The Ancient

THREE

Rocks, Always Rocks

Rocks, rocks, it’s always rocks!” the young and strong man complained, his muscular bare arms glistening with sweat. He was tall, more than halfway between six and seven feet, and though he had lost considerable weight on this multiyear journey, he did not appear skinny and he was certainly not frail, his lean muscles standing taut and strong. A mop of blond hair covered his head, bespeaking his Vanguard heritage, and he wore a scraggly beard, for even though his superiors disapproved of it, they would not enforce their rules against facial hair when they possessed no implement to easily be rid of it. He stood on a slope of brown dirt and gray stones-fewer near him now, since he had already tossed scores over the ridge so that they would roll and bounce down near to the wall the man and his companions were repairing. He hoisted another one, brought it near his shoulder, and heaved it out. It didn’t quite make the lip and began to roll back his way. He intercepted it with a few fast strides, planting his foot against it and holding it in place before it could gain any real momentum.

“Catch your breath, Brother Cormack,” said an older monk, middle-aged and with more skin than hair atop his head. “The air is particularly warm this day.”

Cormack did take a deep breath, then gathered up his heavy woolen robes and pulled them over his head, leaving him naked other than a bulky white cloth loincloth.

“Brother Cormack!” the other monk, Giavno by name, scolded.

“Always rocks,” Cormack argued, his bright green eyes flaring with intensity. He made no move to retrieve his heavy robe. “Ever since we came to this cursed island we have done nothing more than pile rocks.”

“Cursed?” Giavno said, shaking his head and wearing an expression of utter disappointment. “We were sent north to frozen Alpinador to begin a chapel, Brother. For the glory of Blessed Abelle. You would call that cursed?” He swept his arm to his left, beyond the ridge and to the small stone church the brothers had constructed. They had placed it on the highest point on the island; it dominated the view though the square structure was no more than thirty feet on any side.

Cormack put his hands on his hips, laughed, and shook his head helplessly. They had departed Chapel Pellinor in Vanguard more than three years before, all full of excitement and a sense of great purpose. They were to travel to the fierce mountainous northland of Alpinador, home of the pagan barbarians, and spread the word of Blessed Abelle. They would save souls with their gemstone magic and the truth and beauty of their message.

But they had found only battle and outrage and their every word had sounded as insult to the proud and strong northmen. Running for their lives more than proselytizing, the band had become lost in short order and had stumbled and bumbled their way along for weeks with the freezing winter closing in all around them. Surely the nearly two score monks and their like number of servants would have found a cold and empty death, but they had happened upon this place, a huge lake of warm waters and perpetual steam, a place of islands small and large. Father De Guilbe, who led their expedition, proclaimed it a miracle and decided that here, on these waters, they would fulfill their mission and build their chapel.

Here, Cormack mused, on a lump of rock in the middle of the water.

“Rocks,” Cormack grumbled, and he bent low and picked up the heavy stone again, this time heaving it far over the ridgeline.

“The lake teems with fish and food. Have you ever tasted water so fine?” said Giavno, his voice wistful. “The heat of the water saved us from the Alpinadoran winter. You should be more grateful, Brother.”

“We were sent here for a reason beyond our simple survival.”

Giavno launched into another long sermon about the duties of a monk of Abelle, the sacrifices expected and the reward awaiting them all when they had slipped the bonds of their mortal coils. He recited from the great books at length. But Cormack heard none of it, for he had his own litany against the despair, an unsought but surely found reprieve, one that he hoped would bring him the greater answers of this muddling road called life…

She glided from the boat as the boat glided ashore and with equal grace, her movements as fluid as the gently lapping waves. The moon, Sheila, was almost full this night and hung in the sky behind and above Milkeila, softening her image further. She wore few clothes, as was normal for everyone on the hot lake of Mithranidoon, other than the monks and their heavy woolen robes.

Cormack felt his heavy robe about him now, and he became almost self-conscious of it, for it felt inappropriate in the soft, warm, misty breeze.

