The Ancient

FIVE

Foul Chaps We’d Be

It called to him from the far corner of the darkness, a continual growl, a rolling “r.” Finally it broke and rewound in its timbre like a wave flowing over itself just offshore.

It grew again in resonance and filled Cormack with its mournful vibration, beckoned him forward in the darkness. He followed, a purely instinctive and unthinking move. He knew not if the sound would take him from the abyss, nor, locked as he was in a state of near emptiness, if he even wanted to come forth from the darkness.

At that moment Cormack didn’t want anything. He just was. A moment of pure existence or of nothingness, he couldn’t tell. But the rolling “r” pulled him forward as if walking him to the edge of a cliff. He stepped off and fell through the blackness. His eye cracked open, and crystalline brilliance stung him. Sensations returned, and with them consciousness.

The light was the sun, sparkling off the water. The taste in his mouth was sand, for he was facedown on the beach. The sound was a song, a powrie chant.

With great effort Cormack rolled his head to the side.The bloody-capped dwarves were huddled in a circle, their arms locked over the shoulders of the next dwarf in the ring. They turned their living wheel in perfect cadence, a few steps left, a few back to the right, all the while singing:

Put me deep in the groun’so cold I’ll be dead, ’fore I e’er get old Done me fights and shined me cap Now’s me time for th’endless nap Spill no tear and put me deep Dun want no noise for me endless sleep Done me part and stood me groun’ But th’other one won and knocked me down

Put me deep in the groun’so cold I’ll be dead ’fore I e’er get old Spill no tear and put me deep Dun want no noise for me endless sleep

Cormack tried to lift his head to get a better perspective, and only then did the monk realize that he had been tightly bound, his hands painfully drawn up against his back, the rough weeds tight into his wrists. More than those shackles, though, loomed the noose of pain shooting through his head. As soon as Cormack got his chin off the sand, he dropped it back, grimacing all the way, as hot fires erupted in the back of his skull.

He closed his eyes tight and tasted the sand and tried hard to growl through the burning agony. He wanted to reach up and grab at the spot, but he couldn’t wriggle free his hands.

Gradually it passed, and the powrie song continued, and their huddle circled left and right, just off the beach. This time Cormack slowly rolled his entire body instead of trying to lift his head alone, and he managed to gain a better perspective on the powrie dance. He realized only then that the dwarves were circling a particular spot, a particular thing. As he considered the words of their ditty he solved the riddle.

Cormack held his tongue, not wanting to risk interrupting the solemn ceremony. It went on for a long while until finally the ring of dwarves opened, revealing a cairn of piled stones. Still singing, the cadence marking their every movement, the dwarves turned as one so that they were no longer shoulder-to-shoulder, but formed instead a single file as they marched around and then away from the grave of their fallen comrade.

“So, are ye awake then?” the leading dwarf asked when they reached the beach and began to disperse. “Was thinking ye meant to sleep the whole o’ the day.”

“Better for him if he did, what?” the second dwarf added in a sinister voice indeed. “Better for him if he’d listened to his fellows and done run to their home o’ rocks.”

“More fun for us that he didn’t,” another put in, stepping out of the line and pulling his red beret from his hairy head. In the same movement the dwarf drew out a curved, serrated knife, its gleaming blade already marred by blood, and Cormack knew that he was doomed. Powries-bloody caps, as they were known-wore their most prized possession on their heads, and those red berets, through some magic that no race other than the dwarves understood, shined more brightly with the blood of fallen enemies. The intensity of a beret’s hue constituted the powrie badge of honor, of rank and respect.

The dwarf with the knife approached. Cormack tried to hold steady his breathing, tried not to be afraid, as he glanced all around for his Abellican brethren.

But they were not to be seen. They were in the rock chapel, as the dwarf had proclaimed, and Cormack couldn’t even free his arms to defend himself.

The tall and willowy woman burst from the forest, the wide leaves of the many ferns and low plants slapping against her bare legs as she rushed along the sketchy path. She had hurried from her village, intending to perform the midday service, the Fishermen Blessing, as her station demanded of her. As soon as Milkeila cleared the last brush and viewed the rocky expanse to the beach she knew that her service would be delayed, however, for none of the fishermen were in the water. They stood upon the high rocks, staring out over the calm lake to the southeast. Moving out onto the beach and toward those rocks Milkeila understood the distraction, for the sounds of battle, the sharp crack of sticks, the occasional cry of rage or pain, drifted across the flat water to her ears.

“Chapel Isle,” one of her kinsmen said to her. She knew that already from the direction of the sounds, referring to the small and rocky island upon which the Abellican foreigners had built their simple monastery.

