The Ancient

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Then give me a boat so I can go there alone.”

  Mcwigik spat again, this time hitting Cormack in the foot. “Ye’re daft. Boats’re worth more than yerself.”

  “I will return it in short order.”

  “Then how’re ye getting back to their island after ye drop it back here?”

  “I’m not going back to that island or any island,” Cormack said, half under his breath, and it surprised him to see Mcwigik stiffen at that remark, a look of intrigue suddenly upon his face.

  “This has never been my place.”

  “What’re ye saying, boy? Say it plain.”

  “I have a friend—several, perhaps—on Yossunfier who wishes to be gone from this lake. Lend me a boat so I can retrieve her.”

  “Her? Haha, but that’s telling me a lot.”

  “We’ll come right back with the boat. Then, with your agreement, you can take us to the shore and never think of us again.”

  Mcwigik started to respond in several different directions. Cormack gathered this by the way the dwarf’s mouth worked in weird circles with no real sounds coming out.

  “Yach, just catch the durned fish!” he finally blurted, waving a hand at Cormack dismissively as he stormed away.

  Cormack had no idea what all that might be about, so he took up the net and waded into the warm lake waters.

  You keep looking out to the south,” Androosis remarked, walking up beside Milkeila. “You fear that something has happened to him.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and an observation that Milkeila could not dispute.

  “We took care to make it appear as if our escape had been of our doing,” Androosis tried to assure her. “I doubt that our friend’s complicity is known to the monks.”

  “And yet he does not signal… in any way,” said Milkeila.

  Androosis put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Barely had his hand touched her when Toniquay yelled, “Your duties!” They broke away from each other and turned as one to regard the shaman, who was striding their way. “You spend far too much time seeking an Abellican,” Toniquay scolded.

  “An Abellican who saved us,” said Androosis. He shrank back as soon as he uttered the words, surprised by his own outburst at this powerful figure.

  “It is true then, what they say,” Toniquay said to Milkeila. “You have fallen for this Abellican named Cormack.” He snapped a glare at Androosis, too, daring the young man to say again that Cormack had saved their lives.

  “He is a friend,” Milkeila replied coolly. “A loyal one.”

  “Friend,” Toniquay spat derisively. “A mere friend does not betray his own brethren. Nay, there is more at work here than friendship. His betrayal bespeaks fires in his loins.”

  Milkeila didn’t respond at all, didn’t blink or sneer or speak.

  “Your duties await,” Toniquay reminded her, adding as she walked by, “You would do well to prove yourself.”

  “I am shaman—”

  “For now.”

  The warning did indeed shake the woman, visibly so, and she turned and hurried away.

  Toniquay turned his withering gaze back to Androosis. “And you,” the shaman said, “would do well to learn and accept your place. My patience nears its end for Androosis. I took you to dangerous waters. Men of honor paid with their lives!” Androosis’s stunned expression spoke volumes, clearly arguing that the disaster on the boat was hardly his fault.

  But Toniquay wasn’t hearing any of it. “We went out of our way to try to save you, young and spirited one. But no more. Prove yourself or you will be banished—if you are fortunate and the elders are feeling generous.”

  “Yes, Toniquay,” Androosis replied obediently, hanging his head in humility.

  The shaman walked away, eyeing the young man’s every step sternly.

  A somber mood accompanied Brother Giavno and the rest as they went to work collecting the larger stones from the area of the island they had come to regard as their quarry. Giavno winced and couldn’t help but recall the last time he had been down here, when powries had arrived and Cormack had battled them so magnificently, so bravely.

  The loss of Cormack was no small thing to the brothers of Chapel Isle. The manner in which it had occurred had left them all, particularly Giavno, tasked with delivering the very likely fatal beating, feeling empty and desolate. No one had spoken the fallen brother’s name since he had been pushed out adrift in the small boat. No one had to.

  It was written on all of their faces, Giavno clearly saw. To a one they had been shaken. To a one Cormack’s betrayal had asked primary and devastating questions about their purpose and place in this foreign land and among these foreign societies.

