The Ancient

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Ye got yer bum beat, and yer cap’s the price,” said Mcwigik.

  “It is all right.” Cormack tried to intervene, for what was he to do with a powrie’s bloody cap anyway? But Mcwigik wasn’t listening.

  “The dactyl demon it is!” Pragganag protested, and he tore himself free of the other dwarf holding him, then held that one back with a hateful scowl before advancing on Mcwigik.

  “The human keeped his word in coming out, but yerself’s not got that honor?” Mcwigik asked.

  “Ye ain’t to give him me cap!”

  “It is all right,” said Cormack, but no one was listening.

  Mcwigik turned sidelong to the advancing Pragganag and lifted his right arm up high and back, holding the cap away. He brought his left arm in against his torso, defensively, it seemed.

  “Ye give it!” Pragganag demanded, and when Mcwigik kept the cap away from his reach, he slugged the dwarf in the face.

  His mistake.

  For Mcwigik had retrieved something else when he had grabbed up the cap, and his left arm shot across, neck height to Pragganag.

  Pragganag started to shout something, but all that came out was a bubbling bloody gurgle, for that sharpened axe head, quietly retrieved by Mcwigik as he walked over, had cut a neat line indeed across poor Prag’s throat.

  Mcwigik stepped back and calmly presented the beret to Cormack, while Pragganag slumped down to his knees, choking and grasping at his torn windpipe and artery, his blood spraying high.

  Cormack went for his pouch and his remaining stone. “I can heal him,” he declared, rushing past Mcwigik—or trying to, for the powerful powrie stopped him dead in his tracks with an outstretched arm.

  “No, ye can’t. Ye can take yer damned cap and dip it in his blood. Then ye can put it on yer head and get ye gone from here. We’re done playing, boy, and the next blood what’s spilling’ll be yer own.” He thrust the beret into Cormack’s hand. “Dip it!” he ordered in a voice that brooked no argument.

  As he stumbled off the beach a few thumping heartbeats later, wet cap in hand, Cormack heard Mcwigik instruct the others—to their relief, apparently, judging from their responses—to take Pragganag’s heart.

  By the time he reached the small stone archway that led to the main door of the chapel, Cormack heard the now-familiar powrie burial song carried up by the breeze, its strange and somehow gentle intonations and harmony (given the gravelly voices of the singers) mingling with the sound of the waves so that Cormack would not even have known it to be a song had he not heard it before.

  EIGHT

  To Prove a Point

  The five-man craft drifted through the mist with hardly a sound other than the occasional flutter of the single sail in the slight breeze or the splash of water. Androosis sat forward, his long legs hanging over either side of the prow, which angled up high enough so that Androosis’s feet remained comfortably high above the water. At eighteen, he was more than ten years younger than the other Alpinadorans on the boat, three weathered helmsmen and the oldest of the group, the shaman Toniquay. No hair remained on Toniquay’s head, and his light skin was stretched thin with age and dotted with many brown spots, presenting an imposing appearance indeed, as if he had already gone into the grave and returned. The few teeth remaining in his mouth stuck at awkward angles and shined yellow, and the thin mustache he wore seemed no more than a shadow, depending on the light.

  Another man curled against the aft rail, working the rudder and the sails, and the other two sailors sat in the middle of the fifteen-foot craft, just ahead of Toniquay. Each held a paddle across his lap, ready to assist at the command of the navigator.

  Long lines stretched out behind the boat, each set with a multitude of hooks. The catch had been thin thus far, with only two rather small silver trout thrashing about in the many buckets in the flat hold between Androosis and the paddlers.

  “Too calm a day,” said Canrak, the gnarled man working the rudder. Though he was not an old man—in fact, he was the youngest other than Androosis—his face was so wrinkled that it seemed as if someone had piled separate slabs of skin one atop the other in the shape of a head. Add to that a thick black beard that grew in places where it shouldn’t and didn’t grow in other places where it normally would, and Androosis thought the lean and gangly Canrak possibly the ugliest human being he had ever seen. Quite the opposite of Androosis, who, with his fair skin and yellow hair, had caught the eye of almost every young woman of Yossunfier. Tall and strong, with wide shoulders and a solid frame, Androosis also stood out as one of the more promising young warriors among the tribe, and that fact, he knew, had played no small part in Toniquay’s decision to carry him along on these long fishing excursions.

