Rain began to fall on the steppes, just outside of Khitai's Great Wall. Ever still, the Hyrkanian Tribes warred on the travelers that would dare step foot into their lands. Ever still, the Last Legion and Scarlet Circle pressed their hidden agendas. They warred against each other, and yet both worked to push back the invaders' pressing. One tribe already breached the wall, they could not allow for another. And yet still, there were other savages, ones of the west, that were counted among many who did not come to invade, but as travelers to this land.

Thunder crackled overhead.

Something had happened. In one part of the Wall, the smell of burning flesh permeated the air. The body of a sorceress lay propped up on a pyre. Her chest, ripped open, heart removed. The soldiers had discovered it, had recoiled in horror. None of those who had witnessed it were still there. No, they were elsewhere, in a camp of tribesmen, pondering their options. Pondering the future of what was to come. The Legion, they could not know. The yellow men had no idea what had just happened.

Lightning struck.

Footsteps. Clad in bearskin boots. A familiar figure walking before the caravan master that had brought them there. He was Stygian, though not the caravan most had come on. This Stygian was a heretic, branded so by his people. He was a smuggler, a slave trader. Paid in coin to wait until those damned savages were done with their business in the east. He crossed his arms with a sigh as the figure stepped closer to him, tigthening the bear skin wrapping his wrists.

"Are you done?" He asked with a tinge of annoyment, his tongue, barely forming the Cimmerian words.

"Done," the large man replied. "No. We have just begun."

"Set's kiss man! This land is not safe, the dust storms are blinding me, how much longer must I wait and camp here? You paid for passage, you, and your Clan defended my caravan on the way. You told me you would be here for a month or more time, after many months of journey. You told me that when you were done, you would approach, and it would be time to leave. We are leaving, now! I cannot wait any longer!"

"We... are not leaving."

"Ahearn, if you will not leave with me... you will find another caravan."

"Ahearn."

The large man inclined his head. The caravan master scoffed, and turned his back. His eyes then widened. He gasped, and gurgled. He looked down and saw that hand, punched through his back, out of his chest. He saw the beating organ in the palm of the man's hand. His beating heart. The caravan master gurgled one more time, before dropping dead.

The large man turned. The horses reared up, frightened, and they galloped away, without a master. The Cimmerian stalked off, without emotion, without word. Those who had been with the caravan master simply looked on, horrified by what they had just seen.

"There is no more Ahearn. There is only the Blackheart."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~



"What do you know?"

"The question is not what we know, but rather, what do you intend to do with our knowledge? You are not one of us, foreigner. You are strange, and alien. You share similar traits with the Godslayer himself. Black hair. Large frame. The same smoldering eyes. Devil's eyes. For all we know, you are an ally and friend to Conan the Godslayer."

"Bah, do not mistake me for that wretch! Conan is no friend to me, nor is he an ally. Nor is he kin. The man turned his back on his own people before he slew your... god. No true Cimmerian honors him. They spit upon his name!"

The old man paused, and circled around the Cimmeria, step by step, pace by pace. He was shorter, he was scrawnier, no doubt in combat far less impressive, and yet, Fearghus mac Finnegan felt the need to hold himself back. He would not just beat it out of the man. He needed help, not forced aid that could potentially be sabotaged. No, he wanted, he needed, honest answers. These men... these fanatics. They know something. Something more then the grim options then those the bandits knew. There had to be another option.

"So you say, but actions speak louder. You say you come from a... Clan of men and women as you are. Cimmerians, you are called? And you say your mark is that of the Elk. So tell me, Elk Warrior. What is it you intend to do with this ritual... if I were to offer it to you?"

Fearghus gritted his teeth. Surely, if the civilized knew of Tholgrim's abilities, his danger, the barbarians would be blamed, chased out by sorcery and swords both. That was the way, at least in other countries. Blame the ones who are outsiders for another's misdeeds. Blame the honest folk, so that the crooked could survive. And yet, this belief did not stop him. It would not. Time was not on his side, he could not practice the civilized maneuvering he had been taught on the journey east. Not that he would want to.

"There is a... man. A witch man he is called by our people. Very powerful. He has defied mortality, and yet, is without body, without form. So he binds himself to..."

"You speak of the demon!"

Fearghus raised one brow, surprised. "You know of him?"

The old man turned, and swiftly walked over to the small table that sat there in his tent, in the encampment. He pulled forth some parchments, and offered them to the warrior. Fearghus took them with a nod, and glanced at them. Drawings. Sketches. A boy... a young Khitan boy in one sketch. And a tall, lithe... he recognized the Hyperborean's shape. The second sketch, uncanny.

