From Beyond The Tomb

[Connar Valdor]

Marks and symbols had long been part of man's world, his way of telling his story, knowing his allegiances, and hiding his lies. Connar looked down at his crimson tunic; even now he wore a silver symbol marking him one of the Cardinal's musketeer - a mark behind which his lies and disruptions continued to exist. He lived the life of an exile while in the midst of France's most populous city.

Over the past few months, another secret marking was appearing everywhere the Valdor looked - like him, it was hiding in plain sight. To the casual observer, the symbols were but a stain, a splash of mud, an errant strike of a carver's blade. But the faint semblance of a circle with a line passing through it was unmistakable. It was thousands of years old - and yet had been gone for centuries, like a candle's flame snuffed out by the ravages of a storm. The sign and the order behind it died with the last of the Templars who were tortured and put to death by the Vatican. Connar had let the light die from his memory until the markings returned in a fury the visions of blood, pain, and betrayal.

The last time he fellowed the summons hidden in the simple sign, it had been a trap; the order had been betrayed - cankered from within. What purpose now would a gathering of forgotten knights serve? It had been nearly three centuries since the final calling went out to every corner of the empire. And now it was calling him again from beyond the tomb.


-

[Connar Valdor]

I question why I share what I do of my life with Elessaria. In the moments when I am with her, I can't control my thoughts or what escapes to my lips. I fear I burden her already troubled heart and spirit with the travails of my world and time. In my greed, I seek to lighten the weight I feel by sharing them with her. I think she yearns to visit my world, but she does not understand how vile and debase my world is compared to Rhydin. The evil men do to the weak and to each other defies words. To let her think it is otherwise is foolishness on my part–wreckless and selfish.

Telling her about the signs, the gathering of the Templars, pains me now. It was a secret I had been carrying for months; a fate I knew I must soon face. I first saw the ancient marking when I visited the stone memorial for Jean d'Arc on the banks of the river Seine. The young maiden had been burned at the stake. The English, who orchestrated her capture, ordered the executioner to scatter her ashes so that her remains could not be revered by the people. To the executioner's dismay, Jeanne's heart would not burn no matter how many attempts he made. He scattered her ashes and threw her heart into the waters of the river. There, the Maiden of Orleans became one with the heart of France.

After being freed from my captors, I crafted a simple stone marker where her heart was cast into the river. Whenever I am able, I visit the place by the river to remember her. Even now, my heart breaks to think upon her memory and what she had endured in God's name. It draws me to my knees and weakens my faith. It was there, on her small stone memorial, that I first saw the mark of a circle and line–the sign of a Templar gathering. The mark was intended for me to discover; it wasn't random.

And now, I have to pretend with her that all will be well when I know in my heart I am headed into a trap. I wrestle to understand who, after century upon century, would know my past lives, my history, and loyalties. And why do they seek me now? I have made friends of the shadows to conceal my true self, using lies to cover my tracks. There is a day a reckoning on the horizon, and I fear that I may have sealed the same fate upon Elessaria - the keeper of my heart.

[Connar Valdor]

Serving as one of the Cardinal's Musketeers under an assumed name was not the ideal manner in which to stay hidden in plain sight, but for Connar, it was working thus far. Now with a journey to the isle of Patmos looming on the horizon, his situation was becoming increasingly more difficult and stressful. Connar had been secreting off to Rhydin once more, happy to find Eless safe and well. He had called in favors and paid off members of the guard to cover his nocturnal absences, but those resources were drawing thin and unreliable.

Every moment spent with Eless made him miss her even more when he had to return to his world and time. She occupied his every thought; it was like being among the beauty and rest found in heaven only to be returned to the darkness and isolation of hell. At the lightest touch from her fingers, the stress and concerns of his world faded into the background. Connar didn't want to know if her hold on him was on account of her empathetic powers; he'd prefer to believe it was the power of love. Spells, magick, empathy, love...he could not fight being drawn to her no matter what the consequences might be.

Sweat dripped from his head and arms as he leveled another hammer blow against the glowing slab of steel. Fiery sparks fell in showers from the anvil with each strike to the heated metal. Connar often worked out his troubles while forging iron into a blade. The captain of the guard sent him to the blacksmith's forge as punishment for insubordination. Connar knew just what to say to receive said punishment. Most soldiers dreaded the assignment to the forge; the heat, even in winter, was unbearable, and the blacksmith and the entire shop wreaked of filth, decay, and sweat. Many men opted for a lashing over a day of imprisonment in the forge. For Connar, it was just the opportunity he sought to craft the weapon needed for the summoning of the Templars. A second day was added to the term when Connar suggested the Captain's mood might improve should he switch to silk breeches as the women wore. He needed to remember to time his insults when the Captain wasn't wielding a blunt object. The subsequent bruise on Connar's cheek was now covered in black soot and ash.