  “She is calm and flat this day, but never too much so,” Toniquay replied. “Mithranidoon is a blessing, storm or still.”

  He was replying to Canrak, but Androosis knew that the nasty old shaman had aimed those words his way. Toniquay knew well of Androosis’s friendship with Milkeila, and he had led the outrage against her those weeks before when she had dared suggest an expedition to the shores beyond Mithranidoon. Subsequent to Milkeila’s bold suggestion, it was no secret that the tribal elders had purposely carved up the tasks to keep the suspected conspirators apart. In fact some of those elders, like Toniquay, had been boasting of their wisdom quite openly. When the five had boarded the boat this morning, Toniquay had whispered to Androosis that “this is where you will learn the truth. Not in the wandering hopes of a young woman frustrated because she has found no willing lover among her peers.”

  Androosis had let the ridiculous insult to Milkeila pass without response, something that still weighed on his proud shoulders. But he didn’t want a fight with Toniquay—certainly not! Because on Yossunfier, there could be no such fight. The structure of Androosis’s people, Yan Ossum, was akin to that of all the Alpinadoran tribes. Elders carried great weight and respect, with the older shamans being the top of the hierarchy, second only to the Pennervike, the Great Leader of Yan Ossum, himself.

  “Do you believe that we are wasting our time out here, friend Androosis?” Toniquay asked, catching the young man off-guard. He turned to view the smug shaman, and found four sets of eyes staring hard at him.

  “A time on Mithranidoon is never wasted, master,” Androosis obediently replied, and turned away.

  “Well spoken!” Toniquay congratulated, and then in more solemn and dire tones he added, “Do you truly believe that?”

  She felt the roiling lava far below her bare feet, but she did not summon it to her this day. For Milkeila had no duties to attend at that time and was utilizing her magical bond with the earth for no better reason than to remind herself of her powers—magical energy considered quite proficient among her shaman peers and elders. The woman needed that reassurance at this time, for she had seen Androosis board the boat with Toniquay that morning. Milkeila was no fool; she understood the significance of Toniquay’s unusual trip out to Mithranidoon.

  A handful of Milkeila’s friends had joined her in shared fantasies of leaving Mithranidoon, a wanderlust sparked by the arrival of the Abellican monks three years earlier. To that point, none of them had even known that a wider world existed beyond the shores of Mithranidoon, not one inhabited by other men, at least.

  It had mostly been idle chatter, of course, teenage restlessness. To Milkeila, though, there had run a string of honesty in that chatter. She wanted to see the wider world! Her relationship with Cormack had only strengthened that desire, of course, since it could never be an open marriage here on Mithranidoon—the elders, particularly surly Toniquay, would never allow such a thing!

  The six conspirators had let the matter drop for more than a year and had relegated the plan to a far-distant place when Milkeila had surprised them all by reviving it only a couple of months previous.

  The young shaman had recognized her mistake almost immediately. She and her friends were all coming of age now, soon to be celebrated as full adult m
embers of Yan Ossum, and youthful fancies had been lost to more serious responsibilities. Milkeila held no doubts that at least one of the six, Pennerdar, had run to the elders with the news, and while the elders had not confronted her directly, she had noticed the extra glances, none favorable, Toniquay often tossed her way. Oh, but he had given her a fine glower that very morning, right before he had summoned Androosis to join him in the fishing.

  “Androosis,” Milkeila mused aloud. The sound of her own voice broke her concentration and connection to the earth power far below. Of course it was Androosis singled out for Toniquay’s special trip onto Mithranidoon, for he alone had shown some interest when Milkeila had suggested a journey to the world beyond the lake.