"He has slain several of our brothers," the old man whispered. "He has butchered the bandits you sought before. He has left body after body in his wake, while possessing this poor boy. Kaisol was a good lad, he and his family were honest farmers, who brought their goods to Chow. Now.. he is cursed. Better for him to die now, then continue to suffer...."

Fearghus furrowed both brows. "Will you help me then?"

"Aye. The ritual is..."

The old man paused and looked Fearghus dead in the eye. The warrior was not easily intimidated, and certainly not by the old man. And yet... there was something about this Khitan that made him feel small. Tholgrim was a menace to the Clan for many months, years even. Truthfully, even while dormant under Adharca Cathair, long before any of them were living, he was a threat. Ever present. And that now, this threat was in a foreign land, endangering many others....

"... if you wish to destroy the demon, you must know what he is first. Though we have called him such, he is no true demon. Nor is he spirit of the dead. He is living without form, and must rely on black magics to take shape. His form is dependent on the boy... unless he frees himself. Or..."

"Or?"

"... what you have experienced with him. Such a being when it is freed from vessel, it is... like wind. It swiftly occupies a new vessel, but remains dormant. To attempt this is to put self at risk. It might jump from its vessel, into whoever attempts it. If it does this..."

Fearghus stepped closer, intent on hearing every last detail.

"... it can control every last movement and action of its vessel, and needs no form of its own. You say it did this to Stygian boy. If it occupies a vessel that is strong... hardy... it may be more dangerous then it could ever be."

Fearghus closed his eyes. He knew what the man was applying. Any Elkhorn could become an enemy... THE enemy. And no doubt a sacrifice would be made by such an ordeal. His teeth gritted once more and he opened his eyes. "What of the ritual then."

"As with all such rituals. It requires blood. The bandits north of here are not wrong. All such rituals require blood. A circle would be formed. But the words... I would not commit those words to you until you have decided on this ritual."

Fearghus nodded slightly. "Very well. But what does the ritual entail? I need to know before I choose."

The old man's voice grew hushed. "One draws out the essence of your enemy. Of Tholgrim. But instead of a vessel, he would be commanded into a body that is cold, without life, dormant, or not yet born. The dead would... take him. Overwhelm him. His vessel might live, if he is caught unawares. And yet... if Tholgrim senses such a ritual coming, he might claw his way back in... or slay the vessel trying."

Fearghus's eyes darkened. The corpse of a dead man... he ignored... he had to ignore the remarks of the unborn child. The corpse of a dead man. He nodded once.

One ritual, that would destroy both vessel and Tholgrim.
One ritual, that could save the vessel, without endangering another, instead, using a cold corpse.

Then he thought of the other option. The one the shaman in the bandit camps had offered.

A ritual that involved the harnessing of spirits. A life for a life, the vessel would live, and yet the one performing the ritual would perish.

Indeed, neither of the bandit people had offered a hopeful outcome. Perhaps then, the corpse of a dead man might be better suited. He needed to hurry, to find out what the status of the clan was. It would take hours to return beyond the wall, and by then, the Clan would have dealt with the sorceress who could not lie. He needed to let them know, that he found a solution... three solutions even

If he could return in time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~



"A deal. You wish to make a deal?"

He muttered the words to himself as he stepped over the ancient site. This was it. His destination. He smiled grimly, and stepped upon the strange location. No doubt used by the Hyrkanians for some... shamanistic rites. Tholgrim sensed the power. He knew of its potential, of the spark. The void beckoned. The wall to the other side. He felt it in the flesh of his vessel, of the Chieftain he controlled. If he could just get to the other side... he growled, and slammed his fist against the air, as if striking at the weakened air around him.

He loathed this place. The east. A prisoner, trapped within a Khitan boy for days, weeks. Captured by the bandits of the steppes. He frowned deeply as he recalled those moments. Watching, from within the boy that called himself Kaisol. The boy was pathetic. Weak. Begging for mercy from those who would give none. Undoing all progress the Witchman had made. The bandits bled him. Cut him. Caused pain, pain that Tholgrim felt. Then... they had turned him loose, and a game had begun. The game the Wolves of the Steppes had often known.

They sought to run down their prisoner for sport.

And yet luckily for the Witchman, the boy had passed out, allowing him to come forth. Allowing him to butcher the bandits, to dispatch them, to rip their hearts from their chests and walk away. Yet the boy was dying. And so Tholgrim took him to the wall. But the boy, Kaisol perished. His chest was split open, and soon Tholgrim had found himself without form again.

Then came the Clan, the whore of a sorceress.

Leading up to now.

A thin smile spread on the Witchman's lips... he need not manifest now. His vessel was strong, hardy. The boy of his enemy, the Chieftain of the Clan he sought to end. Ironic, truly. He felt the void from the other side, and turned his gaze. Someone was closing in on him, and so he dug his boots in, and spun around, facing the Cimmerian.

