He considered that perhaps he was making too much of it all, was allowing his anger and disappointment to overrule his judgment. He looked over at Milkeila and could see the strain on her face from her continuing efforts. The magic she battled was tangible, and formidable.
With a sharp inhale, Cormack steadied himself and took a step toward her, determined to dismiss his excuses and offer whatever help he could. But he stopped before he had really even started, for through the translucent wall above and behind Milkeila came such a blossom of orange and yellow that Cormack instinctively pondered that he was seeing the birth of the colors themselves. He watched, mouth agape, unable to even call out a warning, as those colors, the fires of dragon breath, turned the icy wall to water and steam, and through the glowing cloud came the beast itself, framed in hot-glowing mist that made it seem as if it were entering through some extradimensional portal!
The powries cried out and scrambled to pull up their pants; Bransen reacted with snakelike speed and precision, diving to the side, out of the way and collecting Milkeila as he went, still deep in her trance.
Cormack could only stand there and gape as the dragon’s serpentine neck swept down and the beast rolled right over it, tucking its wings. As it came around, it was not the lower torso of a reptilian dragon that showed, but the legs of a man, feet adorned with painted toenails and vine-tied sandals. Badden continued his transformation as he completed the somersault and it was a man and not a dragon that landed on the floor before the fountain.
But not just any man; it was the Ancient of the Samhaists come calling.
He landed with such a thud that it seemed as if he must be many times his apparent weight, and the same magic that perpetuated that strange perception reached out from Badden and into his magical ice floor. Huge ripples rolled out from the man, waves of ice, as if the floor had been caught somewhere between the state of a solid and of a liquid. Those ripples rose like waves and crested sharply and with tremendous energy, throwing dwarves and humans alike into the air violently. They crashed into the walls and bounced off the fountain, handheld weapons flying wildly. Milkeila splashed down into the fountain, and with the rumbling all about her, it took her a long while to sort out which way was up and get her head above water.
She fared the best, however, for the only place in the room, other than at Badden’s feet, that was not violently rolling and crashing was within that very pool. The shaman grimaced as Mcwigik and Bikelbrin flew past her, grabbing at each other for support until they were split apart from each other by the intervening fountain tower, both ricocheting, spinning out toward the walls. She cried out in pain as her beloved Cormack flew straight up into the air, more than a dozen feet-and only his considerable training allowed him to sort himself out enough in his descent to prevent landing on his head.
She winced at watching Bransen, not flying about, but maneuvering over the solid waves as a boat might defy heavy surf, and she gasped in shock to see one wave break right over poor Ruggirs, smashing down on the dwarf with tremendous force, blowing out his breath in a great and profound groan. The ice wave blended right over him, burying him in the floor.
Not far from her, Ancient Badden cackled with enjoyment, and stamped his foot again, giving rise to another series of waves, ones that crashed into the rebounding first set and sent the whole of the room into frenzy. Even the walls began to ripple and buckle! Now all of Milkeila’s friends flopped and bounced about uncontrollably, except for buried Ruggirs and one other.
To the Jhesta Tu, Bransen’s posture was known as doan-chi-kree, the “stance of the mountain,” a place of complete balance and perfect calm, where the straight-standing mystic reached his line of life energy, his chi, below his ki, his groin, and down to doan, the floor beneath his feet. That line of life energy became the mystic’s roots, his stability, and in such a state, a Jhesta Tu could not be moved by a charging giant.
The floor rolled to Badden’s command beneath Bransen’s feet, but Bransen moved with it, his legs bending and straightening accordingly and so perfectly that his upper body remained perfectly still. He locked stares with Badden. The Ancient stomped his foot again. But Bransen would not be thrown.
Milkeila drew courage from that image and shook herself from her stupor. She reached into her magic again and thrust it into Badden’s fountain, demanding that the violence end.
She felt as if she was trying to hold back the great Mirianic Ocean itself! But she shook away her despair and pressed on, blocking out all the distractions, focusing solely on the task at hand.
The room began to quiet.