Fashioning a new weapon, something lighter than his broadsword but stronger than the sabres of the day, was his objective. He still needed to work out a plan to arrive on Pathos for the secret meeting of the Knights. His occasional forays to Rhydin in the cover of night was one thing; abandoning his post was quite another. One simply couldn't walk away from his conscription with the royal guard, especially not the special Mustketeer ranks under the Cardinal; leaving would be tantamount to desertion and treason. The journey to Patmos would take weeks and the return journey just as long–assuming there would be a return journey.

He had volunteered to be part of a small guard set to accompany a lower-ranking bishop and his attendants to Nice, in the south of France. These details were nearly always beset by highway robbers and attacks from rogue Musketeers. Once he arrived in Nice, Connar would have to figure out a way to escape the guard and retake his journey toward Greece. He did not want to travel by sea; there were no portals that could return him to Rhydin. Now that they had resumed their courtship, he could not bear the thought of being away from Eless. The overland route would take longer, and he could only hope the portals he once used were still operable. He also knew that when his desertion was discovered, getting through Italy and the shadow of the Vatican would be a test all of its own.



-

[Connar Valdor]

"Qu'est-ce-qu'on fait ici?!" Brossard's voice bellowed from the door to the blacksmith's forge. "What is going on in my shoppe?!"

Connar was sharpening his newly forged blade with a large wet stone as the blacksmith appeared in the doorway. Brossard was the largest man Connar had ever encountered in his world, both in width and height, and he was nearly as hairy as a forest animal. The men in the Cardinal's guard called him Bear Brossard or simply "The Bear." His girth wasn't all fat; underneath the layers, Brossard was muscular and powerful. The tools in his shop were twice the size and weight of that of an ordinary blacksmith. Connar's arms ached from having to wield the heavy tools all night.

The air in the blacksmith's shoppe was still thick from a night of forging Connar's new sword as Brossard thundered his way toward him. "You may be one of the Cardinal's Musketeers, but this forge and all in it belong to me - even you," he growled in a deep voice. His accent was from the northern part of France; Connar thought Brossard had been frozen in ice, a preserved warrior from ancient Gaul, the land unconquered by Rome. The blacksmith's verbal assault continued as he stood over Connar, who hadn't stopped the slow, methodic sharpening of the blade in his hands. "The terms of your punishment were cleaning my shop, not stealing my materials to fashion your trinkets."

Drops of sweat from Brossard's bushy brow fell onto the blade as Connar continued the sharpening. He looked up at the man as he spoke calmly, his French much more refined and pure than Brossard's. "Mon ami, I have taken nothing from you; I am no thief. The metal used to forge this trinket came not from your shoppe." Connar straightened, extending his hand to wave across the room. "Tu vois? Your shoppe is clean, everything in its rightful place. Even the ashe in your furnace has been emptied."

Brossard paused for a moment, surveying his shoppe for the first time since storming in at the break of dawn. He stammered to find words to continue his rant. The shoppe and forge were as clean as the King's kitchen. The only thing covered in soot and filth was Connar. Brossard coughed, turning about to face him once more, the cough then turning to deep laughter. "You're a tricky one, you are. Now, you're still mine for one day yet. What shall we do with you?"

-

[Connar Valdor]

"Being a Musketeer must make your family very proud, Devabriel." The bear-of-a-blacksmith had taken a tour of the freshly cleaned shop and was now hovering over Connar again. "And one of the Cardinal's Musketeers no less. A high honor indeed. Your skills with weapons and your allegiance to the king surpassed only by your devotion to the church."

Connar stopped the sharpening motion of the wet stone as he was pulling it midway up the blade. He looked up at the giant of a man before him and crooked an eyebrow. "Are you mocking me, Brossard?" His tone was flat.

Brossard gave a deep belly laugh. "Did I touch a nerve, mon ami? I wouldn't want to ruffle any of your feathers while you're taking an edge to your sword. It would be a shame if you were to cut yourself."

"Oh, I'm sure my comfort and safety are high on your list of concerns for the day." Connar leaned the blade against the bench and used the rag on his lap to clean the sweat and sooty residue from his hands.

"There are many men, hundreds even, who would do almost anything to be one of the Cardinal's Musketeers, but you, you wear the tunic with such disdain and disgust."

"I must have missed the lessons on being jovial at charm school." He looked up at Brossard, offering a barb of his own. "Though I hear ignorant bliss comes with layers of blubber. Have you ever seen a sad whale?"

"Ohhh...now who's being nasty?" The playful tone had faded from Brossard's voice. "God has blessed you beyond most, wherein is the reason for the contempt in your eyes? I'd love to know before I break your jaw and make it difficult for you to speak the answer."

Connar rose slowly to his feet, having to crane his neck to look at the blacksmith's fleshy chin. "Have you ever seen a trapped animal, Brossard; have you ever come upon a wolf with its leg caught in an iron clamp? Would you call the look in the wolf's eyes contempt?"

Brossard pushed his fingers against Connar's chest. "I don't see any chains on you; there are no irons binding your legs. Is being a Musketeer not living up to the dreams of a poor country boy or whatever hell hole you climbed out of?"

He could feel his jaw tightening and the sweat running cold as it trickled down his temples. He wasn't inclined to fight the behemoth blacksmith; the last thing he needed was a week in the infirmary. "Not all chains are made of iron, Brossard. The strongest links are the ones we create for ourselves. I fight against a prison of my own making."

