The Ancient

  “What’re ye jabberin’, then?” the knife-holder argued. “I come here to wet me cap, and wetting me cap’s what I’m to do!”

  “Ye got a dozen dead trolls for cutting.”

  “Bah, but troll blood’s not much for brightening me cap, and ye’re knowing it, ye danged fool, Mcwigik!”

  “Best ye’re to get, unless some o’ them other monks come out o’ their rock house, and that ain’t for happening!”

  One of the other powries added a complaint of his own, and another chimed in, but a second dwarf stepped forward in support of Mcwigik. Cormack recognized this one as the wounded Bikelbrin, whom Cormack had circle-kicked under the surf and had later leaped over when he had gone to intercept the ice trolls.

  “Let him go, Pragganag,” Bikelbrin said to the knife-holder. “If me thoughts’re sorting out right, then this one saved me hairy bum.”

  “Trolls had ye dead,” Mcwigik agreed. “We’d’ve put ye under a stone pile like we done to Regwegno there.”

  “Aye,” agreed another, and to Cormack’s horror, that one held up a heart—Regwegno’s heart, apparently.

  “But if there’d been no trolls it was us and them monks,” Pragganag argued, though even he seemed to be losing steam here and let his knife’s tip slip down toward the ground, enough so that Cormack was beginning to think he might indeed survive this ordeal. “Got me a crop o’ burned beard,” he added, tugging at the left half of his fiery red beard—or at least, the right side remained fiery red, for the clump in his hand had been blackened by one of Giavno’s bolts of lightning. “And now ye’re telling me that I lost half me beard for nothing? And when there’s bright human blood right there, laid out and tied and ready for the taking?”

  “Foul chaps we’d be to kill one what saved our hairy bums,” Mcwigik growled back at him.

  “Flattened yer own fat nose!” Pragganag shouted.

  “Aye,” said Mcwigik, and he glanced back and nodded—appreciatively!—at Cormack. “Got a wicked punch to him.”

  “And a wicked kick,” added Bikelbrin.

  “Then a good kill he’ll be!” Pragganag reasoned. “And a brighter cap I’ll wear!”

  “But ye weren’t the one to drop him, was ye?” Mcwigik asked. “Trolls bringed him down, and only because he leaped into the lot o’ them to save Bikelbrin. The least ye can do is knock him down yerself afore ye’re for taking his bright blood, don’t ye think?”

  Pragganag stood straighter, the knife slipping down to his side as he eyed Mcwigik and Bikelbrin suspiciously. “What’re ye saying?”

  Mcwigik grinned, his teeth shining white between the bushy black hair of his beard. He drew out his own knife and stepped fast behind Cormack. With a sudden swipe he took the bindings from the fallen man’s wrists. He reached down and grabbed the man by the arm and roughly hoisted him to his feet.

  A wave of dizziness buckled poor Cormack’s legs as a ball of fire seemed to erupt within his battered skull. He couldn’t focus his eyes and would have fallen back to the sand had not Bikelbrin rushed over to help Mcwigik keep him upright.

  “Well, alrighty then,” Pragganag laughed. He lifted his knife and advanced, grinning from ear to ear.

  Mcwigik didn’t even have to intercept, though, as a pair of dwarves behind Pragganag grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Not now, ye dolt,” one said. “Fool monk can’t even stand.”

  “Where’s yer honor?” the other agreed.

  “It’s staining me beret!” Pragganag argued, pulling away, but he did indeed lower his knife.

  “Now for yerself,” Mcwigik said, turning Cormack to face him, hoisting the man again as he slumped back toward the sand. “New moon tonight—ol’ Sheila’s not to be found. Are ye hearin’ me, boy?” He gave Cormack a little shake, which elicited a pronounced groan.

  “Next time Sheila’s not to be found ye get yerself back to the beach, and we’ll come ashore so that ye can fight Pragganag here straight up,” Mcwigik explained.

  “Yach, but the human dog’s not to come out to fight!” Pragganag argued.

  Mcwigik tossed his fellow dwarf a dismissive glance and muttered, “It’s the best ye’re getting,” before turning his attention back to Cormack. “Ye come alone and come ready to fight. And if Pragganag’s beating ye, then know yer blood’s forfeit.”

  “And what if this one wins?” Bikelbrin asked, giving Cormack another shake, which brought forth another groan. Across the way Pragganag snorted as if that notion was absurd.

  “We’ll get him something for his trouble, then,” said Mcwigik.

  “Yach, but ye’re giving him his life now!” one of the dwarves behind Pragganag reminded. “Ain’t that to be enough?”

  “Aye, that’s enough,” said another.

  “Nah,” Mcwigik bellowed back, waving his free hand at them. “Making it more interestin’. If this skinny human’s to win, then we’ll give him Pragganag’s cap,” he added suddenly, on impulse.

  “Aye!” Bikelbrin said, seeing all the faces except for Pragganag’s, of course, brightening around him.

