The Ancient sotfk-2

by R. A. Salvatore

  He did it again, and a third time, but then he went flying forward as a troll sprang onto his back, clawing at his face and bearing him down to the deck.

  Androosis finally got a punch cleanly through, smashing the troll’s face, and the back of its head cracked hard against the wooden deck. Clearly dazed, the creature slowed momentarily, enough for Androosis to set his broken hand below him and lift himself up. He reached back behind him with his free left hand, then let himself fall as he thrust out below him, throwing all of his weight behind the punch.

  The troll’s long and crooked nose shattered under the weight of the blow, and the creature again cracked its skull against the boat’s decking.

  Androosis rolled off, seeing that the creature was finished, and, now nursing two injured hands, stubbornly regained his footing.

  Canrak was down, the troll above him stabbing repeatedly with its crude spear. The poor tiller flailed and blocked, both his arms torn and shredded, blood covering him. More blood than Androosis had ever seen. More blood than Androosis would have ever believed possible from one skinny man.

  He shook off the shock and charged back, kicking the troll off of Toniquay as he passed. He stumbled as he went under the sail, but didn’t let that slow him as he threw himself at the spear-wielder.

  Forgetting his more serious wound, he slapped a backhand with his right, trying to grab the weapon’s shaft, but a wave of agony assailed him and he couldn’t hang on. That cost him dearly as he came against the creature in his successful tackle, for it managed to extract the spear and angle it so that it caught Androosis on the right hip and drove down.

  Fires of pain exploded all along that hip and down his leg, but again he ignored them, forcing himself to understand the consequences of failure here. He bore the troll to the deck and went into a frenzy, battering it with his hands and arms, driving his knee against it hard. He took as many hits as he gave, and the troll even lurched upward, trying to bite him.

  Androosis merely tucked his chin in low and drove his forehead right at that biting mouth. He cut himself open on the troll’s sharp teeth, but he smashed the creature into oblivion in the process.

  Toniquay’s cry startled him and turned him shakily about, just in time to see the troll he had kicked leap up against the sail, thrashing at it with clawed hands. Toniquay came in fast behind.

  Too fast, for as he collided against the troll, it thrust forward and the shaman could not halt his momentum. Both he and the troll went through the sail, tearing the fabric as they went. They hit the deck hard and rolled apart, and the troll sprang up and rushed to the side, right over the side, taking with it the bulk of the sail!

  Androosis and Toniquay exchanged horrified looks, and both started for the side rail, until the cry of the remaining paddler turned them back toward the prow, where the poor man was being hauled by a pair of trolls.

  Toniquay turned fast and began waving his arms to summon his magic. But then he lurched and doubled over and grasped at the spear that had hit him in the gut.

  Androosis staggered past him, but knew he would not get to his companion in time, and he could only gasp and look on helplessly as the two trolls and the Alpinadoran rolled over the prow and disappeared under the water.

  Behind Androosis came another splash, and he turned to see that the troll he had smashed had also gone over. He slumped down next to Toniquay, saw the spear embedded in the shaman’s gut, and had no idea of how he might help the man.

  A sudden jerk on the boat had him back to his knees, looking aft with concern at the long line he hadn’t completely brought in. He crawled to it and peered out, to see the paddler bobbing along behind them, apparently caught in the hooks. Androosis grabbed the line and began hauling the man toward him, but he knew before he got the poor man against the taffrail of the boat that he was too late. He grabbed the man by the shirt and half hauled him over, but as the man’s head lolled back, Androosis stared into wide-open, lifeless eyes.

  Horrified and gagging on bile, Androosis dragged the man up higher on the rail. But he lost his grip and fell backward onto the deck and lay staring up at the sky. Beside him, Canrak whimpered pitifully, and amidships, near the mast and torn scraps of sail, Toniquay growled and grunted.

  Androosis felt consciousness slipping away. He fought against it and lifted his head to regard the man half hanging over the back of the battered boat. He tried to reach out and grab the man, but he found that he could not, found that he was inexorably sinking backward to the deck.

