The Ancient

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?”

“It is called acclimating,” Cormack explained.

“It’s called stupid.”

“You said you want to get off the island and the lake.”

“Get off and stay off! But not to sleep against the ice.”

“We might have to,” said Cormack. “Winter hasn’t come in yet, but it’s drawing near, and even this time of year can bring freezing winds and deep snows to the higher passes.”

“Then we won’t go to the higher passes,” Mcwigik argued.

Cormack exhaled and tried to relax. He knew that part of the dwarf’s agitation was due to the dramatic adventure they might soon be undertaking. He and these four powries, along with Milkeila, he prayed, and perhaps some of her friends, were bound to leave Mithranidoon. This was not the best time to undertake such a journey, but the thought of spending another several months on the lake surrounded by nothing but powries was more than Cormack’s sensibilities could handle. It hadn’t taken him long to decipher that Mcwigik and his fellows felt the same way, either. They all wanted out-now.

“Shouldn’t yer lady friend be with us?” Mcwigik asked.

“Shouldn’t you take me to her so that I can find out?” came the sarcastic reply.

“In good time-when others’ eyes ain’t on ye so much.”

“The more we get to the cold, the better. It will thicken your blood.”

“Yeah, acclimating,” said Bikelbrin. Behind him Pergwick chuckled.

“Stupid,” muttered Mcwigik under his breath, but he let it go at that. For all his complaining, everyone there knew well that he wanted to get away from Mithranidoon as much or more than anyone else.

In fact, Mcwigik picked up his rowing pace as soon as the conversation ended, nudging Bikelbrin to match him.

Instinct replaced conscious thought as Bransen plummeted from the ledge. Arms flailing, body twisting, the man’s sensibilities were too consumed by sudden terror to consider his Stork limitations. The Book of Jhest resonated in his thoughts, and he reflexively twisted to get his arms nearer the sheer ice wall.

Then those arms worked desperately, frantically, catching, grabbing, pulling, scraping-never enough to jolt him or send him tumbling, for that would have been a fatal mistake, but enough to continually jerk against the fall. It took him a couple of heartbeats to align his sight properly below and put his arms in synch, reacting to the edges and bumps as he registered them. But once he found that balance and timing he began to literally pick his path below him and devise the best strategies.

He manipulated by the angle of his grabs and slaps and the constant twists of his waist, and his handwork became more intrusive and stronger. He spotted one bigger ledge just below, and reacted fast enough to hook his fingers a dozen feet above it-not to break his fall as much as to give him the leverage to turn vertical. His feet hit the ledge hard; his legs bent to absorb the blow, and he did not resist as he fell right over backward, having somewhat slowed his descent.

Then his hands went back to work, and he kicked his feet against every possible jag as well, working furiously to counter the force of his fall. Some two dozen feet from the ground, though, the glacial wall sloped in and away, and the already plummeting Bransen could only free-fall that last expanse. He knew that he was going too fast to attempt to roll out of it as he hit, so he flattened himself out horizontally and spread his arms and his legs.

He slammed into the muddy ground, and the bright sky winked out.

Ha! Looks like yer eyes seen right,” Mcwigik said when the group of four dwarves and Cormack came around an ice and boulder jag at the base of the glacier to see a man lying flat out on his back, driven more than halfway into the muddy ground.

“I’m guessing that hurt,” Ruggirs said, and all four of the powries chuckled. Cormack, though, saw nothing funny in the tragic fall, and rushed to the man, though in looking up at the towering glacial cliff face, he knew that this one was certainly dead.

The man’s strange black clothing made him even more curious, and when Cormack got beside him, the lightweight nature of the smooth fabric had him scratching his head, as it was totally unfamiliar to him.

Cormack nearly leaped out of his shoes when the man stirred.

“Yach, but he’s a tough one,” remarked Mcwigik, coming up behind Cormack.

After the shock wore off Cormack immediately went back to the man, bringing his ear close to the fallen one’s mouth to see if he could detect any sounds of breath.

“He is alive,” Cormack announced.

“Not for long,” Mcwigik chortled. “Better for him that the fall had snuffed out his lights for good.”

“Aye, that had to hurt,” Ruggirs said again.

