fascinated her, back in Iso, arranged just so that a single 
moment of time was captured, locked forever in that moment of glory.

The door would suddenly swing open, and then she would see the familiar slender black haired 
figure, with a slightly sheepish grin playing across his face. She would stand and look at him, her heart 
racing, her entire frame trembling.

"Katria," Dimitri would say. "Sorry I left you alone so long. Will you ever forgive me?" With that 
he would open his arms, inviting her into an embrace where all her grief and heartache would melt away, 
all healed by his touch. She would be able to feel his warmth, his strong yet gentle arms around her, the 
firmness of his chest, the sweet smell she had often associated with fresh fallen snow all around him...

Waking up from such dreams were the worst. She would wake up, joyfully expecting Dimitri to be 
holding her--then as her mind snapped back into a cruel shattering reality, her world would once again fall 
apart.

She had never been able to see his body. She was not even sure how he had died. Rumors had it 
that he had been assassinated. Others said that it had been an accident. Strangely enough Dimitri's older 
brother, Trioth, had also died soon after. His death too, had been equally mysterious. Was there any 
possible connection between them? Katria did not know. Nor did she care.

No, she did not care anymore. There was only the silence of death.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

===


Anna sat unmoving, watching the flames in the fireplace twist and turn like souls damned in the 
eternity of hell. Trioth had been a fool. A proud and unthinking fool. He should have left Dimitri alone. The 
young prince, barely out of his teens could never pose a harmful threat--the young bastard had been far 
too placid and loyal to Sala to attempt anything outrageous. She knew there had to be something wrong 
when she had heard that Dimitri was trying to gain independence for Iso. As if the Jorouk tribe at Iso had 
needed anymore war! They had enough trouble keeping their borders free from bandits and the ferocious 
wild beasts that roamed their black forests! Also Princess Anna knew that Dimitri was having enough 
trouble keeping the power hungry officials at Iso from murdering one another in their sleep! Who could 
find time to stage a movement to establish self-rule for those idiot bloodthirsty Jorouks at a time like that? 
Anna knew the truth when she saw it. Like the honorable man he was, Dimitri had truly only been trying 
to save his foster-sister.

Trioth was an idiot. And she would never forgive him.
In one act fueled by an almost insane jealousy and hatred, he had sought to rid himself of the 
source. And in that one action, he had lost the remnants of his honor and became a traitor, a breaker of 
oaths. And left her a widow and her unborn child fatherless.

Her child...

She stroked her belly, feeling for an instant the close rapport between herself and her child. If it 
was a boy, he was now heir to Sala. As the pale white hand moved in gentle strokes across her abdomen, 
Princess Anna felt the dark tendrils of her grief; anger and revulsion slowly crystallize into a hardened 
resolve.

Her tribe had her married to Prince Trioth in order to further cement a strong relationship 
between the ruling Touran tribe and their own. But after seeing how incompetent the Touran rulers were--
a father who loved his bastard more than his legitimate heir and had by this open favor, caused the 
tension between the two brothers--and ultimately their deaths. A fool of a crown prince with wild dreams 
of glory that she had the misfortune to love and a king who had fallen critically ill at the consecutive 
deaths of both sons--and of the manner in which both had died.


With their deaths the common folk of Iso would soon stage a revolt--believing that Dimitri had 
been murdered for trying to regain independence for the Jorouk. No one would believe that their prince 
had only been trying to rescue a whore form a brothel! With that revolt the other tribes would be 
encouraged take advantage of the political unrest in Sala to regain their own independence--to what gain? 
All they could do after that was to return to their own barbaric ways of life of a few hundred years ago--
unending blood feuds, more deaths and killings when there were no longer any guards to keep order--
what sort of freedom would that be? The tribes had to be kept in line like squabbling children waving real 
weapons around. Look at what had happened to the Shalari! They had been utterly destroyed--so 
completely that Anna had doubts as to whether anybody from that tribe had managed to survive.

Sala would belong to her people. The clan of the Isharanti, the tribe of the 'Ice People' as they 
were known in the North. Under the Isharan Clan the North would finally shed the savage reputation it 
had earned so many centuries ago. The North would no longer be a loose grouping of squabbling vassals--
it would be the beginnings of an Empire.

