R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Bransen hopped right back up, but he felt the pangs of the Stork within, the moment of Jhesta Tu-inspired coordination fast fading. He barely slapped aside the clawing strikes of the last of that group, and worse, several more were fast heading his way. Worst of all for Bransen, Ancient Badden had taken note of the fight.

The ice under Bransen’s feet suddenly turned to water, and he plunged down, and only avoided continuing deep into the glacier by throwing himself to the side. Instinctively, Bransen rolled himself out of the water- and a good thing that was, for it froze again almost immediately.

Across the way, Ancient Badden cackled with enjoyment. Trolls fell over Bransen, beating and clawing him. His glorious moment of concentration was lost, falling to the curse of the Stork once more. He still tried to flail, for what it was worth, but the four trolls now bearing him held him tightly and a pair of others walked alongside, punching him hard every time he moved.

They dropped the nearly unconscious man at Ancient Badden’s feet near the edge of the glacier and moved fearfully away.

“Do you see it?” Ancient Badden asked him. Lying helpless, Bransen saw only the sky and the tall man towering over him. Badden reached down and took him by the front of his shirt and with surprising and terrifying strength hoisted him upright. Bransen looked out on a long, long drop, hundreds of feet and more, to a wide and long lake that was almost completely blanketed by fog.

“Mithranidoon,” Ancient Badden explained. “It’s called that even by the Alpinadoran barbarians. A Samhaist name in this northern land. Do you know why that is?”

Bransen didn’t even try to respond, for he wasn’t even sure what he was seeing or feeling or hearing. He had all he could handle to merely keep himself from falling into a deep and dark place. He could not allow that to happen. Not now.

“Because the magic of this place cannot be denied- not even by the barbarians,” Ancient Badden proclaimed. “Even they understand that our name for it-Mithranidoon-is the most fitting. Even they accept that this is, as it long ago was, a Samhaist holy place. And yet it is not under my dominion. Not yet. Not until I wash away the vermin who have deceitfully come to call Mithranidoon their home, as if any but the Ancient of the Samhaists holds any claim on Mithranidoon!”

Bransen tried to commit Badden’s words to memory, though he expected that they would mean nothing to him in short order, since he would be dead. Still, that part in him that would never surrender kept working, kept plotting, kept trying.

“The great worm does its burrowing work,” Ancient Badden said, and it was obvious to Bransen that he wasn’t talking to him anymore, was just speaking out loud to hear the glory of his words. “The blood of trolls ensures that the god-beast’s work is not reversed by the cold. And soon Mithranidoon will be cleansed.”

Ancient Badden’s voice had risen with each word, in glorious proclamation, and he ended with a self-deprecating chuckle, as if a bit embarrassed by his outburst. “I cannot allow you to participate,” Badden said to Bransen. “I am sorry, but you will not share in the glory of my victory. My god-beast is too precious to me to allow it to eat you.

“Of course, none of this matters to you,” Ancient Badden said, his voice lowering as he threw Bransen from the cliff.

In all me days, I ain’t seen anything as stupid,” Mcwigik grumbled, and pulled on the oar to complement Bikelbrin, who was sitting beside him. “Ye’re taking us to get cold so we won’t be getting cold?”

“It is called acclimating,” Cormack explained.

“It’s called stupid.”

“You said you want to get off the island and the lake.”

“Get off and stay off! But not to sleep against the ice.”

“We might have to,” said Cormack. “Winter hasn’t come in yet, but it’s drawing near, and even this time of year can bring freezing winds and deep snows to the higher passes.”

“Then we won’t go to the higher passes,” Mcwigik argued.

Cormack exhaled and tried to relax. He knew that part of the dwarf’s agitation was due to the dramatic adventure they might soon be undertaking. He and these four powries, along with Milkeila, he prayed, and perhaps some of her friends, were bound to leave Mithranidoon. This was not the best time to undertake such a journey, but the thought of spending another several months on the lake surrounded by nothing but powries was more than Cormack’s sensibilities could handle. It hadn’t taken him long to decipher that Mcwigik and his fellows felt the same way, either. They all wanted out-now.

“Shouldn’t yer lady friend be with us?” Mcwigik asked.

“Shouldn’t you take me to her so that I can find out?” came the sarcastic reply.

“In good time-when others’ eyes ain’t on ye so much.”

“The more we get to the cold, the better. It will thicken your blood.”

“Yeah, acclimating,” said Bikelbrin. Behind him Pergwick chuckled.

“Stupid,” muttered Mcwigik under his breath, but he let it go at that. For all his complaining, everyone there knew well that he wanted to get away from Mithranidoon as much or more than anyone else.

In fact, Mcwigik picked up his rowing pace as soon as the conversation ended, nudging Bikelbrin to match him.

Instinct replaced conscious thought as Bransen plummeted from the ledge. Arms flailing, body twisting, the man’s sensibilities were too consumed by sudden terror to consider his Stork limitations. The Book of Jhest resonated in his thoughts, and he reflexively twisted to get his arms nearer the sheer ice wall.

Then those arms worked desperately, frantically, catching, grabbing, pulling, scraping-never enough to jolt him or send him tumbling, for that would have been a fatal mistake, but enough to continually jerk against the fall. It took him a couple of heartbeats to align his sight properly below and put his arms in synch, reacting to the edges and bumps as he registered them. But once he found that balance and timing he began to literally pick his path below him and devise the best strategies.

He manipulated by the angle of his grabs and slaps and the constant twists of his waist, and his handwork became more intrusive and stronger. He spotted one bigger ledge just below, and reacted fast enough to hook his fingers a dozen feet above it-not to break his fall as much as to give him the leverage to turn vertical. His feet hit the ledge hard; his legs bent to absorb the blow, and he did not resist as he fell right over backward, having somewhat slowed his descent.

Then his hands went back to work, and he kicked his feet against every possible jag as well, working furiously to counter the force of his fall. Some two dozen feet from the ground, though, the glacial wall sloped in and away, and the already plummeting Bransen could only free-fall that last expanse. He knew that he was going too fast to attempt to roll out of it as he hit, so he flattened himself out horizontally and spread his arms and his legs.

He slammed into the muddy ground, and the bright sky winked out.

Ha! Looks like yer eyes seen right,” Mcwigik said when the group of four dwarves and Cormack came around an ice and boulder jag at the base of the glacier to see a man lying flat out on his back, driven more than halfway into the muddy ground.

“I’m guessing that hurt,” Ruggirs said, and all four of the powries chuckled. Cormack, though, saw nothing funny in the tragic fall, and rushed to the man, though in looking up at the towering glacial cliff face, he knew that this one was certainly dead.

The man’s strange black clothing made him even more curious, and when Cormack got beside him, the lightweight nature of the smooth fabric had him scratching his head, as it was totally unfamiliar to him.