Cormack continued to inspect the man, to try to determine the extent of his injuries. In truth, he was thinking that the most merciful thing he could do would be to smother this one and end his pain, but the more he looked, the more his estimate of injuries lessened. He pulled off his powrie cap and set it over the man’s head.

“It’s to take more than that,” Mcwigik grumbled, but Cormack ignored him and kept moving the fallen man, one leg or one arm, or rolling him up to a near-sitting position. Through it all, the injured man made not a sound.

“I don’t think he fell all the way,” Cormack announced.

“Yach, but he buried himself half into the mud!” Mcwigik argued.

“He could live,” Cormack replied. “His wounds are not as bad as we expected.”

“Ye’re not for knowing any such thing.”

“Nor are you for knowing that I’m wrong,” Cormack shot back. “This man can live. If I had a gemstone… We have to get him to Yossunfier. Help me now, without delay.” The powries all looked at Cormack incredulously, and none made a move.

“We cannot just let him die!” Cormack yelled at them, and all four burst into laughter.

Cormack took a deep breath to calm himself. Screaming at the powries now would likely just get him stranded here or worse and would do nothing to help this poor fellow. “Please,” he said quietly. “There is a chance I can save him. We humans don’t just bury hearts and pop out of the ground again.”

“Ye’d be smart to watch yer words,” Pergwick warned, but Cormack waved him away.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But it is important to me to try to save him.”

“Ye know him?” Mcwigik asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Then what do ye care?”

“I just do,” the increasingly impatient Cormack retorted. “Please, just get me to Yossunfier that I can at least try to save him.”

“Yach, but ye’re just wanting to take yer girl along with us-again,” Mcwigik argued.

“She already is coming with us by our agreement.”

“Then ye’re wanting her with us sooner, and we already telled ye…”

“She will be of great help to us,” Cormack admitted.

“All of her people will. Save this man and help ourselves, I say.”

“We get near to Yossunfier, and we’re to see the sky full o’ barbarian barbs,” Mcwigik grumbled. “Ye think it’s an easy thing, but ye’re a blind fool. Them barbarians see us coming, and we’ll all be dead before we step on their beach. Now, are ye thinking that’d be a good thing for your flat friend there?”

Cormack took another deep and steadying breath, and looked all around, feeling as if the answer was right there before him, waiting to be unveiled.

He smiled. “There may be another way.”

You wonder why I have allowed you to live this long,” Ancient Badden said to Brother Jond after having the monk beaten and dragged to him in the ice castle.

Brother Jond looked up at him blankly, trying to appear as impassive as possible. He was terrified, of course, but he didn’t want to give the wretched Samhaist the pleasure of seeing him squirm.

Ancient Badden stared at him for many heartbeats and nodded his chin as if prompting the man to respond, which Brother Jond would not do.

Badden’s visage melted into a profound scowl. “You would think that an Abellican monk would be my first victim, of course, since your Church has been the scourge of the land these last seven decades.” In fighting off the urge to respond, Brother Jond couldn’t suppress a slight smile, and that only made Badden scowl all the more.

The Ancient broke into a sudden giggle, cackled through a quick chant, and waggled his necklace at the monk. The floor beneath Brother Jond’s feet turned from ice to water suddenly, plunging him in.

But not deeply, for Ancient Badden cut the spell short and reversed it, freezing the floor around Brother Jond’s legs, up to mid-thigh. The contraction of the ice squeezed him so hard that he could feel the blood rushing up from his legs. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach and light-headed at the same time. His eyes bulged as if the rush of blood would simply launch them from their sockets. He tried to remain silent, but a soft groan escaped his lips. The ice tightened some more.

Now Ancient Badden towered over him. “Ah, but I would so love to tear your limbs from your torso.” He brought the side of Bransen’s sword against Jond’s cheek with a stinging slap, then turned the blade as he flashed it past, just enough to draw a deep cut across the monk’s face. “Or to open your belly, side to side, and slowly draw out your entrails. Have you ever seen the face of a man so tortured? It is the most exquisite mask of agony.”

“And you declare yourself a man of God!” Brother Jond blurted before he could reconsider his reaction.