  He stared up at the sky, but he saw only blackness.

  PART TWO

  THE LONG ROAD UNBIDDEN

  Perhaps it is because in order to simply survive I had to remain so much more in tune with the workings of my body, or perhaps it was my Jhesta Tu training, but whatever the reason, I find that I am more apt than the average person to understand the subtle clues offered to me by my unconscious soul. So many things we reveal to ourselves without ever realizing them!

  The lightness of my step when I departed Palmaristown, for example, whether in the guise of the Stork or in that of the Highwayman, buoyed me; I felt as if I could leap a hundred feet off the ground. With the road straight before me to Chapel Abelle, the hopes of seeing this man, my father, Bran Dynard, filtered throughout my being and lifted my spirit.

  Consciously, I wasn’t even thinking about such things. Consciously, I told myself, berated myself, that this entire journey was no more than procrastination. The real road was south and east, but I was-deliberately-a long way from there.

  But despite my pangs of guilt, I felt that buoyancy clearly and acutely, a sense of excitement, and not just because I had successfully deflected and delayed facing my deepest fears. Nay, on this road to the mother church of the Abellican Order, I felt as if I was moving forward on my journey, as if I was taking a very important and exciting stride.

  I wondered if I was betraying Garibond, my beloved father-in-practice, who had raised me and tolerated my infirmities without complaint, who had loved me without condition and without embarrassment. My road seemed to be leading me to the man who had sired me, and my road was walked with eagerness, so what did that reflect upon Garibond and his sacrifices?

  And what did I really expect from this man, Bran Dynard?

  And why hadn’t he come back for me? More than two decades had transpired since his departure from Pryd Town, and he had not returned for Sen Wi or for his child.

  As I ponder these many angles, my mind jumbles and shakes and darts in directions unasked for. And to all of them, I have no true answers, I recognize, for I will not know how I feel about Bran Dynard until I have met him. I will not know his answers to my concerns until he has explained them. I will not know the effect upon the legacy of Garibond until long has passed, I am sure.

  Indeed, that is the most unanswerable question of all, because the truth is clear and yet clouded by guilt, that most opaque of veils. I loved and still love Garibond with all my heart and soul. I would throw myself upon a pyre of flames to save him, without hesitation! I would do anything, anything at all, to have him back.

  Of my sire, I am less certain. Of Bran Dynard, I have only expectations with which to guide my preconceptions.

  Well, only those and the Book of Jhest, the tome he penned-or copied, at least. For the contents were such that no one without understanding of the book could properly relay its subtle shades. Perhaps that book remains the paradox of my inner conflict, the source of both excitement and trepidation.

  For I would desperately desire to meet the man who penned that book, that marvelous tome which freed me from my abject helplessness, even if he had no connection to me in blood or otherwise, other than the connection I feel in my heart to that which he wrote. On this level alone, I am truly comfortable with my journey.

  How could it be otherwise? I desire to meet the man who penned the wondrous book as I desire to meet the mystics of Behr who live the lessons of that book in their daily existence. And this journey is e
ven safer than that, for whatever the outcome of my meeting with Bran Dynard, the Walk of Clouds remains. Hope remains.

  Is this then a comfortable step for me? For all of my other fears regarding this stranger, I hold few or no familial expectations, so I suspect that I cannot be disappointed in that manner, and whatever philosophy Bran Dynard may express now, or whatever he might offer or not offer to further my recovery, he has already given so much to me that I cannot hold any anger against him.

  Or maybe I do. Perhaps my anger at his refusal or inability to return to Sen Wi and to me will prove a stronger angst than I anticipate, a thorn more deeply embedded in my heart than I now understand.

  And so with a resigned sigh, I must admit it may be that the only real comfort of this journey is that it allows me to put off the even more terrifying march to the Walk of Clouds.