===

[Fourteen years before]


Living magic, free and uncontrolled soared through the world in its unadulterated form, unbound 
by the runes, which could harness their energy, focus their energy to the will of man. Vadesh stood at the 
edge of the cliff, his dark brown hair hanging in long bangs in front of his eyes, trying to feel the earth's 
energies. Focus, he told himself. Visualize the runes in your mind before carving them out--

"How's your training going?"

The sudden voice caused the nine-year-old boy to start and turn around. His gaze fell upon an 
adolescent of about seventeen or so with a head of unruly blue tinted hair. The adolescent gave Vadesh a 
smile. In his arms he was carrying a young child of about five. The child looked at him with serious eyes, 
his long straw colored hair held back by a strip of paper.

"Farran!" snapped Vadesh. "You almost made me fall off the cliff!"

"Aheheheh...sorry about that..." he apologized, looking decidedly sheepish.

Vadesh tried to glare at Farran but soon gave up. How could you remain angry with someone 
who was practically terminally cheerful? He relented and offered him a smile instead.

"My training is going alright I suppose, although Master Kavanov will probably end up throwing 
me off the mountain if he though it would help me master the runes for shaping and controlling the winds 
faster," he sighed in exasperation, throwing a rather hostile glance at the figure of his master who was 
snoozing under a tree not too far away. 

"Don't worry about it!" said Farran. "Runesmith Kavanov only acts impatient. He's not that bad, 
really. Just relax a little and you'll do fine. Here, let me help."

Farran put the child down--Arrand was his name--and placed his hands on Vadesh's shoulders, 
gently turning the boy to face the edge of the cliff.

"Close your eyes," he said softly. "Don't force your mind to visualize the runes--not yet. First feel 
the wind, not its physical presence, but the energy that lies beneath it--the force that comes from the 
earth itself."

Vadesh let himself be guided by the tranquil quality of Farran's voice. He could feel under the 
flow of the air particles, the pulsations of the world's life-energy in its liberated form, unbound by the 
whims of man, flowing incessantly. The runes of binding and formation shaped themselves in his mind. He 
fashioned the runes to fit what he had in mind, altering minute details of their formation, mentally 
gauging the angle of each stroke as he carved the runes onto the surface of a rock.

Rock to bind the wind to the earth. And another visible rune, scratched into the rock with all the 
strength the nine year old had to ensure that the wind was given the desired form, twisting his dagger 
into certain angles and taking into account the most minute of details--for this was the runesmithing of 
the Shalari.

Shalari magic was subtly different from that of the other tribes--instead of concentrating solely 
on the various combinations of preset runes and natural objects, the Shalari had discovered that the angle 
of the tool used to carve or write the runes could significantly reduce or amplify the magical energies it 
unlocked. That and by customizing the formation and the order of the strokes in which the runes were to 
be formed, the magic would be more sharply defined, more precise, the levels of unleashed power 
completely in control by the caster and less likely to go awry.

Ending with a rune to shape his intent, Vadesh finally activated the rune with a touch. The 
whirlwind that formed astonished him. He felt the raw power of the world's energy, held together by the 
fragile seeming runes he had cut into the rock face. He had never succeeded in doing that before. Dimly 
he realized that Farran was trying to tell him something.

"Deactivate the runes!" yelled a loud harsh voice. "Deactivate the runes before you destroy the 
village you fool!"

Vadesh snapped back into reality. That was not Farran's voice. He turned around to see Kavanov 
waving frantically, obviously having been jolted awake rather rudely from his afternoon siesta.

Farran winked at Vadesh and stooped to pick up a rather puzzled-looking Arrand. 

"You've definitely got talent kid," he mouthed.

Vadesh grinned and much to the relief of his near panicking teacher, he deactivated the runes 
with a touch.


Deep in the mountains of the North, often regarded impassable by many, a tribe of hill folk lived. 
Mostly they kept to themselves, preferring to avoid the conflicts commonly found between the other 
tribes. Like the Isharan Clan, they were a mysterious tribe of people, but unlike their far kindred, they 
preferred to remain almost completely detached from the outside world, while the Isharanti still kept an 
eye on the doings of the Salian Kingdom.

Maybe it was because of this lack of conflict, this attitude of preferring compromise rather than 
war, that they had had the time and peace needed to carry the art of runesmithing to more advanced 
levels while their neighbors concentrated on slaughtering one another. In the harsh mountain climate, the 
never-ending fight against wild beasts and for survival made sure that they kept their physical prowess.  
Thus their runesmithing, although in many ways far exceeded those of the other tribes, was also more 
rooted to the earth--closer to nature, closer to the wild savagery of their climate. The runesmithing of the 
Shalari were a combination of raw strength and the calculated precision of control.