-

[Connar Valdor]

"For the love and mercy of the Saints, will you please relax, Devabriel." Brossard had placed the strap of the heavy leather apron over his head and wide neck, making ready to begin his labors at the forge. "You are wound so tightly any cross breeze has you twisting in the wind."

Connar opened and closed his hands trying to free the tension that had built up in his fingers and forearms while being provoked by the large blacksmith. "It comes with the job, Brossard."

"Ha...the job? Being a Musketeer is not job, tis a holiday!" Brossard's laughter was tinged with sarcasm. "I've was hefting hammers and shaping metal when you were still succoring for your mother's milk. You don't know the first thing about work." The curious workmanship and precision of Connar's freshly forged blade made Brossard wonder how the man could have mastered the craft given his vocation. "No...I think you're full of shite, Devabriel."

"Well, then you can blame it on too many years of relaxation and easy living. I frisson up at the thought of hard work or effort. Tis a stressful way to live." Connar had taken the sarcasm up a notch.

The blacksmith gave a hearty laugh. "You are a funny man. No, you need to learn how to relax; you need to go wenching with your fellow Musketeers. That will help you release all that's bottled up inside. That would do the trick; you need a girlfriend. All you would have to do is wear that fancy tunic of yours and flash a toothy smile, aye...you'd be swimming in skirts in no time."

Brossard turned to look at his servant for the day, reaching around his back to tighten the cords of the shop apron. Connar did not give him the satisfaction of a response, so Brossard continued the game. "Oh, that's right...you never go out with the other men, you don't go out drinking and wenching. Do you even know what to do with a woman, Devabriel?"

"You know not what you speak, Brossard. A woman's value does not rest in the pleasure found between her legs." Connar did not look at Brossard but had begun tightening the wide leather belt around his waist, preparing for whatever the blacksmith might assign him to do in the shop.

"Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ," Brossard called out as he crossed himself, raising his fingers to his lips as he completed the ritual. "You're no priest, Devabriel, you've taken no vows. In fact, you don't even make the sign of the cross like a good Christian when the occasion arises. I've been watching you, everyone has been watching you."

Connar slowly raised his gaze to the blacksmith, as the large man was making his way toward him again, his meaty fists clenched into massive hammers. "Christ never asked me to pray to his mother, Brossard. The manner and reason behind my worship is my business and mine alone, though I am glad it is providing you with a measure entertainment." Connar drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. If the blacksmith was intent on beating him to a pulp, he might as well get started. "You've been egging for a fight since you arrived, Ourson (bear cub); let's get on with it. I have a busy day ahead of me."


-

[Connar Valdor]

Connar was bent over at the waist; his hands gripped above his knees as he struggled to breathe, coughing violently and spitting out blood in the process. Brossard had battered Connar in and out of the blacksmith’s shop. The heavy wooden door and part of a wall lay in pieces across the courtyard, and Connar could feel their fragments in his back and arms. To a passerby, it looked as if the shop and all of its contents had fallen from the sky and exploded upon striking the earth.

Brossard was lying on his back with a large chain wrapped around his neck; the chain Connar used to choke the beast of a man unconscious. The man barely had any marks on him, and he seemed to just be napping. The blood splatters on his arms, knuckles, and leather shop apron belonged to his sparring partner. Connar’s fists were bruised and swollen, looking as if he had been pounding a stone wall - which might have been more effective than the blows he leveled on the blacksmith.

He desperately wanted to lay on the ground and rest, but Connar knew if he were to do so, he would not be able to get up again; his battered body would go into full revolt. He had to keep moving - if one could call his labored actions ”moving.” What he needed was an ice bath, the kind he learned about in the land of the Vikings.

Connar cleared the debris from the courtyard as best he could, propping the door back in the place where its hinges used to be. The interior of the shop was another matter entirely; tools, weapons, and scraps of metal littered the floor. He didn't have the energy to deal with the mess now; it could wait until later, or Brossard could handle it himself. Brossard, for his part, had begun snoring.

It wasn’t clear to Connar what was behind Brossard’s provocation: Was he sending a message or trying to create an open place within the ranks of the Cardinal’s Musketeers? Perhaps, given a day or two, Connar would have the chance to ask that very question of the blacksmith. For now, Connar was content to gather his stuff and to search out someplace cold to soak within.

-

[Connar Valdor]

Connar hated traveling as the honor guard for any emissary of the church; in this case, the Bishop de Reims and his two attending priests. The higher ranks among the clergy did not know how to travel without drawing the wrong kind of attention. The Bishop was traveling to Southern France for a meeting with the consulente from the Vatican in Rome, and he had loaded down his lavish carriage with tributes collected from his parish - most of which were "donated" at sword point. The Bishop was more concerned with making a good impression upon the emissaries from Rome than he was the prospects of arriving there alive and in one piece.

