The Ancient sotfk-2

by R. A. Salvatore

They would have survived their wounds, likely, had not the monks on the wall continued their barrage at the approaching horde. For the attackers wanted prisoners, that they could exact an exchange. They couldn’t get near the fallen brothers, though, in the face of that barrage, so they settled for the next best option.

  The Alpinadorans rained another volley of spears at the defenseless duo.

  On the far side of the chapel, the western wall, a second wave crept up and then broke into a howling charge, knowing that most of the monks were across to the other side, trying to help their fallen.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Giavno yelled at Cormack and some others, and the group leaped down from the wall and rushed across, to see brothers on the opposite parapets already engaging the ferocious enemy. A series of lightning bolts shook the ground beneath their feet as they ran to bolster the defense, and Cormack understood that the immediate threat had been eradicated, though the fighting hardly quieted.

  The others ran ahead of Cormack as he slowed to a stop. He glanced back at Brother Giavno and the continuing. battle at the eastern wall, wincing almost constantly from the terrible screams.

  He went to the side structure of the keep, and to the bulkhead, where he picked up a torch and slipped down into the tunnels.

  The sound of the fighting receded behind him, but it would take more than a closed bulkhead door to cleanse poor Cormack’s sensibilities. That reality only made him move with more purpose, however, down the side tunnel to the dungeon where the four barbarians sat miserably, side by side. Cormack considered the task ahead of them and wondered if they could possibly succeed. Beyond weary, half-starved by choice, and one still recovering from immolation, Cormack had to wonder if they would even be able to stand up once he freed them of their bonds.

  “Your people come on again,” he said. “Men and women are dying up there.”

  Androosis lifted his head toward the monk, and Cormack simply couldn’t read the expression on his face. Did he feel betrayed? Was he angry with Cormack? Confused?

  “You would have us renounce our faith,” the shaman said in a voice parched and dry and so very weak. “We would die first.”

  “I know.”

  The simple answer elicited a curious look from both the shaman and Androosis, and that gave Cormack some hope. He set the torch in a sconce and moved around the wooden wall. “We will venture deeper,” he said as he loosened Androosis’s bonds.

  “Because you fear my people will overrun your pathetic castle,” said Toniquay the shaman. “You move us away in desperation!”

  Cormack hustled fast around the barrier to stand before the still-bound shaman. “Your people will not get through the wall. Not now and not ever. They will be killed to a man and woman at the base of the stones, unless we end this.”

  “You doubt the power…”

  “Shut up,” said Cormack. “More than twenty of your kin are dead already. More are dying right now. They will not relent and they cannot prevail. Their loyalty to you is commendable-and foolish.”

  “What would you have us do?” Androosis interjected, and Cormack was glad of that, for Toniquay was about to issue another stubborn retort, and time was too short for such bickering. He moved around the wall again and freed all three, with Toniquay last.

  As they were freeing themselves of the rope, and climbing out of the mud and the piss and the feces, Cormack went back to the sconce and retrieved the torch.

  “Follow closely, and as fast as you can manage,” he instructed.

  “And if we do not?”

  Cormack swung about with a heavy sigh, drawing out a knife as he turned. “This ends today, now,” he said. “I will show you the way out of here, or…” He brandished the knife. “It ends today.”

  “And why are we to believe you?”

  “What choice have we?” Androosis asked, and motioned for Cormack to go.

  To Cormack’s relief, they all followed, with Androosis helping the burned man, even lifting him in his arms and carrying him along. That gave Cormack pause-would they even be able to execute the planned escape?

  They went through the door at the tunnel’s end, into the chamber where the lake comprised most of the floor.

  “You are all strong swimmers, I would expect and hope,” Cormack said, placing his torch down and starting to strip off his heavy cloak. He paused, though, and considered the action. “I cannot,” he said.

  Androosis shot him a concerned look. “We are not going back,” he said.

  Cormack shook his head, showing the four that such was not what he was talking about at all. “I cannot go into the water and open the grate, as I had intended,” he explained. “If I return to my people with wet hair, they will know of my involvement.”