  Why had Cormack done it? Why had the man betrayed them, betrayed the very tenets of their mission, according to Father De Guilbe’s interpretation?

  Giavno thought he had the answer to that, echoed in the sounds of Cormack’s lovemaking to the barbarian woman. Love was the strongest of human emotions, Blessed Abelle had taught, and more people had been brought down by love than by hate. While there was no specific prohibition of marriage in the Order of Blessed Abelle, such relationships were scorned among the brotherhood. If you gave yourself to the Church, it was to be wholly so. Worse still, to foster a love affair with a heathen, with a barbarian shaman, was far beyond the bounds of acceptability.

  Cormack had earned his beating, Giavno believed, and had told himself a million times since that awful day. He could still feel the tug of the whip as its barbed ends dug into and hooked on the flesh of Cormack’s back.

  He shuddered, and only then realized that one of the brothers had been asking him a question, and probably for some time.

  “Yes, Brother?” he replied.

  “The stone?” the younger man inquired.

  “Stone?”

  The monk offered a curious stare at Giavno for just a moment, then nodded as if he completely understood (which he likely did, for the cause of distraction was quite common at that time) and motioned toward one large rock that had been set off to the side.

  “Is it too large, do you think?” the monk asked.

  Giavno looked at him curiously. “No, of course not.”

  “I cannot carry it alone,” the monk replied.

  “Then get someone to help you.”

  “They are all busy, Brother Giavno. I thought that perhaps you could help, either with your arms or through use of the malachite stone in lessening the weight.”

  Giavno was about to reprimand the brother for being so foolish; Giavno was overseeing the work detail and not participating. But then he caught something in the young brother’s eye, a look of both hopefulness and sympathy, and when he glanced out at the wider scene, he realized that more than one of the other workers had taken a subtle, covert interest in this distant conversation.

  Brother Giavno smiled as it hit him fully: They were trying to distract him. As the work was keeping their minds off of the tragedy of Brother Cormack, so they had thought to include Brother Giavno in that blessed busyness.

  “Yes, Brother,” Giavno addressed the young monk. “Come. Together we two will carry the stone to the chapel, and what a fine addition to the wall it will be.”

  Together, he thought, for all that the brothers of Blessed Abelle had was each other. So far from home, so far from kin, without that mutual bond they would all surely lose their minds.

  That was what had made Cormack’s betrayal so particularly difficult.

  Ye might remember Bikelbrin, and these are me friends, Ruggirs and Pergwick,” Mcwigik said, splashing at the water’s edge behind Cormack.

  Cormack nodded to each in turn, wondering uneasily what this unexpected meeting might be all about.

  “We’ll take ye to her,” Mcwigik announced, and the fishing spear fell out of Cormack’s hand. “Not sure how we’ll do it, but we’ll find a way. But we got a price.”

  Cormack held up his arms, fully displaying his now-ragged brown robe. “I h
ave little, but what I have—”

  “Ye know yer way about out there,” Mcwigik interrupted. “That’s the price.”

  Cormack looked at him curiously.

  “The four of us’re done with this rock, and have been for a long time,” the dwarf explained. “We’re wanting to be gone from the lake, but we’re not for knowing the land about. Been a hundred years since I walked those paths, but for yourself, it’s not so long. So we’ll help ye get yer girl, and in exchange, ye’ll take us along.”

  “My road will be south, no doubt, out of Alpinador and into the Honce land of Vanguard—maybe even across the gulf and into Honce proper, itself. I’m not sure how well-received a powrie might be …”

  “Ye’ll take care of it,” Mcwigik said. “So start thinking on how we might get ye to yer girl, and then we’re off this rock, all six—or five, if she’s not to come.”

  “Or nine or ten, perhaps even twelve,” said Cormack, “if her friends decide that they, too, wish to see the wider world.”

  “Bring a hundred,” said Mcwigik. “A thousand! Long as me and me boys get to get out o’ here and to places more interesting.”