Ancient Badden broke off his stare and looked over his shoulder at the woman, feeling her intrusion into his magic as keenly as if she was reaching into his stomach and tugging at his entrails. The Samhaist roared, as much the voice of a dragon as that of a man, and stabbed his hands out to the fountain’s centering geyser. The roiling waters froze solid suddenly, encasing Milkeila’s hands and forearms in a crushing grip.
Badden whipped his arm in a sudden circle, and the icicle responded likewise, turning over itself as it rushed around, twisting Milkeila right over.
She felt her shoulders pop from their sockets, then wrenched her back as the ice stopped its swing abruptly, locking her top half fast in place while her lower body whipped around.
Waves of nausea and dizziness and floating black spots filled her gut and head and eyes, and when the ice returned again to its liquid fountain form, the helpless woman dropped into and under the water, with no sense of direction or awareness at all.
Badden chuckled as he felt his magic flow more fully once more, but he knew that the diversion of this foolish woman had cost him. For in the moment of calm, the humans and dwarves had closed.
The Ancient snapped the fabulous sword off of his back, took the hilt in both hands and sent it out to arm’s length. With a maniacal cackle, the man went up onto the ball of one foot, hooked that balance point into his magical energy and began to spin. Not to spin like a young girl at play, but to truly whirl about, gaining speed and momentum with every turn. His form blurred; he altered the angle of his blade so that there was no possible approach.
Pergwick howled in sudden pain and fell away, desperately clutching at his head to hold his scalp in place. He went down to the floor, looking frantically for his lost beret.
Mcwigik and Cormack, side by side, fell away without getting stung, but Cormack shouted anyway, in frustrated outrage and not in physical pain, for he found himself separated from his fallen Milkeila, and he couldn’t see her above the rim of the fountain bowl. He tried to maneuver around the side, but got all tangled up with the ducking and retreating Mcwigik.
“What whirlpool’s he swimming in?” the dwarf barked in absolute surprise.
Bransen, too, slipped out of reach, but in a more controlled manner, taking a full measure of his adversary, and Bikelbrin dove over the side of the fountain, splashing down into the water. He had just regained his footing when Badden suddenly extended his reach, using the narrow sword as a focus for the release of his magical energy.
The prone Pergwick skidded across the room. Cormack and Mcwigik went flying away in a confused tumble, and Bikelbrin flew back into the center pole of the fountain with such force that his sensibilities kept right on flying.
Dazed and hardly conscious as he hit the water once more, the dwarf flopped over the drowning Milkeila. On pure instinct, he hooked his arm under the woman’s head and rolled himself onto his back, atop her back, using her bulk to keep his own head above the water. He kept his arm hooked to hold himself steady, and that alone saved the gasping Milkeila, for the weight of the dwarf rolled him back and his arm brought her head out of the water.
Ancient Badden had never felt a purer release of magical energy, as satisfying as any release any man might know. He stomped his foot to accentuate the magic, sending the room into a series of crashing ice waves once again.
Before he could congratulate himself, however, Ancie
nt Badden looked into the face of one who had not been moved by his magical thrust, and who seemed not bothered in the least by the current rocking.
Bransen Garibond held his ground. “You have my sword,” the Highwayman calmly explained, and Badden looked at him in abject disbelief.
“It is you!” the Samhaist replied. “I threw you from the glacier!”
“Highwaymen bounce,” Bransen replied.
“You were a babbling fool-an idiot who could hardly stand!”
“Or I was a clever scout, taking a measure of Ancient Badden and his forces before bringing doom upon them.”
Badden stood up straight and shook his head-or started to, for faster than a striking serpent the Highwayman struck. He sprang forward and snapped off a left and right jab for the old man’s face, connecting solidly both times.
He leaped back immediately, throwing back his hips and keeping his belly just an inch ahead of the thrusting sword. As he bent double with the move, Bransen drove down his forearm to knock the blade downward.
But Badden had anticipated that, and he cunningly turned the sword so that Bransen’s arm hit the razor edge.