Milkeila’s hand went to her hip as she moved toward him, and she untied her short skirt and let it fall aside. Still walking, she pulled her top over her head. She was not embarrassed, not uncomfortable, just beautiful and nude, other than the necklaces of trinkets-shells and claws and teeth-strung about her neck and a bracelet and anklet of the same design. A large feather was braided into her hair.

It was the first time Cormack had seen her naked, but it felt no more intimate to him than the last time they had been together, at the great meeting between the shamans of Milkeila’s tribe, Yan Ossum, and a few select brothers of Chapel Isle. That’s when he had known and when she had known. That’s when Cormack had found a witness to his life, a justification of his heart and mind, a spirit kindred, a heart equally wide. All of the bantering, all of the posturing, between the shamans and the monks had played out like a sorry game to him, a juggling of positions with each side trying to gain the better ground.

None of it had impressed him and none of it had impressed Milkeila, and both had recognized the truth of it, the truth of it all, in each other’s eyes.

So now she walked toward him with confidence, and all that she had revealed since stepping from her boat paled against that which she had already shown him. He looked at her eyes, at the sense of purpose on her face, at the trust that had already grown between them.

He fumbled with his robe. He wished he could have been as graceful as Milkeila, but sensations overwhelmed him now, and a sense of urgency came over him. They fell together on the sandbar and said not a word as they made love under the stars and moon.

Each had seen the potential of something greater in joining their religions, a wider and more perfect truth, and so it was physically between them, where their union seemed a more perfect form than either alone.

Do you not agree, Brother Cormack?” Brother Giavno said, and loudly, and Cormack realized that it wasn’t the first time Giavno had asked him that. He stared at the older man stupidly.

“The glories of Blessed Abelle when the tribes of this lake are brought into our love,” Giavno prompted.

“Their traditions are centuries old,” said Cormack.

“Patience,” Giavno argued, a predictable answer and oft given, but something about the last inflection as Giavno spoke the word gave Cormack pause. He looked over at his Abellican brother, then followed the older monk’s wide-eyed stare to the water behind them.

Cormack saw the powries-bandy-legged, bandy-armed, barrel-chested dwarves-floating in on their flat raft just an instant before they began springing into the water near the shore, bursting into a wild charge, brandishing their weapons.

Cormack whirled about, took a few running strides and leaped high into the air, crashing into a pair of dwarves before they cleared the surf. One went down, the other staggered back, and Cormack set himself quickly and launched a circle-kick that caught the standing dwarf on the side of its chin before it could fully recover from the unexpected assault. Its dull red beret, the item that defined the powries, who were also known as “bloody caps,” went flying away and that dwarf, too, tumbled under the water.

“Out, or they’ll be sure to drown you!” Giavno cried, and he accentuated his point by thrusting forth his hand and loosing the power of the stone he clutched: graphite, the stone of lightning. A bright blue bolt sizzled past Cormack to strike the raft, sending powries tumbling, but as the bolt dispersed into the water, Cormack felt a nasty sting about his legs.

Behind Giavno and beyond the ridge, another pair of monks cried out the warning.

Cormack sloshed toward the rocky shore with all the strength he could muster. He pivoted as he went and managed to somewhat deflect the barrage of clubs that came spinning his way. More than one hit home, though, and by the time he got out of the water, he sported a large welt on one arm and a bruise on the side of his face that threatened to swell his right eye closed.

“To me!” Giavno called, to Cormack and the other pair, and just ahead of the dwarves the young monk ran. When he reached his companion, he skidded low, grabbed up a stone, and turned as he rose, launching it at the nearest pursuer. It hit the dwarf squarely in the chest, briefly interrupting its howl. But only briefly, for the tough creature slogged through the strike and closed fast, smacking wildly with its club.

Cormack didn’t retreat; in fact, he surprised the dwarf by coming forward, within the weight of the club, rolling as he went to further absorb the blow. It still blew his breath out, but Cormack fought through that and caught the club as he turned, then turned further, taking the club with him and yanking it from the surprised dwarf’s hands. He snapped off a quick smack against the dwarf’s head, then pivoted the club fast and sent it out spearlike at the next powrie in line.

That one waved its arm to deflect the missile, but misjudged and whipped his hand past too quickly. The red-bearded dwarf did block the throw, however-with his face, or more specifically his nose-and his head snapped back.