  “Grate?” Androosis asked.

  “A simple netting, with minor reinforcement,” Cormack explained, pointing to the northwestern corner of the underground pool. “Beyond it is a short tunnel-an easy swim to freedom.”

  Androosis stared long and hard at Cormack. He placed his companion down gently and waded into the dark pool, walking in until the warm water was up to his waist before ducking under. While Canrak, the fourth of the barbarian party, lent an arm of support to the burned man, Toniquay stared unrelentingly at Cormack.

  “You are so afraid of my people,” he said with a twisted grin.

  Cormack brushed him off with a smirk and shake of his head, never taking his eyes off the spot where Androosis had disappeared.

  “If it is not true, then why?” the shaman demanded.

  “Because my God would expect no less,” said Cormack.

  Androosis came up with a splash, sucking in a deep breath of air. “The way is clear,” he announced. “It is a short swim, with open water beyond.”

  “What about him?” Cormack asked with sincere concern, and he indicated the barely conscious newest prisoner.

  “I will get him through,” Androosis promised. He walked over to Cormack then and dropped his hands on the monk’s shoulders. “You are a good man,” he said simply, and that was all Cormack had to hear to know that he had indeed done the right thing. The cost to him might prove great, but whatever Father De Guilbe might do could not begin to approach the cost to Cormack’s sensibilities had he continued to do nothing.

  Cormack came out of the side chamber a short while later, to find the battle still on in full, still loud and chaotic, still, he hoped, providing him the cover he needed.

  He went to battle and prayed with all his heart that it would be the last.

  SIXTEEN

  Mitigating

  They called him a multitude of names, and seemed to create a new one whenever he put his sword to work. The Dancing Sword, the Bird of Prey-any and all adjectives and superlatives to toss upon this warrior who stood so clearly above all others. Whenever a new title was bestowed, all knew to whom it referred, for there was only one it fit. All the conversations came back to the name by which they all knew him, the name used in his introduction to the soldiers. The Highwayman, he was called, and more than one sturdy soul shuddered to think of meeting this man on a darkened highway in southern Honce!

  True to form, he danced this day, running about the battlefield, leaping and spinning, lashing out with his feet as he soared through the mobs and always striking mortal blows as he landed. Like a small tornado he rushed through the battling throng, and as the enemies-this day they were exclusively the blue-skinned and ugly little trolls-were easily distinguished from his comrades, there wasn’t the slightest hesitation in his movements and strikes.

  He ran past one man and troll in a death clench and struck fast and hard and true, and the troll howled and thrashed and toppled to the ground.

  Its killer was already gone, to another man, fallen, with two trolls standing over him and stabbing down at his supine form as he scrambled desperately and futilely to block.

  The Highwayman leaped between the two surprised trolls, his feet kicking out to either side. He connected squarely on both, snapping
their heads back. One went flying to the ground, while the other somehow managed to stay on its feet.

  The standing one died first.

  The Highwayman charged at another, and as soon as it recognized him, his black mask and outfit, it shrieked and threw up its hands in a pitiful defense.

  Feeling another troll rushing at his back, he leaped high and spun, coming around to circle-kick the defending troll with a sweeping strike that spun it out to the right. In midair, he flipped his blade from his right hand to his left, and allowed the momentum of his turn to guide the strike as that fabulous and decorated sword of wrapped metal plunged into the troll’s chest. The Highwayman retracted immediately and flipped the blade back to his right in a reverse grip, and stabbed out with a backhand as he came fully around, timing it just right to slash across the chest of one pursuing troll, and send the second pursuer stumbling backward.

  He flipped his sword to right his grip as he rushed past the bleeding troll, launching a heavy left-hand blow to lay the dying creature low as he pursued its backpedaling companion. That one, shield and small sword in hand, brought both up to block, but the man drove on, smashing away with abandon, his sword too fine for the meager defenses. A piece of shield went flying away, a piece of troll arm following. The blade of the troll’s sword fell free to the ground, the head of the troll fast following.