The convoy had only reached the countryside outside the shadow of Paris when the first attack from robbers fell upon them. The group of thieves were small and inexperienced and easily dispatched by the dozen men comprising the Bishop's escort. Connar didn't have to draw his sword as the other guards were anxious to wet their blades in blood. However, he had traveled the roads to Nice on many occasions and knew the attacks would grow in frequency and intensity with each passing day.

Outside of Auxerre, four friars from a nearby monastery joined the caravan. Their older, tired horses could not keep pace with the larger horses pulling the carriage and those ridden by the guards, so they often lagged behind, causing the pace of travel to become aggravatingly slow. Connar was anxious to get to Morvan where he hoped a portal to a distant realm yet remained inside the forest. It would be his escape for a few hours, but the forest would likely also be the next place for the caravan to be attacked.


-

[Connar Valdor]

The pace of the caravan escorting the Bishop of Reims to Nice was slower than the Cardinal's Musketeers had planned; the addition of the friars to their company and the near daily attacks from robbers were mostly to blame. The leader of the Musketeer guard, Captain Fortier, had assigned Connar to remain behind with the slower group of friars. The captain didn't believe the lives of a few monks were worth more than the protection of one of his Musketeers.

As they arrived on the edge of the forest of Morvan, Connar had a heated dispute with the Bishop and his priests. The friars were soon drawn into the argument, attracting the attention of Captain Fortier, and he came storming over to put an end to the noise. "Devabriel! What the hell is going on?"

Connar looked at the group of clergymen with a hardened glare before he turned to look at his captain. "We were discussing the merits of Saint James' epistle to the church. Perhaps you could settle our debate; do faith or works save us?" Connar's hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, which the captain had yet to notice did not match the standard issued Musketeer sabre.

Fortier looked from Connar to the Bishop and then to the friars before turning his angered look back to his steward. "All this noise was about scripture? The safety of this caravan is your primary concern, Devabriel. Do you think you can manage that?" The captain did not wait for a response, but turned quickly on his heels and headed back to the main encampment.

Connar looked at the clergymen one by one before speaking, "Perhaps the Captain wishes to pray upon the question before giving us his answer." He drummed his fingers on the handle of his sword as he looked past the men and into the shadows of the darkening forest in the distance. "Ye best get your rest tonight; morning will be here before we know it."

The Bishop and his priests headed back to the main encampment with their carriage and the Musketeer guard. The friars set about making camp and starting a small cooking fire in the midst of their bedrolls. Connar, as he had done every night, draped his heavy gray cloak over his shoulders and pulled up the hood as he slipped into the shadows away from camp. He stopped part way up the hillside where he could see the fires coming from the campsites. He lowered himself to the ground, leaning his back against a tree with his sword perched across his raised knees. He closed his eyes to rest, knowing that his real work would begin once the camp had retired for the night.

Sleep, as always, would be elusive. He pictured himself seated next to Eless near the hearth at the Inn, their hands intertwined. He thought about her trials and her nightmares and prayed that they could be shifted to him; at least one of them deserved to have a peaceful night's rest. He drifted into a restless slumber, caught in the space where any sound in the forest would cause his eyes to open and a tightened grip on his sword.



-

[Connar Valdor]

A red stag deer skirted the treeline just above the spot where Connar was seated upon the ground. The soft rustling of leaves under its hooves created a cadence Connar knew far too well. Connar's hand tightened on the handle of his sword; even the animal strayed near his hiding place, Connar would consider the meat heaven sent. The meal would be a welcomed gift to the campers below. The deer tarried on the hillside for a moment or two before changing its course, the sound of its hooves fading into the distance.

He couldn't use the deer as an excuse for being stirred from his slumber; he had too many thoughts racing in his mind to allow sleep to fully take hold. Connar was completely alone in his world. The feeling had never gripped him so tightly as it had since his discovery of Rhydin so many years ago. Before then, he was emersed in his work and life on Earth. He had, for century on end, devoted all his focus and attention to his duty, to his covenants with his god. His chosen path was his life and calling; he never questioned nor railed against the way. Not that it was full of joy and happy moments in the sun, far from it. But it was his life's love and his existence. His ignorance of anything else was a bliss of sorts. All that began to change when he discovered a new meaning to love within Rhydin's stone walls. When he returned to his path and duty, his world was suddenly bitter, empty, and cold.

A stark contrast between what he found in with Elessaria in Rhydin and what he felt when compelled to return to on Earth emerged. He was torn between the two realms. His heart was in Rhydin; his soul was bound to Earth. The chasm inside of him manifested itself differently in the two worlds. In Rhydin, with her, his heart was filled with warmth and joy. Even in their moments of despair and struggle, he was lifted by her love and the hope of a brighter day. Yet he carried the shame of turning his back on his promises all the while he was there. He was easily distracted by everything about her, and still, there was this nagging in his thoughts and the gnawing void where his soul would be. How could he deliver on the promises to her if he could not keep those he gave to a god?

