Bransen shrugged, as if unconcerned.
“We are to believe you?” Father De Guilbe asked skeptically. “You come to us beside a traitor….”
“A man I hardly know, but one possessed of more sense than you it would seem. I have come to deliver a message as repayment to this man you name as traitor and yet who feels obligated to you still. Whether you act upon that message or not is not my concern. I hold no love for your Church. Indeed, from what I have seen you are more than deserving of my contempt. But I am Jhesta Tu, and so such feelings as contempt have no place in my world.”
He turned to Cormack, but before he could address the man, Giavno assailed him, “Jhesta Tu? What is Jhesta Tu?”
Bransen eyed the fiery man out of the corner of his eye. “Something you could never begin to comprehend.”
“Take them!” Giavno yelled, and immediately a pair of guards, brandishing short swords, leaped at Bransen and Cormack.
They never got close. Bransen, expecting it, even coaxing it, leaped at the first, kicking his right foot out to the man’s right side, then sweeping it across. It posed no real threat to the monk, but had him distracted so that that the real attack, a snap-kick from Bransen’s left foot, caught him right in the chest, blasting out his breath in a great gasp. Bransen landed lightly back on his right foot and propelled himself forward and left, beside the staggering monk’s awkward thrust. He snatched the man by the wrist with his right hand, drove his left hand brutally against the monk’s straightened elbow, then quickly covered the man’s sword hand with his own, bending the monk’s wrist over painfully and stealing his strength—and his grip on the sword.
The blade didn’t fall an inch before Bransen snapped it out of the air, and he spun away, back-kicking the wounded monk in the side to ensure that there would be no pursuit, and also to shift his own momentum, driving him to intercept the second approaching guard.
The short swords collided repeatedly in a series of arm-numbing parries that ended with Bransen looping his blade over that of the confused monk. A twist and jerk sent the short sword to the ground, and left the tip of Bransen’s sword at the stunned monk’s throat. And it all happened in the space of a few heartbeats.
Bransen laughed and straightened, moving his blade back from the terrified man. He hooked the fallen sword with his own and deftly flipped it into his left hand, then turned to Giavno and flung both swords, spinning end over end, to stick into the ground right before the monk.
“You have been warned,” Bransen announced. “Ancient Badden will destroy you.”
He turned and walked away.
Cormack lingered a short while longer, looking mostly to Father De Guilbe. His expression was one of apology, perhaps, but mostly it was filled with pleading. But there was no more to say, so he followed Bransen back to the boat.
Both Cormack and Milkeila accompanied Bransen onto the forested island of Yossunfier. Many more people came out to greet them before they even got their boat ashore. The whole of Milkeila’s tribe, it seemed, came down to the waterfront, shielding their eyes from the morning glare, whispering among themselves at this surprising group approaching their island home.
Many scowls focused on Cormack and his obvious Abellican attire, but Androosis was there, along with Toniquay and Canrak, instructing his kin that this particular monk was no enemy of Yossunfier.
As the trio glided in near the beach, strong hands grabbed the craft and ushered it up onto the beach. Toniquay stepped front and center before Milkeila as she exited the boat, the higher-ranking shamans deferring to him because of his intimate knowledge of this situation and these participants.
He stared at Milkeila for just a few moments, then scrutinized Cormack, his expression giving the man no indication of how much his actions had ingratiated him to the barbarians. Then Toniquay’s gaze fell over Bransen, but only for a moment.
“What do you presume?” Toniquay asked Milkeila. He waited just a short while of uncomfortable silence before adding, “Do you believe that your friend has earned the right to step onto our land simply because he, unlike so many of his kin, took a moral road? Do you think that all past wrongs will be simply forgotten?”
“It was at great personal cost!” Milkeila replied, instinctively defending her lover, who put a hand on her arm to calm her. “But that is not why we have come. Cormack signaled to me and I answered his call.”
