The Ancient sotfk-2

by R. A. Salvatore

  The remaining two members of the strike force, a middle-aged crusty old warrior named Crait and a redheaded young bull named Olconna, fell somewhere on the spectrum between Bransen and Vaughna. Neither could match his grace or her ferocity, but both performed an effective enough combination of the two.

  Bransen, out of targets now that Vaughna had charged into the middle of the goblin line and had, predictably, broken it, sending goblins running every which way, paused and managed to glance over at Crait and Olconna, fighting side by side behind Brother Jond.

  Crait dodged one blow coming in at his right, and moved so far to the left that it appeared as if he had opened himself up to a devastating spear thrust. But when the goblin took that opening, it found only Olconna’s shield, and the creature’s failure allowed Crait to fast-step forward behind his partner’s block and plunge his bronze short sword into the goblin’s chest.

  Crait rolled to the left after the kill, sliding right in front of Olconna, his sword and shield slashing and bashing, but only as a ruse.

  For he kept going and Olconna rushed into the void as he passed, and the goblin couldn’t refocus its attention fast enough.

  Bransen nodded his admiration. These two had been fighting together for a long time now, and had made quite a name for themselves farther to the east and north, where the battles along the coast had been more scattered but no less fierce.

  This one was over, at least, or soon to be, and Bransen leaped past Brother Jond and charged off Olconna’s right flank in fast pursuit of the now-fleeing onsters, hoping to get at least one more kill.

  He managed two, and fast closed on a third when a red-fletched arrow beat him to the mark, throwing the goblin to the ground. Bransen looked around to spy the archer, but no one was in sight, and none of his friends, still back in the dell some twenty paces behind him, held any bows.

  He finished the squirming goblin with a stroke to its neck, then rolled it enough so that he could push the beautifully crafted arrow right through. When he arrived back with his friends to present it, he found Brother Jond holding a similar one.

  “Our day’s gone brighter,” Vaughna explained, in that voice of hers that always seemed to be on the edge of hysterical laughter.

  “It is him?” Olconna asked, his voice thick with unabashed awe.

  “Aye, that’d be the mark of Jameston,” Crait answered.

  “Jameston Sequin,” Brother Jond explained to the obviously confused Bransen. “A hunter of great renown, who splits his time between Vanguard and Alpinador. It is said he knows the trails better than any man alive, and it will prove a fortunate turn for us if he is indeed about.”

  “There is the greatest understatement I’ve ever heard,” Vaughna chimed in, and her tone made it clear that she was talking about more than a blessing for their mission. She nearly swooned (which seemed almost comical to Bransen, given her fire-spitting demeanor) as she pointed across a small lea, jumping up and down like a little girl getting her first view of a king. “It is him! It is him!”

  “He’s worth all that?” Olconna snickered.

  The approaching man’s legs seemed just a bit too long for his frame, giving him as determined and forceful a stride as one could imagine. His face, weathered and creased, showed nothing but strength and a commanding pragmatism. Bransen could see simply from the set of the man’s jaw that this one, Jameston, wasn’t loose with his words.

  “You’re a long way north of Dame Gwydre’s lines, and you don’t look like Samhaists to me,” Jameston said when he neared the group. “Especially not you,” he added, nodding his gray-bearded chin at Brother Jond.

  “Hardly that,” the monk agreed.

  Jameston’s gaze fell over Bransen, his face crinkling in a strange manner. For the first time since he had donned his mother’s black silk suit, Bransen felt a bit self-conscious about his unusual dress.

  “We did not come north just to find Jameston,” Vaughna volunteered. “But we’re glad to see you.”

  Jameston glanced at her for just a moment before offering a wink of familiarity, his face brightening. “Crazy V,” he said. “Been a lot of years.”

  “Too many.”

  “And you, too, Crait,” Jameston went on.

  “I’m surprised you remember me,” the old warrior replied.

  “Not so hard a thing to do,” Jameston answered. “How many might be living who have seen the fights you and I can claim as experience?”