So a great fear fell across the hearts of those who knew the strength of the Shalari--for the tribe 
was completely destroyed a few months later by an unknown force.

===

[Present day]


The fortress city of Shila was flanked on two sides by a near impassable mountain range. The 
east side in turn was positioned beside a huge lake, which was in part fed by the sulfurous hot springs, 
making sure that the lake never froze over completely during even the worst of the Northern weather. The 
one remaining face of the fortress, which was not flanked by anything in particular was a mason's work of 
art. The seven-meter thick walls were completely smooth, huge blocks of stone fitted so closely that there 
was not even enough of a gap to slide a thin blade through, preventing anyone from attempting to scale 
the wall. The walls had been built unusually high, to prevent catapults from hurling rocks over into the 
city. Ancient runes, their forms long forgotten, had been carved on the stone blocks that were to be fitted 
inside to form the inside of the wall itself by the secretive Shalari runesmiths, to prevent the harsh 
weather of the North from taking its toll upon the walls of the fortress.

It was the only city that had remained free from the reign of Sala. Despite incurring heavy losses 
on the battlefield when the Tourans had first attacked a few centuries ago, the high defenses of the city 
prevented the Tourans from successfully taking the city by force. Even with the aid of runesmiths, the 
Tourans could not remain camped outside the city--more than half of their army would be dead from 
exposure before Shila ran out of supplies.

Thus it came to be that Shila was declared neutral ground--a free city, with its own duke as ruler.

The man in a Shilan tavern known as the 'Broken Barrel' was in his early thirties, but his weather 
beaten face made him look years older. Scars from old battles marked his arms and an especially long 
pale scar ran across his face, right over the bridge of his nose. Tangled and unwashed long blue-tinted 
hair hung just below his shoulders, barely held in place with a stained bandanna. Travel-worn, clothing 
and mud crusted chain mail together with a week's old stubble, suggested that life had not been too kind 
to him of late. He could be considered handsome, in a rugged sort of way. He ignored the suggestive 
glances and flirtatious remarks thrown his way by the comely young bar maid, causing some to glower in 
his direction enviously and others to wonder if he was the sort who preferred male company.

No one dared to challenge him openly, not even the more rowdy and drunken of the tavern's 
customers--the unusually large black double handed axe he leaned his arm on may have had something 
to do with it. The man was not particularly muscular, yet he carried the black axe, which was nearly half 
his size, with relative ease. The resulting 'thunk' made by the weapon as he rested part of it on the floor 
before he took his seat dispelled any lingering doubts as to its authenticity. Dully reflected in the dim glow 
of the tavern's lights, arcane runes had been engraved on the hilt and on the flat of the blade. 

"Captain Farran!" 

The man looked up at the voice. "It's about time," he said. "I was beginning to think that you had 
frozen to death out there, Kesran."

"Give me some credit, will ya?" A younger man, maybe in his early twenties strode across the 
tavern and plunked himself down on the seat next to Farran. His clothing was similar to the older man's, 
but his black hair had streaks of purple running through it and was cropped short at the back, but leaving 
long bangs hanging in the front. In his hand he held a thick iron cudgel. Similar runes to the captain's had 
been carved into the metal."I don't die that easily!"

A few minutes later another two people arrived and made their way towards Captain Farran's 
table. By that time most of the tavern customers had realized what the people were. Mercenaries. 
Mercenaries, most likely in the employ of the Salian Guard. The mercenary branch of the Guard had been 
formed nearly seventy years ago to deal with the skirmishes at the borders and the more out flung 
reaches of the North, mostly with bandits and small groups of rebels or extremists. As the formation of 
there mercenary division was largely unofficial, and the fact that mercenaries were more or less 
expandable, they were used to take care of Sala's dirty work.

Farran's band was one of the many mercenary groups under the pay of the Salian government.

The last two people to arrive were a small, rat-like man from the Isharan tribe and a Touran 
woman. The Isharanti had two swords strapped to his back, the hilts and sheaths of which, were like his 
companions etched with strange runes. The woman raised some eyebrows from the other customers in 
the tavern, as it was unusual to see a Touran female with short cropped hair, much less part of a 
mercenary group. She had with her an enormous crossbow, which most men would have had trouble 
carrying, much less using it in actual battle. But like the others she carried her weapon with ease, and 
there were a few runes carved into the woodwork.

