R. Salvatore - The Ancient

She fared the best, however, for the only place in the room, other than at Badden’s feet, that was not violently rolling and crashing was within that very pool. The shaman grimaced as Mcwigik and Bikelbrin flew past her, grabbing at each other for support until they were split apart from each other by the intervening fountain tower, both ricocheting, spinning out toward the walls. She cried out in pain as her beloved Cormack flew straight up into the air, more than a dozen feet-and only his considerable training allowed him to sort himself out enough in his descent to prevent landing on his head.

She winced at watching Bransen, not flying about, but maneuvering over the solid waves as a boat might defy heavy surf, and she gasped in shock to see one wave break right over poor Ruggirs, smashing down on the dwarf with tremendous force, blowing out his breath in a great and profound groan. The ice wave blended right over him, burying him in the floor.

Not far from her, Ancient Badden cackled with enjoyment, and stamped his foot again, giving rise to another series of waves, ones that crashed into the rebounding first set and sent the whole of the room into frenzy. Even the walls began to ripple and buckle! Now all of Milkeila’s friends flopped and bounced about uncontrollably, except for buried Ruggirs and one other.

To the Jhesta Tu, Bransen’s posture was known as doan-chi-kree, the “stance of the mountain,” a place of complete balance and perfect calm, where the straight-standing mystic reached his line of life energy, his chi, below his ki, his groin, and down to doan, the floor beneath his feet. That line of life energy became the mystic’s roots, his stability, and in such a state, a Jhesta Tu could not be moved by a charging giant.

The floor rolled to Badden’s command beneath Bransen’s feet, but Bransen moved with it, his legs bending and straightening accordingly and so perfectly that his upper body remained perfectly still. He locked stares with Badden. The Ancient stomped his foot again. But Bransen would not be thrown.

Milkeila drew courage from that image and shook herself from her stupor. She reached into her magic again and thrust it into Badden’s fountain, demanding that the violence end.

She felt as if she was trying to hold back the great Mirianic Ocean itself! But she shook away her despair and pressed on, blocking out all the distractions, focusing solely on the task at hand.

The room began to quiet.

Ancient Badden broke off his stare and looked over his shoulder at the woman, feeling her intrusion into his magic as keenly as if she was reaching into his stomach and tugging at his entrails. The Samhaist roared, as much the voice of a dragon as that of a man, and stabbed his hands out to the fountain’s centering geyser. The roiling waters froze solid suddenly, encasing Milkeila’s hands and forearms in a crushing grip.

Badden whipped his arm in a sudden circle, and the icicle responded likewise, turning over itself as it rushed around, twisting Milkeila right over.

She felt her shoulders pop from their sockets, then wrenched her back as the ice stopped its swing abruptly, locking her top half fast in place while her lower body whipped around.

Waves of nausea and dizziness and floating black spots filled her gut and head and eyes, and when the ice returned again to its liquid fountain form, the helpless woman dropped into and under the water, with no sense of direction or awareness at all.

Badden chuckled as he felt his magic flow more fully once more, but he knew that the diversion of this foolish woman had cost him. For in the moment of calm, the humans and dwarves had closed.

The Ancient snapped the fabulous sword off of his back, took the hilt in both hands and sent it out to arm’s length. With a maniacal cackle, the man went up onto the ball of one foot, hooked that balance point into his magical energy and began to spin. Not to spin like a young girl at play, but to truly whirl about, gaining speed and momentum with every turn. His form blurred; he altered the angle of his blade so that there was no possible approach.

Pergwick howled in sudden pain and fell away, desperately clutching at his head to hold his scalp in place. He went down to the floor, looking frantically for his lost beret.

Mcwigik and Cormack, side by side, fell away without getting stung, but Cormack shouted anyway, in frustrated outrage and not in physical pain, for he found himself separated from his fallen Milkeila, and he couldn’t see her above the rim of the fountain bowl. He tried to maneuver around the side, but got all tangled up with the ducking and retreating Mcwigik.

“What whirlpool’s he swimming in?” the dwarf barked in absolute surprise.

Bransen, too, slipped out of reach, but in a more controlled manner, taking a full measure of his adversary, and Bikelbrin dove over the side of the fountain, splashing down into the water. He had just regained his footing when Badden suddenly extended his reach, using the narrow sword as a focus for the release of his magical energy.

The prone Pergwick skidded across the room. Cormack and Mcwigik went flying away in a confused tumble, and Bikelbrin flew back into the center pole of the fountain with such force that his sensibilities kept right on flying.

Dazed and hardly conscious as he hit the water once more, the dwarf flopped over the drowning Milkeila. On pure instinct, he hooked his arm under the woman’s head and rolled himself onto his back, atop her back, using her bulk to keep his own head above the water. He kept his arm hooked to hold himself steady, and that alone saved the gasping Milkeila, for the weight of the dwarf rolled him back and his arm brought her head out of the water.

Ancient Badden had never felt a purer release of magical energy, as satisfying as any release any man might know. He stomped his foot to accentuate the magic, sending the room into a series of crashing ice waves once again.

Before he could congratulate himself, however, Ancient Badden looked into the face of one who had not been moved by his magical thrust, and who seemed not bothered in the least by the current rocking.

Bransen Garibond held his ground. “You have my sword,” the Highwayman calmly explained, and Badden looked at him in abject disbelief.

“It is you!” the Samhaist replied. “I threw you from the glacier!”

“Highwaymen bounce,” Bransen replied.

“You were a babbling fool-an idiot who could hardly stand!”

“Or I was a clever scout, taking a measure of Ancient Badden and his forces before bringing doom upon them.”

Badden stood up straight and shook his head-or started to, for faster than a striking serpent the Highwayman struck. He sprang forward and snapped off a left and right jab for the old man’s face, connecting solidly both times.

He leaped back immediately, throwing back his hips and keeping his belly just an inch ahead of the thrusting sword. As he bent double with the move, Bransen drove down his forearm to knock the blade downward.

But Badden had anticipated that, and he cunningly turned the sword so that Bransen’s arm hit the razor edge.

Bransen did grimace, but simply rolled his hand down lower, changing the angle and driving the blade out wide. Then he rushed back in, slamming against Badden, one hand holding the man’s sword arm, the other hand grasping the old man’s face.

And Badden responded by snapping his free arm up behind Bransen. First he crushed the man into him, and with strength beyond anything Bransen could ever have believed possible!

Badden grabbed the back of Bransen’s hair and bandanna and tugged back violently, and Bransen growled in pain and in the sudden horror that he might again lose that precious gemstone. He raked his hand straight down, fingernails drawing lines of blood on Badden’s face, then reversed and hit the old man with a series of short and devastating uppercuts, crunching bone beneath his pounding fist.