“Signaled?” Toniquay said suspiciously. “And how did he know a way in which he might signal you, Milkeila? And how did you know to answ …” He stopped and waved his hand and shook his head. His point had been made that the woman would surely have to answer for her apparent secret relationship with this Abellican, but Toniquay was more interested in hearing Milkeila’s tale at that time.
“Why is he here?” the shaman asked.
“Cormack found this man, Bransen,” Milkeila replied, and she put her hand on Bransen’s shoulder. The man in the black suit nodded, though he obviously understood little of the conversation.
“Bransen fell from the glacier,” said Milkeila.
Toniquay looked at her skeptically, and doubting murmurs grew all about them. “Then he would be dead,” Toniquay said.
“But he is not,” said Milkeila. “Whether through simple luck and soft mud, or his extraordinary powers—and he is truly blessed—I know not. But he is here, and he was up there, and he comes to us with a dire warning. The Ancient of the Samhaists has taken the glacier as his home, and plots now to destroy all of us who dwell upon Mithranidoon.”
“Samhaists?” Toniquay echoed. He had heard the name before, in the private discussions among the shamans about people who lived beyond Mithranidoon’s warm waters. The Samhaists, so it was rumored, had given this place its name, though that had been centuries before. In the lore of Yan Ossum, shamans had gone south to teach their magic to the men of Honce, long before the many battles and wars between the two peoples. In Alpinadoran mythology, Samhaist magic was a direct offshoot of the Alpinadoran Ancient Gods, though in Samhaist lore, the order, and who taught whom, was of course reversed.
“This stranger is from outside of Mithranidoon?” Toniquay asked. “Strange then that he arrives just a few years after the Abellicans. Before them, none had come to us from the outside since the powries, before my father’s father was born.” Even as he denied the possibility, though, Toniquay had to admit that the man’s clothing was fairly convincing, and unlike anything he had ever seen.
“He is an Abellican spy,” someone from the side yelled, a sentiment that was echoed through the crowd.
“He is not of my former comrades,” Cormack answered. “He is no Abellican, and has only been to Chapel Isle on one occasion—yesterday—to deliver the same message there that we deliver here. This is no trick, Toniquay. On my word, for what that is worth to you. I found this man in the mud on the northern bank of Mithranidoon, injured. He came to us with a tale that you must hear, that my people must hear, that the powries must hear. For if he speaks truly, and I believe that he does, then all of us are in dire peril, and will soon be washed from our homes.”
Toniquay stared hard at Cormack for just a few moments and then motioned to some of his nearby tribesmen. Soon the trio found themselves surrounded by armed Alpinadoran warriors.
Cormack immediately turned to Bransen and grabbed the man by the arm. “They are honorable, but careful,” he said in the common language of Honce.
“I insist that you remain with us while we investigate your claims,” Toniquay explained.
“Be fast, for all our sakes,” Milkeila answered.
Toniquay nodded his agreement and motioned to the warriors, who escorted Bransen and Cormack to a nearby hut, while Milkeila stayed with Toniquay and the other shamans.
She knew what they would do, and was not surprised when several of the more powerful shamans called down high-flying birds. Weaving spells, they each bound their sight to that of an individual bird, then sent the winged creatures on their way, and for the ne
xt several minutes, the powerful elders saw through the eyes of their familiars. Unlike Ancient Badden’s heightened powers, though, these shamans couldn’t control their familiars, and so they were at the whims of the aerial creatures.
Still, it didn’t take very long for more than one of the birds to climb above the glacial rim, and the ice castle gleamed in the midday light.
To her surprise, a most pleasant one, Milkeila was allowed to leave Yossunfier with her two companions. She had not been forgiven, Toniquay assured her, and would ultimately have to answer the many questions her arrival with the men of Honce had raised, beyond the worries of some strange “Ancient” plotting atop the glacier.
Now, though, given the revelations, they all had more important issues before them, so Milkeila, Bransen, and Cormack paddled off for Red Cap Island, while Toniquay and the others plotted as to how they would best bring all the Alpinadoran tribes of the islands together again in an even more urgent cause.