  Milkeila took a deep breath and unconsciously glanced to the southeast, toward Chapel Isle, fully obscured by the mists. With renewed focus the shaman reached deep into the hot powers flowing below the lake. She lifted her hand to fondle the secret gemstone necklace, seeking the added power there. A sense of urgency gripped her; if she could unlock the secrets of the stones, if she could find a way to blend their powers with her own, then perhaps she would find some answers to the questions she knew Toniquay would eventually throw her way.

  The power tickled her but would not come true. She could not join the magic as she had joined her soul to Cormack. She spent many minutes straining until she felt the shaman magic flowing through her powerfully, begging for release as if it would simply consume her flesh and blood. At that moment of magical climax, Milkeila reached into the gemstones….

  Nothing.

  Earth magic burst from her form, a sudden and flashing gout of flame rushing out in a small circle around her. Several leaves curled and crisped, and wisps of smoke rose from the ground in the aftermath.

  Milkeila stood there gasping, both physically and emotionally drained. She looked around at the circle of destruction and shook her head, recognizing that it was no more than she could summon at any time. She brought the gemstone necklace to her lips and kissed it, thinking of Cormack, of the promises they had shared. She knew in her heart that they were not so different, these religions of earth and gemstone. And she believed, as Cormack believed, that the greater answers lay in the joining, in the whole.

  If ever they could get there.

  Milkeila looked back out at the lake, in the direction where Toniquay and Androosis had gone, and her stomach churned with doubts and fear.

  Androosis turned back to regard the man and started to respond but bit it back, seeing that there was no compromise here, that Toniquay was goading him into open admissions that could be used to further split apart the group of young conspirators. If Androosis answered correctly here, then no doubt Milkeila would feel the weight of that response. If he did not, Toniquay would use it as further proof that the young adults of Yan Ossum were running wild and contrary to the traditions that had kept the people thriving for generations untold.

  So Androosis said nothing.

  “Tend the lines,” Toniquay ordered him, not blinking an eye.

  “They’ve nothing on them,” Canrak said from the back, but Toniquay still did not blink.

  “Bring them in, then,” the old shaman said. “Let us learn if we can waste our time more productively.”

  Androosis studied Toniquay for a long moment, and still the old and withered man did not blink. Did Toniquay ever blink? Would he die with his eyes wide, and remain like that through eternity under the cold ground?

  Androosis moved deliberately, finally, past the sloshing trout and between the oarsmen. He purposely focused on the back of the boat as he passed Toniquay, for he could feel the shaman’s eyes boring into him, every step.

  Canrak quietly laughed at him, but he ignored the fool—everyone on Yossunfier thought that one a fool—and methodically began hauling in the long lines.

  Before they were even aboard, Toniquay motioned for the two men before him to dip their paddles. “Bring us right, half a turn,” the shaman ordered Canrak.

  Canrak nodded and grabbed the rudder, but paused and looked at Toniquay curiously. “Half right?”

  “Half right.”

  “Yossunfier’s left and back.”

  “Do you think me too stupid to know that?”

  “No, elder, but …” Canrak stopped and licked his lips. “Half right,” he said, and turned the rudder appropriately, which presented an obstacle for Androosis as he hauled the long line to Canrak’s right. The young man moved outside the angle of the turned rudder, looking intently at the obviously disturbed Canrak all the while.

  “Half right and bring us straight, and open the sail wide to the breeze,” Toniquay ordered. “And paddle, the both of you. Strong and straight.”

  “We are not that deep,” Canrak dared say, but if Toniquay even heard him, he didn’t show it.

  Canrak turned directly to Androosis then and gave a concerned look, but the young man, not nearly as experienced with the ways of Mithranidoon, had no response. He kept hauling, and tossed one or two sour looks back at Toniquay, who had his back to him and paid him no heed at all. This wasn’t about fishing, Androosis now fully understood. Toniquay hadn’t come out here to secure the day’s catch. This trip was about Androosis, wholly, and about the conspiracy of the young adults who so desperately wanted to get off this smothering lake.