“Yach, ye mutt,” the powrie growled, reaching up to grab its busted proboscis, and taking away a palmful of blood. The dwarf sneered and growled louder and started for Cormack with more purpose.

But he stopped suddenly, looking confused, and staggered down to one knee.

Cormack had the time neither to acknowledge his luck nor to pat himself on the back for a perfect throw, for powries were made of tough stuff and such a strike wouldn’t normally bring one down, temporarily though it might prove. As soon as he had let fly the missile, he retracted his throwing arm and drove it down to the side, slugging the initial target in the head.

The dwarf wrapped his strong arms about Cormack’s waist and drove him to the side, intent upon bearing him to the ground. The monk worked his legs frantically, trying to stay upright, and repeatedly hit the creature with his pumping right hand. Blood flew, but from his knuckles and not the dwarf, for surely Cormack felt as if he was punching stone instead of flesh!

The monk didn’t relent, though, nor did the powrie, taking him far from Brother Giavno and the other two monks and the group of a half-dozen powries bearing down on them. Another lightning bolt shook the ground, and the lead powrie began to dance wildly, arms and lips flapping, his thick red hair and beard straightening to full length and shivering in the air. He danced and hopped, managing another step forward, but then fell over.

The other five rumbled past, ignoring the rock missiles, and the club-fight began in earnest.

Cormack continued to work his legs frantically, continued to punch at the dwarf, but on one slug, the stubborn little creature turned about, purposely putting his face in line with the man’s flying fist. Cormack scored a solid, stunning hit, but square dwarf teeth clamped upon the side of his hand and bit down hard.

Cormack thrashed and tore free his hand, breaking out of the dwarf’s vise grip in the process. Even as he jumped backward, with the powrie coming in immediate pursuit, the monk launched a heavy left hook that snapped the dwarf’s head to the side.

A right cross staggered the powrie even more, and gave Cormack the opportunity to square up against the dwarf.

“Yach, but I’m to scrape the skin from yer pretty face!” the stubborn powrie promised, and came on.

A trio of stinging left jabs put the dwarf back on his heels.

Cormack retreated a bit more; his reach was his advantage, he knew, and when he looked at his opponent, who seemed like a walking block of rock, he figured it might be his only advantage.

Giavno swung hard with his makeshift wooden mace. He scored a solid hit, but the powrie pressed him relentlessly. How the monk wished that he still had the mace he had carried when he had left Chapel Pellinor, a spiked weapon of wonderful balance and weight. But alas, that mace and all of their other metallic items were lost to them, corroded by the constant steam that floated about the islands of this hot lake.

Giavno hit the powrie again, cracking the block head of the weapon against the back of the turning dwarf’s shoulder. The monk rolled his shoulders, thrusting forth his free hand in time to deflect the dwarf’s smashing response. And as that powrie staff slipped by, the monk wrapped his arm over the dwarf’s hands and bore in hard against his enemy.

Big mistake, Giavno realized as soon as he slammed against the dwarf, who didn’t budge an inch. For now his advantage, the length of his arms, was lost, and the powrie fast squirmed and twisted free its hands, clamping them about Giavno’s waist and tugging him along as it fell into a roll.

Another powrie closed on the wrestling pair, whacking away at Giavno with a weighted stick, raising welts under the monk’s heavy brown robes.

Giavno grimaced through the pain and managed to turn about to see the two companions nearest him, both fighting valiantly and fiercely against a trio of dwarves, trading punch for swat. At one point in the roll, the dwarf loosened its grip, and Giavno quickly set his feet and thrust forward, scrambling toward his friends. As he had hoped, one of the powries broke away to intercept, launching a flying tackle at the monk and bearing him back to the two pursuing dwarves.

Still clutching his graphite stone, Giavno fell into its depths. He got smacked with a staff and punched on the side of his head. The dwarf who had tackled him twisted him about as if to break him apart. But Giavno held his concentration and sent his energy into the stone and through the stone, and jolting sparks of electricity fired out in all directions around him.

