R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Bransen, out of targets now that Vaughna had charged into the middle of the goblin line and had, predictably, broken it, sending goblins running every which way, paused and managed to glance over at Crait and Olconna, fighting side by side behind Brother Jond.

Crait dodged one blow coming in at his right, and moved so far to the left that it appeared as if he had opened himself up to a devastating spear thrust. But when the goblin took that opening, it found only Olconna’s shield, and the creature’s failure allowed Crait to fast-step forward behind his partner’s block and plunge his bronze short sword into the goblin’s chest.

Crait rolled to the left after the kill, sliding right in front of Olconna, his sword and shield slashing and bashing, but only as a ruse.

For he kept going and Olconna rushed into the void as he passed, and the goblin couldn’t refocus its attention fast enough.

Bransen nodded his admiration. These two had been fighting together for a long time now, and had made quite a name for themselves farther to the east and north, where the battles along the coast had been more scattered but no less fierce.

This one was over, at least, or soon to be, and Bransen leaped past Brother Jond and charged off Olconna’s right flank in fast pursuit of the now-fleeing onsters, hoping to get at least one more kill.

He managed two, and fast closed on a third when a red-fletched arrow beat him to the mark, throwing the goblin to the ground. Bransen looked around to spy the archer, but no one was in sight, and none of his friends, still back in the dell some twenty paces behind him, held any bows.

He finished the squirming goblin with a stroke to its neck, then rolled it enough so that he could push the beautifully crafted arrow right through. When he arrived back with his friends to present it, he found Brother Jond holding a similar one.

“Our day’s gone brighter,” Vaughna explained, in that voice of hers that always seemed to be on the edge of hysterical laughter.

“It is him?” Olconna asked, his voice thick with unabashed awe.

“Aye, that’d be the mark of Jameston,” Crait answered.

“Jameston Sequin,” Brother Jond explained to the obviously confused Bransen. “A hunter of great renown, who splits his time between Vanguard and Alpinador. It is said he knows the trails better than any man alive, and it will prove a fortunate turn for us if he is indeed about.”

“There is the greatest understatement I’ve ever heard,” Vaughna chimed in, and her tone made it clear that she was talking about more than a blessing for their mission. She nearly swooned (which seemed almost comical to Bransen, given her fire-spitting demeanor) as she pointed across a small lea, jumping up and down like a little girl getting her first view of a king. “It is him! It is him!”

“He’s worth all that?” Olconna snickered.

The approaching man’s legs seemed just a bit too long for his frame, giving him as determined and forceful a stride as one could imagine. His face, weathered and creased, showed nothing but strength and a commanding pragmatism. Bransen could see simply from the set of the man’s jaw that this one, Jameston, wasn’t loose with his words.

“You’re a long way north of Dame Gwydre’s lines, and you don’t look like Samhaists to me,” Jameston said when he neared the group. “Especially not you,” he added, nodding his gray-bearded chin at Brother Jond.

“Hardly that,” the monk agreed.

Jameston’s gaze fell over Bransen, his face crinkling in a strange manner. For the first time since he had donned his mother’s black silk suit, Bransen felt a bit self-conscious about his unusual dress.

“We did not come north just to find Jameston,” Vaughna volunteered. “But we’re glad to see you.”

Jameston glanced at her for just a moment before offering a wink of familiarity, his face brightening. “Crazy V,” he said. “Been a lot of years.”

“Too many.”

“And you, too, Crait,” Jameston went on.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” the old warrior replied.

“Not so hard a thing to do,” Jameston answered. “How many might be living who have seen the fights you and I can claim as experience?”

Crait thought it over for a few heartbeats, then answered with a laugh, “Two?”

“Might be,” said Jameston. “Might be.” He stepped over to accept Crait’s extended hand, the two clasping wrists with the respect old warriors often reserved for other old warriors.

Brother Jond cleared his throat, and after a curious glance at him, Crait began the introductions, though Vaughna interrupted him as soon as he had named Olconna and presented Bransen and Brother Jond.

“You wandered lost?” Jameston asked.

“Here on purpose,” Vaughna corrected. “The fighting has been terrible in the South. Entire villages are gone.”

Jameston nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen Badden’s charges march out and figured as much.”

“The Samhaists know no moral boundaries,” Brother Jond put in, but Jameston’s sudden grin silenced him, for it showed the grizzled old hunter to be far beyond the influences of proselytizing Abellicans and Samhaists alike in their unending struggle to collect every man’s soul.

“You are a scouting band?” Jameston presumed.

“Half right,” said Vaughna, and Brother Jond cleared his throat as if to remind her not to speak too openly. But this was Jameston Sequin, after all, and the woman just cast the monk a dismissive glance. “Dame Gwydre sees that we have to stop this war.”

“And negotiating with the Samhaists won’t get you far,” Jameston reasoned, and let his knowing gaze encompass them all, and Bransen found it hard not to be naked under that man’s imposing stare.

“You’ve come to kill Badden himself,” the old hunter said, and the undercurrent of humor in his voice had the five exchanging worried glances.

That was all the confirmation Jameston needed.

“We will find him, and we will kill him, yes,” Bransen announced unexpectedly, and stepped forward beside Vaughna. “He has earned the sentence.”

“A hundred times over before you were ever born, boy,” Jameston replied.

Bransen tried to recover fast from the response, which was both easy agreement and somewhat condescending-maybe. He just couldn’t be certain, for this man, this apparently legendary hunter, had him in a continually unbalanced state.

“Never been enamored of that one,” Jameston went on, beating Bransen to the dialogue. “Only thing I’ve found stupider than men who claim to speak for the gods are the people who listen to them. My apologies, Brother,” he added to Jond.

Jond half shrugged, half nodded, seeming at least as off-balanced as Bransen.

“Help us kill him,” Vaughna blurted on impulse.

“Never been one to pick sides,” Jameston replied.

“But you have been helping Dame Gwydre,” Vaughna protested. “You have been sending reports south, so it’s said.”

“Counts of goblins and trolls and the like,” Jameston agreed. “And the second count I made of them, after I left them, was always less than the initial.”

“So you’ve already chosen your side, then,” Vaughna laughed.

“Killing goblins and trolls isn’t a side,” Jameston deadpanned. “It’s a religion. Might be the only religion worth fighting for.”

“Well, since Ancient Badden has thrown in with the beasts, he has chosen sides contrary to your… religion,” Brother Jond reasoned.

Jameston gave him a sidelong glance and a snicker. “Ten days of marching east of here would get you to a hot lake called Mithranidoon. Taking the trails west of that, into the mountains, will bring you Cold’rin, the glacier the hot waters hold back. Atop that is where you’ll find Badden and his high priests. I’ll take you to him-what you do once you get there’s your own choice to decide.”