In his world, the aching emptiness of his heart and his longing to be with her created a war inside, rendering him feral and merciless. He wanted others to join in the suffering he felt. Anger seethed always under the surface awaiting the tiniest spark to explode. It served him well to some degree in preserving his life and giving added value to his employers. He wanted to suffer in his world - as though he could pay penance for his errant ways in the distant realm. Pain was a way to blot out the emptiness he felt without her. His journey to Nice and reunion on Patmos with the Templar Knights were certain to be replete with pain-filled distractions.



-

[Connar Valdor]

Morning had yet to separate itself from the night when the friars begin stirring in the camp. Perhaps there were a few people in the traveling company who received less sleep than Connar did that night. The thought brought the faintest of smiles to Connar's lips as he looked down upon the camp from his sentry post up on the hillside. There had been no attacks from robbers during the night, so Connar remained where the night began seated on the ground with his back against a tree.

As the gloomy, gray sky filled slowly with light, more and more activity could be seen in the camp. Connar pushed up from the ground, stretching his arms and back, trying to break the hold ache and fatigue had on his body. It was a futile attempt. He made his way back to the campground; the friars were not in a pleasant mood. The hoods of their robes were drawn over their faces as they finished their meager breakfast and began the process of making ready to embark on the day's journey. The Musketeer escort was moving slowly in the early morning chill. The Bishop and his priests had already retreated to the comfort of the carriage awaiting their caravan to get underway.

It took the better part of an hour for bedrolls to be gathered up and campfires doused. After checking in with his captain, Connar retrieved his horse from the makeshift stable in the trees and led the animal out to the road. He had been assigned to stay back with the friars yet again, which suited him well. He preferred to ride in silence and let his mind wander to places he'd rather be himself.

The caravan had traveled for two hours when they arrived at the edge of the forest of Morvan. The dense canopy enveloped the small road in shadowy darkness. The captain sent two men on horseback to scout ahead for any signs of nefarious activity. The men returned after a long while with nothing to report, and the procession was underway once more.

Connar checked the two pistols tucked in his belt; they had yet to be fired since the captain issued them to him for the journey. It was just as well; he wasn't given the newer wheellock guns; his pistols required a burning match to fire. He'd be more inclined to throw them at an attacker before going through the difficult process to fire them.

It only required an hour of travel before the Bishop's carriage, and the attending Musketeers had put a hundred meters between themselves and the friars. The clergymen were struggling to keep even a moderately slow pace. It was going to be a long, slow day in the saddle.

The shouting of halt by one of the guards drew Connar's attention. He looked up the road and could see that the caravan had stopped. Connar turned his horse about and faced the friars. "Stay here. Don't move, and don't speak a word until I return to fetch you." His voice was stern and direct. He didn't wait for a response, but reined his horse about and spurred it up the road.

When he got close enough, he could see that a fallen tree was blocking the road. It was a common enough occurrence when traveling a forest as thick and old as Morvan. The Captain and two guards were scouting further up the road, which left the remaining guards to draw straws to see which of them would be assigned to cutting up the tree and removing it from the road. As Connar drew close enough to see that the large tree had branches and limbs full of budding leaves, he snapped the reins and kicked the horse's flanks, sending them galloping off the road and into the trees. The abrupt action drew the attention of the rear guard. After losing sight of Connar, the two men looked at each other and then into the shadowy edges of the forest.

The men at the front had just begun hacking at the tree limbs with their axes when the forest seemed to explode, throwing the guards from their horses. A cannon blast struck the front end of the carriage, separating it from the harnessed horses which lept the tree and bolted down the road. The blast spun the carriage around several times before it fell on its side and slid to the edge of the road.

The guards were trying to regroup when the first of the robbers emerged from the trees running at them with swords and pistols drawn. Men were barking orders trying to organize a defense against the swarming attack.

Deeper into the treeline, a half-dozen bandits were moving two-by-two on horseback toward the skirmish on the road. The two men at the back of the procession did not hear the rider approaching from behind until it was too late. Connar rode up between the two men a smoldering pistol leveled at each of their heads. The gun in Connar's right hand exploded on cue, causing the bandit's brains to exit the side of his skull. The gun in his left hand failed to fire. The robber looked from the gun to his attacker while fumbling for his blade. Connar glared at him as he tilted the pistol back and blew a breath of air onto the firing mechanism causing the smoldering match to burn bright suddenly. The gun sparked and recoiled in his hand, sending a lead ball into the bandit's eye socket.

The empty weapons were tossed to the ground, and his sword was drawn before the remaining company of men on horseback could turn around. His new blade performed as it was crafted; an efficient killing tool. The men's first mistake was choosing this caravan to rob. Their second was being in Connar's path when he was angry at himself and the world.

Connar emerged from the thicket of trees covered in blood and spurring his horse angrily at the melee in the middle of the road ahead. Some of the bandits were engaging with the Musketeers while others were attempting to loot the carriage which was made more difficult because it was lying on its side. Connar could see a priest's body slumped over the opening of the carriage door as he charged past, hacking the legs out from under one of the robbers standing atop the carriage.

Two men emerged from the carriage's opening hefting a chest out of its interior when they saw Connar bearing down on them. They had their prize in their grasp, but so deep was their greed that they wouldn't drop it to save their lives. One of the friars, looking on from the distance, spewed what was left of his breakfast onto the ground as he watched their guardian ruthlessly dispatch the bandits.