"Master."

"Moghcorb."

The Cimmerian kneeled before Tholgrim and bowed his head. "You have beckoned, and I have come. What do you need of me?"

Tholgrim smiled. "You live because I commanded it. Your life was once gone, and my servants found you, stuck to a tree, by the hand of your own son. Your life is because I say you live. Now? Now you repay the debt."

"Name your orders."

"Raise an army. Use what my servants taught you. If they will not join you, slaughter them. If they will not rise up, burn them. These eastern peoples are weak. Burn the villages of those who do not join you. When you have your army, you will raze the Hyrkanian Camp to the ground."

"As you command."

Moghcorb turned, and stalked off. Tholgrim turned back, and felt the pull of the void. Soon, soon he would find a way to the other side. To the Wayfarer's Stone, to Cimmeria, where he would see his conquest, thousands of years in the making... complete.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~



Night fell over the Hyrkanian Plains that led to the Wall into Khitai. The warrior crouched over a bluff with a grim expression. Moments earlier, he had been in the encampment, slathering woad over his body, and having a shaman make the mark of a raven upon his face. Such was the way of preparing for war. He would be out of the main conflict this eve, and yet his part to play was key. Word had reached his ear of Tholgrim having a general. Rising in the south of the steppes, the general was said to be terrorizing small encampments and villages.

Fearghus mac Finnegan had sent So-Ro to the Clan for the purpose of explaining the rituals, the ways to destroy the monster that was Tholgrim. To save the Chieftain. He would not be able to play his part in the main conflict, but at least he could send help. He gripped his weapons tightly, watching over the bluff. Waiting. The weapons felt familiar, comforting. Both he been wielding for nearly a year, and many had died to them. The warrior smiled wryly, for his blade had been taken from an easterner that found Cimmeria so long ago. He never thought he'd go to where the easterners would be, let alone find that the confrontation born in Cimmeria would end there.

Yet it would. He watched the village from the bluff, and he saw his prey. His eyes widened in shock. The man that walked into the encampment was Cimmerian. Grey-Haired, wearing naught but a loin cloth, bracers, boots, and wielding sword and round shield. He terrorized the villagers. Struck at them, cut them. He used shouting and his size for intimidation.

Fearghus moved, not for loyalty to the peasants, but for his hatred of any that might serve Tholgrim. Blade in his right, axe in his left, he charged in. The lunged, and the Cimmerian spun around, raising his shield. Sword bounced against shield, and axe was swung around. The other Cimmerian raised his own blade, parrying the axe. Blows were traded, sword and axe bouncing off shield, clanging with enemy sword. It was a dance of steel and sweat, for the fight was no simple thing.

The warrior ducked under a swift chop, and the enemy stepped forward, tripping over Fearghus. The Elkhorn warrior thrust his blade striking the back of the shield-bearer's calf. First blood was drawn, and a howl of fury was taken from the Cimmerian. Fearghus rolled to his feet, and waited. The enemy turned, and Fearghus threw his axe with force. The weapon embedded itself in the shield, and the shield fell from the grasp of the treacherous swine. Fearghus stepped in, and brought his blade to his foe. Sword met sword, back and forth, parry and dodge, neither man giving an inch.

Then came the kick, sending Fearghus backwards. The warrior rolled back, and reached for his axe, dislodging it from the shield. The near naked fighter rushed in, as if desperate, and Fearghus easily batted the blade away. His sword thrust home, piercing his enemy's gut.

"Dog of Tholgrim, now you die."

The dying man chuckled darkly as he gurgled blood from his throat, "I am Moghcorb of the Dark Wolf... your actions may end me, but my legacy will live on."

"What legacy?" Fearghus snarled, as he raised his axe.

Moghcorb smiled, "A son. A son that stands among your lot. Sluaghadh mac Moghcorb. I guarantee you, dog, that he will avenge my end, even if he does not know it."

Fearghus furrowed his brows. He paused a moment. His clansman? Sluaghadh? The Child-Slayer. Dishonorable that he may be, the warrior never thought him as a traitor. The uncertainty crossed his features but for a moment, and yet, without warning he brought his axe down, splitting Moghcorb's head in two.

Fearghus turned and walked back to the Hyrkanian encampment. His part was done.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~



You will not win. You cannot, you dog of Hyperborea.

"Do not test my patience," he growled, hand to his forehead.

