The Ancient

TWENTY

The Gathering

They came in through a variety of means, either running with steps magically lightened and lengthened, or in the form of a fast cat, or even, in the case of the older and more powerful, in the form of birds, flying across the mountain updrafts. They came from their respective parishes, their “Circles,” to the call of their leader.

From Devongel Ancient Badden watched each approach, his magical attunement with the land informing him whenever a brother Samhaist crossed into his domain. Their number swelled to twenty, to thirty, and finally, to thirty-two, meaning that all but one of the Samhaists of Vanguard had survived the last months of war, and that one dead priest had died gloriously in the first battle of Chapel Pellinor.

Ancient Badden was pleased.

When they were all together he gave them a complete tour of the grand-now grander-ice palace he had constructed. He even took them to his room of power at the top of the highest tower, where a well reached deep through the castle floor, deep through the glacier, and deep into the energy of the hot springs far below.

“Bask in it,” he bade them, and they did, many nearly swooning in the orgy of earth power of this near-perfect conduit to the Rift of Samhain, the holy lake of Mithranidoon.

Ancient Badden led the procession out of Devongel and onto Cold’rin Glacier. He showed them the work at the chasm, where the white worm god continued its destructive work, where the misting blood of trolls prevented the natural repairs. He even sacrificed a pair of prisoners so that his brethren could hear the feasting of the worm.

From their smiles Badden knew that he had been wise to summon them. Morale demanded it. What could be more pleasing to his fellow Samhaists than the strength of Devongel and the fearsome power of D’no?

“Gwydre reinforces from the south,” one of the younger Samhaists, whose domain was near to the Gulf of Corona, reported when the group gathered north of the chasm. Badden bade them to share their knowledge. “Nothing substantial as yet, but…”

“It will remain nothing substantial,” another insisted. “I have been south to Honce proper. The fighting between Laird Delaval and Laird Ethelbert does not abate. Indeed, it is more furious than ever. I had thought Delaval to be gaining the advantage, but Ethelbert has unleashed legions of Behr barbarians. They have cut a fine line across the northern foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, moving so near to Delaval’s throne that he was forced to bring back most of his frontline forces who were pressing the city of Ethelbert dos Entel.”

“That does not bode well,” yet another interjected. “Delaval will not be pushed from his city-he will win out in the end, but now that end seems more distant.”

“Why do you think that ill?” Ancient Badden asked.

“It prolongs the war.”

“And…?” Badden pressed.

“The pain of war is not unnecessary,” another Samhaist reminded. “Everyone dies. That some will have their lives shortened is not our concern.”

“Easy, friend,” Badden said, and he looked back to the other. “And…?” he repeated.

“I only fear that the followers of Abelle grow stronger with every passing year of war,” the younger man admitted. “Their gemstones are greatly coveted by the lairds-all the lairds-and every man they heal moves them deeper into the heart of the people.”

A couple of the others gasped that the young one would speak so boldly to Ancient Badden, but to their surprise Badden seemed unconcerned and far from angry.

“You think in terms of years, young one,” he said, and more gently than anyone expected. “Consider the decades before us. The centuries. Fear not the followers of Abelle.

“We will win in the end because we are right,” he continued. “We will win because the order of society depends upon it. There can be no lasting victory for the followers of that fool Abelle, because any gains they make unwind the order. They are gentle-they do not inspire fear in the people. Absent that, anarchy ensues. History tells us as much again and again. As the people begin to lose their fear of the severity of honest justice, they will become lax in their morals. Every woman a whore, every man a fornicator and adulterer. Promises of eternal paradise will not stop a wife from cuckolding her husband! Declarations of a merciful god invite sin and, ultimately, anarchy.

“The monks of Abelle will have their day in Honce,” Ancient Badden predicted solemnly, and almost all of the gathering gasped in unison at the admission they had all feared. “They will win, my brothers, but only until the structures of Honce society fall away. It will take a generation, perhaps a few, but the cuckolds and other victims will call out for us. Do not doubt it. Let the fighting rage south of the Gulf of Honce. What you perceive as victory for the monks is also the distraction that will prevent Gwydre from gaining help from the lairds. Let them have Honce proper while we secure ourselves forever in Vanguard. We will always be ready, be assured, to answer the pleas of the victims of the concept of a merciful god and the false promises of sweet eternity.

“Because, my brethren, in the end, it is order that holds civilization together,” Badden concluded. “And because, my brethren, that order needs severity.”

A cheer went up around the Ancient, one heartfelt and full of awe. Badden knew that he had yet again reaffirmed his position in his order. He was the Ancient, and none would challenge him.

“Go,” he bade them all. “Return to your Circles and observe. The trolls and goblins who sweep the land do so because the people of Vanguard deny us. When, in any of your Circles, they stop denying us, when they deny Gwydre and her lover, we will redirect our attacks to another Circle.”

All around him, Samhaists began to bow repeatedly.

“We cannot tell the common folk the truth of the monks and their false mercy because they are too stupid to properly recognize the greater truth,” said Badden, “that severe justice to the criminal is mercy to the goodly man. We are the merciful ones. They, the followers of the fool Abelle, invite chaos and ruin.”

He returned the bow to his minions, then walked through them back toward his house. Behind him, several raced off on magical legs, several cracked and reformed their bones to become swift-running animals, and the greatest became as birds and flew away.