R. Salvatore - The Ancient

The quick check before opening the door was more a ritual than actual security, for the brothers had done well to secure that cave as well, building a gridwork gate that allowed the fish to enter but kept out anything larger, like the fast-swimming glacial trolls.

The warmth of the misty air washed over Cormack when he opened the door, and the smell in this cave was particularly thick with fish, for the monks had been down here angling extensively in preparation for what they knew to be a siege, and they had cleaned their catch at the water’s edge and thrown the scraps back in to attract more fish and the common crabs.

Cormack welcomed that warmth, and the smell, hoping that he would lose himself in the heavy sensations and forget the horrific battle he had just witnessed. If he had been able to do that, he would have lingered for some time down in this sanctuary.

But he filled several waterskins and headed right back out, and in his mind he still heard the screams, and the smell of fish had not replaced the smell of death.

They will come again,” Father De Guilbe said to Brother Giavno. “And again after that. Stubborn lot.” “Foolish lot,” said Giavno. “Our walls are too strong!” “I appreciate your confidence, Brother,” said De Guilbe, “but we both understand that our enemies will adapt their tactics accordingly. In this first exchange we had several wounded, yourself among them.”

“It is just a scratch,” Giavno protested. He turned his arm, presenting it to De Guilbe. Soul stone in hand, the father pressed his fingers against the wound and began praying to Blessed Abelle.

The warmth permeated Giavno’s body, as comforting as the arms of a lover. In that magical embrace he wondered how these idiot barbarians could not understand the beauty that was Abelle. Why would they, why would anyone, not embrace the power and goodness that could afford such wondrous magic as this? Why would anyone not appreciate such healing and utility, and with the promise of everlasting life beyond this mortal coil?

He closed his eyes and let the warmth flow through his body. He could understand the hesitance of the Samhaists, perhaps, for an embrace of Abelle would rob them of their tyrannical power hold. But not these barbarians of Alpinador-well, other than their shamans. For the average Alpinadoran, Blessed Abelle offered everything. And yet, they had rejected the monks at every turn. The men in the dungeon would rather be killed than accept Abelle! And it wasn’t just because one of them was a shaman of some high standing, Giavno knew. The other two were just as stubborn and unyielding.

But why?

“What is troubling you, Brother?” Father De Guilbe said, drawing Giavno from his contemplation.

Giavno opened his eyes and only then realized that the healing session was long over, that he was holding his arm up high before him for no reason at all. He cleared his throat and straightened before the father. “I told you that it was but a minor wound,” he said.

“What is it?” De Guilbe pressed. “Does such battle leave an evil taste in your mouth?”

“No, I mean, well, yes, Father,” Giavno stuttered. “It seems nonsensical to me that the barbarians would throw themselves against our fortifications over such a matter. Their companions are alive only through our work with the gemstones-they cannot deny that truth. And all that we have asked in return is the acceptance of the source of that healing magic by those three.”

Father De Guilbe spent a long moment staring at his second. “You have heard of the Battle of Cordon Roe?”

Giavno nodded numbly at the preposterous question. How could anyone, let alone any Abellican, not know that cursed name? Cordon Roe was a street in Delaval City where the word of Blessed Abelle first came to the great city at the mouth of the river. The first monks of Blessed Abelle in that most populous center had set up their chapel (though it was really no more than a two-story house) on Cordon Roe and preached the words of faith.

“What do you know of Cordon Roe, Brother?”

“I know that the brothers who traveled there were well received by the people of Delaval City,” Giavno answered. “Their services quickly came to encompass the entirety of the street, and on some days the surrounding avenues were clogged with onlookers.”

“It was a promising start in the early days of our Church, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Too promising,” said Father De Guilbe. “Blessed Abelle had sent the priests to that largest city in Honce not long after the word of Chapel Abelle had arrived there. They were granted entrance by the Laird Delaval, our current Laird Delaval’s grandfather, if memory serves me correctly, and indeed he proved to be their first patient, the first recipient of gemstone magic in the city, as he was afflicted with some minor but aggravating malady. So Laird Delaval granted them access and allowed them their prayers and their practices. And the people responded, as we know most will to Blessed Abelle once they have felt the power of the gemstones.”

“And that angered the Samhaists,” Giavno said.

Father De Guilbe nodded solemnly. “And threatened Laird Delaval himself,” he explained. “And so was the garrison of Delaval City turned upon our brethren, and Cordon Roe became a fortress within that fortress city.”

“Every brother knows of this.”

“But do you know that the father of Cordon Roe brokered a deal with Laird Delaval to allow the brothers safe egress from the city?”

“I had not heard of that,” Giavno admitted.

“It is not common knowledge. The story goes that the Samhaists inspired the mob of the city to descend upon Cordon Roe, and the brothers of Abelle, refusing to use the gemstone magic to kill their attackers, were overrun and murdered.”

“Yes, all ten!”

“No, Brother. It did not happen like that. The brothers brokered a deal with Laird Delaval, but as they were preparing to leave he came to them with altered terms. They could leave or they could stay, but they must renounce Blessed Abelle and embrace the Samhaist creed. Under those conditions, no further penalty would be exacted upon them.”

Brother Giavno’s eyes widened with horror as he considered the awful price. He licked his suddenly dry lips and said, “And they refused, and so Laird Delaval’s forces overran them?”

“They refused, and unwilling to kill in the name of Abelle they killed themselves, all ten, and a hundred of their peasant followers committed suicide as well, robbing Laird Delaval and the Samhaists-most importantly, the Samhaists!-from claiming victory at Cordon Roe. Pity their fate not at all, Brother, for their action, their ultimate dedication to their faith, broke Laird Delaval’s heart. Within five years another contingent from Blessed Abelle arrived in Delaval City, this one invited by the laird himself, and with promises that they could practice their faith unhindered by him or by the Samhaists.”

Brother Giavno swallowed hard, trying to digest it all.

“They killed themselves rather than renounce Blessed Abelle,” Father De Guilbe explained. “And we name them as heroes. Now we face barbarians who do the same, and you would name them as foolish?”

“Your pardon-” Giavno started, but De Guilbe continued over him.

“The three downstairs are not so unlike our long-lost brethren, though of course they are misguided in their faith. Do not begrudge them their stubbornness, Brother, for if the roles were reversed I would expect of myself, and of you, no less dedication. Death is not our master. That is the promise of Abelle. Our… guests hold faith in a similar promise, no doubt, as do those who line up against us and throw themselves at our wall. There are many reasons to die, some good and some not so reasonable. This is a good one, I think, and so do the barbarians, and so we know they will come on again and again after that. I respect them for their dedication. I will respect them even as I kill them.”