  Cormack settled back on his heels. He could hardly believe the sudden turn of events. One moment, he was floating on a raft of tied troll carcasses, about to be eaten by fish, and now he was looking at escape, at what he and Milkeila had dreamed of for a long, long time.

  He nodded—stupidly, he figured.

  “We can find Yossunfier at night,” Mcwigik said. “And we’re thinking to go in one of the next few.”

  Cormack nodded again, no less stupidly. Mcwigik thumped his hands on his hips and walked off.

  Cormack retrieved his fishing spear. Oddly, he couldn’t hit another thing the rest of the afternoon.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  For the Enjoyment of the Ancient

  They huddled in the cold on the glacial ice with little or nothing to eat or drink, growing weaker by the day.

  The fortunate ones continued to huddle in misery, for every couple of days one was grabbed from their midst and dragged to the crevice, to be wounded and lowered into the gorge as food for the beast that lay below.

  Ancient Badden presided over those ceremonies of sacrifice, and he seemed to truly enjoy it. How much like Bernivvigar he appeared to Bransen. The same feral look consumed him in those moments of inflicting agony upon others.

  The only other time they saw the old wretch was during the daily troll sacrifice. This was done differently, with several trolls hanged over the gorge with slit wrists so that their blood rained into the dark chasm.

  “They hang them in different places every day,” one of the human prisoners observed. “Like they’re trying to make sure that the whole chasm gets coated in troll blood.”

  “Thin blood, that,” another of the prisoners chimed in. “Mix it with water, and the water won’t freeze.”

  None of them had the wherewithal to put it together from there, because, really, what did it matter to the doomed prisoners?

  Bransen, however, noted every detail. His entire existence at that point centered around his mental acuity, as his physical limitations had only increased with the brutal conditions. He tried to put all his Jhesta Tu training and discipline to the side for the time being, as if he was storing it for one furious moment. That was his only hope. He had to find exactly the right time and hope that such an opportunity would present itself.

  One gray morning Bransen knew that his last chance had come.

  Only Brother Jond fought for him when the troll guards came to drag Bransen away. Even Olconna mitigated Jond’s protests, quietly telling the monk that maybe it was for the better that Bransen’s misery be ended. Whether they fought for him or not wouldn’t have mattered in a practical sense, but Olconna’s attitude stung Bransen profoundly. He had more important things to think about, however, as the trolls dragged him to the edge of the chasm. He lay helpless as Ancient Badden approached, carrying Bransen’s sword.

  This was his moment, Bransen realized. He had to somehow call upon the powers of his training, had to strike fast and sure, get that sword and finish Badden as he had done with Bernivvigar. But he had possessed a soul stone on that long-ago occasion; every step and movement wasn’t a battle for him then as it was now. Still, he had to try!

  “This one?” Ancient Badden asked. His incredulous tone allowed the prisoner to ease back from his shining moment of fury. “Hmm,” Badden mumbled, glancing from Bransen to the gorge. “No,” he decided.

  Bransen breathed a sigh of relief, though he knew any reprieve could only be temporary. Every one of the prisoners was being kept alive for one purpose. “No, if we feed him to the worm, he will likely infect the beast with … with whatever malady it is that so wrenched his limbs. Bring him south.”

  Ancient Badden started off in that same direction, crossing an ice bridge to the southern rim of the chasm, then walking off the hundred strides or so to the glacier’s cliff edge. The trolls dragged Bransen behind.

  Bransen knew he had avoided being sacrificed but not escaped execution. His resistance was not a conscious decision; it came from pure instinct, simple and unafraid, as only a man who realizes death is both imminent and unavoidable might discover. All of his muscles twitched in magnificent harmony, moving together for the first time since he had lost the soul stone, lifting him suddenly to his feet, his wrists and ankles breaking free of the hold of the four escorting trolls as he twisted and then hopped upright.

  He snapped a circle-kick against the side of a troll’s knee and slugged the creature in the jaw as he came around, launching it away. He leaped straight up as the other three closed on him and kicked out to both sides with perfect balance and stunning power—literally stunning, as the kicks sent two trolls staggering and stumbling to the ground.