When the robbers realized their mounted riders were not coming to their aid, they began to realize their fate was sealed. Some of them tried to escape; others cast their weapons to the ground and surrendered. Connar had climbed atop the carriage as was assisting the clergy within to safety. The captain of the Musketeers had the fleeing bandits pursued and killed. The men that surrendered were put to work clearing the tree from the road. They too would be executed on the captain's order once their task was completed.

As the friars approached the carriage surrounded by carnage, Connar tossed one of the chests to the ground at their feet. It broke into pieces spilling gold coins onto the dirt road. He pointed his finger at the largest of the three friars as he glared at him. "Now you know the price of your soul!" The friar lowered his hood, revealing an ashen-faced Bishop de Reims.



-

[Connar Valdor]

"Devabriel! What in the name of Christ was that?!" The captain of the Musketeer guard was storming toward Connar, leaving a trail of expletives in his wake. A gash above Connar's eyebrow was sending a steady trickle of blood into his eye and down his cheek. He was pressing a piece of material cut from his sleeve to the wound when the captain stood toe to toe with him. "Alors? Who permitted you to have the Bishop masquerade as a friar? Nothing happens in this company without my permission!"

Connar looked at the captain through one squinted eye before he lowered the blood-soaked cloth to return a glare at the man. "It would appear that the Bishop does not share your opinion of who is in charge of this company. He was concerned for his safety, and I provided a solution." Connar glanced at the wreckage of the carriage for a moment before returning his gaze to his captain. "You might inquire of him why he lacks trust in this company's ability to safeguard his life." The trickle of blood had started again, forcing Connar to press the rag once more to his forehead.

The captain took a step toward Connar and was making ready to shove him in the chest, as was his habit when angered and provoked. He stayed his hands before they made contact with the bloody mess that was covering Connar's tabard. For his part, the captain showed no signs of even getting the toes of his boots soiled in the fray. He balled a fist as if he might deliver a back-handed blow to Connar's face; even that action would be messily ineffective. He shook his fist at Connar instead. "The next time you even consider plotting in secret, you will sorely regret it, Devabriel. Do I make myself clear!" The captain turned on his heel, not waiting for a response from his subordinate.

It took several hours for the company to get reorganized after the attack. For their part, none of the Musketeers suffered any significant injuries. Even the friars, who had been dressed as the Bishop and his priests in the carriage would live to share the tale of their scrape with death. The carriage was damaged beyond repair, and the clergy would now be forced to travel on horseback, and the Bishop's burdensome tribute would have to be carried by several riders.

Having the entire company on horseback made traveling more efficient and had the added benefit of making them less of an obvious target to the criminal world. Among thieves and robbers, no news traveled faster than a road full of corpses. The captain continued to send guards out in advance of the company to scout the route ahead, but each time they returned with nothing to report. By the second night after the attack, everyone was beginning to believe that the bodies of the attackers left behind by the Musketeers were a clear message to any foolhardy souls yet considering robbing the caravan. As the daily pace quickened, the friars lagged even further behind only catching up when the company would stop to eat or water the horses. After their experience, they felt a measure of safety being separated from the main escort.

It was late in the afternoon on the fourth day following the attack in the forest of Morvan when the Bishop slowed his horse's pace until Connar and the friars met up with him. No words were exchanged as the Bishop nudged his horse into motion alongside Connar and the friars. The company's course was heading into the rocky hillsides of Le Creusot where the road narrowed through shallow gray canyons. They would be hard pressed to find level ground to make camp unless they slept on the road itself.

Connar looked back to the friars knowing what was on their minds. "We should be stopping to make camp soon. I imagine that we will come upon the company soon eno..." The sounds of rocks tumbling down the hillside in the distance ahead of them jerked Connar's head around, and he pulled his horse to an abrupt stop. The long shadows from the late afternoon sun and the bend in the road made it difficult to see more than 30 meters in any direction. The Bishop and the friars looked at each other, their senses on edge at their protector's sudden movements.

Connar turned to look at the men and raised a hand, silently ordering them to stop. He prodded his horse into motion and then slid from the saddle while the horse was picking up speed. He slapped the horse's flank with his hand sending the horse galloping toward the narrowing road ahead. A volley of musket shots rang out from the hillside, and the horse stumbled forward before crashing to the ground. Connar looked back to the clergy as he drew his sword from its scabbard. The stern and angered look on his face said more than words could. This was no roadside robbery. This was an assassination.

Three men were descending from the thin trees lining the hillside toward the felled horse as Connar charged up the edge of the road. The men's attention was on the horse and their search for its rider when Connar met up with them, not slowing as his blade arced through the air nearly severing the first victim's head with the blow. A gunshot from the opposite side of the road stuck Connar in the back causing him to turn about and stumble forward. More volleys from gunfire whistled past him as he ducked and spun, lunging backward and driving his sword through the chest of the attacker closest to him; the slumping body providing a shield against the flying musket balls.

