The Ancient

TWENTY-THREE

Captives

Don’t let him fall,” Brother Jond implored Vaughna as she struggled to keep Bransen marching in the line of prisoners. They knew well what would happen if that occurred, for one of the other prisoners had tumbled from exhaustion and the cold and the thin air earlier that day up high on a mountain pass. The trolls had descended on that poor soul immediately, whipping and kicking, and when the woman hadn’t been able to get up (they prevented anyone from helping her), they had beaten her, laughing at and mocking her all the while, then left her for dead.

“What is wrong with him?” Vaughna asked, for she had never seen anything like Bransen’s awkward, storklike gait.

“He got hit too hard in the head,” Brother Jond replied. It was the eighth time he had answered that same question to Vaughna and to Olconna, whom he was now helping along the march. Olconna had taken a few fairly serious hits, and Jond initially feared that he would not survive. Most of those wounds had proven superficial, though, and Olconna’s growing reputation for toughness had proven well earned. Now, though in pain and needing support, he moved along without a whimper of complaint.

Bransen listened to the conversations very distantly. He had thought to slur out some rudimentary explanation early on in the march, but had forgone the effort, realizing that there was nothing his companions could do. Brother Jond had retrieved the bandanna, but the soul stone was not to be found, and the trolls had stripped the monk of all of his possessions, particularly the magical gemstones.

Crait lay dead back at the scene of the battle. All of the four surviving heroes sent by Dame Gwydre had been hurt, Bransen the least of all, Olconna by far the worst. But without the gemstone, Bransen couldn’t count himself as fortunate. He stayed within himself, focused on his Jhesta Tu training, and forced his chi somewhat in line. He didn’t exhaust the process, though, understanding that there were limits to his concentration and that after a while his stork affliction would win out.

But he had to keep going, had to keep his focus intense enough so that he would keep putting one foot in front of the other. And he and his three remaining companions had to hope that the trolls would make a critical mistake, and in that event, Bransen was ready to fully immerse himself in Jhesta Tu and try to find at least a few moments of effective fighting.

Their hopes for such an error had waned throughout the remainder of that day and long into the night, for this group of jailers proved quite skilled, and the troll numbers overwhelming. At camp, the prisoners were separated into small groups, and every one lay facedown on the cold ground, a spear poised at the back of his or her neck.

Their only hope was Jameston. Only Jameston Sequin could get them out of this, though Bransen had to wonder what in the world a single man might do against the awful power of Badden and his minions. He tried not to think of that, tried not to succumb to the reality that he would never see his beloved Cadayle and Callen again.

The next day the line of prisoners was marched through a long, descending, barren pass overlooking a river of blue-white ice. As they neared the base of that path the ground became more slippery, and no matter how hard he focused or how hard Vaughna tried to help him Bransen fell repeatedly. The first time he thought his long trial would end with the trolls descending upon him to whip him to death. But many of the weary humans were slipping and falling. Unbeknownst to Bransen and the others they were too close to their destination for the trolls to allow any to die.

They moved out of the rocky mountain pass and onto the glacial sheet, and surprisingly, the footing was actually better there and far more consistent than on the ice-speckled mountain trail.

They had trudged on for nearly an hour when a gasp from in front brought all eyes up the slope to the southeast where a large castle appeared as if made completely of ice. Glistening minarets and towers reached up from foreboding bluish, nearly translucent walls. More dread-filled gasps issued throughout the group as they neared, both from the scope and aura of sheer power emanating from the castle and because this was the first time that any of them had actually looked upon a giant.

These were giants, as Jameston had warned, and not simply large humans. Thrice Bransen’s height, the behemoth humanoid creatures mocked his warrior pride. No matter how fine he became with his weapon, no matter how strong he honed his muscles, no matter how fine and precise his reactions, how could he ever hope to do battle against such a behemoth?

Bransen shook his head and mumbled, “N… N… N… No,” throwing the negative and distracting thoughts aside. For before him lay the ultimate challenge, the final pinnacle, perhaps. He had no doubt that this was the abode of Ancient Badden, the key to his freedom, or more likely by far, he now understood, the gateway to the afterlife.

Jameston Sequin had survived for so long in hostile lands because he knew when to run away. He had put six arrows into the air at the beginning of the battle and had scored three hits he knew to be mortal, sending a fourth troll spinning down to the ground in agony.

The frenzy had grown too confused after that, however, with human prisoners and trolls scrambling all over each other, and of course, his companions in the mix. Then had come the reinforcements, and all hope washed away.