“The monks are longing for their homeland again,” another fisherman said with a derisive snort, and others snickered at the thought.

Milkeila brushed from her face her thick hair, a rich brown hue that highlighted red before the sunrise and sunset, to peer intently into the fog, though she knew that she would see nothing definitive at this distance across the misty lake. Only on breezy days, when the perpetual fog was blown clear at various intervals, could the people of Yossunfier, this island, catch the slightest glimpse of the monks’ home, and even then, it was nothing more than an indistinct blur in the distance.

There was simply too much mist this day, as almost every day.

“Better the powries than the monks,” another of Milkeila’s kinsmen remarked. The others grumbled their agreement.

Milkeila remained silent and did well to hide her discontent, for she hardly agreed. Nor had it always been this way between her people of Yan Ossum, Clan Snowfall, and curious southern Vanguardsmen who called themselves Brothers of Abelle. When the monks had first appeared at the lake they had befriended the barbarians, particularly the shaman class, to which Milkeila belonged (though back then, she had been merely a young and eager student). Many of her kin had quickly become disenchanted with the Abellicans because of their insistence that their way was the only way, that their religion was the true religion, and their demand of adherence to that strict order and rituals.

Milkeila’s hand moved up to brush the necklace concealed under her more traditional one of claws and teeth and bright feathers. Under her smock the young woman kept a ring of gems, stones of varying color and type and magical property, given to her by one of the younger monks. She glanced around guiltily, knowing that her people would judge her harshly if they ever discovered her secret-and the other secret: that she was privately meeting with that young monk, being tutored in the general ways of Abellican gemstone magic. And much more than that.

The sounds of battle increased across the water.

“Looks like they have a good row going,” one of the barbarians said. “We should prepare the boats and paddle in behind the fight. The pickings will be easy. Perhaps we could even go right to their stone church and throw the foolish Abellicans from the lake once and for all.”

Others mumbled their agreement, but all present knew the impracticality of the suggestion. No raids could be executed without the proper blessings of the shamans and the careful planning of the elders, and none of that could happen in short enough order for this impromptu mission to occur. Still, the eager nods reminded Milkeila that she and her few rebellious cohorts were playing with danger here in their secret relationship with the Southerners, particularly Milkeila; she was shaman and had dared to take Cormack as her lover.

“Maybe the powries will do our work for us,” the same man said after a few heartbeats, when enough time had passed for all of them to recognize the impracticality of his previous suggestion.

To hear her people cheering for powries over fellow humans left Milkeila cold. The Abellican monks had crossed a dangerous threshold early on, one they had stepped over by choice and not heritage. In insisting that the barbarians elevate the teachings of Abelle over their long-standing, traditional beliefs, the monks had, in effect, openly declared themselves heretics and had been branded as such by the elders and the shamans.

Milkeila recalled the day when she had warned the Abellicans about their unacceptable path and winced in her mind’s eye to remember Brother Giavno’s angry retort. “What do we care if our ways offend you?” he had roared. “Your place is in hellfire while heaven awaits the followers of Blessed Abelle!”

Milkeila hadn’t known what “hellfire” might mean, but when Giavno had assured her that she and her people were doomed to sit in eternity beside the likes of the dactyl demons, she had fathomed the point of his rant quite clearly.

Fortunately not all the Abellicans were of similar temperament as that unpleasant one. Some of the younger brothers, one in particular, were quite open to the possibilities that there were other explanations and traditions worth exploring in sorting through the mysteries of life. Of like mind to Milkeila and her small group of friends, who often wondered about the world beyond the borders of the mist-covered lake, a world upon which they were forbidden to venture.

“Be safe, Cormack,” the shaman whispered under her breath, her hand brushing her shirt above the necklace of magical stones, and in an even lower voice, she added, “My love.”

The serrated blade was barely an inch from Cormack’s throat when another dwarf grabbed the arm holding it.

“Nah,” that second powrie said, tugging the first dwarf back from the bound human.

“I won’t cut him wrong that his blood’s spillin’ too fast!” the first assured the others. “Let him die slow, and we’ll all get our caps in the puddle, what?”

“Nah, ye’re not for cuttin’ him at all,” said the other, and he moved in between the knife-holder and poor Cormack. He glanced back at Cormack as he did. Cormack realized from the dwarf’s recently busted nose, blood caked on his thick mustache, that this had been one of his opponents before the glacial trolls had arrived on the scene.