Father De Guilbe rubbed his face and leaned back in his seat, breathing hard.
“It cannot be,” Brother Giavno said, shaking his head in denial.
“Exactly as the stranger said,” De Guilbe confirmed. He tossed a soul stone back onto his desk, the same stone that had just allowed him an out-of-body journey, where he had willed his spirit to fly up to the great glacier looming over Mithranidoon.
“They are boring a chasm that will collapse the front edge of the glacier into our lake,” he explained.
“Ancient Badden?”
“It can only be. The castle of ice has the Samhaist tree design.”
“Then Cormack was not lying, and the stranger is …?”
“Of no concern to us at this time,” Father De Guilbe answered. “We must be gone from this place posthaste. Our time here was not profitable—we claimed not a single soul—and so we will continue our mission elsewhere.”
“We will allow Ancient Badden to destroy the lake and all who live upon it?”
“What choice have we, Brother?”
Brother Giavno trembled and lifted his hands several times, as if about to divulge some plan. But alas, he had no answers.
“Prepare the brothers, prepare the boats,” Father De Guilbe instructed.
The differences between the reactions of the three peoples were not lost on the foursome of Bransen, Cormack, Milkeila, and Mcwigik. In fact, the reaction of the supposedly vile powries as compared to that of the humans proved startling to the two men and Milkeila—startling and embarrassing.
“Yach, but ye done good!” Kriminig the powrie leader congratulated Mcwigik after he had led Bransen and the others to his boss so that the stranger could tell his tale. “That beast up there’s thinking to be dumping on us when we’re not knowing, but now that we’re knowing, we’re the ones to be doing the dumping!”
“You know of Ancient Badden?” Cormack dared interject.
“Ye just telled me of him,” Kriminig replied, as if he didn’t understand the point of the question, and while the dwarf leader began barking commands at his charges, readying them for a fight, the three humans found a moment of quiet discussion.
“He believed us without reservation,” Cormack whispered, his tone clearly marking the distinction of that reaction to those of the monks and the Alpinadorans.
“Or maybe he is just happy for a fight,” Milkeila said, and she swung about to the wider commotion going on around them, the many excited discussions springing up among the powries.
“Bah, but I’m sad to hear this killer’s surrounded himself with trolls,” one said. “Their blood’s not much for shining me beret.”
“Aye, but he’s got a swarm o’ them, they’re saying,” another piped in. “We’ll get a glow out of it. The folks of the other islands won’t be needing their share, don’t ye know?”
“Yach, and there’ll be bunches o’ them folks about, too, won’t there?” the first replied with a wink. “More than a few’re going to be bleeding bright red.”
“And who’s to say they won’t be turning on us when this killer’s chopped down?” asked a third.
“A few hundred trolls and a few hundred men, and only two score of us,” the first said with a sigh. “It’ll take me all the day to collect the blood!”
“Ha ha!” the others laughed, and they swatted each other on sturdy shoulders and rolled along their way, as only powries could.
That last comment had brought a look of alarm to both Milkeila and Cormack, though—until Mcwigik and Bikelbrin shuffled over.
“Bah, but don’t ye be thinking me kin’re to start any trouble up there, other than the trouble that … what did ye call him? That Ancient?” said Mcwigik. “No trouble, I tell ye, other than finishing the trouble that one’s already started.”
“They are willing to fight beside the monks and the Alpinadorans, then?” asked Cormack.
“Ye heard Kriminig say just that,” said Bikelbrin.
“Sure, and a fine row it’ll be, we’re all for hoping,” Mcwigik added. “Though we’re not even knowing if yer monks’re coming along for the play. Did ye hear them say that?”
Cormack’s lips grew very tight, all the confirmation anyone there needed to understand that he was filled with doubts about whether his brethren would march alongside the rest or not.
“Yach, but it’s not to matter,” Mcwigik said generously, and he slapped Cormack on the back. “That Ancient up there’s made himself an angry swarm o’ powries, and we’re meaning to show him that doing so wasn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done!”