The powries fell back, were thrown back, and Giavno sprinted for his companions. He glanced over at Cormack with sincere, almost fatherly, concern, but reminded himself that Cormack had secured his position on this mission to Alpinador precisely because he had shown himself to be the finest young fighter at Chapel Pellinor.

Cormack would get back to the three brothers, Giavno told himself, and prayed.

Ah, ye’re that one,” the dwarf said, nodding and smiling, and spitting a line of blood at Cormack’s feet. “Yer blood’ll make me beret shine all the brighter, then.”

He howled and brought his staff up above his head, leaping forward.

But Cormack had anticipated the move and was moving as well, diving down to the side and lashing out with his top leg. He didn’t hit the dwarf, but slid the kicking foot past him, then bent his knee and brought the leg back in at the back of the dwarf’s knees. The powrie halted his swing and overbalanced backward for a second, as Cormack’s calf drove in hard against the back of his knees.

That was naught but a ruse, though, as the unfortunate dwarf soon learned. For Cormack rolled out farther to the side, then reversed his flow, throwing his hips over and locking his scissors’ grip on the dwarf. The powrie tried to fight the inevitable pull, but had no leverage against the prostrate and rolling man, and Cormack’s trailing leg drove the dwarf forward and to the ground. The staff went flying and the powrie hit hard, just getting his hand under him in time to stop his face from smashing against the stones.

Cormack continued the roll to his back, extracting his legs on the last turn. He arched, put his feet under him, and snapped his muscles, lifting him to a standing position over the prone dwarf. He moved fast into position, where he could stomp the powrie’s face into the stone, and even lifted his foot over the back of the still-stunned dwarf’s head.

He hesitated.

He heard the splashing and turned in time to see the charge of the first dwarf he had decked, out in the water. It came out with fury-no, not fury, Cormack realized, but with terror.

For behind it emerged another creature, its smooth, bluish, almost translucent skin gleaming in the dull and hazy light, its black eyes peering at its prey intently under a protruding brow. A glacial troll, Cormack realized at once, and so too had the powrie, judging from the look of terror on his face!

No taller than the dwarves and far lighter, the glacial trolls were nevertheless the bane of all the island societies. Their thin limbs were deceptively strong, and their teeth pointed like little knives. And where came one troll, inevitably, came many, and Cormack saw that clearly now, the long waggling ears of the ugly goblinoid creatures poking from the surf all about the rocky beach.

The dwarf at Cormack’s feet grabbed him by the ankle and tugged hard, and he didn’t resist, but let himself fall backward into a roll, one that took him right over and back to his feet.

“Trolls! Trolls!” he cried, and he started toward the beach, yelling at the dwarf, “Faster!”

The dwarf threw his head back as he broke free of the surf and seemed to come on more quickly. Momentarily, though, for when the powrie jerked again, Cormack saw the truth of it.

The dwarf staggered forward, slowing, then slumped down to his knees and gave a great exhale.

“Yach!” cried the powrie on the ground before Cormack, and that one leaped to his feet. “Bikelbrin, me friend!”

That call had all the powries pausing and turning, as the truth of their predicament fell fully on man and dwarf alike. Ten of them stood against more than a dozen of the trolls, who were armed with spears tipped with sharpened, barbed shells and not the relatively benign sticks that the island inhabitants generally used to batter each other about the skulls.

The trolls closed on the kneeling Bikelbrin but so did Cormack, leaping down across the stones in full charge. He heard Brother Giavno shout, “To the abbey!” and understood that his three brethren would take that route, but he could not ignore the wounded powrie.

The glacial trolls neared, reaching for their embedded spears. Cormack put on a burst of speed, closing ground, and leaped, turning himself sidelong in midair as he cleared the dwarf. He was over the spears before the trolls could fully retract them. One let go of the shaft and threw its hands up to block, while the other stubbornly, and with a sickening wet sound, drew free its spear. That one took the brunt of the flying body-block as Cormack bowled both of the trolls over.

He landed atop them hard, smacking his hand painfully against a stone, and his forehead painfully against the back of that hand. A wave of dizziness washed over him, but he knew better than to succumb to it in the midst of vicious trolls! He rolled sidelong, right off the two, who scrambled and bit at him, one catching a tooth on his bare forearm.