“What’re ye jabberin’, then?” the knife-holder argued. “I come here to wet me cap, and wetting me cap’s what I’m to do!”

“Ye got a dozen dead trolls for cutting.”

“Bah, but troll blood’s not much for brightening me cap, and ye’re knowing it, ye danged fool, Mcwigik!”

“Best ye’re to get, unless some o’ them other monks come out o’ their rock house, and that ain’t for happening!”

One of the other powries added a complaint of his own, and another chimed in, but a second dwarf stepped forward in support of Mcwigik. Cormack recognized this one as the wounded Bikelbrin, whom Cormack had circle-kicked under the surf and had later leaped over when he had gone to intercept the ice trolls.

“Let him go, Pragganag,” Bikelbrin said to the knife-holder. “If me thoughts’re sorting out right, then this one saved me hairy bum.”

“Trolls had ye dead,” Mcwigik agreed. “We’d’ve put ye under a stone pile like we done to Regwegno there.”

“Aye,” agreed another, and to Cormack’s horror, that one held up a heart-Regwegno’s heart, apparently.

“But if there’d been no trolls it was us and them monks,” Pragganag argued, though even he seemed to be losing steam here and let his knife’s tip slip down toward the ground, enough so that Cormack was beginning to think he might indeed survive this ordeal. “Got me a crop o’ burned beard,” he added, tugging at the left half of his fiery red beard-or at least, the right side remained fiery red, for the clump in his hand had been blackened by one of Giavno’s bolts of lightning. “And now ye’re telling me that I lost half me beard for nothing? And when there’s bright human blood right there, laid out and tied and ready for the taking?”

“Foul chaps we’d be to kill one what saved our hairy bums,” Mcwigik growled back at him.

“Flattened yer own fat nose!” Pragganag shouted.

“Aye,” said Mcwigik, and he glanced back and nodded-appreciatively!-at Cormack. “Got a wicked punch to him.”

“And a wicked kick,” added Bikelbrin.

“Then a good kill he’ll be!” Pragganag reasoned. “And a brighter cap I’ll wear!”

“But ye weren’t the one to drop him, was ye?” Mcwigik asked. “Trolls bringed him down, and only because he leaped into the lot o’ them to save Bikelbrin. The least ye can do is knock him down yerself afore ye’re for taking his bright blood, don’t ye think?”

Pragganag stood straighter, the knife slipping down to his side as he eyed Mcwigik and Bikelbrin suspiciously. “What’re ye saying?”

Mcwigik grinned, his teeth shining white between the bushy black hair of his beard. He drew out his own knife and stepped fast behind Cormack. With a sudden swipe he took the bindings from the fallen man’s wrists. He reached down and grabbed the man by the arm and roughly hoisted him to his feet.

A wave of dizziness buckled poor Cormack’s legs as a ball of fire seemed to erupt within his battered skull. He couldn’t focus his eyes and would have fallen back to the sand had not Bikelbrin rushed over to help Mcwigik keep him upright.

“Well, alrighty then,” Pragganag laughed. He lifted his knife and advanced, grinning from ear to ear.

Mcwigik didn’t even have to intercept, though, as a pair of dwarves behind Pragganag grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Not now, ye dolt,” one said. “Fool monk can’t even stand.”

“Where’s yer honor?” the other agreed.

“It’s staining me beret!” Pragganag argued, pulling away, but he did indeed lower his knife.

“Now for yerself,” Mcwigik said, turning Cormack to face him, hoisting the man again as he slumped back toward the sand. “New moon tonight-ol’ Sheila’s not to be found. Are ye hearin’ me, boy?” He gave Cormack a little shake, which elicited a pronounced groan.

“Next time Sheila’s not to be found ye get yerself back to the beach, and we’ll come ashore so that ye can fight Pragganag here straight up,” Mcwigik explained.

“Yach, but the human dog’s not to come out to fight!” Pragganag argued.

Mcwigik tossed his fellow dwarf a dismissive glance and muttered, “It’s the best ye’re getting,” before turning his attention back to Cormack. “Ye come alone and come ready to fight. And if Pragganag’s beating ye, then know yer blood’s forfeit.”

“And what if this one wins?” Bikelbrin asked, giving Cormack another shake, which brought forth another groan. Across the way Pragganag snorted as if that notion was absurd.

“We’ll get him something for his trouble, then,” said Mcwigik.

“Yach, but ye’re giving him his life now!” one of the dwarves behind Pragganag reminded. “Ain’t that to be enough?”

“Aye, that’s enough,” said another.