  Crait thought it over for a few heartbeats, then answered with a laugh, “Two?”

  “Might be,” said Jameston. “Might be.” He stepped over to accept Crait’s extended hand, the two clasping wrists with the respect old warriors often reserved for other old warriors.

  Brother Jond cleared his throat, and after a curious glance at him, Crait began the introductions, though Vaughna interrupted him as soon as he had named Olconna and presented Bransen and Brother Jond.

  “You wandered lost?” Jameston asked.

  “Here on purpose,” Vaughna corrected. “The fighting has been terrible in the South. Entire villages are gone.”

  Jameston nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen Badden’s charges march out and figured as much.”

  “The Samhaists know no moral boundaries,” Brother Jond put in, but Jameston’s sudden grin silenced him, for it showed the grizzled old hunter to be far beyond the influences of proselytizing Abellicans and Samhaists alike in their unending struggle to collect every man’s soul.

  “You are a scouting band?” Jameston presumed.

  “Half right,” said Vaughna, and Brother Jond cleared his throat as if to remind her not to speak too openly. But this was Jameston Sequin, after all, and the woman just cast the monk a dismissive glance. “Dame Gwydre sees that we have to stop this war.”

  “And negotiating with the Samhaists won’t get you far,” Jameston reasoned, and let his knowing gaze encompass them all, and Bransen found it hard not to be naked under that man’s imposing stare.

  “You’ve come to kill Badden himself,” the old hunter said, and the undercurrent of humor in his voice had the five exchanging worried glances.

  That was all the confirmation Jameston needed.

  “We will find him, and we will kill him, yes,” Bransen announced unexpectedly, and stepped forward beside Vaughna. “He has earned the sentence.”

  “A hundred times over before you were ever born, boy,” Jameston replied.

  Bransen tried to recover fast from the response, which was both easy agreement and somewhat condescending-maybe. He just couldn’t be certain, for this man, this apparently legendary hunter, had him in a continually unbalanced state.

  “Never been enamored of that one,” Jameston went on, beating Bransen to the dialogue. “Only thing I’ve found stupider than men who claim to speak for the gods are the people who listen to them. My apologies, Brother,” he added to Jond.

  Jond half shrugged, half nodded, seeming at least as off-balanced as Bransen.

  “Help us kill him,” Vaughna blurted on impulse.

  “Never been one to pick sides,” Jameston replied.

  “But you have been helping Dame Gwydre,” Vaughna protested. “You have been sending reports south, so it’s said.”

  “Counts of goblins and trolls and the like,” Jameston agreed. “And the second count I made of them, after I left them, was always less than the initial.”

  “So you’ve already chosen your side, then,” Vaughna laughed.

  “Killing goblins and trolls isn’t a side,” Jameston deadpanned. “It’s a religion. Might be the only religion worth fighting for.”

  “Well, since Ancient Badden has thrown in with the beasts, he has chosen sides contrary to your… religion,” Brother Jond reasoned.

  Jameston gave him a sidelong glance and a snicker. “Ten days of marching east of here would get you to a hot lake called Mithranidoon. Taking the trails west of that, into the mountains, will bring you Cold’rin, the glacier the hot waters hold back. Atop that is
where you’ll find Badden and his high priests. I’ll take you to him-what you do once you get there’s your own choice to decide.”

  He ended with a nod that brooked no debate, took his arrows from Bransen and Brother Jond, and threw one more wink Vaughna’s way before hiking off to the east.

  The party of five just shrugged and followed. What else was there for them to do?

  After they made their camp that night, Vaughna and Jameston sat together, chatting and laughing like old friends.

  “They were once lovers,” Olconna remarked to Crait, the two of them on the far side of the encampment, cleaning and sharpening their weapons.

  Crait laughed heartily. “More than once, if I’m knowin’ Crazy V!”

  Olconna shot him a curious glance, and his face crinkled. “You as well?”

  Crait laughed again. “And I’m knowin’ Crazy V!” he said.

