R. Salvatore - The Ancient

The next day the line of prisoners was marched through a long, descending, barren pass overlooking a river of blue-white ice. As they neared the base of that path the ground became more slippery, and no matter how hard he focused or how hard Vaughna tried to help him Bransen fell repeatedly. The first time he thought his long trial would end with the trolls descending upon him to whip him to death. But many of the weary humans were slipping and falling. Unbeknownst to Bransen and the others they were too close to their destination for the trolls to allow any to die.

They moved out of the rocky mountain pass and onto the glacial sheet, and surprisingly, the footing was actually better there and far more consistent than on the ice-speckled mountain trail.

They had trudged on for nearly an hour when a gasp from in front brought all eyes up the slope to the southeast where a large castle appeared as if made completely of ice. Glistening minarets and towers reached up from foreboding bluish, nearly translucent walls. More dread-filled gasps issued throughout the group as they neared, both from the scope and aura of sheer power emanating from the castle and because this was the first time that any of them had actually looked upon a giant.

These were giants, as Jameston had warned, and not simply large humans. Thrice Bransen’s height, the behemoth humanoid creatures mocked his warrior pride. No matter how fine he became with his weapon, no matter how strong he honed his muscles, no matter how fine and precise his reactions, how could he ever hope to do battle against such a behemoth?

Bransen shook his head and mumbled, “N… N… N… No,” throwing the negative and distracting thoughts aside. For before him lay the ultimate challenge, the final pinnacle, perhaps. He had no doubt that this was the abode of Ancient Badden, the key to his freedom, or more likely by far, he now understood, the gateway to the afterlife.

Jameston Sequin had survived for so long in hostile lands because he knew when to run away. He had put six arrows into the air at the beginning of the battle and had scored three hits he knew to be mortal, sending a fourth troll spinning down to the ground in agony.

The frenzy had grown too confused after that, however, with human prisoners and trolls scrambling all over each other, and of course, his companions in the mix. Then had come the reinforcements, and all hope washed away.

Bitterness filling his heart, Jameston had found few options: charge in and die or be captured, or flee. He ran. He took little heart in noting that most of the group was still alive when the prisoner caravan passed beneath his perch a short while later, for he knew their destination.

He watched the second group of trolls moving across soon after and cursed under his breath repeatedly for his foolishness in not at least demanding a wider scouting of the area before the impulsive attack. He couldn’t have stopped the stubborn would-be heroes, but perhaps he could have delayed them!

The scout shadowed that caravan the rest of the day and tried repeatedly to find some way into the troll encampment that night. But this was no novice group, and no openings presented themselves to the skilled hunter. He couldn’t get near to his companions.

The next day proved even worse, for the two troll groups tightened up as they hit the more difficult and broken mountain trails that led high above Toonruc’s Glacier. He watched helplessly as one woman stumbled and fell out of line to the ground. The trolls fell over her, beating and whipping, taunting and kicking, leaving her bloody form heaped on the ground.

As soon as they had moved out, Jameston rushed to her and was surprised indeed to find her still alive, though barely. He used his waterskin to clean the gashes, then pulled off his small pack and pulled out some bandages and herb salves and went to work on her many wounds.

She survived that ordeal with many groans and whimpers, but never opened her eyes. Jameston feared she never would open them again. He looked along the trail to where the trolls and their prisoners had disappeared and heaved a great sigh. Then he tenderly lifted the battered woman in his arms and moved off the way he had come.

It would be a long journey back to Vanguard, he knew, but that was this poor soul’s only chance, and he had to inform Dame Gwydre that her team of assassins had failed. The prospect of a Vanguard ruled by Ancient Badden did not sit well with Jameston.

Bound, dirty, cold, and bone-weary, the prisoners were forced into a side-by-side line out in the middle of the glacier, just south of the enormous ice castle that graced the mountainside on the eastern edge of the ice river, and just before an enormous chasm in the glacial ice. Not far away, a pair of giants pounded wedges deep into the ice, but even their brute force could not intimidate the prisoners more than the old, but hardly feeble, man who stood before them.

Bransen knew it to be Ancient Badden, for he, who had slain the vile Samhaist Bernivvigar, surely recognized the Samhaist robes of station. The sheer power exuded by the old man, a commanding presence that seemed to mock any who stood near to him, reminded Bransen clearly of his long-ago encounter with the imposing Bernivvigar.

Only this one was stronger, he understood. Much stronger.

Ancient Badden let a long, long time slide past silently. The trolls stepped nervously from foot to foot, occasionally tittering, though not one dared speak. The prisoners tried hard not to meet Badden’s withering gaze, but whenever one did he or she knew true hopelessness.

“Him first,” the Samhaist instructed, pointing to Olconna, who was doing much better than his friends had anticipated. “Take the rest away. Keep them alive and keep them miserable that they will more welcome their deaths.”

A trio of trolls grabbed Olconna and hustled him forward. When he tried to resist they tripped him facedown to the ice, his hands bound behind his back. He landed with a sharp crack. Olconna only groaned, but when he rolled to his side he left a stream of bright-red blood on the blue-white surface.

Bransen glanced at Ancient Badden to gauge his response; if the man had even noted Olconna’s fall he didn’t show it. Instead, his gaze had locked on a troll off to the side, the one that carried Bransen’s sword strapped diagonally across its back. The Samhaist stared at it curiously for just a moment, then reached out his hand and grasped suddenly, as if he were grabbing the troll by the throat.

And indeed, magically, he had done just that from the way the creature suddenly stiffened and reached up with its own hands. Ancient Badden retracted his hand, and the troll stumbled toward him at such an angle that it obviously would have fallen over had not the Samhaist’s magic been holding it on its feet.

As the troll came in Badden grabbed it by the throat with his real hand and with surprisingly little effort lifted the squirming creature into the air and turned it about. He regarded the decorated sword for only a moment before pulling it free, then dropped the troll back to the ground.

Ancient Badden’s eyes sparkled as he studied the magnificent weapon. He said something to the troll that Bransen and the others couldn’t hear. The troll responded more loudly, but in a language that none of them understood. Badden pushed the troll away and took up the sword in both hands, waving it before his eyes, his expression that of someone who had just realized a great treasure.

That expression changed abruptly. Ancient Badden sniffed at the air, eyes narrowing. Bransen managed to keep from throwing himself off balance as he glanced back to note Badden’s souring expression, to see the Samhaist bring the sword blade up horizontally under his nose and sniff it, as a hunting dog might sniff.