R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“Of course, Father,” said a humbled Giavno, and he lowered his gaze to the floor.

“This is not Cordon Roe,” De Guilbe went on, his voice growing stronger and more deliberate. “And we of the Abellican Order have grown stronger and more secure in our faith. We will hold these walls, whatever the cost to our enemies. With the Covenant of God’s Year Thirty, there are no restrictions regarding our own defense placed upon us as were upon our lost brethren of Cordon Roe.”

“What do you mean?”

“You witnessed my lightning blast?”

“Yes.”

“When the barbarians come at us again, we will return their stones and arrows with a barrage of magic that will shake the waters of Mithranidoon!” Father De Guilbe asserted. “If we kill a dozen, a score, a hundred, so be it. Chapel Isle will not fall to the unbelievers. We are here and we are staying, and the men in our dungeon will remain there, will rot there, as the bodies of their kin will rot on the rocks before our walls. No quarter, Brother. Mercy is for the deserving, and unlike our lost brethren of Cordon Roe, we are not docile. We are warriors of Abelle, and woe to our enemies.”

Outside of Father De Guilbe’s door, Brother Cormack leaned back against the stone wall and put his head in his hands. The rousing speech had Giavno and the attendants in the room cheering, and that applause, that vicious affirmation of the elevation of the Brothers of Abelle above all others, tore a hole in Cormack’s heart.

He thought of Milkeila, and pictured her lying dead on the stones.

He left the bucket of water right there outside the door and rushed back to his own tiny room, where he prayed for guidance, all the while almost hoping that a spear would find his heart in the opening moments of the next attack.

No Choice to Be Found

After an uneventful and swift sail through the gulf, the growing late-summer westerlies filling her sails, Lady Dreamer slid into dock at Pireth Vanguard, the oldest Honce settlement in the land of the same name. Callen, Cadayle, and Bransen stood at the bow, watching the boat glide into place beside the long wharf.

“We’ll find him,” Bransen whispered quietly, his hand about the soul stone in his small belt pouch, his other hand clutching Cadayle’s. In response Cadayle gave a comforting squeeze.

“And you’ll get your answers, and some peace,” said Callen. “None are more deserving of that.”

“We will get off first, ahead of the commotion,” Cadayle decided.

“Begging your pardon, good lady… ladies and sir, but Captain McKeege would see you in his cabin,” came a voice behind them, turning them, all three (for Bransen, in his surprise, swung about, and not awkwardly), to face a young sailor they recognized as Lady Dreamer’s cabin boy, nicknamed Dungwalker by the uncouth crew.

“Shouldn’t he be out here directing the docking?” Callen asked.

Dungwalker shrugged. “Any on the boat can do it. Captain’s in his cabin, and he sent me to find you and tell you.”

“Lead on, then,” said Cadayle, and to her two companions she offered a dismissive shrug. “Meet with him here or out in the town. It’s all the same.”

They followed the cabin boy to the captain’s quarters, located under the flying bridge at the rear of the top deck. Dawson was alone inside waiting for them with an opened bottle of rum and four metal cups set out on his desk.

“Fair seas,” he said in greeting when they came in, the cabin boy taking his leave and closing the door behind them. “As fine a sail as we could have hoped for at any time of the year.”

He motioned for them to sit at the three chairs he had placed in front of his desk. As the two women helped Bransen, Cadayle noted a curious-looking smirk on Dawson’s face. She wasn’t sure what it might portend, but somehow it seemed out of place to her.

“I hoped you would join me for a drink,” Dawson explained when they had settled in. He poured some rum in his own cup, which already contained some, Cadayle noticed, and then in Callen’s and Cadayle’s. He paused, holding the bottle over the cup set before Bransen.

“Better that you don’t,” Callen remarked. Dawson nodded and pulled the bottle back, then dropped into his chair.

“To good friends,” he said, lifting his cup.

“To finding Brother Dynard,” Cadayle added before she tapped it.

“Dynard, yes,” Dawson agreed after he had sipped. “I’m not sure which chapel, but they’ll know at Pellinor.”

“A long journey?” asked Callen. “If it is, we should secure a wagon for Bransen.”

“A journey of two weeks, and one I’ll make with the others. We’ll take you three as far as Tanadoon, a small town just a few miles inland. They’ve many new houses waiting for folks, any folks, to take them. We will be putting the few families of our new soldiers there, too. So you’ll have neighbors among some of the folk you’ve met on our journey, and all of you with your own houses and large plots of land.” He gave a little laugh and explained, “Aye, we’ve got more wood for more houses than we’ve people to put in them! Here’s to hoping you come to love this land as I do. It’s a hard life, but one worth living, to be sure, and Vanguard would welcome the addition of such fine folk as yourselves.” He lifted his cup again in toast, but he was alone this time.

“I do not know that my husband could manage it,” Cadayle said.

“Of course,” Dawson replied, and again Cadayle caught a flash of that strange, too-knowing smile. “I should be quick then in my search that we can get you three, and maybe Brother Dynard, back across the gulf before the winter snows.”

“That would be good, yes,” said Cadayle, drawing a poke from Callen.

“Don’t be so ungrateful, daughter,” Callen scolded.

“Everyone grows impatient when his grasp nears the goal,” Dawson said with a grin. “No steps as desperate as the last three to the gate, eh?”

The procession of more than a hundred people, including most of Dawson’s crew and a garrison from Pireth Vanguard, set out later that same day down the road, no more than a flattened trail, to the new town of Tanadoon.

New indeed! The smell of freshly cut wood greeted the caravan as they entered the southeastern gate of the wood-walled village. Neat and tidy houses all in a row greeted them inside, all looking very much the same. A few were occupied by families who had resettled from within Vanguard, but most sat empty and waiting.

“As you were promised,” Dawson called out when all of the folk were inside. “Even you men who have no kinfolk with you can claim a home as your own-two men to each, if you’ve not family, please. Though you’ll not be staying beyond this one night. But know in your hearts that you’ve a place to return to when your debt to Dame Gwydre is paid.”

There was no cheer at that, which surprised Cadayle as she surveyed the dour bunch. Most of them were prisoners of Laird Delaval, a few from Laird Ethelbert, and none seemed overly pleased to be here.

The trio found a small home soon enough, settling in under the shadow of the northeastern corner. It was sparsely furnished, but had enough straw for them to make comfortable enough beds, and Dawson’s men brought a fair number of supplies-foodstuffs and barrels of water and even a rough map of the area that included directions to a nearby stream.

“It is not so bad,” Callen announced later that evening, the three sitting about a single candle, sharing a loaf of sweet cake. “All of it, I mean. The house and the food and the welcome of our hosts. A good and generous man is Dawson McKeege.”

“Too much so I fear,” said Cadayle, but Callen scoffed at her and waved the suspicions away.