R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Cormack turned and knifed his free hand into the troll’s throat, clamping tight. The troll scratched at his forearm, drawing lines of blood, but he held fast, choking the life from it. Or he would have had another of the creatures come over the aft, further tipping the boat.

Cormack turned fast but didn’t let go, dragging the diminutive creature along to launch it at its companion. As the two trolls tumbled, Cormack leaped forward and stomped his foot hard on the newcomer’s exposed head. He grabbed the second in both hands, by the throat again and the groin, and lifted it up over his head, then slammed it down on its companion.

He stomped and kicked desperately until one went completely still, but Cormack was out of time and he knew it, for yet another troll appeared at the low-riding aft. When the creature pushed up onto that rail the rear of the boat submerged, water flooding in.

Cormack turned and scrambled to the high-riding prow, trying to counteract the weight and lift the rear.

He was too late, so he went to the very tip of the prow, glanced around quickly, and dove away. He counted on surprise, for though he was a strong swimmer he certainly couldn’t outdistance glacial trolls in the water!

But he had to try.

Milkeila sat on the sandbar that she often shared with her Abellican lover, remembering fondly their last moments together. She didn’t know why Cormack hadn’t come out to see her after that encounter. It really wasn’t unexpected that time would pass between their trysts, for, given both of their responsibilities to their warring peoples, they more often than not sat alone on the sandbar.

But something nagged at the woman this day, some deep feeling that things were amiss, that something was wrong.

She rose and walked to the eastern end of the sandbar, the point nearest to Chapel Isle, and peered into the mist as if expecting some revelation or maybe to see Cormack gliding toward her in his small boat.

All she saw was mist. All she heard were tiny waves lapping the sand and stones of the bar.

Her gut told her that something was wrong. She had nothing else.

He swam for his life, legs and arms pumping furiously. Cormack had shed his heavy robe as soon as he hit the water and wore only the knee-length white pants and sleeveless shirt typical for his order. That and the stubborn powrie cap, which clung to his head as if by magic. Whether he dove under or kept his head up in the splashing water, that bloodred beret moved not at all from its secure perch.

Cormack knew that he had put about fifteen long strides between himself and the troll and its companions. He tried to do logical estimates of the remaining distance to the small island he had spotted. He could only pray that his dive had surprised the vile creatures, and that he would find the island quickly.

Good fortune showed him that the island wasn’t as far as he had believed-not nearly-but on the flip side of that revelation was the knowledge that what he had taken to be an island was really no more than a couple of large rocks protruding above the water.

He could get to them-he did get to them-but what sanctuary might they provide? The highest point of the largest rock sat no more than four feet above the waterline, and the whole of that “island” proved no more than a dozen strides across its diameter.

Cormack crawled up onto it anyway, having little choice, for the trolls were not far behind. He had no desire to do battle with them in the water where they could dive and climb and maneuver with the grace of a fish compared to the lumbering human. He had barely set himself when a splash alerted him to the first of the pursuing beasts.

The monk moved to the highest point, crawling on all fours, and found a loose rock on his way. He pivoted and threw with all his strength, smacking a troll right in the face. The creature shrieked and began flailing wildly as its thin blood streamed over its nose and jaw.

Cormack seized the opportunity, skipping down and launching a barrage of punches and kicks on the troll. He had it turning, spinning, and hooked its arms behind its back and bore it down hard. With frightening viciousness, the man grabbed the troll’s hair and began lifting its head, smashing it repeatedly on the rock.

He had to break away, though, as another exited the water. It slashed at him with clawlike fingers, but the monk was too quick, leaning out of range as he squared up.

Another troll broke the water, closing in savagely.

Cormack kept his focus on the first, trading harmless slaps and parries, but all the while he watched the second out of the corner of his eye. That troll leaped in with typical recklessness, but Cormack had set himself appropriately.

He dropped his weight fully on his right leg, then threw himself forward onto his left, closing the distance with the charging troll. Pivoting as he landed, he lifted his right foot into a well-aimed circle-kick that connected solidly with the troll’s face, snapping its head back.

Cormack held the pose, leg up, and snapped off a couple of more kicks, though the troll was already beyond consciousness. As he did, he worked his arms frantically to fend off the first troll, which was trying to take advantage of his distraction.

Brother Cormack had been trained by the finest fighters in the Abellican Church, an order that had grown increasingly militant in recent years and had learned well to defend itself.

As the second troll slumped down to the stone, Cormack settled once more into a defensive posture against its furious companion. He didn’t hold the defense for long, though. He outweighed the troll by fifty pounds at least, and as this flight and frenzy had settled more rationally into his consciousness, a stark reality became obvious to the man.

He had nothing left to lose.

So he waded right into the troll, oblivious of its swinging arms. In close, he unloaded a series of heavy punches, left and right, accepting a couple of hits in response. But while the troll was scratching and stinging him, he was inflicting real damage, and the clutch lasted only a matter of a few seconds before the troll crumpled before him, where he summarily smashed it into oblivion.

More trolls came from the water to battle him, but there was no coordination to any of it, just a line of victims. Cormack took them on, punching until his knuckles had become one mass of blood, until his feet bled from nicks caused by smashing troll teeth, until his arms felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds each, so great a weariness came over him.

But good luck and sheer rage drove his fury just long enough. When the last of the trolls, the seventh to crawl from the lake, fell limp before him, Cormack slumped to his knees on the stone.

Gasping for breath, Cormack tried to take a survey of his wounds, which included many deep cuts from claws and teeth. He knew that he had to get down to the water to cleanse them-troll bites were notorious for becoming pussy and sore-but he simply didn’t have the strength at that moment. He was certain that if just one more troll crawled out of the lake he would surely be doomed.

The sun climbed higher in the eastern sky. The minutes became an hour, then two. The hot waters of Mithranidoon fought back the cold chill of Alpinador. At last Cormack managed to get down to the water and cleaned his wounds and drank deeply. He knelt there, letting his mind whirl through the events that had brought him to this desolate place. The memories of his last hours at Chapel Isle flooded back to him, and he looked again upon the deep disappointment etched into the face of Father De Guilbe, and even the regret evident in Giavno’s voice.

Even as the man had scourged him senseless.

There was no going back. His banishment was not a trial or a penance; it represented finality and not forgiveness.