R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“Form them up at once and let us be far away from this place,” Father De Guilbe instructed Giavno as he walked past. “I would find Dame Gwydre before the onset of winter, and that will be no easy road.”

“Of course, Father,” Giavno replied, and a part of him agreed. Another part, though, had him looking to the north yet again, and wondering about Cormack and the others. He recognized the expediency of De Guilbe’s decision to abandon their mission and return where they were likely needed, but that didn’t stop him from feeling as if he and his brethren were, perhaps, abandoning their neighbors in this time of dire need. For despite all of their fighting, even the deadly siege put upon Chapel Isle by the Alpinadorans, Brother Giavno did think of them, and of the powries, as neighbors.

That was the surprising paradox that dominated his mind and his heart.

“Brother Giavno!” Father De Guilbe shouted, shaking the man from his contemplations. He nodded and rushed off to rouse the brothers.

He was glad that it was not his place to make these decisions.

They glided out of the mists of Mithranidoon like the ghosts of their warrior ancestors, painted with berry dyes of red and yellow and blue, carrying spears and clubs, and decorated with trinkets and necklaces of teeth and claws and paws and beaks and feathers-so many feathers. Their flotilla numbered boats in the hundreds, each boat carrying as few as one or as many as a half-dozen of the proud Alpinadorans. Most stood up as the boats reached the shore, as if in defiance to the task and enemy that awaited them.

Even Milkeila, intimately familiar with her people, even Bransen, who had seen the armies of southern Honce, even Mcwigik, who was never much impressed with anything human, gasped at the spectacle of the many diverse tribes of Mithranidoon coming together as one. And for Cormack, this marvelous sight served to reinforce his understanding that proselytizing these people, with their traditions, heritage, and pride, was no more than a fool’s errand, and a condescending one at that.

For Milkeila, though, another emotion accompanied it all, based on her certainty that she was looking upon her people for the last time, likely forever. Even if she managed to survive the coming battle, she knew that it was over for her. Her small group of friends, co-conspirators dreaming of leaving Mithranidoon only two years before, had been split apart from her in more ways than physical. She stood with the man she had come to love, but inside, Milkeila had never felt more alone.

Still, the spectacle before her made her proud to be, or to have been, of Yan Ossum.

At the center of the Alpinadoran force came the shamans, Teydru and Toniquay prominent among their ranks. More than just spiritual leaders, Alpinadoran shamans were considered the wise men of their respective tribes, the advisors on all matters important.

“They will direct the attack,” Milkeila explained to her companions, indicating the select group.

“They will likely wish to speak more with Bransen then,” said Cormack, “as he has seen the passes and the glacial structures.” He was about to add that he would help Milkeila in translating the exchange, but the woman just shook her head.

“They have seen them,” she explained. “Both the way to Badden and his defenses. If we were to be a part of their execution, they would have summoned us as they debarked their boats.”

“What’s that to mean?” Mcwigik demanded. “Got all me boys together just to be a part of it.”

Milkeila calmed him with an upraised hand, and cautiously made her way along the beach to speak with Toniquay.

“The powries wish to help,” she said to her superior. “They have brought the whole of their force to join in our march.”

“Our march?” Toniquay quipped, his expression sour. “You have plotted to leave us, and conspired of late to expedite your journey. Because you brought us this information, Shaman Teydru has seen fit to grant you your wish without prejudice or punishment. You have paid your worth to us and are free to go.”

While those words might have once sounded as welcome to the young woman, in this time and place they hit her as mightily as a bolt of lightning. She had known it was coming, indeed, but still, to hear the declaration spoken so clearly and directly unnerved the poor young woman. The black wings of panic fluttered up all around her, threatening to drown her sensibilities in their confused jumble of flapping. She felt alone, suddenly. Homeless and without family, stranded on the beach of a hostile world, all security stolen.

She looked over to her tribesmen, trying to sort through the jumble to spot Androosis, or some other friend who had expressed similar desires of leaving Mithranidoon.

“Your young friends will not be joining you,” said Toniquay, as if he had read her mind (and indeed, that was not beyond his power). “They have offered no compensation for the freedom they desire-not even Androosis, though there was debate about whether or not he, too, should be given free leave.”

Milkeila stood there for a long while, trying to find her breath.

“I would have thought this news exciting and welcome to you,” Toniquay teased, for of course he had anticipated exactly this.

Milkeila regained her composure, albeit with great difficulty. “Of course,” she said, for what choice did she have? A decision so rendered by the shaman council was not an invitation to debate.

“The powries have come in whole to join in your battle with Ancient Badden,” she restated. “They are fierce allies and ferocious enemies, as you are well aware. They would know their place in this, among a force so many times their size.”

“How generous of them,” Toniquay remarked, contempt thickening his voice. “Better than the cowardly monks, at least, who debark far to the south and run down the road of the same direction. They stand strong only behind thick walls of stone, it would seem.”

“Their place?” Milkeila pressed, knowing well that Toniquay could launch into a diatribe of many minutes, and one that left him far from her original question, if he was not quickly reined.

“They have no place among us,” Toniquay answered bluntly. “If they wish a place in the battle, then it is to the side, and out of our way.”

Milkeila started to argue, but Toniquay was hearing none of it. “We do not train beside powries, nor are we to expect our warriors to trust any of them. The same is true of the monk and the stranger.”

“And of Milkeila?”

“You trained beside us once.”

“But the trust?”

Toniquay paused and let the question slide away before reiterating, “Their place is not among us. They, you, all of you, would do well to stay far to the side of our march.”

Milkeila couldn’t help it as her misty eyes were drawn out to the lake, toward Yossunfier, which had once been her home.

Once and always and nevermore.

They were not properly outfitted to survive the climate off of Mithranidoon, even now before the onset of winter, so the Alpinadorans, led by their shamans, who had used the views of eagles and hawks and crows to spy out and map the passes, wasted no time in their march. Long and swift strides carried their formations up the mountain passes beside the glacier; shamans and other leaders shouted encouragement and bolstered the warriors with magic and herb-treated waters to hold their spirit and their strength. There would be no camp, no respite. Their swift pace would end when they met the enemy.

Behind them came the powries, and among them Bransen and his two now-homeless companions, still trying to figure out where they would fit into this upcoming battle.

Before they had even reached the glacier, sounds of fighting erupted far ahead, at the front of the Alpinadoran line. The ranks tightened, powries eagerly adjusting their berets. But those ranks quickly loosened up again, and when the trailing group crossed the battlefield they discovered that the army had happened upon, and had summarily overrun, an encampment of no more than a dozen trolls.