“Nah,” Mcwigik bellowed back, waving his free hand at them. “Making it more interestin’. If this skinny human’s to win, then we’ll give him Pragganag’s cap,” he added suddenly, on impulse.

“Aye!” Bikelbrin said, seeing all the faces except for Pragganag’s, of course, brightening around him.

“To the dactyl’s bum ye are!” Pragganag frothed.

But Mcwigik was quick to reply, “Are ye saying that ye can’t take a skinny human one-to-one?”

“Yach!” Pragganag protested and threw up his arms, whirling away.

“Ye heared it all, boy?” Mcwigik asked Cormack, turning the monk’s face to look at him directly. “Next time Sheila’s not to be seen. Gives ye a month to get yer head put back together. Ye come out and ye come out alone.”

Surely the world was spinning, and Cormack hardly registered any of it. But he managed a nod.

Mcwigik and Bikelbrin laid him back down on the sand, and Cormack’s thoughts fell far, far away.

Onlookers ignorant of the shamanistic ways would have thought it a dance, though a pretty one to be sure. Milkeila’s bare feet scraped across the sand, drawing lines in a prescribed pattern about her as she turned and swayed and sang softly. She crossed her right foot over her left, stepped down with her heel, then gracefully rolled her ankle to lift the heel from the sand and point her toe in. She went up onto the ball of her other foot and slowly twirled all the way around.

This was the circle of power.

Milkeila’s hands moved in unison a foot apart out to her left. She chanted more loudly and dug her toe into the sand, connecting her to the power of the earth below her. Then she turned her palms up and lifted her hands to the sky, drawing that power up behind her movement. Her hands came gracefully down before her in a slow arc, and she repeated the process to her right side.

The energy lifted more easily this time, she felt in her soul, so when her hands were high in the sky, she turned about the other way, altered her chant to the god of the wind, and slowly turned her palms over as she found a stance of symmetry. She felt the wind gathered in her palms, so she slowly lowered them down by her sides, her thumbs tapping her hips and then moving lower to brush her bare legs below the hem of her short skirt. They pressed down past the outside of her knees and the sides of her shins as she dropped into a crouch, so low that her hands soon rested flat on the ground.

The shaman pressed the power of the wind into the soil, fanning the flames of the lava she had coaxed from far, far below. The ground around her, within her drawn circle, began to steam and to bubble. Despite what she had told herself before beginning the ceremony Milkeila couldn’t resist sending her thoughts into the ruby that hung on the gemstone necklace. She felt the power there, teeming with strength, and sent it, too, into the ground.

One vent popped clear, shooting hot mist several feet into the air to the approving nods of the gathered clansmen and women. Several grabbed their pails of fish, knowing that the cooking circle was near completion.

Milkeila felt the warmth beneath her bare feet and knew that she had done well. But when her mentor, Toniquay, called to her as “permid a’shaman yut,” she felt more guilt than pride. For that was her title, the Prime Shaman of Youth, the most promising priest of her generation. She had earned that honor honestly, she knew, and was well on her way to the accolade before the Southern monks had ever come to Mithranidoon. But the fact that she had dared use an Abellican gemstone in this sacred ritual, or that she wore the necklace at all, or that she had given her heart to a man not of Yan Ossum, made Toniquay’s prideful remark sting.

Lost in the swirl of thoughts, Milkeila realized that she should step out of the cooking circle when her feet grew very, very hot. She came out facing the water and walked through the gathering down to the surf.

“Always this beach,” Toniquay said behind her. “This is Milkeila’s special beach.”

She didn’t turn to face him, for she knew that she was blushing fiercely. This particular beach faced Chapel Isle and also faced the secret sandbar where she met with her lover.

“The magic is strong here, do you think?” Toniquay asked.

“Yes, shaman,” she answered.

“It is the magic of the old gods that draws you to this spot ever again, is it not?”

She felt her cheeks grow even hotter at that double-edged question.

“I see it, too,permid a’shaman yut,” Toniquay said, his voice dipped in the syrup of sarcasm as he was so wont to do.

What did he see? Milkeila wondered. How much of the truth lay open to the wise and severe old man?

Despite herself, she lifted her gaze toward Chapel Isle, but only for the briefest moment before turning to face Toniquay. His knowing smile reminded her of her own whenever she chanced to catch some of the younger boys staring at her legs or breasts.

“A place of magic,” old Toniquay remarked, and walked away.

Milkeila felt her cheeks flush hot again. She glanced over to see the fishermen and their wives preparing the meal, cooking the catch in the circle she had magically prepared by calling to the old gods of Yan Ossum.

And by extracting the power of the Abellican ruby.