The Ancient

by R. A. Salvatore

  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.

  Her gut told her that something was wrong. She had nothing else.

  He swam for his life, legs and arms pumping furiously. Cormack had shed his heavy robe as soon as he hit the water and wore only the knee-length white pants and sleeveless shirt typical for his order. That and the stubborn powrie cap, which clung to his head as if by magic. Whether he dove under or kept his head up in the splashing water, that bloodred beret moved not at all from its secure perch.

  Cormack knew that he had put about fifteen long strides between himself and the troll and its companions. He tried to do logical estimates of the remaining distance to the small island he had spotted. He could only pray that his dive had surprised the vile creatures, and that he would find the island quickly.

  Good fortune showed him that the island wasn’t as far as he had believed—not nearly—but on the flip side of that revelation was the knowledge that what he had taken to be an island was really no more than a couple of large rocks protruding above the water.

  He could get to them—he did get to them—but what sanctuary might they provide? The highest point of the largest rock sat no more than four feet above the waterline, and the whole of that “island” proved no more than a dozen strides across its diameter.

  Cormack crawled up onto it anyway, having little choice, for the trolls were not far behind. He had no desire to do battle with them in the water where they could dive and climb and maneuver with the grace of a fish compared to the lumbering human. He had barely set himself when a splash alerted him to the first of the pursuing beasts.

  The monk moved to the highest point, crawling on all fours, and found a loose rock on his way. He pivoted and threw with all his strength, smacking a troll right in the face. The creature shrieked and began flailing wildly as its thin blood streamed over its nose and jaw.

  Cormack seized the opportunity, skipping down and launching a barrage of punches and kicks on the troll. He had it turning, spinning, and hooked its arms behind its back and bore it down hard. With frightening viciousness, the man grabbed the troll’s hair and began lifting its head, smashing it repeatedly on the rock.

  He had to break away, though, as another exited the water. It slashed at him with clawlike fingers, but the monk was too quick, leaning out of range as he squared up.

  Another troll broke the water, closing in savagely.

  Cormack kept his focus on the first, trading harmless slaps and parries, but all the while he watched the second out of the corner of his eye. That troll leaped in with typical recklessness, but Cormack had set himself appropriately.

  He dropped his weight fully on his right leg, then threw himself forward onto his left, closing the distance with the charging troll. Pivoting as he landed, he lifted his right foot into a well-aimed circle-kick that connected solidly with the troll’s face, snapping its head back.

  Cormack held the pose, leg up, and snapped off a couple of more kicks, though the troll was already beyond consciousness. As he did, he worked his arms frantically to fend off the first troll, which was trying to take advantage of his distraction.

  Brother Cormack had been trained by the finest fighters in the Abellican Church, an order that had grown increasingly militant in recent years and had learned well to defend itself.

  As the second troll slumped down to the stone, Cormack settled once more into a defensive posture against its furious companion. He didn’t hold the defense for long, though. He ou
tweighed the troll by fifty pounds at least, and as this flight and frenzy had settled more rationally into his consciousness, a stark reality became obvious to the man.

  He had nothing left to lose.

  So he waded right into the troll, oblivious of its swinging arms. In close, he unloaded a series of heavy punches, left and right, accepting a couple of hits in response. But while the troll was scratching and stinging him, he was inflicting real damage, and the clutch lasted only a matter of a few seconds before the troll crumpled before him, where he summarily smashed it into oblivion.

  More trolls came from the water to battle him, but there was no coordination to any of it, just a line of victims. Cormack took them on, punching until his knuckles had become one mass of blood, until his feet bled from nicks caused by smashing troll teeth, until his arms felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds each, so great a weariness came over him.

  But good luck and sheer rage drove his fury just long enough. When the last of the trolls, the seventh to crawl from the lake, fell limp before him, Cormack slumped to his knees on the stone.

  Gasping for breath, Cormack tried to take a survey of his wounds, which included many deep cuts from claws and teeth. He knew that he had to get down to the water to cleanse them—troll bites were notorious for becoming pussy and sore—but he simply didn’t have the strength at that moment. He was certain that if just one more troll crawled out of the lake he would surely be doomed.

  The sun climbed higher in the eastern sky. The minutes became an hour, then two. The hot waters of Mithranidoon fought back the cold chill of Alpinador. At last Cormack managed to get down to the water and cleaned his wounds and drank deeply. He knelt there, letting his mind whirl through the events that had brought him to this desolate place. The memories of his last hours at Chapel Isle flooded back to him, and he looked again upon the deep disappointment etched into the face of Father De Guilbe, and even the regret evident in Giavno’s voice.

  Even as the man had scourged him senseless.

  There was no going back. His banishment was not a trial or a penance; it represented finality and not forgiveness.

  There was no going back.

  Cormack was alone, in the middle of a lake full of monsters and trolls, surrounded by enemies. He looked at the steamy waters, and for a few moments he hoped that a group of trolls would rise up from the depths and overwhelm him. For in those dark hours Cormack’s future loomed before him, empty, uninviting, terrifying.

  He had all that he could drink, obviously, and he might even catch a fish, but to what end?

  He peered out into the direction from which he had come, hoping against all logic that he’d see his boat out there, capsized but floating. He knew it would not be so; trolls were expert at destroying craft when they put their minds to it, and the best he could reasonably hope for would be a splinter or a plank washing up against his empty little piece of rock.

  Cormack thought back to his fateful decision to free Androosis and the others, the choice that had landed him here, battered and sure to die. For a moment, he regretted his choice, but only for a moment.