  Olconna looked back at the sturdy woman, shaking his head.

  “That a problem for you?” Crait asked bluntly. “Make you think less of me, does it?”

  “She’s not so pretty,” Olconna said.

  “Bah!” Crait retorted without the slightest hesitation, and he, too, turned to regard the woman. “She’s the most beautiful woman I ever seen.”

  Olconna put on a most incredulous expression.

  “And if she’s e’er to offer you a ride, you’d be a wise man to take it!” Crait added with a wink.

  “Like everyone else?” the younger man asked sarcastically.

  “Oh, but don’t be going to that place,” Crait replied. “You spend your days killing people and you’re to judge one who takes a ride now and then?”

  “But…”

  “Ain’t nothing to ‘but’ about,” Crait cut him short. “Look at her, boy, and look at her well. Crazy V. She’s living every moment with fire and filling her soul with memories and experiences most folk will never begin to imagine. She can outfight, outspit, outswear, and outfornicate almost any man alive and any woman I ever heard of. She’ll go to her grave without regret. How many of us can say that?”

  Olconna started to reply-several times-but he fumbled with the words, and all the while he stared at Vaughna.

  Crait sat quietly, staring at the young warrior who had become his prot$eAg$eA of sorts and thinking that he had just given Olconna one of the most valuable lessons of all.

  PART THREE

  PART OF SOMETHING BIGGER

  I resist.

  I do not know where it comes from, what deep-seated instinct or subconscious component of my being precipitates the apathy, but for all the truth and truthful desperation of Dame Gwydre’s plea I resist her call to arms. She is correct in everything she said. I do not doubt that, had I stayed in Honce proper, the Church or the lairds would have caught up with me and brought me to an untimely and painful end. I do not doubt Dawson’s words that the brothers of Chapel Abelle knew the truth of the Highwayman and were prepared to capture or kill me. I have seen Abellican justice before.

  I do not doubt that the Dame of Vanguard is desperate or that her people are suffering terribly under the weight of encroaching hordes, bounded (as they are Samhaist driven) by no moral constraints.

  And still I resist.

  I have seen the result of the troll raids, a town burned to the ground, every soul slaughtered. I am revolted and repulsed and angered to my heart and soul. I feel Dame Gwydre’s outrage and her desperation and know that if she felt anything different she would be a lesser person. I see her trembling with outrage, not because of the tentative nature of her survival and title, but because she truly feels for those people who look to her for leadership-that alone, I know, elevates her high above the average laird of Honce proper.

  And still I resist.

  Who am I? I thought I knew, for all my life the answer was so self-evident that I never bothered to ask the question. At least not in this manner.

  The Book of Jhest and the gemstones freed me from my infirmities and redefined me in a physical sense. That much is obvious. But now I come to know that the blessing of the inner healing is forcing upon me a second remaking, or at the very least, a very basic questioning of this man I am, this man I have become.

  Who am I?

  And what am I beyond the confines of my strengthened flesh?

  Quite contrary to my expectations, this strengthening, this healing, has led me to a more uncomfortable place. It has forced upon me a sense of obligation and responsibility for others.

  For others…

  For all of my youth and into early adulthood there were few others, and those-Garibond, some few brothers of Chapel Pryd, Cadayle on those occasions when I was graced with her presence-were important to me almost exclusively because of what they could do for me. They were in the life of Bransen Garibond because Bransen Garibond needed them.

  It is difficult for me to admit that there was something comfortable and comforting in my infirmities. While the other young men were competing in this game we call life, whether simply running against each other, or seeing who could throw a rock the farthest, or in the more formal competitions to gain a position in the Church or in the court of the laird, I was excluded. It wasn’t even an option.

  There was pain in that exclusion to be sure, but I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that there was also a measure of comfort. I did not have to compete in the endless battles to determine the hierarchy of the boys my age. I did not have to suffer the embarrassment of being honestly beaten, because no one could beat the Stork honestly!