Tholgrim stood upon the dark altar, situated upon a Hyrkanian Shrine. He gritted his teeth - no, not his teeth, but that of the Shaman, the Chieftain of the Elkhorn, Ahearn Pict-Killer. Ahearn Chieftain. Ahearn Elkhorn. He was many things to Tholgrim. The descendant of the enemy that imprisoned him. The one who was foolish enough to release him. Now... the vessel for which Tholgrim now inhabited. And yet, the Witchman could hear him, feel him, fighting for control. He felt the heart beat within. He felt the blood pump, the veins throb, the soul, trying to break free of shackles. A struggle, deep within. Ever haunting him. Unlike the previous vessels, this one could not be broken.

Not with force, not with magics. Something else stirred within the body of the Shaman. It was another presence, another being even. Another spirit? Could it be, that this Chieftain, had something else within him? Tholgrim chuckled, it couldn't be. Ahearn was but a man, flesh and blood and bone. He could be slain, he was no immortal. The vessel would rot, over time, and Tholgrim would live on. And on. There was no end. No stop. It was as it was, the way of things. The way of life and death. But at this moment, the vessel was strong. In will... and in physical strength. For the annoyances of the Shaman trying to break free, the strength Tholgrim wielded was that not unlike his true form.

They will stop you, Tholgrim. They will end you.

"They will find a corpse," he sneered, speaking to himself it would seem to be. "Yet when I tear through the void. When I open up to the other side. When I step through, you will be but a husk. Void of a soul. You will be dead. They will have no Chieftain."

And yet, you will be hunted. Forever.

"A price to pay."

Tholgrim knelt down, and cut into his left palm with a knife. He began the ritual. He felt the dark energy caressing his fingers, his hand, his arm. He felt the marks appear on his body as the void began to crack. His time was here.

Told you.

Tholgrim's head snapped up. He saw them on the horizon. Barbarians. Not the Hyrkanians either. Cimmerians. They had come. Tholgrim growled, and reached for the very hammer that the Chieftain used against his brethren, the White Hand. He swung, and the hammer knocked one woman off the altar. He turned around, and deflected several blows, cracking his weapon on the skull of another. Two Elkhorn down, and yet he felt blade and axe pierce into him. Yet each time, dark sorcery repelled them. Each time, he rose, even as the vessel would buckle, even as it would break. They were killing their Chieftain to try and harm Tholgrim.

Or so it seemed. He rose up again. And again. Yet each time he lunged, each time he felt an arrow thud into his chest, he followed them, back, down into a valley. There, they waited. He charged, and felt an impact upon his skull.

He struggled to move. Then... he felt the weight. Tholgrim rose and tries to lunge. He couldn't. He was trapped, in a circle, formed around a dead and rotten tree. He sniffed, he knew the blood of beasts, and the piss of a virgin. Yet why? Would would they trap him within...

He looked down. He saw Svannah. The Ritesmaster, dead.

No. Crom, no!

"Yes... " he breathed.

He looked up. Riorach and Galtash. They both stood. Riorach began a chant. At first it was but a simple chant that Tholgrim ignored. He smirked at Galtash, and uttered a whisper. His fist rose, and as he clenched it, the Cimmerian crumpled in a heap. Sorcery was the Witchman's strength, and with each squeeze of the fist, Galtash would bleed, his heart would suffer, and break if he so desired. His gaze then met Riorach who continued to chant. Each time the chant ran through it grew more bothersome. A buzzing sound within his ear.

He clenched his other fist, and she too suffered. She too doubled over and bled. Yet she kept chanting, and with each line spoken, the buzzing grew into a burning sensation. Tholgrim growled. He reached for his dagger, and yet Galtash lunged. A flick of his wrist, and the Cimmerian flew out of the circle, cracking his skull against a tree branch. Tholgrim snarled and turned his gaze to Riorach, who continued to chant. One thrust was all it took, to pierce her stomach. The Witchman laughed, a grim and disturbing laugh.

Then he felt the pull, as Riorach continued to chant, continued to recite. He felt the pull worsen, the pain grow, and soon, Tholgrim was gone from the Chieftain.

He found himself within Svannah. He tried to move, tried to speak, but her body was broken, gone. He felt the void within, and soon, he felt nothing but emptiness that he could not escape. Then the burning returned, and as the last incantation was spoken, he simply... ceased to exist.

Ahearn too collapsed. Asleep. As with Riorach. As with Galtash.

Yet Tholgrim was dead. The Clan took all three, as well as the fallen Ritesmaster, and all were placed in the care of the shaman, while Svannah was honored. The shaman paced back and forth, one looking at Ahearn intently. He shook his head sadly, and simply whispered of no hope for life.

A single eye opened.

Deep within, in the void of nothing, Ahearn was gone. Yet within the Chieftain's body was something else, that something Tholgrim had felt. It roared, a loud, and fierce sound.

The Bear had awakened.