Bransen did grimace, but simply rolled his hand down lower, changing the angle and driving the blade out wide. Then he rushed back in, slamming against Badden, one hand holding the man’s sword arm, the other hand grasping the old man’s face.
And Badden responded by snapping his free arm up behind Bransen. First he crushed the man into him, and with strength beyond anything Bransen could ever have believed possible!
Badden grabbed the back of Bransen’s hair and bandanna and tugged back violently, and Bransen growled in pain and in the sudden horror that he might again lose that precious gemstone. He raked his hand straight down, fingernails drawing lines of blood on Badden’s face, then reversed and hit the old man with a series of short and devastating uppercuts, crunching bone beneath his pounding fist.
Badden reflexively let go of Bransen’s hair to bring his free hand in to stop the barrage, but the moment he did Bransen shot out to the side, going after Badden’s sword arm, going after the sword, furiously.
But even though he got the leverage, the proper angle, he couldn’t pry the weapon free, and he realized his error, realized how vulnerable he had left himself, right before Badden’s fist smashed him in the back, driving his breath from his body. This was no mortal he faced, but some magical monstrosity! He needed the sword, but he couldn’t hope to get it. Badden pounded him again, and Bransen’s legs went weak.
“Fool!” the old Samhaist chided.
Bransen fell within himself as yet another explosive and thundering punch crashed against his back. He found his line of chi, found his center… He thought of Cadayle. He centered all of his fleeting thoughts on her, using her image as a focal point for holding on to his fast-flying consciousness. Something flew past him, and he was jerked backward. Another form rushed by-Cormack. He heard the slap of punches; he managed to glance over his shoulder to see Mcwigik tight about Badden’s leg, biting the man hard on the thigh, and to see Cormack facing Badden straight up, raining a rapid barrage of punches against the man’s face. That one was no novice to fighting.
But neither was he-were they-a match for Ancient Badden.
Bransen guessed Badden’s move-to pull free the sword and be done quickly with all three-so as soon as the Ancient started, Bransen reacted with sudden fury and all the power of his training behind him. He lunged for Badden’s sword hand, grasping the wrist and cupping his other hand over the Ancient’s clenched fist, snapping with all his strength, with all of his leverage, with every ounce of Jhesta Tu and gemstone magic he could possibly muster. One chance, he knew. One moment of focused power.
Ancient Badden’s hand bent back over his wrist, his wrist-bone shattering. Bransen drove his own hand up over Badden’s fist, catching the serpent hilt of his mother’s sword and pulling it free.
He got slugged one more time but anticipated it and was diving into a forward roll even as Badden’s fist hit him, thus absorbing much of the blow. He rolled head over, coming numbly back to his feet, and he spun about just in time to see Cormack launched in a sidelong somersault by a vicious backhand.
Staring at Bransen with hate-filled eyes, clutching his broken hand in close at his side, the Ancient clawed his free hand down on the stubborn, gnawing powrie, and with frightening strength plucked Mcwigik free.
He lifted the dwarf to throw him at Bransen, but the Highwayman was already there, coming under the would-be sentient missile. He stabbed, and quickly slashed upward, cutting under Badden’s arm. The Ancient still managed to throw Mcwigik, but suddenly he had so little strength behind it that the dwarf bounced and turned and roared right back in. Or would have, if there had been a need.
Bransen worked like a dancer, spinning, swinging his arm, changing the angle of his deadly blade with such skill and precision that Ancient Badden never once blocked or turned effectively enough to prevent the Highwayman from hitting him exactly where Bransen had wanted to.
The sword slashed across Badden’s belly, came around and poked him hard in the biceps, and as he lurched, his arm lowering, slashed him across the chin, drawing a sizable line across half his throat in the process. Over and over, Bransen rolled the blade, diagonal down, left and right, and lines of bright blood erupted all across the Samhaist’s light green robes.
Now Badden wore a mask of fear, and he stumbled backward, trying pitifully to get his arms up. Bransen kept hitting him, slashing him, even lifting a foot to kick him. Back went the Ancient, who suddenly seemed little more than an old man, to fall into an awkward sitting position against the wall. And Bransen was there, suddenly, sword edge against Badden’s already bleeding neck. Ancient Badden laughed at him, blood dripping out with every chortle.