  My infirmity was no dodge, of course, but I cannot be certain that I would have eschewed a dodge had I needed one. I cannot make that claim because I never had to face that choice.

  Then, suddenly, I was freed of that infirmity. Suddenly I became the Highwayman. Even in that identity I cannot claim purity of intent or righteousness of motive.

  Who did the Highwayman truly serve in his battle with the powers that were in Pryd Holding? The people? Or did he serve the Highwayman?

  The world of the Highwayman is not as simple as that of the Stork.

  – BRANSEN GARIBOND

  NINETEEN

  Uncomfortable Riddles

  A splash of water brought a cough. With that convulsion Cormack slid back from the deep darkness of unconsciousness. He felt wet along one side and sensed that his lower legs were floating.

  The first image that registered to him was that of a glacial troll face, not far from his own, the creature hanging on the side of a (of his, apparently!) small boat and forcing its edge under the water to swamp it.

  Cormack reacted purely on instinct. He rolled up to his elbow, facing the troll, reached across with his left hand, and grabbed the creature by its scraggly hair. He kept rolling, using his weight to push that ugly head back, then turned under, rolling his shoulder and hopping to his knees, thus driving the troll’s head forward and down. It cracked its chin on the side rail but slid over so that Cormack’s weight had it pinned on the rail by its neck.

  Up leaped the man. The quick movement freed him enough to lift one leg and stomp down hard on the troll, eliciting a sickening crackle of bone. Cormack nearly overbalanced in the process and tumbled overboard.

  Overboard? How had he gotten on a boat, out in the middle of the lake? Burning pain from his back reminded him of his last awful conscious moments, and the rest began to fall in place even as he tried to sort out his present dilemma.

  They had cast him out, set him adrift, and now the trolls had found him.

  The boat rocked, and Cormack had to work hard to hold his balance. The aft was almost underwater, lifting the prow into the air. Cormack started to turn back that way when he noted a troll scrambling over the prow and coming down at him.

  He feigned obliviousness until the last second, then jammed his elbow back, cracking it into the creature’s ugly face, crunching its long and skinny nose over to one cheek and tearing its upper lip on its own jagged teeth. The monk retracted and slammed his elbow back again, then a
third time, for the troll’s weight wouldn’t allow it to simply fall away on the steep incline.

  Cormack turned and knifed his free hand into the troll’s throat, clamping tight. The troll scratched at his forearm, drawing lines of blood, but he held fast, choking the life from it. Or he would have had another of the creatures come over the aft, further tipping the boat.

  Cormack turned fast but didn’t let go, dragging the diminutive creature along to launch it at its companion. As the two trolls tumbled, Cormack leaped forward and stomped his foot hard on the newcomer’s exposed head. He grabbed the second in both hands, by the throat again and the groin, and lifted it up over his head, then slammed it down on its companion.

  He stomped and kicked desperately until one went completely still, but Cormack was out of time and he knew it, for yet another troll appeared at the low-riding aft. When the creature pushed up onto that rail the rear of the boat submerged, water flooding in.

  Cormack turned and scrambled to the high-riding prow, trying to counteract the weight and lift the rear.

  He was too late, so he went to the very tip of the prow, glanced around quickly, and dove away. He counted on surprise, for though he was a strong swimmer he certainly couldn’t outdistance glacial trolls in the water!

  But he had to try.

  Milkeila sat on the sandbar that she often shared with her Abellican lover, remembering fondly their last moments together. She didn’t know why Cormack hadn’t come out to see her after that encounter. It really wasn’t unexpected that time would pass between their trysts, for, given both of their responsibilities to their warring peoples, they more often than not sat alone on the sandbar.

  But something nagged at the woman this day, some deep feeling that things were amiss, that something was wrong.

  She rose and walked to the eastern end of the sandbar, the point nearest to Chapel Isle, and peered into the mist as if expecting some revelation or maybe to see Cormack gliding toward her in his small boat.

  All she saw was mist. All she heard were tiny waves lapping the sand and stones of the bar.