  – BRANSEN GARIBOND

  NINE

  Work Brings Freedom

  Dawson McKeege stood at the prow of his two-masted coast-runner, Lady Dreamer, taking in the grand oceanic and coastline view that never grew old for him. For before the craft loomed a three-hundred-foot cliff facing, mighty stone all brown and gray, and atop it, as if growing right out of the rock, stood Chapel Abelle, the heart of the growing, influential Church.

  This was the spot where Blessed Abelle had first demonstrated the power of the god-given gemstones. This was the spot where-on guidance from God, it was said-he had learned to make permanent the magical properties of those rocks he had found after being shipwrecked on a distant island in the deep southern Miri-anic Ocean. Alone and as removed from civilization as any man had ever been, Abelle had had little expectation of surviving, and seemingly no chance of ever returning to Honce.

  But the magical stones had showered down from the heavens, the gifts of God to him, and as he had sorted through their magical properties, this young philosopher had come to understand them fully.

  With those stones, Abelle had walked hundreds of miles across the ocean, so it was said, and through the power and potential of the gemstone magic, he had changed the world.

  Dawson wasn’t yet formally confirmed as an Abellican. He had been raised in Vanguard among a thriving farming and hunting community dominated by the Samhaists, and the old ways died hard. Still, he couldn’t deny the spirituality he felt whenever this sight, Chapel Abelle, so impressive and growing grander by the day, came into view.

  Hidden among the cliffs was a dock facility, with tunnels that climbed through the stone all the way to the chapel above-tunnels reputedly cut by Abelle himself utilizing a variety of potent gemstones.

  “Hail to the flag of Dame Gwydre!” came a shout from the docks as Lady Dreamer edged in around the jagged rocks. A pair of monks stood in open view, waving at the approaching ship. Dawson recognized one as Brother Pinower and returned the wave with a familiarity and heartiness reminding him that the relationship between Gwydre and this Church had grown so very strong.

  Of course, that very fact had led to the current war in Vanguard, and Dawson couldn’t help but grimace as he considered his former spiritual leaders, the Samhaists, now striking so violently and with such vile foot soldiers as goblins and glacial trolls. Never had the man imagined that the supposedly wise priests who had guided his people, as brutal as their customs often were, could so betray their people as to enlist the aid of such wretched creatures.

  “Weapons, metals, or foodstuffs?” Brother Pinower asked as McKeege’s ship pulled up alongside the longest of the three wharves and tenders hopped to the dock to begin securing her. “You will be hard pressed to get any, of course, in this dastardly time.”

  “Lairds Ethelbert and Delaval continue their war, then?” Dawson asked, hopping down easily to the planks beside the Abellicans.

  ” ‘Escalate’ would be a better word,” Pinower replied. “Laird Delaval believed he’d gained an advantage, and so he strengthened his line across the breadth of it, thinking to push Ethelbert right into the sea.”

  “But it wasn’t to be,” said the second monk. “Ethelbert’s got a few tricks left.”

  “Aye, and a few allies from Behr,” Brother Pinower agreed.

  “A laird of Honce is using the desert savages?” Dawson McKeege asked, shaking his head, feeling at that moment pretty much the same about Ethelbert as he felt about the Vanguard Samhaists.

  “Desperate folk take desperate measures,” Brother Pinower added, and all three nodded.

  “I’ve a hold full of caribou moss,” Dawson explained, referring to the white moss that climbed knee-deep in regions of Vanguard and was favored for packing open wounds, among its many other uses. In a time of war that particular purpose of the fungus would take precedence, obviously, but extract of dried caribou moss could also be brewed into a medicinal tea, and sheets of the moss often sold at exorbitant prices as roofing or siding material, both practical and decorative, for the fancy homes of wealthy merchants. Vanguard had many profitable trading goods to offer Honce proper, but in this time of war, none was more sought after than the caribou moss.

  “The lairds will pay well for it,” Brother Pinower admitted.

  “They will pay Chapel Abelle well, then,” Dawson explained. “For I’ve no time to cart my wares southeast or southwest, and my boat’s back to Vanguard when she puts out from your dock, presently, unless I am forced to make a detour to Palmaristown.”

  “We have some goods, of course,” said Brother Pinower. “And some coin.”