  The warrior known as the Highwayman skidded to a stop to catch his breath and survey the field. Only one concentration of trolls remained intact, a group of about twenty formed into a tight wedge on the far side of the fighting.

  Behind the black mask, the man narrowed his eyes.

  Twenty trolls.

  He yelled and charged.

  And he kept yelling, demanding their attention. A spear flew at him and he snapped his sword across, knocking it harmlessly aside. He caught a second hurled spear with his free hand and threw it down. He turned sideways, still moving forward, and leaned back, letting a third slip past, then angled and dove into a roll, under a fourth, and came up in a leap, above the fifth missile.

  The volley grew more concentrated and coordinated, a barrage of rocks flying out at him.

  He yelled in rage, in glee, in sheer ferocity, his sword and free hand working wildly as he turned and ducked and leaned, and he came right through the volley, showing not a scratch.

  The troll wedge formation, appearing so formidable just a few heartbeats before, broke apart, the creatures running away from this madman they also knew by many names, all inspiring terror.

  The closest one, then second, then third, fell in rapid succession to his flashing, marvelous blade, and he continued the chase for a long while, though he only scored one more kill, to drive the group far from the field.

  He was angry at being out here, angry at being tricked, angry at being away from his beloved, but Bransen couldn’t deny the elation of this furious fight against an irredeemable enemy.

  All of that anger flowed into his arms, bringing them strength and speed.

  And no amount of troll blood would satiate him.

  You did well in tricking that one,” Brother Jond Dumolnay said to Dawson McKeege as they watched Bransen dance away in pursuit of the fleeing monsters. The monk continued his work on one of the wounded Vanguardsmen as he spoke, pulling open the man’s tunic to reveal a gaping hole in his chest, blood gushing forth. Jond took a deep breath at the imposing, horrible sight and went to work with his soul stone, summoning its healing powers to try to stem the flow.

  “It was for his own good, as much as our own,” McKeege replied, more than a little defensively. “Your church would have turned the man over to Laird Delaval, and he’d have been sacked with a snake, to be sure.”

  Brother Jond continued his prayers, paused and looked at the continuing flow, then went back to his prayers-but only momentarily, for he saw the bleeding stem and nodded in relief that the man was now somewhat stable. Jond sighed and rocked back on his knees, dropping his bloody hands on his thighs.

  “They would have sacked him?” he answered McKeege, and both of them knew the conversation to be a necessary and very welcome diversion. “Not if they understood his skill with the blade! They would have sent him posthaste to the south to do battle with Laird Ethelbert, I’d wager.”

  “The whispers have it that this Highwayman rained particular embarrassment upon Prince Yeslnik, one of Laird Delaval’s favored nephews. No, if Delaval had gotten his hands on that one, Bransen would not have had the chance to prove his worth-and I doubt he’d have battled for Delaval. He had a bit of a run-in with the Laird of Pryd-word’s that he killed the man.”

  “Laird Pryd himself?”

  “His son, Prydae. You’re knowing them?”

  “I know-or knew-the father,” Brother Jond explained.

  “And?”

  “Probably deserved it,” Brother Jond admitted with a helpless chuckle. “If the son was much like the father, I mean.”

  Dawson McKeege gave a laugh at that, hardly one to disagree. By his estimation, most of the lairds of Honce, titles handed down through generations, weren’t of much worth, which of course only made him appreciate his beloved Dame Gwydre, that notable exception, even more.

  “Here comes your new champion,” Jond said, indicating the returning Bransen. “It will take the Masur Delaval itself to wash the blood from his blade, I fear.”

  “Bloodier with every battle,” Dawson agreed.

  “A dozen huzzahs for Dawson’s wit,” said Brother Jond.

  Bransen approached, looking at Jond. When he took note of Dawson, though, he veered suddenly, his face growing very tight.

  “It is appropriate for a returning fighter to report his findings to his commander,” Dawson reminded.