“You seem happy for a man about to die,” said Bransen. Behind him, Cormack cried out for Milkeila, and Bransen heard splashing.
“We all die, fool,” Badden replied. “You will not likely see near the years I have known.”
“Or the failure,” said Bransen.
“Ah yes, the triumph of your Abellican Church,” Badden retorted, and indeed, Bransen’s face did crinkle at that.
“My Church?” he asked incredulously.
“You have thrown in with them!”
Bransen snickered at the absurdity of the remark.
“Do you think them any better?” Badden asked, his words becoming more labored. “Oh, they find their shining moment now, when their baubles so impress the young and strong lairds. But where will they be when those lairds are old and lie dying, and those baubles offer nothing?
“We Samhaists know the truth, the inevitability,” he went on. “There is no escape from the darkness. Their promises are hollow!” He laughed, a bloody and bitter sound.
“A truth you are about to realize intimately,” Bransen reminded him.
But Badden’s laugh mocked him. “And as these Abellican fools rise ascendant, buoyed by their empty promises of forever, do you think they will be any better?”
But now Bransen was back on level emotional ground. “Do you think that I care?” he chided right back, and that brought a curious look from the old man.
“Then why are you here?”
Bransen laughed at him and stood straight. “Because they paid me,” he said with a cold and casual tone, “and because I hate everything for which you stand.”
His sword came across, and Badden’s puzzled expression remained on his face as his head rolled across the floor.
EPILOGUE
The six survivors and Brother Jond collected the rest of the prisoners and led them out of Ancient Badden’s ice castle.
Outside, the battle had ended; with the dragon chased off, the troll lines had broken, and now both barbarian and dwarf lined the chasm, throwing stones and blocks of ice and spears down at the monster that prowled its depths. From the roars that rose, it seemed as if many were hitting the mark. For the great white worm woul
d not flee into one of its burrows to escape the barrage. It would not back down from the threat, though it had no way of scaling the chasm wall to get at its attackers.
Its mighty bulk and power could not protect it from its own lack of brains.
Mcwigik and Bikelbrin rushed off to join in the fun, and even Pergwick, holding his cap against his head, and his cap holding his scalp in place, followed.
“You are from Vanguard?” Brother Jond asked Cormack, who supported him as they moved across the ice.
“Years ago,” Cormack explained. “And Chapel Abelle before that. I was a member of Father De Guilbe’s expedition.”
That sparked recognition in Jond, and a great smile creased his face. “I had thought the feel of your clothing to be that of an Abellican robe!”
“I am not Abellican anymore, Brother.”
Jond stopped and faced Cormack, though of course he couldn’t actually see the man.
“I was cast out,” Cormack admitted. “I questioned the limitations.”
“Limitations?”
“The Abellican Church’s refusal to explore those traditions and magic outside the domain of the Church and the gemstones,” Cormack honestly offered. “There is more beauty to be found in this world, a wider truth than that which we have come to represent.” Brother Jond gave a curious “hmm,” and Cormack had no idea if he was offending or intriguing the man. “The woman who accompanied us into the castle is a shaman of an Alpinadoran tribe,” Cormack explained.
“I gathered as much.”
“I love her.”
“Hmm.”
“And I see in her true and divine beauty-I see it in our other friend as well, this man named Bransen.”
“Ah, the Highwayman, yes,” said Jond. “He is a unique one.”
“And possessed of godly powers.”
Brother Jond shook his head, unwilling to make that jump.
“Powers akin to those of our gemstones,” Cormack clarified, and Jond now nodded.
“I witnessed his healing hands,” Jond said. “And his grace is rather amazing. But he is no man of God. Not yet, though I suspect that his nature compels him to look that way. For all his life, our friend Bransen cared only for Bransen, and absent in him is a sense of community and greater good. No, not absent,” he quickly corrected.
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