R. Salvatore - The Ancient

The white worm, a gigantic centipede-like monster, its back glowing fiercely with heat that could melt the flesh of a man to a puddle on simple contact, reared and clicked its formidable mandibles together. Small winglike appendages appeared just a few feet below its head, flapping and turning to hold it steady and upright.

Ancient Badden realized that this must have been the last sight Dantanna had known.

He laughed, then bowed. “God of the ice who denies the cold,” he praised, and bowed again very low.

D’no gave a clicking sound, half hiss and half growl, and began to sway back and forth hypnotically.

Ancient Badden began to chant the oldest of Samhaist songs. No other man in the world would have survived that moment, but Badden knew the secrets, all the secrets, and his tone and cadence and inflection reflected centuries of knowledge and understanding of the wide world, of the great beast, the gods, and of this god, D’no, in particular.

The white worm gradually receded, backing for many feet before rolling over itself and scuttling away down a side tunnel.

Ancient Badden nodded at the confirmation of his powers and the truth of his beliefs. He held Dantanna’s skull up before him one last time. “Blessed Abelle would have been devoured,” he laughed, tossing Dantanna aside.

Cormack instinctively stiffened when he heard the soft paddling not far away. He stood on a sandbar some distance out to the northeast of Chapel Isle, a quiet and remote location that he had found soon after the brothers had arrived on Mithranidoon.

He listened carefully for further paddling, trying to determine the angle of approach. Was it his brothers following him? If so, he mused, he hoped they would see the powrie beret first, think him a dwarf, and kill him from afar.

That would be easier than explaining to Father De Guilbe why he had come out here.

He heard the paddling again, faint but close, and he knew it could not be the brothers handling a boat that deftly and quietly. No, only the barbarians born and raised on Mithranidoon could so gently navigate the waves, so Cormack was not surprised when the longboat slid in against the sandbar a few heartbeats later and Milkeila climbed out.

She moved right to him, not saying a word, and wrapped him in a tight hug. “Too long,” she whispered.

He detected sadness and anxiety in her voice and felt in her hug that she needed comfort. Cormack kissed her and crushed her tight.

“A powrie cap?” she asked, obviously taken aback. She moved back to arm’s length and looked up at the man, for though Milkeila was a tall woman, Cormack stood a full head above her.

“A long and complicated tale.”

“Then we haven’t the time,” said Milkeila, and she flashed a coy smile. “I was surprised by your signal but happy to see the light through the mist.”

“There is magic in this cap, I will say,” said Cormack. “When I don it, I feel… thickened. Strengthened. Not armored, perhaps, but as if I could withstand a heavier blow.”

“Perhaps that is why the powries can withstand such a beating before relenting in battle.”

“That and their temperament, which is akin to that of a cornered animal.”

Milkeila smiled and nodded at that apt description. Having spent the entirety of her life on Mithranidoon, she had enjoyed many fights with the ferocious dwarfs.

“You lost three men,” Cormack said, startling her and stealing her mirth.

Milkeila stepped back, sliding her arms so that she ended up holding Cormack by the forearms. “Five,” she corrected. “How did you know?”

“We have three,” said Cormack. Milkeila leaned forward eagerly, and Cormack added, “Androosis among them.”

“You did battle?”

“We found them floating in a ruined boat. Trolls hit them and hard. Brother Giavno believes they were fishing in the northwestern waters too near the caves.”

“Who are the others?”

Cormack shook his head. “They say little. One is a shaman, and by his dress high-ranking-”

“Toniquay,” Milkeila interrupted.

“Stubborn,” said Cormack.

“More than you would ever understand. They are alive, then, all three?”

“Healed in the dungeon of Chapel Isle.”

A strange expression came over Milkeila’s face, one that Cormack could not decipher other than to know it did not bode well.

“Dungeon?” she said, clarifying it all for him.

Cormack stepped back and shrugged helplessly. “Brother Giavno found them adrift. Had he not towed them to Chapel Isle they would have all died.”

“Or my people would have found them,” Milkeila interjected, her tone sharpening just a bit.

“They would have died even then,” said Cormack, and how he wished he could have taken back those words the moment they passed his lips!

Milkeila furrowed her brow.

“They were very near to death,” Cormack stammered, trying to climb out of the deepening ditch. “It took the efforts of several brothers working tirelessly with the gemstones… their wounds were grave.”

“Too grave for the pretend gods of Yan Ossum barbarians, no doubt,” the woman said dryly.

“I did not mean…”

“You did not have to,” Milkeila said.

Cormack paused to draw a steadying breath. “The gemstones-the soul stones-are the most focused healing magic in the world. The lairds of Honce recognize this, truly. I do not diminish your gods.” He grabbed her by the hands and pulled her close-or tried to, but she resisted. “You know I never would! But there are practical truths about the sacred stones and their related magic.”

“My people are not without resources,” Milkeila replied. “Our shamans are not useless fools sputtering meaningless chants to false gods.”

“I did not mean…” he repeated helplessly.

“You did not have to,” Milkeila said again, with a frown. “It is said among the islands that the monks see two ways to the world: their way and the wrong way.”

“You do not believe that about me.”

“Do not or did not?”

The two stared at each other for a few uncomfortable heartbeats until Cormack added, “Is that statement not true of every clan on Mithranidoon’s steaming waters? Could anything less be said of the powries? Of Yossunfier? Of Clan Pierjyk or Tunundar or any of the other tribes of your barbarian kin? The Alpinadoran clans cannot even agree amongst themselves-on anything, it seems!”

If Milkeila was impressed, she didn’t show it.

“When will Androosis and the others be set free?” the woman asked.

Cormack swallowed hard-all the answer she needed.

“Then I am bound to tell my leaders that they are on Chapel Isle.”

Cormack felt panic welling up inside. “You cannot,” he begged. “I told you only because…”

“You cannot ask of me that I hold this secret. My kin are out upon the lake, every day, in search of the lost five. They travel to dangerous corners of Mithranidoon. Am I to hold quiet while some are lost to the trolls?”

“I would not have told you.”

“Then you should not have told me! Not on that condition! You cannot ask that I pretend ignorance while my people sail into danger. And you cannot ask that I do nothing while my friend-your friend!-sits in your Abellican prison.”

“You have to believe me,” said Cormack. “I am trying to get them released. As soon as the healing is complete.”

“Healing that sickens the heart of Toniquay, no doubt.”

“He will allow no more now that his thoughts are back in the world of the living,” Cormack admitted. “But he mends. They all do, and they are well fed. And I will press for their release, of course.”

Milkeila’s posture and the fact that she allowed Cormack to take her hands again revealed that she did not doubt him. But in the end she shook her head, unsatisfied with the promised resolution. “I cannot lie to my leaders. Not about this. I will not explain to them how I know, but they will be told that our lost brethren are on Chapel Isle. You cannot ask anything else of me.”