R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Bransen put a hand on his sword hilt, a movement Jameston did not miss. The scout shook his head. “We would be foolish to tarry, but they will let us pass through as long as we keep going. They trust in my respect of them.”

The group continued along, single-file, and the five unfamiliar with the land kept glancing left and right, as if expecting to see painted barbarian warriors hiding behind every tree, spear in hand.

“Try not to look so terrified,” Jameston chided them. “You will just make our hosts nervous.”

The rest of the day passed without incident. Jameston kept them up high in the mountains that night, and the cold winds howled at them, and a few snowflakes even drifted about. But Jameston Sequin knew this place as well as the Alpinadorans who called it home. He had a blazing fire going and warmed rocks for the five to keep them comfortable as they slept.

Bransen watched the man carefully long into the night and marveled at the simple serenity on Jameston’s face. He seemed fully at peace out here, like a man who had long left behind the trivial troubles of feuding lairds and Churches and petty human squabbles. As Jameston sat upon a boulder and stared up at the night sky, Bransen got a sense of a man truly at peace, of a man who had found his place in the universe and who seemed truly comfortable in that place. It occurred to Bransen that there was something Jhesta Tu about Jameston Sequin.

A thought crossed Bransen’s mind. For a fleeting moment he considered the notion that Jameston Sequin might be his father. Was it possible that McKeege was wrong, that Bran Dynard had survived the road and had used his training from the Walk of Clouds to become this legend in the northland?

Bransen gave a little snort at his own absurdity, wondering how in the world that notion had infiltrated his mind. Wishful thinking… He wanted Jameston Sequin to be his father. He wanted someone to be his father, particularly someone he could admire. Bransen had tried to dismiss the notion that Dawson McKeege’s proclamation regarding Bran Dynard’s fate had hurt him profoundly.

Jameston walked over and stirred the flames of the low-burning fire. The orange light danced across his weathered face, shadowing his deep wrinkles and reflecting off his thick mustache.

Bransen saw experience there, and competence and wisdom, and it only confirmed Bransen’s earlier recognition of serenity. This wasn’t Bran Dynard, though Bransen wished that it could be true.

He would settle for being spiritual companions, if indeed they were.

Over the course of the next few days the road all but disappeared, and no more villages spotted the landscape. Jameston’s temperament sobered considerably. Taking that lead, the other five began to feel the gravity of their situation.

They were getting close, they all believed, though none asked Jameston openly about it. They just did as the scout suggested, moving along in a straight line to the north, a few hundred feet up in the foothills of the seemingly endless mountain range. Jameston had to give them the directions far in advance for he was increasingly absent from their line, moving all about to scout the region and pick their course. On one such afternoon, with Bransen leading the five through more rows of tall and dark evergreens, the quiet emptiness was lost to a sudden sharp sound. Bransen pulled up and slid low behind some brush staring out.

“The crack of a whip,” Brother Jond whispered, moving in beside him.

Bransen resisted the urge to say that he would expect an Abellican to recognize such a sound but decided against it. He had come to like Jond. In any case, what was to be gained by creating tension among the tight-knit group?

A motion to the side turned them both to the right where Vaughna crouched behind a stump. She looked at them and pointed down and farther to the right. Following her finger, the pair did note some movement among the lower trees, though they couldn’t make out anything definite.

“Stay here,” Bransen whispered to Jond. He waved to Vaughna, and then to Olconna and Crait, who were similarly crouching in some brush up above the woman, to do the same.

Bransen reached inside himself, to his Jhesta Tu training. He surveyed the landscape, falling away before him, and potential paths appeared to him as clearly as if he were drawing it all out on a map. He belly-crawled out from the brush, popped up into a crouch, and darted to a tree some ten feet from Brother Jond. He paused only briefly before rushing out again, to the left this time, then down again to a pile of stones before belly-crawling his way to a lower stand of trees.

Soon he was out of sight of the others, sliding from shadow to shadow, for it was darker down here with the sun beginning to dip behind the mountains.

A long while passed.

Movement alerted the four to Bransen’s return-so they thought. For the form that emerged from some trees in a running crouch was that of Jameston, not Bransen. He moved to the pair highest up, and Jond and Vaughna joined him there.

Jameston’s sharp eyes instantly assessed. “Where is Bransen?”

Brother Jond motioned to the valley in the east. “Scouting.”

A concerned look crossed the scout’s face.

“What is it, then?” Crait asked.

“Trolls, mostly,” the scout answered. “Many of them, escorting a line of captured men and women to the north.”

Four sets of concerned eyes turned east immediately.

“How many trolls?” Vaughna and Olconna said together, both voices full of eagerness.

Crait couldn’t help but grin as he considered Olconna’s tone. Play hard, fight hard, he thought, for that was always the way he had regarded Crazy V. She was rubbing off on his young companion already, apparently.

“Too many,” Jameston argued. “A score at least, though the line is too long for me to get an accurate count. I dared not tarry, fearing that you five would run down heroically to intervene.”

“Are you saying that we should not?” Vaughna protested. “If there are men and women down there…”

“The Highwayman returns,” Olconna announced. They turned as one to see Bransen picking a careful path back up the mountainside. He rushed in and skidded down in the midst of the group.

“Trolls with prisoners,” he breathlessly announced.

“So we’ve been told,” Vaughna replied. “Too many trolls, so says Jameston.” She eyed the scout out of the corner of her eye as she spoke, as if in challenge.

But Jameston wasn’t taking that bait. “You wish to get to Ancient Badden, and we are only a couple of days from his glacial home. If you engage this group here and now you risk being killed or captured. You also risk having some escape to carry a warning to that most dangerous Samhaist. You have no chance of succeeding if Badden knows you are coming, of course, and little even if he does not. How many trolls are too many trolls, in that case?”

“One troll’s too many,” Crait grumbled, but the helpless shake of his head accompanying the statement showed that he had no practical answer to Jameston.

“For the greater good you would ask us to let the prisoners be tortured and murdered?” Brother Jond reasoned.

“I’m not envying your choices,” said Jameston, and he turned to Bransen as he spoke, for the Highwayman was shaking his head. Jameston knew well where this was leading.

The snap of a whip crackled through the air.

“If we hit them hard and fast, we might have them all dead or fleeing in short order,” Bransen offered.

“We’ve got the high ground to start our attack,” Olconna added.

“But if any are getting away-” warned Crait.

“Then they’ll think we came from the south to rescue the captives,” finished Bransen. “And will they even report the disaster to the Ancient? Would they dare face him with such failure?”