  “I did the right thing,” he said aloud, needing to hear the words. “Father De Guilbe was wrong—they were all wrong.” He paused and put his hands on his hips, looking around in an attempt to discern this portion of the lake. It was simply too steamy, though Cormack got the distinct feeling that he was farther to the north. So he turned south and a bit to the east (or so he believed) that he might be somewhat facing Chapel Isle.

  “You were wrong!” he shouted out across the waves. “You are wrong! Faith is not coerced! It cannot be! It blossoms within—truth revealed in the heart and soul. You are wrong!” Cormack sat down upon the stones, though he felt energized by his outburst, by his proclamation, by the verbal reinforcement of his moral choice.

  A slight splash to the side turned his attention that way, where he saw his Abellican robe bobbing in the water against the stones. He retrieved it and laid it out on the stones to dry, and in doing so took note of his powrie beret still set firmly on his head. He put his hand up to touch it. There was, indeed, some magic within that cap.

  Cormack looked to the troll bite on one arm to find that it was well on the way to healing, showing no signs of infection. He considered the deep wounds on his back from the whipping. He should not have survived those without tending and yet he had come through them, floating alone in a boat.

  The beret, Cormack knew in his heart. The powrie beret somehow acted in a manner to the soul stone and was possessed of magic.

  The fallen monk chuckled helplessly. There lay a common thread here, he knew. From the powries to the Alpinadoran shamans to the Abellicans and even the Samhaists there lay a common magic, a bonding of purpose and power.

  A singular God for all?

  Were the names the various peoples tagged upon their gods really important distinctions? At that moment of epiphany on an empty island, staring certain mortality in the face, Cormack realized that they were not.

  But what did it matter? He had nowhere to go, and his plight was only confirmed a short while later when a plank of wood from his boat washed up against the rocks. He retrieved it as the sun sank in the west behind him.

  His stomach roared with hunger when he awoke the next morning. He gulped down lake water to try to quell the emptiness. Facedown near the water, hands cupping it and bringing it up to his dry lips, Cormack nearly fell over when he saw the troll right beside him. He fell back, scrambling to find some defensive posture, and cut his elbows and knees in his desperate thrashing before he finally realized that it was one of the dead ones from the day before, bobbing high in the water.

  Cormack splashed in to his waist and came beside the troll. He dared to push down on it to try to force it under the waves and was amazed at its buoyancy.

  He glanced back at his empty island, certain to be his grave site. He looked out to Mithranidoon and saw another dead and floating troll. Cormack blew a long sigh.

  Was it possible?

  TWENTY

  The Gathering

  They came in through a variety of means, either running with steps magically lightened and lengthened, or in the form of a fast cat, or even, in the case of the older and more powerful, in the form of birds, flying across the mountain updrafts. They came from their respective parishes, their “Circles,” to the call of their leader.

  From Devongel Ancient Badden watched each approach, his magical attunement with the land informing him whenever a brother Samhaist crossed into his domain. Their number swelled to twenty, to thirty, and finally, to thirty-two, meaning that all but one of the Samhaists of Vanguard had survived the last months of war, and that one dead priest had died gloriously in the first battle of Chapel Pellinor.

  Ancient Badden was pleased.

  When they were all together he gave them a complete tour of the grand—now grander—ice palace he had constructed. He even took them to his room of power at the top of the highest tower, where a well reached deep through the castle floor, deep through the glacier, and deep into the energy of the hot springs far below.

  “Bask in it,” he bade them, and they did, many nearly swooning in the orgy of earth power of this near-perfect conduit to the Rift of Samhain, the holy lake of Mithranidoon.

  Ancient Badden led the procession out of Devongel and onto Cold’rin Glacier. He showed them the work at the chasm, where the white worm god continued its destructive work, where the misting blood of trolls prevented the natural repairs. He even sacrificed a pair of prisoners so that his brethren could hear the feasting of the worm.

  From their smiles Badden knew that he had been wise to summon them. Morale demanded it. What could be more pleasing to his fellow Samhaists than the strength of Devongel and the fearsome power of D’no?

  “Gwydre reinforces from the south,” one of the younger Samhaists, whose domain was near to the Gulf of Corona, reported when the group gathered north of the chasm. Badden bade them to share their knowled
ge. “Nothing substantial as yet, but …”

  “It will remain nothing substantial,” another insisted. “I have been south to Honce proper. The fighting between Laird Delaval and Laird Ethelbert does not abate. Indeed, it is more furious than ever. I had thought Delaval to be gaining the advantage, but Ethelbert has unleashed legions of Behr barbarians. They have cut a fine line across the northern foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, moving so near to Delaval’s throne that he was forced to bring back most of his frontline forces who were pressing the city of Ethelbert dos Entel.”

  “That does not bode well,” yet another interjected. “Delaval will not be pushed from his city—he will win out in the end, but now that end seems more distant.”

  “Why do you think that ill?” Ancient Badden asked.

  “It prolongs the war.”

  “And …?” Badden pressed.

  “The pain of war is not unnecessary,” another Samhaist reminded. “Everyone dies. That some will have their lives shortened is not our concern.”

  “Easy, friend,” Badden said, and he looked back to the other. “And …?” he repeated.

  “I only fear that the followers of Abelle grow stronger with every passing year of war,” the younger man admitted. “Their gemstones are greatly coveted by the lairds—all the lairds—and every man they heal moves them deeper into the heart of the people.”

  A couple of the others gasped that the young one would speak so boldly to Ancient Badden, but to their surprise Badden seemed unconcerned and far from angry.

  “You think in terms of years, young one,” he said, and more gently than anyone expected. “Consider the decades before us. The centuries. Fear not the followers of Abelle.