  Bransen stopped and stood very still for a few heartbeats, composing himself.

  “In fact, you should consider it required,” Dawson pressed.

  Bransen slowly turned to regard him. “The beasts are in full disarray and retreat,” he said. “They’ll not return anytime soon.”

  “Good enough, then,” Brother Jond interjected lightly, his favorable relationship with both men serving to diffuse the obvious tension. “Myself and my Abellican brethren near the limit of our magical energies. Another assault would see less magical tending of the wounded, I fear.”

  “Curious,” said a voice from the side, and all three turned and nearly gasped to find Dame Gwydre sitting astride her roan mare. “From all that I have heard of Brother Jond, I would be certain that he would find more energy within himself, somehow, some way, if a man lay wounded before him.”

  “Milady,” said Dawson, stumbling to his feet. “When did you arrive on the field?”

  “Be at ease, my friend,” she replied, waving him back.

  “You are much too kind, Dame Gwydre,” Brother Jond said, lowering his gaze.

  “I only hear the whispers, good brother,” she replied. “I do not create them. Your reputation overrides your humility, and all of Vanguard is blessed and pleased that you are among us.”

  Despite himself and his sincere humility, Brother Jond couldn’t suppress a wisp of a smile at that.

  “And you,” Gwydre said, addressing Bransen. “The Dancing Sword, is it?”

  “That is not my name.”

  “It is Bransen Garibond,” Dawson said, shooting a scolding glance at the impudent young warrior. “Or perhaps he prefers the Highwayman, the name attached to him for his misdeeds in the South, the name for which he would have been sacked or hanged by the neck.”

  Bransen smiled at the man, more than willing to take that bait. “The Highwayman will do, indeed.”

  “Your exploits are not unnoticed… Bransen,” said Gwydre. “When this is ended, should you choose to leave Vanguard, I promise that my note of appreciation and pardon will accompany you, though whether the Southern lairds would honor such, I cannot say.”

  “Should I choose?” Bransen quipped. “What prisoner would willingly remain in his dungeon?”

>   “A bit of respect!” Dawson warned, but Gwydre motioned for him to be quiet.

  “Vanguard is no dungeon, Bransen Garibond,” Dame Gwydre said. “She is home. Home to many, many good people. You are free to view it in any manner you choose, of course-never would I deign to take that choice from any man.”

  “Yet I must fight for her, whatever my feelings.”

  “Fight for yourself, then,” Dame Gwydre retorted. “For your freedom, such as it may be, and for the benefit of your young and beautiful wife, who does not deserve to see her husband put in a sack with venomous snakes. I care not why you fight, but I insist that you do. And while you may not see the good your fine blade is doing, we surely do. And while you may not care for those families given a chance to live in peace and security because of your actions against the Samhaist-inspired hordes, we surely do.”

  With that, she turned her roan mare and walked it away.

  Dawson wore a pitying smirk as he shook his head, regarding Bransen. “One day you’ll lose that stubborn pride,” he predicted. “And you’ll see the truth of Dame Gwydre, the truth of all of this, and you’ll be shamed to have spoken to her such.”

  Then Dawson, too, walked away.

  Bransen stared at him as he left, unblinking, his eyes boring holes into the man’s back.

  “You fought brilliantly today,” Brother Jond said to him. “I had thought the line lost and expected that we would be the ones driven from the field.”

  Bransen looked at Jond, a man he had found it difficult to hate, despite his anger and his general feelings for Abellicans.

  “That may mean little to you,” Jond went on. “What field is worth the effort, of course, and you care not if Gwydre wins or Gwydre falls.” He looked at the man lying before him. “But had we been driven from the field, this man would not have survived his wounds, and a woman not so unlike your wife would grieve forever.”

  “Dame Gwydre does not care why I fight,” Bransen answered him, holding stubbornly to his anger. “Why would you?”

  “Dame Gwydre has bigger things to care about than a single man’s heart and soul, perhaps.”