Cormack tugged that arm free immediately and managed to slam it down hard on the troll’s face for good measure as he regained his balance.

No faster than the other troll, however, which lowered its spear for Cormack’s belly and thrust it forward.

The trained monk dodged aside and slapped the spear out wider with the flat of his hand. He started for the opening to strike at the creature, but instinct stopped him and turned him about.

Just in time to deflect the thrown spear of another troll.

Cormack jumped back, three on him now and a fourth coming in. To his left came a sharp retort, and one of the trolls he had bowled over stumbled forward and to the ground. Behind it came the furious powrie, running headlong and empty-handed, for he had thrown his staff, spearlike, into the back of the fallen troll’s head. He called for Bikelbrin, but ran right past his wounded friend, leaping onto the second of the trolls Cormack had tackled, bearing it down under his thrashing and kicking form.

Cormack stomped hard on the back of the neck of the first fallen troll, ending its squirming. No mercy for glacial trolls, for everyone on that beach, human and powrie alike, knew that the trolls would show none. Up on the ridge, all of the powries had disengaged from Cormack’s Abellican brethren and were charging down, and to the monk’s relief, he saw Brother Giavno extending his clenched fist.

“To the abbey!” Giavno yelled again, and Cormack understood that it was for his benefit alone, a warning to him that his three friends would desert him here. A lightning bolt followed that warning, off to the side where it sent a trio of trolls hopping wildly and weirdly, the residual jolts waggling their spindly limbs in a frenetic dance.

A troll leaped at Cormack, and another went for the powrie and its wrestling companion. The young monk dodged a spear thrust, then a second. He turned sidelong, bent back and down as the third thrust angled high, past his head. Cormack’s left hand, his inside hand, grabbed the shaft and he wrapped his right arm over it, just below the seashell tip, as he brought it down. He turned to face the troll and thrust his right forearm, now under the shaft, upward at the same time he drove his left hand down. The sudden movement and Cormack’s redistribution of his weight snapped the spear at midshaft, and as soon as he heard the break, Cormack tugged the remaining troll weapon aside and crashed against the troll, grabbing a firm hold on the broken piece of the spear as he went. He felt that sharp piece drive into the troll’s torso, and he wrapped his left hand about the creature, boring in harder.

The troll went into a frenzy and tried to bite at him, but Cormack stayed too low for that. The frantic creature wasn’t done, though, and it used yet another of its many weapons, its long and pointed chin, and repeatedly drove the bony feature hard against the side of Cormack’s head.

Both fell to the ground, Cormack on top, and he shoved up immediately to his knees, his movement pulling free the spear shaft. He flipped it in his hands as he went, and came right back at the troll, this time with the seashell head leading.

The troll scrambled and thrashed, slapped and squirmed, but to no avail, and Cormack fell atop it again, pushing the spear right through its chest. He tugged left and right, ensuring that the wound would be mortal, and finally he fell aside-to see the other troll, the one hit in the back of the head by the thrown powrie staff, standing over him, a rock in hand.

An explosion of bright white light filled Cormack’s head as that troll struck. He covered and rolled and somehow even managed to get back to his feet without being hit again too badly.

But the troll was there, punching and biting at him, and all the world was spinning.

Cormack found his sensibilities just enough to punch out, a stunning right cross that through good fortune alone connected solidly on the troll’s jaw, snapping its head aside and sending it back and to the ground.

Cormack tried to straighten, staggering left and right. He saw the powries and the trolls, one big pile of confusion and fury.

Then he saw the ground, rushing up to swallow him. He thought of Milkeila, his secret lover, and was sad to know that he would not rendezvous with her that night at their special place on the sandbar to the north, as they had planned. He thought it silly that he thought of that at all, for he didn’t know why that image of the beautiful barbarian had flooded his thoughts at this critical time.

He knew then the reason. The thoughts, the image, were a blessing, a moment of peace in a roiling storm. He tried to say her name, Milkeila, but he could not.

The sounds receded, the light disappeared in a blink, taking her beautiful form with it, and Cormack drowned in a cold and empty darkness.