  The remaining escort leaped onto Bransen’s back and began clawing, but the man executed a high somersault and stretched out to full extension as he came over, ending his turn so that he landed flat on his back atop the troll. He wrenched the creature’s arms from his chest and throat and twisted them at the wrist as he rolled off the creature. When he hopped back up to his feet, he gave sudden jerks that broke both of those wrists cleanly.

  Bransen spun about as two of the first three came in at him. The leading enemy was right upon him as he turned, and got its hands about his throat, choking him. Bransen hooked his thumbs under those of the troll and tugged out and down, then folded his legs under him so that he fell to his knees, taking the troll down with him. He used the suddenness of that impact to viciously drive the troll’s thumbs over and down, breaking both.

  Bransen hopped right back up, but he felt the pangs of the Stork within, the moment of Jhesta Tu-inspired coordination fast fading. He barely slapped aside the clawing strikes of the last of that group, and worse, several more were fast heading his way. Worst of all for Bransen, Ancient Badden had taken note of the fight.

  The ice under Bransen’s feet suddenly turned to water, and he plunged down, and only avoided continuing deep into the glacier by throwing himself to the side. Instinctively, Bransen rolled himself out of the water— and a good thing that was, for it froze again almost immediately.

  Across the way, Ancient Badden cackled with enjoyment. Trolls fell over Bransen, beating and clawing him. His glorious moment of concentration was lost, falling to the curse of the Stork once more. He still tried to flail, for what it was worth, but the four trolls now bearing him held him tightly and a pair of others walked alongside, punching him hard every time he moved.

  They dropped the nearly unconscious man at Ancient Badden’s feet near the edge of the glacier and moved fearfully away.

  “Do you see it?” Ancient Badden asked him. Lying helpless, Bransen saw only the sky and the tall man towering over him. Badden reached down and took him by the front of his shirt and with surprising and terrifying strength hoisted him upright. Bransen looked out on a long, long drop, hundreds of feet and more, to a wide and
long lake that was almost completely blanketed by fog.

  “Mithranidoon,” Ancient Badden explained. “It’s called that even by the Alpinadoran barbarians. A Samhaist name in this northern land. Do you know why that is?”

  Bransen didn’t even try to respond, for he wasn’t even sure what he was seeing or feeling or hearing. He had all he could handle to merely keep himself from falling into a deep and dark place. He could not allow that to happen. Not now.

  “Because the magic of this place cannot be denied— not even by the barbarians,” Ancient Badden proclaimed. “Even they understand that our name for it—Mithranidoon—is the most fitting. Even they accept that this is, as it long ago was, a Samhaist holy place. And yet it is not under my dominion. Not yet. Not until I wash away the vermin who have deceitfully come to call Mithranidoon their home, as if any but the Ancient of the Samhaists holds any claim on Mithranidoon!”

  Bransen tried to commit Badden’s words to memory, though he expected that they would mean nothing to him in short order, since he would be dead. Still, that part in him that would never surrender kept working, kept plotting, kept trying.

  “The great worm does its burrowing work,” Ancient Badden said, and it was obvious to Bransen that he wasn’t talking to him anymore, was just speaking out loud to hear the glory of his words. “The blood of trolls ensures that the god-beast’s work is not reversed by the cold. And soon Mithranidoon will be cleansed.”

  Ancient Badden’s voice had risen with each word, in glorious proclamation, and he ended with a self-deprecating chuckle, as if a bit embarrassed by his outburst. “I cannot allow you to participate,” Badden said to Bransen. “I am sorry, but you will not share in the glory of my victory. My god-beast is too precious to me to allow it to eat you.

  “Of course, none of this matters to you,” Ancient Badden said, his voice lowering as he threw Bransen from the cliff.

  In all me days, I ain’t seen anything as stupid,” Mcwigik grumbled, and pulled on the oar to complement Bikelbrin, who was sitting beside him. “Ye’re taking us to get cold so we won’t be getting cold?”