“Hope he’s not too old and withered,” said Bikelbrin. “Me beret’s needing a bit of a gloss.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Meaning of Home
Brother Giavno stepped out of the small boat onto the shore of Lake Mithranidoon for the first time in more than a year. He glanced back in the direction of Chapel Isle, the place that had been his home for these last few years. Not much of a home, and not much of an island, Giavno knew, but still there was in his heart a great lament, a profound sense of loss. Nothing more than a cursory glance at his dour companions told him that he was not alone in these feelings.
He let his gaze drift north along this, the western coastline of Mithranidoon. Cormack was up there, he knew, along with his strange collection of friends and perhaps with more allies culled from the various islands. He meant to go against Ancient Badden, and that was a noble cause, whatever the reason.
A splash behind him turned Giavno back to the lake, where the last boat, bearing Father De Guilbe and a foursome of Chapel Isle’s best warriors, neared the shore. As the five debarked, Giavno was left wondering how many years, decades, centuries even, might pass before the construction at Chapel Isle was once more inhabited by disciples of Blessed Abelle. Their monument would stand against the wave should it come, Giavno believed, and even if someone else, powrie or Alpinadoran, happened upon the island, they would more likely use the sturdy chapel fortress than tear it down. So maybe, someday long in the future, the Abellicans would return and continue the work done by Giavno and De Guilbe and the others.
“Form them up at once and let us be far away from this place,” Father De Guilbe instructed Giavno as he walked past. “I would find Dame Gwydre before the onset of winter, and that will be no easy road.”
“Of course, Father,” Giavno replied, and a part of him agreed. Another part, though, had him looking to the north yet again, and wondering about Cormack and the others. He recognized the expediency of De Guilbe’s decision to abandon their mission and return where they were likely needed, but that didn’t stop him from feeling as if he and his brethren were, perhaps, abandoning their neighbors in this time of dire need. For despite all of their fighting, even the deadly siege put upon Chapel Isle by the Alpinadorans, Brother Giavno did think of them, and of the powries, as neighbors.
That was the surprising paradox that dominated his mind and his heart.
“Brother Giavno!” Father De Guilbe shouted, shaking the ma
n from his contemplations. He nodded and rushed off to rouse the brothers.
He was glad that it was not his place to make these decisions.
They glided out of the mists of Mithranidoon like the ghosts of their warrior ancestors, painted with berry dyes of red and yellow and blue, carrying spears and clubs, and decorated with trinkets and necklaces of teeth and claws and paws and beaks and feathers—so many feathers. Their flotilla numbered boats in the hundreds, each boat carrying as few as one or as many as a half-dozen of the proud Alpinadorans. Most stood up as the boats reached the shore, as if in defiance to the task and enemy that awaited them.
Even Milkeila, intimately familiar with her people, even Bransen, who had seen the armies of southern Honce, even Mcwigik, who was never much impressed with anything human, gasped at the spectacle of the many diverse tribes of Mithranidoon coming together as one. And for Cormack, this marvelous sight served to reinforce his understanding that proselytizing these people, with their traditions, heritage, and pride, was no more than a fool’s errand, and a condescending one at that.
For Milkeila, though, another emotion accompanied it all, based on her certainty that she was looking upon her people for the last time, likely forever. Even if she managed to survive the coming battle, she knew that it was over for her. Her small group of friends, co-conspirators dreaming of leaving Mithranidoon only two years before, had been split apart from her in more ways than physical. She stood with the man she had come to love, but inside, Milkeila had never felt more alone.
Still, the spectacle before her made her proud to be, or to have been, of Yan Ossum.
At the center of the Alpinadoran force came the shamans, Teydru and Toniquay prominent among their ranks. More than just spiritual leaders, Alpinadoran shamans were considered the wise men of their respective tribes, the advisors on all matters important.
“They will direct the attack,” Milkeila explained to her companions, indicating the select group.
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