R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Out on the lake fishing this day, Kriminig had felt such a pang, and though curious that it was coming from a direction opposite to their home island and far distant, and though he was confident that no dwarves other than the eight on his boat were off the island, he was certain of the feeling.

“A powrie’s in trouble,” he declared, leaving no room for debate.

“But our kin’re all back at the home,” another had argued.

“Then more’ve come to the lake,” said a third, and so the debate went, round and round, and only one on the boat knew that he had an answer to the curious riddle.

But Mcwigik, sitting in the back with the fishing net, thought it best to keep his suspicions to himself. A couple of the others, though, had heard rumors about Pragganag’s cap, and cast curious glances Mcwigik’s way.

“Just ye keep rowing,” he said to them. “There might be something interesting to find.”

“Too much left!” Kriminig grumbled. “Ease her back to starboard!”

Mcwigik rubbed his ruddy face, wondering if they’d come upon a fight between the monks and the barbarians.

He looked around frantically, lifting his head as much as possible, though he didn’t dare stand or even kneel on the rocking troll raft. Even if he spotted another island, Cormack knew that he was doomed: there was no way he could outswim these giant fish even if he managed to surprise them and get a good lead as he had done with the powries.

One came up right before him and bit at a troll hand protruding in the air. Cormack saw those fish teeth all too clearly as they tore the fingers apart. If only he had an enchanted amber! He could use its magic and run across the water, barely disturbing the surface.

If only…!

This surely wasn’t how the young monk had pictured he would die. He had always recognized that he might not live to a ripe old age. When he had signed on to the mission in Alpinador, Cormack had known well that several other brothers had been killed by the barbarians. He wasn’t afraid to die, particularly if it happened in service to Blessed Abelle. Better to live life with a purpose, even with the risks, than to hide in a hole and hope for old age.

But he didn’t want to die like this, anonymously, and for no better reason than to feed some fish.

One came up and bit him on the side of his calf, tearing his skin. He swung about fast and slammed his fist into the side of the fish. While that action did send the thing back under the water, the movement also further diminished the integrity of the raft. Another troll body broke free, leaving Cormack on only three remaining ragged things.

He felt his robes weighing him down as he often bobbed into the water, and he thought to take them off. To what point?

All the fear and the anger went away then, suddenly. Resigned to his fate, Cormack stopped himself from removing the soaked and heavy robes. He would let them drag him down to the depths. Better to surrender to it and get it over with.

He hoped he would lose consciousness quickly, that the pain wouldn’t be so intense.

He took a deep breath, then blew it all out and set himself to plunge into the water, thinking he would just keep swimming down.

Just as he was about to go, though, he heard a splash that he recognized as an oar dipping into the lake.

“Here! Here!” he yelled, and he began smacking at the fish again with renewed urgency. “Here!”

A fish as long as Cormack was tall leaped up before him, coming for his face, but the agile monk reacted with fury and speed, smashing it in the side of the head with a right cross that turned it aside. He hit it again several times as it thumped onto his raft and rolled into the water.

But now he was in the water, the troll bodies all floating apart. His robes pulled him down as he worked his weary arms furiously to try to tread water. He tilted his head back as far as he could, gasping for breath. He got a mouthful of water instead and felt himself submerging.

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, though, and hauled him back up. A giant fish brushed against his leg, and he slammed his head as he went up over the side of a boat. Then he was lying on the wood, eyes closed, only semiconscious, and curled defensively. He coughed and felt water pouring from his mouth.

“Well, what d’we got here?” he heard in that distinctive powrie dialect and the typical dwarf voice, which sounded somewhat like a receding wave rattling a beach of small stones.

“Name’s Cormack,” said another, a voice the monk recognized. “Won the cap fair and square.”

“So take the cap and throw the fool back to the Mith trout,” said the first, the last thing Cormack heard.

Captives

Don’t let him fall,” Brother Jond implored Vaughna as she struggled to keep Bransen marching in the line of prisoners. They knew well what would happen if that occurred, for one of the other prisoners had tumbled from exhaustion and the cold and the thin air earlier that day up high on a mountain pass. The trolls had descended on that poor soul immediately, whipping and kicking, and when the woman hadn’t been able to get up (they prevented anyone from helping her), they had beaten her, laughing at and mocking her all the while, then left her for dead.

“What is wrong with him?” Vaughna asked, for she had never seen anything like Bransen’s awkward, storklike gait.

“He got hit too hard in the head,” Brother Jond replied. It was the eighth time he had answered that same question to Vaughna and to Olconna, whom he was now helping along the march. Olconna had taken a few fairly serious hits, and Jond initially feared that he would not survive. Most of those wounds had proven superficial, though, and Olconna’s growing reputation for toughness had proven well earned. Now, though in pain and needing support, he moved along without a whimper of complaint.

Bransen listened to the conversations very distantly. He had thought to slur out some rudimentary explanation early on in the march, but had forgone the effort, realizing that there was nothing his companions could do. Brother Jond had retrieved the bandanna, but the soul stone was not to be found, and the trolls had stripped the monk of all of his possessions, particularly the magical gemstones.

Crait lay dead back at the scene of the battle. All of the four surviving heroes sent by Dame Gwydre had been hurt, Bransen the least of all, Olconna by far the worst. But without the gemstone, Bransen couldn’t count himself as fortunate. He stayed within himself, focused on his Jhesta Tu training, and forced his chi somewhat in line. He didn’t exhaust the process, though, understanding that there were limits to his concentration and that after a while his stork affliction would win out.

But he had to keep going, had to keep his focus intense enough so that he would keep putting one foot in front of the other. And he and his three remaining companions had to hope that the trolls would make a critical mistake, and in that event, Bransen was ready to fully immerse himself in Jhesta Tu and try to find at least a few moments of effective fighting.

Their hopes for such an error had waned throughout the remainder of that day and long into the night, for this group of jailers proved quite skilled, and the troll numbers overwhelming. At camp, the prisoners were separated into small groups, and every one lay facedown on the cold ground, a spear poised at the back of his or her neck.

Their only hope was Jameston. Only Jameston Sequin could get them out of this, though Bransen had to wonder what in the world a single man might do against the awful power of Badden and his minions. He tried not to think of that, tried not to succumb to the reality that he would never see his beloved Cadayle and Callen again.