R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“Yes, Brother,” Giavno addressed the young monk. “Come. Together we two will carry the stone to the chapel, and what a fine addition to the wall it will be.”

Together, he thought, for all that the brothers of Blessed Abelle had was each other. So far from home, so far from kin, without that mutual bond they would all surely lose their minds.

That was what had made Cormack’s betrayal so particularly difficult.

Ye might remember Bikelbrin, and these are me friends, Ruggirs and Pergwick,” Mcwigik said, splashing at the water’s edge behind Cormack.

Cormack nodded to each in turn, wondering uneasily what this unexpected meeting might be all about.

“We’ll take ye to her,” Mcwigik announced, and the fishing spear fell out of Cormack’s hand. “Not sure how we’ll do it, but we’ll find a way. But we got a price.”

Cormack held up his arms, fully displaying his now-ragged brown robe. “I have little, but what I have-”

“Ye know yer way about out there,” Mcwigik interrupted. “That’s the price.”

Cormack looked at him curiously.

“The four of us’re done with this rock, and have been for a long time,” the dwarf explained. “We’re wanting to be gone from the lake, but we’re not for knowing the land about. Been a hundred years since I walked those paths, but for yourself, it’s not so long. So we’ll help ye get yer girl, and in exchange, ye’ll take us along.”

“My road will be south, no doubt, out of Alpinador and into the Honce land of Vanguard-maybe even across the gulf and into Honce proper, itself. I’m not sure how well-received a powrie might be…”

“Ye’ll take care of it,” Mcwigik said. “So start thinking on how we might get ye to yer girl, and then we’re off this rock, all six-or five, if she’s not to come.”

“Or nine or ten, perhaps even twelve,” said Cormack, “if her friends decide that they, too, wish to see the wider world.”

“Bring a hundred,” said Mcwigik. “A thousand! Long as me and me boys get to get out o’ here and to places more interesting.”

Cormack settled back on his heels. He could hardly believe the sudden turn of events. One moment, he was floating on a raft of tied troll carcasses, about to be eaten by fish, and now he was looking at escape, at what he and Milkeila had dreamed of for a long, long time.

He nodded-stupidly, he figured.

“We can find Yossunfier at night,” Mcwigik said. “And we’re thinking to go in one of the next few.”

Cormack nodded again, no less stupidly. Mcwigik thumped his hands on his hips and walked off.

Cormack retrieved his fishing spear. Oddly, he couldn’t hit another thing the rest of the afternoon.

For the Enjoyment of the Ancient

They huddled in the cold on the glacial ice with little or nothing to eat or drink, growing weaker by the day.

The fortunate ones continued to huddle in misery, for every couple of days one was grabbed from their midst and dragged to the crevice, to be wounded and lowered into the gorge as food for the beast that lay below.

Ancient Badden presided over those ceremonies of sacrifice, and he seemed to truly enjoy it. How much like Bernivvigar he appeared to Bransen. The same feral look consumed him in those moments of inflicting agony upon others.

The only other time they saw the old wretch was during the daily troll sacrifice. This was done differently, with several trolls hanged over the gorge with slit wrists so that their blood rained into the dark chasm.

“They hang them in different places every day,” one of the human prisoners observed. “Like they’re trying to make sure that the whole chasm gets coated in troll blood.”

“Thin blood, that,” another of the prisoners chimed in. “Mix it with water, and the water won’t freeze.”

None of them had the wherewithal to put it together from there, because, really, what did it matter to the doomed prisoners?

Bransen, however, noted every detail. His entire existence at that point centered around his mental acuity, as his physical limitations had only increased with the brutal conditions. He tried to put all his Jhesta Tu training and discipline to the side for the time being, as if he was storing it for one furious moment. That was his only hope. He had to find exactly the right time and hope that such an opportunity would present itself.

One gray morning Bransen knew that his last chance had come.

Only Brother Jond fought for him when the troll guards came to drag Bransen away. Even Olconna mitigated Jond’s protests, quietly telling the monk that maybe it was for the better that Bransen’s misery be ended. Whether they fought for him or not wouldn’t have mattered in a practical sense, but Olconna’s attitude stung Bransen profoundly. He had more important things to think about, however, as the trolls dragged him to the edge of the chasm. He lay helpless as Ancient Badden approached, carrying Bransen’s sword.

This was his moment, Bransen realized. He had to somehow call upon the powers of his training, had to strike fast and sure, get that sword and finish Badden as he had done with Bernivvigar. But he had possessed a soul stone on that long-ago occasion; every step and movement wasn’t a battle for him then as it was now. Still, he had to try!

“This one?” Ancient Badden asked. His incredulous tone allowed the prisoner to ease back from his shining moment of fury. “Hmm,” Badden mumbled, glancing from Bransen to the gorge. “No,” he decided.

Bransen breathed a sigh of relief, though he knew any reprieve could only be temporary. Every one of the prisoners was being kept alive for one purpose. “No, if we feed him to the worm, he will likely infect the beast with… with whatever malady it is that so wrenched his limbs. Bring him south.”

Ancient Badden started off in that same direction, crossing an ice bridge to the southern rim of the chasm, then walking off the hundred strides or so to the glacier’s cliff edge. The trolls dragged Bransen behind.

Bransen knew he had avoided being sacrificed but not escaped execution. His resistance was not a conscious decision; it came from pure instinct, simple and unafraid, as only a man who realizes death is both imminent and unavoidable might discover. All of his muscles twitched in magnificent harmony, moving together for the first time since he had lost the soul stone, lifting him suddenly to his feet, his wrists and ankles breaking free of the hold of the four escorting trolls as he twisted and then hopped upright.

He snapped a circle-kick against the side of a troll’s knee and slugged the creature in the jaw as he came around, launching it away. He leaped straight up as the other three closed on him and kicked out to both sides with perfect balance and stunning power-literally stunning, as the kicks sent two trolls staggering and stumbling to the ground.

The remaining escort leaped onto Bransen’s back and began clawing, but the man executed a high somersault and stretched out to full extension as he came over, ending his turn so that he landed flat on his back atop the troll. He wrenched the creature’s arms from his chest and throat and twisted them at the wrist as he rolled off the creature. When he hopped back up to his feet, he gave sudden jerks that broke both of those wrists cleanly.

Bransen spun about as two of the first three came in at him. The leading enemy was right upon him as he turned, and got its hands about his throat, choking him. Bransen hooked his thumbs under those of the troll and tugged out and down, then folded his legs under him so that he fell to his knees, taking the troll down with him. He used the suddenness of that impact to viciously drive the troll’s thumbs over and down, breaking both.