Bitterness filling his heart, Jameston had found few options: charge in and die or be captured, or flee. He ran. He took little heart in noting that most of the group was still alive when the prisoner caravan passed beneath his perch a short while later, for he knew their destination.

He watched the second group of trolls moving across soon after and cursed under his breath repeatedly for his foolishness in not at least demanding a wider scouting of the area before the impulsive attack. He couldn’t have stopped the stubborn would-be heroes, but perhaps he could have delayed them!

The scout shadowed that caravan the rest of the day and tried repeatedly to find some way into the troll encampment that night. But this was no novice group, and no openings presented themselves to the skilled hunter. He couldn’t get near to his companions.

The next day proved even worse, for the two troll groups tightened up as they hit the more difficult and broken mountain trails that led high above Toonruc’s Glacier. He watched helplessly as one woman stumbled and fell out of line to the ground. The trolls fell over her, beating and whipping, taunting and kicking, leaving her bloody form heaped on the ground.

As soon as they had moved out, Jameston rushed to her and was surprised indeed to find her still alive, though barely. He used his waterskin to clean the gashes, then pulled off his small pack and pulled out some bandages and herb salves and went to work on her many wounds.

She survived that ordeal with many groans and whimpers, but never opened her eyes. Jameston feared she never would open them again. He looked along the trail to where the trolls and their prisoners had disappeared and heaved a great sigh. Then he tenderly lifted the battered woman in his arms and moved off the way he had come.

It would be a long journey back to Vanguard, he knew, but that was this poor soul’s only chance, and he had to inform Dame Gwydre that her team of assassins had failed. The prospect of a Vanguard ruled by Ancient Badden did not sit well with Jameston.

Bound, dirty, cold, and bone-weary, the prisoners were forced into a side-by-side line out in the middle of the glacier, just south of the enormous ice castle that graced the mountainside on the eastern edge of the ice river, and just before an enormous chasm in the glacial ice. Not far away, a pair of giants pounded wedges deep into the ice, but even their brute force could not intimidate the prisoners more than the old, but hardly feeble, man who stood before them.

Bransen knew it to be Ancient Badden, for he, who had slain the vile Samhaist Bernivvigar, surely recognized the Samhaist robes of station. The sheer power exuded by the old man, a commanding presence that seemed to mock any who stood near to him, reminded Bransen clearly of his long-ago encounter with the imposing Bernivvigar.

Only this one was stronger, he understood. Much stronger.

Ancient Badden let a long, long time slide past silently. The trolls stepped nervously from foot to foot, occasionally tittering, though not one dared speak. The prisoners tried hard not to meet Badden’s withering gaze, but whenever one did he or she knew true hopelessness.

“Him first,” the Samhaist instructed, pointing to Olconna, who was doing much better than his friends had anticipated. “Take the rest away. Keep them alive and keep them miserable that they will more welcome their deaths.”

A trio of trolls grabbed Olconna and hustled him forward. When he tried to resist they tripped him facedown to the ice, his hands bound behind his back. He landed with a sharp crack. Olconna only groaned, but when he rolled to his side he left a stream of bright-red blood on the blue-white surface.

Bransen glanced at Ancient Badden to gauge his response; if the man had even noted Olconna’s fall he didn’t show it. Instead, his gaze had locked on a troll off to the side, the one that carried Bransen’s sword strapped diagonally across its back. The Samhaist stared at it curiously for just a moment, then reached out his hand and grasped suddenly, as if he were grabbing the troll by the throat.

And indeed, magically, he had done just that from the way the creature suddenly stiffened and reached up with its own hands. Ancient Badden retracted his hand, and the troll stumbled toward him at such an angle that it obviously would have fallen over had not the Samhaist’s magic been holding it on its feet.

As the troll came in Badden grabbed it by the throat with his real hand and with surprisingly little effort lifted the squirming creature into the air and turned it about. He regarded the decorated sword for only a moment before pulling it free, then dropped the troll back to the ground.

Ancient Badden’s eyes sparkled as he studied the magnificent weapon. He said something to the troll that Bransen and the others couldn’t hear. The troll responded more loudly, but in a language that none of them understood. Badden pushed the troll away and took up the sword in both hands, waving it before his eyes, his expression that of someone who had just realized a great treasure.

