R. Salvatore - The Ancient

There was no going back.

Cormack was alone, in the middle of a lake full of monsters and trolls, surrounded by enemies. He looked at the steamy waters, and for a few moments he hoped that a group of trolls would rise up from the depths and overwhelm him. For in those dark hours Cormack’s future loomed before him, empty, uninviting, terrifying.

He had all that he could drink, obviously, and he might even catch a fish, but to what end?

He peered out into the direction from which he had come, hoping against all logic that he’d see his boat out there, capsized but floating. He knew it would not be so; trolls were expert at destroying craft when they put their minds to it, and the best he could reasonably hope for would be a splinter or a plank washing up against his empty little piece of rock.

Cormack thought back to his fateful decision to free Androosis and the others, the choice that had landed him here, battered and sure to die. For a moment, he regretted his choice, but only for a moment.

“I did the right thing,” he said aloud, needing to hear the words. “Father De Guilbe was wrong-they were all wrong.” He paused and put his hands on his hips, looking around in an attempt to discern this portion of the lake. It was simply too steamy, though Cormack got the distinct feeling that he was farther to the north. So he turned south and a bit to the east (or so he believed) that he might be somewhat facing Chapel Isle.

“You were wrong!” he shouted out across the waves. “You are wrong! Faith is not coerced! It cannot be! It blossoms within-truth revealed in the heart and soul. You are wrong!” Cormack sat down upon the stones, though he felt energized by his outburst, by his proclamation, by the verbal reinforcement of his moral choice.

A slight splash to the side turned his attention that way, where he saw his Abellican robe bobbing in the water against the stones. He retrieved it and laid it out on the stones to dry, and in doing so took note of his powrie beret still set firmly on his head. He put his hand up to touch it. There was, indeed, some magic within that cap.

Cormack looked to the troll bite on one arm to find that it was well on the way to healing, showing no signs of infection. He considered the deep wounds on his back from the whipping. He should not have survived those without tending and yet he had come through them, floating alone in a boat.

The beret, Cormack knew in his heart. The powrie beret somehow acted in a manner to the soul stone and was possessed of magic.

The fallen monk chuckled helplessly. There lay a common thread here, he knew. From the powries to the Alpinadoran shamans to the Abellicans and even the Samhaists there lay a common magic, a bonding of purpose and power.

A singular God for all?

Were the names the various peoples tagged upon their gods really important distinctions? At that moment of epiphany on an empty island, staring certain mortality in the face, Cormack realized that they were not.

But what did it matter? He had nowhere to go, and his plight was only confirmed a short while later when a plank of wood from his boat washed up against the rocks. He retrieved it as the sun sank in the west behind him.

His stomach roared with hunger when he awoke the next morning. He gulped down lake water to try to quell the emptiness. Facedown near the water, hands cupping it and bringing it up to his dry lips, Cormack nearly fell over when he saw the troll right beside him. He fell back, scrambling to find some defensive posture, and cut his elbows and knees in his desperate thrashing before he finally realized that it was one of the dead ones from the day before, bobbing high in the water.

Cormack splashed in to his waist and came beside the troll. He dared to push down on it to try to force it under the waves and was amazed at its buoyancy.

He glanced back at his empty island, certain to be his grave site. He looked out to Mithranidoon and saw another dead and floating troll. Cormack blew a long sigh.

Was it possible?

The Gathering

They came in through a variety of means, either running with steps magically lightened and lengthened, or in the form of a fast cat, or even, in the case of the older and more powerful, in the form of birds, flying across the mountain updrafts. They came from their respective parishes, their “Circles,” to the call of their leader.

From Devongel Ancient Badden watched each approach, his magical attunement with the land informing him whenever a brother Samhaist crossed into his domain. Their number swelled to twenty, to thirty, and finally, to thirty-two, meaning that all but one of the Samhaists of Vanguard had survived the last months of war, and that one dead priest had died gloriously in the first battle of Chapel Pellinor.

Ancient Badden was pleased.

When they were all together he gave them a complete tour of the grand-now grander-ice palace he had constructed. He even took them to his room of power at the top of the highest tower, where a well reached deep through the castle floor, deep through the glacier, and deep into the energy of the hot springs far below.

“Bask in it,” he bade them, and they did, many nearly swooning in the orgy of earth power of this near-perfect conduit to the Rift of Samhain, the holy lake of Mithranidoon.

Ancient Badden led the procession out of Devongel and onto Cold’rin Glacier. He showed them the work at the chasm, where the white worm god continued its destructive work, where the misting blood of trolls prevented the natural repairs. He even sacrificed a pair of prisoners so that his brethren could hear the feasting of the worm.

From their smiles Badden knew that he had been wise to summon them. Morale demanded it. What could be more pleasing to his fellow Samhaists than the strength of Devongel and the fearsome power of D’no?

“Gwydre reinforces from the south,” one of the younger Samhaists, whose domain was near to the Gulf of Corona, reported when the group gathered north of the chasm. Badden bade them to share their knowledge. “Nothing substantial as yet, but…”

“It will remain nothing substantial,” another insisted. “I have been south to Honce proper. The fighting between Laird Delaval and Laird Ethelbert does not abate. Indeed, it is more furious than ever. I had thought Delaval to be gaining the advantage, but Ethelbert has unleashed legions of Behr barbarians. They have cut a fine line across the northern foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, moving so near to Delaval’s throne that he was forced to bring back most of his frontline forces who were pressing the city of Ethelbert dos Entel.”

“That does not bode well,” yet another interjected. “Delaval will not be pushed from his city-he will win out in the end, but now that end seems more distant.”

“Why do you think that ill?” Ancient Badden asked.

“It prolongs the war.”

“And…?” Badden pressed.

“The pain of war is not unnecessary,” another Samhaist reminded. “Everyone dies. That some will have their lives shortened is not our concern.”

“Easy, friend,” Badden said, and he looked back to the other. “And…?” he repeated.

“I only fear that the followers of Abelle grow stronger with every passing year of war,” the younger man admitted. “Their gemstones are greatly coveted by the lairds-all the lairds-and every man they heal moves them deeper into the heart of the people.”

A couple of the others gasped that the young one would speak so boldly to Ancient Badden, but to their surprise Badden seemed unconcerned and far from angry.

“You think in terms of years, young one,” he said, and more gently than anyone expected. “Consider the decades before us. The centuries. Fear not the followers of Abelle.