More gunshots pierced the air, this time coming from directly above Connar on the hillside, one striking him in the shoulder, another hitting him square in the chest. The force of the blow making him fall back into the road. Connar drew himself up on one knee, using his sword as a crutch to help him stand. He looked up the road and could see the Musketeer guard advancing toward him. Two more rounds hit his body as he stumbled toward the corpse of his horse. He snarled, bracing his hand against the animal's chest to steady himself. He tightened his grip on his sword, gritted his teeth and charged at the cluster of men who were frantically reloading their weapons. Two of the men would fall in a heap of blood and entrails before a new shot was fired, hitting Connar chest's over his heart.

As the Musketeers arrived, the fire from their shots began dispersing the attackers. Connar had dropped his sword and was falling backward when a last volley of gunfire rained upon him, a single shot striking his head sending a shower of blood into the air as his body hit the ground. The Musketeers chased the men up the hillsides as far as their horses could climb, but the attackers escaped capture.

By the time Captain Fortier and the remainder of the guard arrived, the Bishop was kneeling next to where Connar lay on the ground. The men looked on in silence as the Bishop drew a cross in the blood on Connar's forehead. After a prayerful moment of silence, the Bishop looked up at the captain and solemnly declared, "Il est mort."

The captain pulled on the reins of his horse, turning the animal about. "It's not safe for us to tarry here any longer. They will surely be back with more men and arms. Let's move. Now!"

The Bishop cried out in protest, "We cannot leave this man here like this! We owe him...I owe him my life. I will not stand idly..." His words were cut short by the captain who had turned his horse around and charged at the Bishop narrowly avoiding trampling him in the process.

"The man is dead. Your ceremonial tears and prayers will not serve him nor you any good. If you want to live to see the morning, we must be on the move now!"

One of the friars came forward, touching the Bishop's sleeve. "We will stay behind and administer last rites, mon Eveque. Devabriel will have a proper interment. You have my word."

The Bishop gave a slow nod as he stood and removed his gold necklace and crucifix from over his head and handed it to the friar. "Bury him with this...it may serve as a ransom that God might be merciful when He looks upon his soul."


-

[Connar Valdor]

There is a space between life and death, a place devoid of light, air, or movement. He has journeyed there enough times to recognize the cold nothingness. It is but a brief moment in eternity where one can choose to fight for life or forfeit mortality and pass onto God's rest. The pain racking the body cries out for relief - a reminder of what awaits the living. A weary soul yearns to be set free of its tabernacle of flesh. The pull from heaven's gate is strong; it is real. Voices call out from the distance, beckoning the traveler to finish his long journey. He has but to yield and the suffering will come to a swift, peaceful end.

Another voice rises softly to his ears filling his entire being with warmth and hope. As the voice grows louder, nearer, he wrestles against the forces restraining his body and spirit. A hand presses gently over his heart steeling his resolve to move, to fight, to open his eyes and live. The wounds in his flesh burn with fire as he feels the force of a great boulder pushing him to the earth, threatening to crush his soul to hell. He strains to hear the voice, to focus on her words before it's too late...

"Cher...breathe..."


The friar was making the sign of the cross over the body of their protector when the would-be corpse reached up and took him by the wrist. Connar's eyes shot open and he drew in a sudden gasp of air. Cracked and broken ribs screamed out their protest causing Connar's attempt to breathe to become short bursts of coughing. The friar tried to pull away, but the man's grip on his arm was unrelenting. Connar looked at the friar as he tried to sit up, pulling at the edge of his bloody tabard, "Help...me..." His plea rasped out between coughs.

The sudden movements drew the attention of the other two friars who rushed over unsure who to help; their brother friar or the fallen Musketeer. Connar released his hold on the friar's wrist as the other men helped pull the heavy tabard over his head. The bullet in Connar's shoulder made moving his left arm all the more difficult as he pulled at the ties of his shirt. The friars looked from one to the other, not understanding why the man, they once thought dead, was so keen on disrobing. Connar attempted to pull the shirt over his head one handed, but could only manage to get it started. "Aidez-moi...please...help me."

The tattered and blood-soaked shirt was freed with the help of the three friars revealing a chainmaille vest of curious workmanship underneath. Connar leaned forward trying to separate the vest from the fired musket balls which had burrowed the metal rings into his flesh. Each of the lead balls, some of which were still smoldering, had to be pried free from the chainmaille before the vest could be removed. Connar's back and chest were bloodied and bruised, a small price to be paid to be yet counted among the living. He laid back slowly to the ground feeling faint and light headed.

"Mon Dieu," the friar attending the victim exclaimed as he pulled back Connar's hair revealing a deep gash above his ear, "Had the shot hit a pouce to the left, you would have a third eye socket, Monsieur Devabriel."

As he could feel blackness seeping over him, Connar offered a near-breathless retort: "Devabriel is dead."