That expression changed abruptly. Ancient Badden sniffed at the air, eyes narrowing. Bransen managed to keep from throwing himself off balance as he glanced back to note Badden’s souring expression, to see the Samhaist bring the sword blade up horizontally under his nose and sniff it, as a hunting dog might sniff.

Unaware of the changing mood, the trolls began herding the prisoners away from the gorge. Bransen and the rest started away, but Ancient Badden called a command for them to wait. As they all, troll and prisoner alike, turned to regard the man, he again took up his conversation with the troll who had delivered the sword. That creature whirled about and pointed in the direction of the prisoners, in the general area of Bransen.

Ancient Badden calmly walked over and spoke not to Bransen but to Vaughna at his side. “I am told you wielded this blade in the fight,” he said.

Vaughna glanced nervously at Brother Jond and Bransen. “I did,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

Badden motioned, and the trolls dragged her forward. “This blade,” Ancient Badden announced, “has the scent of the blood of a Samhaist elder on it.” His glower fell squarely over Vaughna. “This blade killed a friend of mine.”

Vaughna seemed to shrink at the remark. She turned her head as if to look back at her friends for support. Bransen tried to call out that the sword was his, but the Stork was unable to make his cry any more than an undecipherable keen.

“I only acquired it recently,” Vaughna stammered, seeming to shrink next to the Ancient one. “I never met a Samhaist elder.”

“You have now,” Ancient Badden replied. Without warning he stabbed the sword into Vaughna’s belly. Her eyes registered shock briefly before she doubled over, howling and holding her spilling guts, and sank to one knee. Her companions recoiled in disbelief.

Ancient Badden motioned to the trolls, then to Olconna and to another group, followed by a nod of his chin toward Vaughna. His well-trained charges knew what to do. As one group moved to lift Olconna to his feet and shove him back to the others, a second group fell over Vaughna, dragging her forward trailing blood and bile.

She fought as well as she could which wasn’t much, given her condition and the odds. The gutsy woman did manage to squirm about to regard Olconna as he was dragged the other way. “Every moment precious,” she gasped to him, despite the pain, despite her imminent demise.

One troll ran to retrieve a rope, looped over a pulley at the end of a beam that was hanging out over the chasm. Bransen and the others watched in horror as the trolls tied the rope about Vaughna’s ankle and dragged her to the edge of the chasm and left her there as Ancient Badden strolled over, sword still in hand.

The trolls around the prisoners began herding them again, but Badden stopped them. “Let them watch,” he said with a wicked edge to his voice.

Hot with horror and revulsion, Bransen fell within himself. He fought to find his Jhesta Tu edge to cry out that it was his sword. The second the sound escaped his lips something smashed hard into the side of his head, dropping him to the ground. He looked up in surprise to see that it was Brother Jond’s fist and not that of a troll.

“Do not insult her sacrifice,” the monk whispered harshly.

It took the dazed Bransen a few moments to reorient himself. He looked back at Ancient Badden and the chasm where Vaughna hung upside down by one leg, trying to curl up, to grab her bleeding stomach. Bransen’s heart sank, every fiber in his body tense with disbelief and shock. Brother Jond pulled the transfixed Bransen back to his feet.

Ancient Badden stood on the ledge before Vaughna, his arms upraised. He began a chant, calling forth the power of the “great worm of the ice.”

“What is he doing?” the thoroughly shaken Olconna asked, or started to, for before he finished, a thundering, rumbling roar shook the ice beneath their feet.

Hanging over the chasm, Vaughna looked down, and her face drained of all color, despite being upside down. She began sputtering and tried to swing herself toward the edge while the trolls began to turn a crank, lowering her from sight. From somewhere below a great beast roared again with obvious excitement. Vaughna began to scream beneath the lip of the chasm, beyond sight. The trolls kept turning the crank, easing the woman a long, long way down. More screams, more roars, and then suddenly it went very quiet.

Suddenly the rope jerked so forcefully that the heavy beam bent and seemed as if it would break. It held, and the trolls began hauling up the rope-no need for the crank anymore.

“Justice is done,” Ancient Badden pronounced, turning about to the gathering, a supreme and contented smile on his old face. He motioned to the trolls to begin herding the remaining prisoners away.

Suddenly another squeal from the chasm turned the stunned prisoners about yet again, this time to see the end of the rope. Vaughna’s leg dangled from it, the flesh of her mid-thigh ripped and shredded where some nightmarish monster had swallowed the rest of her.

“By Abelle,” Brother Jond muttered fervently, head bowed.