  “Some? The whispers say that your Church grows wealthy on the tributes of warring lords.”

  “Whispers,” Brother Pinower replied with an exaggerated sigh. He ended with a smile as wide as the one Dawson offered in response.

  “Come,” Brother Pinower bade him, leading him off the wharf and to the gated entrance and the winding tunnels that would carry them up to the cliff top and the mother chapel of the Abellican Church.

  As soon as he exited that dock tunnel into the courtyard of the abbey, McKeege understood those whispers of growing wealth to be understated. For Chapel Abelle was more than twice the size it had been on his last visit only a year before. Scores of laborers worked the grounds, extending and thickening the already impressive outer wall and constructing new stone structures-barracks and rectories and all manner of buildings. Chapel Abelle had become a town unto itself, McKeege realized, and when he thought about it, it made sense. Once Chapel Abelle had been a small church set on a hill above the medium-sized town of Weatherguard, but in this time of pressing danger, it had become a fortress, a welcomed one for the beleaguered folk of the region.

  Dawson looked to the main church, which was now surrounded by scaffolding, monks swarming every region of it with tools and materials. No laymen worked this alls important building, he noted. Its construction remained for the brothers alone.

  “Father Artolivan will be pleased to greet you this day,” Brother Pinower assured him, hustling him toward the church entrance. “It would help if I could introduce you with your intent.”

  Dawson looked from the church to the eager brother, who was at least fifteen years his junior, with skin too soft and white and eyes tired already from endless hours spent huddled over parchments. Dawson figured that Pinower rarely ventured outside of Chapel Abelle, other than when he was stationed at the docks, or at work on the abbey, perhaps. The Vanguardsman wished that he had more time, then, so that he could sneak the young man away from his stuffy brethren and put on a good drunk and a better woman.

  “Tell the good father that I come with value and leave with purpose, for Vanguard’s in need of…” He paused there and let the thought hang in the air between them. Indeed, it seemed as if poor Brother Pinower would fall right over from leaning so obviously toward McKeege.

  Dawson merely grinned, intensifying the tease.

  Soon after, Dawson stood before Father Artolivan, an old friend of Dame Gwydre, who had secretly offered his blessing to her union with Brother Alandrais.

  “I’ve come under ful
l sail,” the Vanguardsman said, “and will leave the same way.”

  “Always in a hurry,” the old father of the Abellican Church replied, his voice a bit slurred as if he had partaken too liberally of the bottle.

  It was just age, though, and indeed, Artolivan looked every day of his eighty years. Skin sagged about his face, and his eyes had sunk deeply, circled by darkness. He could still sit straight, but not without great effort, Dawson noted, and there remained little sparkle and sharpness in his gaze. The Abellicans wouldn’t easily replace him, though. Artolivan, it was whispered, had once glimpsed Blessed Abelle (though he would have been but a young boy), and had been trained by men who had learned directly from the great man. He was the last of his generation in the Church, the last man alive known to hold direct ties to Blessed Abelle and the momentous events of that magical and inspiring time.

  “That is the way of the world, I fear,” the old priest went on. “None have time to give pause. Patient consideration is a thing of the lost past.”

  “War breeds urgency, Father,” said Dawson.

  “And what is your urgency?”

  “I’ve a hold of caribou moss and no time to barter.”

  “So I’ve been told-of both situations. You seek coin, then, so name your initial offer.”

  “I seek coin only to use it for another good,” Dawson explained, and that piqued Artolivan’s curiosity, it seemed, as the old man cocked his head to the side. “I will use the coin-and have brought much of my own, as well-to bribe.”

  “You have come for able bodies?”

  Dawson nodded.

  “To harvest? To log? As wives or as laborers?”

  “Yes,” Dawson replied. “All of that. Vanguard is sorely pressed by the Samhaists. Dame Gwydre has victory at hand,” he quickly added and lied when he saw old Artolivan’s face crinkle with doubt.

  “We are all sorely pressed, friend Dawson. War rages the breadth of Honce.”