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[Connar Valdor]

The next several days passed in a hazy, dream-like blur. Connar remembered being awoken and told to drink water or wine or whatever liquid the friars found to pour down his gullet. He recalled the searing poke and pull of needle and thread through the gash in his head and to close the hole left by the musket ball in his shoulder. The friars had helped him into the back of a wagon; the rocking and swaying motion kept him on the verge of sleep and nausea. When he next fully awoke, he found himself in a small room with only a side table and bed. A tiny stream of daylight was leaking through the slats of the single window in the room. He was wearing the plain brown robes of a friar. As he sat up on the edge of the bed, he brought his hand to his forehead. The bandages wrapped around his head explained, in part, why his head was aching and the room was spinning.

Connar surmised that the friars had taken him to a nearby church or abbey. As he entered the hallway, supporting himself against the smooth stone walls, he recognized that he was in the Abbey d'Annecy at the base of the French Alps. He shuffled slowly down the narrow corridor, trying to figure out just how long he had been out of touch with the world. He leaned against the wall, pressing his fingers to his eyes in an attempt to make his brain perform feats of math. "It's been eight days since Devabriel's passing, if that is what you are trying to figure out," a voice spoke from the end of the corridor. Connar looked up to see Frére Sebastien, one of the friars from the ill-fated escort.

Connar gave a slow, cautious nod, "And we are now in Annecy?"

Frére Sebastien approached Connar, steadying the wounded man by his arm. He wondered how a soldier could know such a remote and secluded place as the Abbey d'Anncey from just the corridor alone. "It appears you have been here before, mon ami."

Another slow nod followed as Connar leaned on the friar for support as they continued down the corridor to the main room. "Oui...I know this place well..." Connar stopped himself before he said too much. "It was just a guess...I am still very much weary and ahungered. Is there aught I might eat?"

Connar sat alone at a simple wooden table, long enough to have more than a dozen men dine comfortably. He cupped his hands to his head as he leaned over the bowl of stew, the friar thinking he might be praying. Connar was simply trying not to pass out. The first few spoonfuls of stew arrived shakily to his lips. The friar set a mug to the table in front of Connar, and then he sat down across from his patient, watching him slowly eat in silence.

After three servings of stew, an entire baguette, and four mugs of ale, Connar dropped the wooden spoon into the empty bowl and pushed them to the middle of the table. "I best stop afore I burst."

Frére Sebastien laughed, "Tis good to see you eat. I feared you might waste away entirely." Connar reached down and pressed his hand gingerly against his ribs, the steady dull pain reminding him of his near brush with death. It had been a long time since he last felt this weak and thin, the last time being in the bowels of a king's dungeon.

"I'll be hungry again within the hour I am certain," Connar said as he began to rise slowly from the table, reaching over to retrieve his bowl and mug.

"That's enough of that," the friar said, taking the utensils away from Connar. "You rest, I can clean up the dishes. And when you're hungry, the kitchen is this way," he nudged his shoulder to point the way. "But I suspect you might already know where to find the kitchen and every other room in this abbey."

-

[Connar Valdor]

Friars and monks are generally very methodical in everything they do. They have the luxury of a slower pace, enabling them to give deep reflection to any idea or plan before taking action. Connar wasn't surprised that Frére Sebastien was being measured in their brief conversations. The friars had, as they promised the Bishop de Reims, given Devabriel a proper burial. Under a meager pile of stones against the hillside, they had buried the blood-stained Musketeer tabard and a gold crucifix - which was all that truly remained of the soldier they once knew.

If Connar wasn't eating or drinking, he was sleeping which kept any of the friar's nagging questions at bay for the moment. On the third morning of the eating/sleeping/eating routine, Frére Sebastien shuffled down the long corridor and peeked quietly into Connar's room. He found it empty, the bed made and the robe folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

A desperate search of the interior of the abbey ensued. Going room to room, the friar moved from one end of the ancient building to the other. It wasn't until he heard the whinny of horse that it dawned on him to check the stables.

Connar was pulling on the reins, directing the horse out of the stable opening when the friar stepped in his path. For his part, the color had returned to Connar's features, but he yet carried the air of someone who had been through hell and back. The cuts and gashes on his face and arms were now circled in multi-colored bruises. The white shirt hung loose on his frame, and the simple cloak over his shoulders looked a size too large. The diversion to the foot of the Alps instead of the Musketeer escort all the way to Nice granted him a few extra days in his overall journey to the isle of Patmos. But time was no longer on his side.

"I suppose it would not change your mind if I were to say you're in no condition to travel," the friar said as he placed a hand against the horse's nose to steady the nervous animal.

Connar was favoring his left arm, keeping it draped across the front of the saddle. He looked down at the friar, the strength having returned to his voice at least, "I appreciate all you have done for me, mon frére, but...duty calls."

Frére Sabastien gave a scoffing laugh, "Seeing how you have disavowed yourself as a member of the Cardinal's Musketeers, I can only assume you are answering to a higher call." He gave the tired animal a pat on the flanks as Connar nudged the animal forward. "I'll pray for you and even more for the horse, mon ami."

Connar looked back at the friar, offering a smile, "Merci, we will both need all the help heaven can spare." The smile faded as he turned to face the road ahead, his grip tightening on the reins as his mind focused on the upcoming reunion of the Templars.



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