Farran looked at his companions and smirked. "So all of you actually made it here? I thought I 
was going to have to dig your frozen asses out of the snow again."

The woman made an irritated gesture. "Keath couldn't stop ogling at the wenches of every 
brothel we passed on the way here! Only after I beat him a few times over the head and threatened to cut 
off his family jewels and shove them down his throat did he start looking for this place instead of at the 
size of those over endowed whores' assets!"
 
"Right..." Kesran looked at the man in question who was sporting a nasty-looking bruise on his 
forehead. He was currently trying to flirt with the barmaid--but from the irritated looks the girl was giving 
him, wasn't doing a very good job. "Well, you always were the only one who could keep him in line, 
Misha."

Misha snorted.

"I would have castrated him long ago if he hadn't been such a good swordsman. I swear 
that's the only thing he's good at." She glared at Keath and stabbed at one of the newly served greasy 
sausages meaningfully. Keath continued to flirt, oblivious to the threat sitting just beside him.

"So, Captain, what's up with calling us here so suddenly?" Kesran asked. "I thought we were 
supposed to be having a break from business."


Keath and Misha turned to look at Farran expectantly.

Farran's expression of amusement was replaced one of sudden weariness and he shook his head.

"Holidays are over until Sala sorts things out. I'm sure you know that both King Petroyv's sons 
are dead, and the king himself may be dying. Right now Sala is becoming nervous especially with the 
rumors that Iso might start a revolt soon. Most of the mercenary groups have been issued orders to keep 
an eye on Iso and crush any signs of rebellion."

"They're using mercenaries because we're expendable and not officially in Sala's employ," 
muttered Keath, "If anything goes wrong and there is more bloodshed than necessary, they always shove 
the blame onto one of the mercenary groups and have them executed or thrown in the dungeons--no 
matter where the fault actually lies.  They'd rather trash an entire group of four or five mercenaries rather 
than risk losing a couple of their own Salian Guards."

Misha glowered. "Any bands of mercenaries who are not under the 'employ' of Sala are branded 
bandits and groups of murderers and hunted down! If the situation gets any worse and war breaks out, 
they will start using us as cannon fodder! If that happens I swear I'll quit my job and move to Kaddegh!"

"And do what--farming?" said Keath dryly.

"Anything is better than becoming cannon fodder! We probably won't even get paid if war breaks 
out!"

"Or live long enough to see it anyways," said Kesran.


Farran suddenly went into a violent fit of coughing. There was a trickle of blood on his chin when his 
coughs finally subsided and he looked up. His companions had fallen silent.

"Captain, you shouldn't even be here," Kesran said finally. "You'll just make it worse." The others 
nodded.

"I'm fine," said Farran. Inwardly he cursed. Kesran was right. It was getting worse.

He drew out a piece of paper from his pocket.

"We have orders to go to Sala. Why, I don't know, but it must have something to do with what is 
going on now."

===================================
Author's blah:

My first impro...MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!! <--author is demented

Okay, what possessed me to make Arlen a survivor of a destroyed clan? Beats me... ^^;;

17 yr old Farran was in part modeled after Fugen Shinjin of Houshin Engi :P[ducks various heavy
objects thrown by Fugen fans] Awwwww, c'mon! I like Fugen! [is hit by a huge piano] ^^;;
Well, as you can see, present day Farran and past Farran have somewhat diff attitudes.

Kesran is supposed to come from Farran's clan [note the weird names: Arrand, Farran, Kesran...ranranran...]
Whether the destruction of shalari is Arlen's fault, Vadesh's fault, Farran's fault, everyone's fault,
my world-domination-seeking-cat's fault, no one's fault or something else altogether is entirely up to
future writers XD

If you haven't read Houshin Engi yet go read it! ^^ The manga is waaaaayyy better than the 
anime[dubbed Soul Hunter -_-;;]!!! Fujiryu rocks!

Special thanxs goes to Shryna Tran, who preread the first incomplete draft for me XD
Unfortunately I couldn't get the final draft to her. Sorry Shryna! T_T Any mistakes
and melodrama is my fault completely! XD

C&C welcome! You can drop me a line at bbqweasel@hotmail.com XDXDXDXD

>>Men may pick the tune, but Fate leads the dance

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