  Even so, the boat’s turn had Androosis surprised, as it had obviously unnerved the other three. Beside Androosis, Canrak licked his lips repeatedly and kept his hand tight on the tiller, obviously anticipating, and hoping for, Toniquay’s command to change course yet again.

  But the shaman didn’t make a move or utter a sound, and the small craft glided through the mist. Canrak’s warning that they were “not that deep” echoed in Androosis’s thoughts.

  A dark form loomed in the water, ahead and to port, a rock, prodding up like a signpost warning intruders.

  “Holy Toniquay,” Canrak started to say, but was interrupted when the shaman said, “Androosis, to the front.”

  “The line …” Androosis started to reply.

  “Leave it, and go forward to watch our depth.”

  Androosis scrambled past the old shaman and the two paddlers. He stumbled and knocked over one of the buckets, spilling water and a trout onto the flat hold. He started for the fish, but met the disapproving glare of Toniquay as he bent and thought better of it, practically falling all over himself to get back to the prow.

  He leaned far over, putting his face near the water, trying to get an angle in the light that would give him the best view to gauge the depth. They weren’t that shallow at all, he realized to his relief, though another rock showed off to port, protruding several feet into the air above the water level.

  He turned back to report such to Toniquay, and met the shaman’s bemused expression, the man pointing past Androosis, dead ahead.

  When he looked forward again, Androosis understood—everything. Less than fifty running strides away loomed a dark and foreboding beach, sharply inclined and covered with black, sharp-edged lava rock. Just a short distance up and away from the steaming water, the rock mingled with fingers of ice and snow, creating a stark contrast of white and black, each segment of the mix appearing as hardened as the other. A few scraggly tree skeletons showed among the stones, but they hardly constituted a sign of life, seeming more like a warning, warding away any living thing.

  The mist blew across Androosis’s field of vision, alternately thick and thin, and in a moment of clarity, he picked out among that desolate landscape a series of caves.

  He knew this place for what it was, then, and he spun on Toniquay as if to scream an accusation.

  “This is the destination of your dreams,” the shaman said. “This is the promise of foolish Milkeila. Look well upon the desolation.”

  “This is one spot,” Androosis sputtered.

  “Too close to the trolls,” the man paddling to Toniquay’s left quietly, almost inaudibly, remarked, and he lifted his paddle from the water and
brought it across his lap. His companion did likewise, and both stared at the shaman eagerly, as if in anticipation of an order that would get them fast away from this dangerous place.

  “There are many such spots,” the shaman retorted, ignoring the paddlers’ words, actions, and expressions. “And you would need to stumble upon just one to be slaughtered. Nay, you would not even have to find one to arrive swiftly at your grave, fool. We are not like our mainland kin. We have lost their ways of survival, as our blood has lost its thickness. As it has thinned from the warmth of Blessed Mithranidoon. I warn you now, with this fate clear before you, our patience …”

  A splash in the water just to the north of their position interrupted Toniquay’s rant.

  “Glacial troll,” Canrak warned, his knuckles white on the tiller, and the two paddlers stared hard at the shaman.

  Another splash sounded. As he glanced fast over his shoulder, Androosis thought he caught some motion near the caves.

  “Do you understand now, young one?” said Toniquay, trying hard to keep himself calm and collected, obviously. “You think this all a game, a play for excitement.”

  “Holy Toniquay, we must be gone,” Canrak dared say, and the shaman spun about and glowered at him, even lifted a hand as if he meant to strike at the man.

  But the paddlers weren’t waiting for the order any longer, and by the time the shaman turned back forward, they had already splashed their paddles into the water, the man to the right pulling hard, the one to the left reversing his motion, so that even without Canrak’s work on the tiller, they set the boat into a standing turn.

  And Canrak did work the tiller to aid them, despite the look from Toniquay. Another splash sounded, then two more in rapid succession. It wasn’t about decorum or who was officially in charge. It was about simple survival.

  Even the stubborn shaman seemed to understand that, for when he turned back fully, he did not berate the three, but kept his focus squarely on Androosis. “Mark you well the lesson of this day,” he warned, waggling a long and bony finger at the man.