R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“We will win in the end because we are right,” he continued. “We will win because the order of society depends upon it. There can be no lasting victory for the followers of that fool Abelle, because any gains they make unwind the order. They are gentle-they do not inspire fear in the people. Absent that, anarchy ensues. History tells us as much again and again. As the people begin to lose their fear of the severity of honest justice, they will become lax in their morals. Every woman a whore, every man a fornicator and adulterer. Promises of eternal paradise will not stop a wife from cuckolding her husband! Declarations of a merciful god invite sin and, ultimately, anarchy.

“The monks of Abelle will have their day in Honce,” Ancient Badden predicted solemnly, and almost all of the gathering gasped in unison at the admission they had all feared. “They will win, my brothers, but only until the structures of Honce society fall away. It will take a generation, perhaps a few, but the cuckolds and other victims will call out for us. Do not doubt it. Let the fighting rage south of the Gulf of Honce. What you perceive as victory for the monks is also the distraction that will prevent Gwydre from gaining help from the lairds. Let them have Honce proper while we secure ourselves forever in Vanguard. We will always be ready, be assured, to answer the pleas of the victims of the concept of a merciful god and the false promises of sweet eternity.

“Because, my brethren, in the end, it is order that holds civilization together,” Badden concluded. “And because, my brethren, that order needs severity.”

A cheer went up around the Ancient, one heartfelt and full of awe. Badden knew that he had yet again reaffirmed his position in his order. He was the Ancient, and none would challenge him.

“Go,” he bade them all. “Return to your Circles and observe. The trolls and goblins who sweep the land do so because the people of Vanguard deny us. When, in any of your Circles, they stop denying us, when they deny Gwydre and her lover, we will redirect our attacks to another Circle.”

All around him, Samhaists began to bow repeatedly.

“We cannot tell the common folk the truth of the monks and their false mercy because they are too stupid to properly recognize the greater truth,” said Badden, “that severe justice to the criminal is mercy to the goodly man. We are the merciful ones. They, the followers of the fool Abelle, invite chaos and ruin.”

He returned the bow to his minions, then walked through them back toward his house. Behind him, several raced off on magical legs, several cracked and reformed their bones to become swift-running animals, and the greatest became as birds and flew away.

A Heroic Mistake

Badden surrounds himself with formidable allies,” Jameston Sequin tried to explain to the group of five road-weary heroes. “You should have come north with an army to properly execute your plan.”

“We could not have supplied such a force,” said the pragmatic and experienced Crait. “And the attraction it would have wrought would have had us fighting trolls and goblins and barbarians every step of the way.”

“By the time we reached our goal, if ever we did, we’d be lucky to have even this many remaining,” Brother Jond added.

“Then it seems as if your goal was never really in reach,” said Jameston. “You do not appreciate the power of your enemy. He is Badden, Ancient Badden, the Ancient of all the Samhaists. They regard him as a god, and not without cause. His powers are extreme.”

“Ever see that monk use his gemstones?” Crait interrupted. “Or that one swing that sword of his?” he added, nodding his chin toward Bransen.

“I have and was impressed-at both!” Jameston admitted. mitted. “But have you ever witnessed a dragon of despair?”

“A dragon?” Bransen asked.

“Ancient Badden is near to a god among the Samhaists, and not without cause,” Jameston said. “Have you ever battled a giant? Not a big man, but a true giant? You will if you deign to approach Badden. Creatures thrice the height of a tall man and several times his weight, with power to snap your spine with the ease that one of us might snap the shaft of an old arrow.”

“We could not bring an army,” Brother Jond said with finality. “Nor can Dame Gwydre’s people continue under the duress of Badden’s pressing hordes. We know the desperation of our plan-and to a man and woman we accepted it. Why can’t you?”

Jameston started to respond, but thought better and bit it back, offering a conciliatory, helpless laugh. “We should stay to the populated lands as much as possible,” he said instead. He crouched and drew his dagger, then etched a rough map on the ground. “We can get right into southern Alpinador along a fairly defined road, here, just east of the mountains. There are a couple of villages- reasonable Alpinadoran tribes-where we can resupply.”

“How do we know that they won’t send word of us to Badden?” asked Vaughna.

“If they even know of Badden,” Jameston replied, “they owe him no allegiance. Do not make the mistake of believing that the Samhaist has captured the hearts of the Alpinadorans. They are a proud collection of tribes with their own histories, beliefs, and practices. I know of no Alpinadoran Samhaists, not one.”

“Yet barbarians have been known among Badden’s invading hordes,” Brother Jond pointed out.

“Opportunism more than loyalty, I am certain,” said Jameston.

“It is too great a risk,” Brother Jond decided. “Let us keep to the shadows.”

“The glacier where Ancient Badden has made his home is a long and difficult trek, through wild lands that are already beginning to feel the chill of winter.”

Brother Jond nodded, and Jameston shrugged his agreement.

They set off soon after, heading generally north. They came under the shadows of a range of towering mountains on their west. Though Jameston heeded the demands of Brother Jond, over the next couple of days they often came in sight of a rudimentary road, and on several occasions, they saw the rising smoke from Alpinadoran campfires.

“Grace or muscle?” Vaughna remarked to Crait on one such occasion, when Jameston and Brother Jond had moved down to better view a village, leaving Bransen and Olconna in full view on the back edge of a bluff.

Crait snickered.

“Ah, but I like the way that Highwayman moves,” Vaughna added. “It’s all like a dance, like the wind under a moon.”

“But the redheaded one…” Crait prompted, understanding where Crazy V would go.

“Arms to hold a lover aloft,” she said. “A determined swing that’s not to be blocked or parried…”

Crait laughed aloud, and the two men at the bluff turned to regard him.

“Good thing for you I’m not the type to blush,” Vaughna whispered.

“To make others blush, though.”

“Aye, that’s the fun of life,” said Vaughna. “Grace or muscle?”

“The Highwayman’s got himself a wife, a new one, and a beloved one,” Crait reminded.

Vaughna sighed, clearly disappointed. “Muscle’ll do,” she said, and Crait laughed again.

Jameston and Jond returned, and the half-dozen moved along as always and set camp as always-except that night Olconna found an unexpected visitor.

His step was lighter the next day.

One afternoon as they passed through a stretch of pines and rocks, just below the snow line and in air cold enough so that they could see their breaths, Jameston whispered to the group that they were being watched.

“The P’noss Tribe,” he explained. “Small in number but very fierce. They range from the road below to the passes above. This is their territory.”