R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Giavno tried to tell the oarsmen to move more quickly, but all that came out of him was a gurgle. He did manage to wave his hand, at least, urging them on, and the paddling men brought the boat in swiftly.

Then they, too, gasped.

Three Alpinadoran tribesmen lay on the deck-the blood-soaked deck. Covered in blood, obviously much of it their own, the three did not react at all as the boats bumped, leading Giavno and his companions to believe that they were already dead.

“They must have ventured too near the glacial trolls,” one of the oarsmen said. “We aren’t far from the northwestern bank.” He stood up as he spoke and stretched to grab the other boat with both hands, hooking his feet as he did to serve as a living grapnel. The other oarsman helped Giavno get across.

“Alive,” the senior brother said as he bent low over the nearest Alpinadoran, a blond-haired and sturdy giant of a man. He fumbled with his pouch, producing a soul stone, and began praying over the man immediately.

A second monk came over as well, moving to the other injured Alpinadorans. “Alive, both of them,” he announced in short order. “But not for long had we not found them, and might not be for long in any case!”

Giavno shortened his healing on the youngest man and moved to the others in turn, casting a minimal amount of healing energy into each to stabilize them and at least stop the more obvious bleeding. He didn’t even have to tell his companions their role here as they tied off the drifting Alpinadoran craft to their own and went back to their paddles. They pulled with all speed, towing Giavno and the captured boat straight back to Chapel Isle.

The sound of voices gradually brought Androosis back to the world of the living.

“We are not animals,” he heard Toniquay say from somewhere to the side-which side he couldn’t be sure.

“Nor do we consider you such,” came the reply in the accent of a Southerner whose first language was not Errchuk, the predominant tongue of Alpinador.

Androosis heard a rattle, maybe of bones, maybe of chains.

“There are practical considerations,” said the Southerner.

Androosis opened his eyes. It took a long while for the grayness to slip aside and let light into his aching head. He saw a monk standing before him-of course, it had to be a monk. He was in a small room, a dungeon of sorts, smelling of torch smoke and lit only in the sporadic shadows of dancing flames. He was lying down on his side on a hard and damp bed of dirt, and a blanket covered him from waist to feet. He tried to turn onto his back to better view the monk and Toniquay, but the movement shot stabbing pains into him, and he grimaced and settled back onto his side.

“I am chained like a dog!” Toniquay said with a growl.

“It is our only means of securing you for our sake and your own,” replied the monk, whom Androosis now recognized as Brother Giavno. Hope rose in the miserable barbarian when he noted another form behind Giavno and recognized it as Cormack.

Cormack would free him, he believed. Cormack was a secret friend.

“Rest and heal,” Brother Giavno said. “Be at ease. We will negotiate with your clan to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

“At once!” Toniquay retorted. “You have no right-”

“If I had not found you on the lake you would be dead,” Giavno shot right back. “As would your companions. I could have left you there for the trolls, yes?”

Androosis couldn’t see Toniquay from his angle, but he could well picture the man exhaling.

“I do not ask for your gratitude,” Giavno went on. “But I will have your obedience. You-all three-remain in need of our healing stones.”

“Do not use them on me!” Toniquay cried.

“If we had not then you would be dead.”

“Better that!”

Giavno backed away a step and produced a rather wicked smile that seemed all the more nefarious because of the flickering orange light. “Very well,” he agreed.

“Or on them,” said Toniquay.

“Without the gemstones the man you call Canrak will die,” said Giavno.

“If that is the will of our gods,” Toniquay replied, seeming not at all concerned.

How Androosis wished that he could roll over and slap the prideful shaman!

Giavno gave a little chuckle.

“If you would unshackle my hand I could tend him,” Toniquay said.

“But we will not.”

Androosis gulped at the finality of that statement, made all the more clear as Giavno turned away and stooped to get under the low arch exiting the room, sweeping Cormack up in his wake.

“Hold firm, kin and clan,” Toniquay said, reciting the mantra of Clan Snowfall. “We go with certainty.”

Androosis heard a weak reply that seemed more of a whimper from farther across the way. His own grunt might have satisfied Toniquay’s needs, but it was hardly one of assent.

There was nothing shy and retiring about Father De Guilbe. The road had been hard on him, harder still when he had to come to terms with the failure, or at least the sidetrack, of his important mission to proselytize the northland. But he had been chosen-indeed, had been promoted to father-as much because of his powerful temperament and physical attributes as any of his work on the tomes of Abelle or the philosophy of the church. Cambelian De Guilbe stood well over six feet tall, and even with the sparse diet of fish and plants the brothers realized on Mithranidoon he had retained much of his three-hundred-pound frame. It was said that he couldn’t sing like an angel but surely could roar like a dragon. It was in precisely that voice that he ordered the bickering brothers Giavno and Cormack into his quarters, which encompassed the entirety of the highest finished floor of the chapel.

De Guilbe came out around his desk as the pair entered, motioning for them to shut the door. “Your doubts incite trepidation and fear in your brethren,” he said, leaning forward as he spoke, a movement that wilted many a strong man.

“All respect, Father,” said Giavno, “but there is no doubt. Brother Cormack is wrong and out of place.”

Father De Guilbe’s heavy eyes swayed to take in the younger brother.

“I object,” Cormack said, trying hard to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“To?”

“His heart is too meek for the obvious and important task before us,” Brother Giavno insisted, but Father De Guilbe held up his hand to silence the man and never took his scrutinizing gaze off Cormack.

“They are in the damp mud,” Cormack said, and the way he blurted it showed that he was scrambling here to put his discordant emotions into substance and complaint.

“We live on a damp and dirty island, Brother,” Father De Guilbe reminded.

“The dungeon is the least hospitable room.”

“And the only secure one.”

Cormack sighed and lowered his gaze.

“He would accept their repaired boat as a proper chamber for our guests,” said Giavno. “Push them off the beach and send them on their way.”

“Morality demands-” Cormack began.

“We healed them!” Giavno sternly cut in. Both he and Cormack looked to Father De Guilbe, noting that the man wasn’t about to intervene this time, and indeed, was through that very silence inviting Giavno to continue with the scolding.

“The powers of God, through the gemstones, through the wisdom of Blessed Abelle, are the only reason the three barbarians continue to draw breath. We did that, working tirelessly from the moment I tied their broken boat to my own.”

“A charitable act worthy of the Church of Blessed Abelle,” Cormack interjected, and Brother Giavno glowered at him.

“He forgets why we were sent to Alpinador,” Giavno said to Father De Guilbe. “He has lost purpose of our mission under the fondness he has developed for our barbarian neighbors.” He paused and stared even harder at Cormack. “And our powrie neighbors,” he added.