R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Badden reflexively let go of Bransen’s hair to bring his free hand in to stop the barrage, but the moment he did Bransen shot out to the side, going after Badden’s sword arm, going after the sword, furiously.

But even though he got the leverage, the proper angle, he couldn’t pry the weapon free, and he realized his error, realized how vulnerable he had left himself, right before Badden’s fist smashed him in the back, driving his breath from his body. This was no mortal he faced, but some magical monstrosity! He needed the sword, but he couldn’t hope to get it. Badden pounded him again, and Bransen’s legs went weak.

“Fool!” the old Samhaist chided.

Bransen fell within himself as yet another explosive and thundering punch crashed against his back. He found his line of chi, found his center… He thought of Cadayle. He centered all of his fleeting thoughts on her, using her image as a focal point for holding on to his fast-flying consciousness. Something flew past him, and he was jerked backward. Another form rushed by-Cormack. He heard the slap of punches; he managed to glance over his shoulder to see Mcwigik tight about Badden’s leg, biting the man hard on the thigh, and to see Cormack facing Badden straight up, raining a rapid barrage of punches against the man’s face. That one was no novice to fighting.

But neither was he-were they-a match for Ancient Badden.

Bransen guessed Badden’s move-to pull free the sword and be done quickly with all three-so as soon as the Ancient started, Bransen reacted with sudden fury and all the power of his training behind him. He lunged for Badden’s sword hand, grasping the wrist and cupping his other hand over the Ancient’s clenched fist, snapping with all his strength, with all of his leverage, with every ounce of Jhesta Tu and gemstone magic he could possibly muster. One chance, he knew. One moment of focused power.

Ancient Badden’s hand bent back over his wrist, his wrist-bone shattering. Bransen drove his own hand up over Badden’s fist, catching the serpent hilt of his mother’s sword and pulling it free.

He got slugged one more time but anticipated it and was diving into a forward roll even as Badden’s fist hit him, thus absorbing much of the blow. He rolled head over, coming numbly back to his feet, and he spun about just in time to see Cormack launched in a sidelong somersault by a vicious backhand.

Staring at Bransen with hate-filled eyes, clutching his broken hand in close at his side, the Ancient clawed his free hand down on the stubborn, gnawing powrie, and with frightening strength plucked Mcwigik free.

He lifted the dwarf to throw him at Bransen, but the Highwayman was already there, coming under the would-be sentient missile. He stabbed, and quickly slashed upward, cutting under Badden’s arm. The Ancient still managed to throw Mcwigik, but suddenly he had so little strength behind it that the dwarf bounced and turned and roared right back in. Or would have, if there had been a need.

Bransen worked like a dancer, spinning, swinging his arm, changing the angle of his deadly blade with such skill and precision that Ancient Badden never once blocked or turned effectively enough to prevent the Highwayman from hitting him exactly where Bransen had wanted to.

The sword slashed across Badden’s belly, came around and poked him hard in the biceps, and as he lurched, his arm lowering, slashed him across the chin, drawing a sizable line across half his throat in the process. Over and over, Bransen rolled the blade, diagonal down, left and right, and lines of bright blood erupted all across the Samhaist’s light green robes.

Now Badden wore a mask of fear, and he stumbled backward, trying pitifully to get his arms up. Bransen kept hitting him, slashing him, even lifting a foot to kick him. Back went the Ancient, who suddenly seemed little more than an old man, to fall into an awkward sitting position against the wall. And Bransen was there, suddenly, sword edge against Badden’s already bleeding neck. Ancient Badden laughed at him, blood dripping out with every chortle.

“You seem happy for a man about to die,” said Bransen. Behind him, Cormack cried out for Milkeila, and Bransen heard splashing.

“We all die, fool,” Badden replied. “You will not likely see near the years I have known.”

“Or the failure,” said Bransen.

“Ah yes, the triumph of your Abellican Church,” Badden retorted, and indeed, Bransen’s face did crinkle at that.

“My Church?” he asked incredulously.

“You have thrown in with them!”

Bransen snickered at the absurdity of the remark.

“Do you think them any better?” Badden asked, his words becoming more labored. “Oh, they find their shining moment now, when their baubles so impress the young and strong lairds. But where will they be when those lairds are old and lie dying, and those baubles offer nothing?

“We Samhaists know the truth, the inevitability,” he went on. “There is no escape from the darkness. Their promises are hollow!” He laughed, a bloody and bitter sound.

“A truth you are about to realize intimately,” Bransen reminded him.

But Badden’s laugh mocked him. “And as these Abellican fools rise ascendant, buoyed by their empty promises of forever, do you think they will be any better?”

But now Bransen was back on level emotional ground. “Do you think that I care?” he chided right back, and that brought a curious look from the old man.

“Then why are you here?”

Bransen laughed at him and stood straight. “Because they paid me,” he said with a cold and casual tone, “and because I hate everything for which you stand.”

His sword came across, and Badden’s puzzled expression remained on his face as his head rolled across the floor.

The six survivors and Brother Jond collected the rest of the prisoners and led them out of Ancient Badden’s ice castle.

Outside, the battle had ended; with the dragon chased off, the troll lines had broken, and now both barbarian and dwarf lined the chasm, throwing stones and blocks of ice and spears down at the monster that prowled its depths. From the roars that rose, it seemed as if many were hitting the mark. For the great white worm would not flee into one of its burrows to escape the barrage. It would not back down from the threat, though it had no way of scaling the chasm wall to get at its attackers.

Its mighty bulk and power could not protect it from its own lack of brains.

Mcwigik and Bikelbrin rushed off to join in the fun, and even Pergwick, holding his cap against his head, and his cap holding his scalp in place, followed.

“You are from Vanguard?” Brother Jond asked Cormack, who supported him as they moved across the ice.

“Years ago,” Cormack explained. “And Chapel Abelle before that. I was a member of Father De Guilbe’s expedition.”

That sparked recognition in Jond, and a great smile creased his face. “I had thought the feel of your clothing to be that of an Abellican robe!”

“I am not Abellican anymore, Brother.”

Jond stopped and faced Cormack, though of course he couldn’t actually see the man.

“I was cast out,” Cormack admitted. “I questioned the limitations.”

“Limitations?”

“The Abellican Church’s refusal to explore those traditions and magic outside the domain of the Church and the gemstones,” Cormack honestly offered. “There is more beauty to be found in this world, a wider truth than that which we have come to represent.” Brother Jond gave a curious “hmm,” and Cormack had no idea if he was offending or intriguing the man. “The woman who accompanied us into the castle is a shaman of an Alpinadoran tribe,” Cormack explained.

“I gathered as much.”