“Ah, so he speaks,” Ancient Badden laughed at him. “I had thought you a mute, which would be an improvement for any Abellican, of course. I am not a man of your childish and benign creation, fool. I am a man of the Ancient Ones, of the truths of life and death. You are too cowardly to face those truths, so you cannot begin to comprehend the way of the Samhaist! I almost pity you and all the others born after Abelle, who were raised in the echoes of his lies and false hopes.”

Brother Jond narrowed his eyes, but his threat was so impotent as to be laughable, which of course, Ancient Badden did.

“I said “almost,’” Ancient Badden reminded. He waggled his necklace, and the ice gripped on Jond’s legs even more tightly.

“I keep you alive because you may be of use to me,” the Samhaist offered. “As my armies press-”

“Your hordes of monsters, you mean.”

Badden shrugged as if that hardly mattered. “They serve a greater purpose.”

“They are-”

Brother Jond stopped suddenly as Ancient Badden kicked him squarely in the face. His head snapped back and forward, and a couple of teeth flew from his mouth along with a gush of blood and spittle.

“If you interrupt me again I will hurt you more profoundly than you have ever experienced, more so than anything you could ever have imagined,” Ancient Badden warned.

Dazed, temples throbbing, legs aching, Brother Jond could not even bring a defiant stare to his face.

“As my armies press into Vanguard and drive Dame Gwydre to Pireth Vanguard, she will seek parlay,” Ancient Badden explained. “As her principal consort is one of your feeble Abellican associates, your presence among my prisoners will grant me a greater ante.” The Samhaist bent low and stared into Brother Jond’s face, and when Jond tried to turn away, Badden punched him hard, grabbed him by the chin, and forced him to lock stares.

“Does that please you? To know that you will help facilitate the downfall of your religion in the region of Vanguard? Nor will it end there, I promise. When the war in the southland is ended, so too will be the tricks of your kin that so enrapture the dueling lairds. The reality of the conflict will weigh heavily upon the grieving people, and we will be there. For the Samhaists know Death, while the Abellicans deny it. The Samhaists understand the inevitability, while the Abellicans offer false promises. That will be your downfall.”

Brother Jond’s face became a mask of apathy.

“What is your name?” Ancient Badden asked. No answer.

“It is a simple question, one carrying great importance,” said Badden. “For if you do not answer, I will bring in one of the prisoners and torture him to death before your eyes. It will be an hour of screams that will echo in your mind for the rest of your days, short though they will be.”

Brother Jond glared at him as he started to motion to the troll attendants. “Brother Jond Dumolnay,” he said.

“Dumolnay? A Vanguard name, or of the Mantis Arm, perhaps.”

Brother Jond didn’t answer.

“Mantis Arm,” Ancient Badden decided. “If you had been raised in Vanguard you would better know the Samhaist way and would never have fallen for the lies of the fool Abelle.”

“Blessed Abelle!” Brother Jond corrected, spitting blood with every syllable. “The Truth and the Hope of the world! Who mocks the Samhaist death cult and your use of terror to control the people you claim to serve!”

“Claim to serve?” Ancient Badden said, and laughed loudly.

“Then you do not even pretend!”

“We show them the truth, and they may do of that truth what they choose,” the Samhaist growled back. “We bring order and justice to rabble who would eat each other if they were not instructed not to!”

Brother Jond couldn’t suppress a grin, glad, despite the beating, that he had irked the Samhaist enough to garner such a rise of emotion. “Justice?” he said with a sarcastic laugh.

Ancient Badden went silent suddenly and stood up straight, staring down at the ice-trapped monk.

Brother Jond took a deep breath to steady his nerves, guessing that he had gone too far here. But it was too late for any retraction, he understood, too late to bring the Samhaist back to a level of calm. So he followed his heart and put his fears behind him.

“I will see your demise, Ancient Badden,” he declared. “I will see the victory of Blessed Abelle in Vanguard and throughout Honce!”

“Indeed,” the Ancient replied calmly-too calmly. His arm swept across, slashing Bransen’s sword, drawing a line in Brother Jond’s face and taking both his eyes and the bridge of his nose in the process.

The monk howled and screamed, thrashing in agony.

“I doubt you will “see’ anything,” Ancient Badden said to him, and walked away.