  “To the dactyl’s bum ye are!” Pragganag frothed.

  But Mcwigik was quick to reply, “Are ye saying that ye can’t take a skinny human one-to-one?”

  “Yach!” Pragganag protested and threw up his arms, whirling away.

  “Ye heared it all, boy?” Mcwigik asked Cormack, turning the monk’s face to look at him directly. “Next time Sheila’s not to be seen. Gives ye a month to get yer head put back together. Ye come out and ye come out alone.”

  Surely the world was spinning, and Cormack hardly registered any of it. But he managed a nod.

  Mcwigik and Bikelbrin laid him back down on the sand, and Cormack’s thoughts fell far, far away.

  Onlookers ignorant of the shamanistic ways would have thought it a dance, though a pretty one to be sure. Milkeila’s bare feet scraped across the sand, drawing lines in a prescribed pattern about her as she turned and swayed and sang softly. She crossed her right foot over her left, stepped down with her heel, then gracefully rolled her ankle to lift the heel from the sand and point her toe in. She went up onto the ball of her other foot and slowly twirled all the way around.

  This was the circle of power.

  Milkeila’s hands moved in unison a foot apart out to her left. She chanted more loudly and dug her toe into the sand, connecting her to the power of the earth below her. Then she turned her palms up and lifted her hands to the sky, drawing that power up behind her movement. Her hands came gracefully down before her in a slow arc, and she repeated the process to her right side.

  The energy lifted more easily this time, she felt in her soul, so when her hands were high in the sky, she turned about the other way, altered her chant to the god of the wind, and slowly turned her palms over as she found a stance of symmetry. She felt the wind gathered in her palms, so she slowly lowered them down by her sides, her thumbs tapping her hips and then moving lower to brush her bare legs below the hem of her short skirt. They pressed down past the outside of her knees and the sides of her shins as she dropped into a crouch, so low that her hands soon rested flat on the ground.

  The shaman pressed the power of the wind into the soil, fanning the flames of the lava she had coaxed from far, far below. The ground around her, within her drawn circle, began to steam and to bubble. Despite what she had told herself before beginning the ceremony Milkeila couldn’t resist sending her thoughts into the ruby that hung on the gemstone necklace. She felt the power there, teeming with strength, and sent it, too, into the ground.

  One vent popped clear, shooting hot mist several feet into the air to the approving nods of the gathered clansmen and women. Several grabbed their pails of fish, knowing that the cooking circle was near completion.

  Milkeila felt the warmth beneath her bare feet and knew that she had done well. But when her mentor, Toniquay, called to her as “permid a’shaman yut,” she felt more guilt than pride. For that was her title, the Prime Shaman of You
th, the most promising priest of her generation. She had earned that honor honestly, she knew, and was well on her way to the accolade before the Southern monks had ever come to Mithranidoon. But the fact that she had dared use an Abellican gemstone in this sacred ritual, or that she wore the necklace at all, or that she had given her heart to a man not of Yan Ossum, made Toniquay’s prideful remark sting.

  Lost in the swirl of thoughts, Milkeila realized that she should step out of the cooking circle when her feet grew very, very hot. She came out facing the water and walked through the gathering down to the surf.

  “Always this beach,” Toniquay said behind her. “This is Milkeila’s special beach.”

  She didn’t turn to face him, for she knew that she was blushing fiercely. This particular beach faced Chapel Isle and also faced the secret sandbar where she met with her lover.

  “The magic is strong here, do you think?” Toniquay asked.

  “Yes, shaman,” she answered.

  “It is the magic of the old gods that draws you to this spot ever again, is it not?”

  She felt her cheeks grow even hotter at that double-edged question.

  “I see it, too,permid a’shaman yut,” Toniquay said, his voice dipped in the syrup of sarcasm as he was so wont to do.

  What did he see? Milkeila wondered. How much of the truth lay open to the wise and severe old man?

  Despite herself, she lifted her gaze toward Chapel Isle, but only for the briefest moment before turning to face Toniquay. His knowing smile reminded her of her own whenever she chanced to catch some of the younger boys staring at her legs or breasts.

  “A place of magic,” old Toniquay remarked, and walked away.

  Milkeila felt her cheeks flush hot again. She glanced over to see the fishermen and their wives preparing the meal, cooking the catch in the circle she had magically prepared by calling to the old gods of Yan Ossum.

  And by extracting the power of the Abellican ruby.

  SIX

  Keys to Debtor’s Prison

  The settlement on the mouth of the river where it spilled into the Gulf of Corona was called Palmaristown. It seemed to Bransen, Cadayle, and Callen that this was really two distinct cities and not one. Indeed, a solid wooden fence ran the length of the town, separating the ramshackle hovels in the region of the docks and the great river from the larger and more comfortable homes of the town’s eastern section. That secure fence surrounded the inner town completely, with an open gate accepting the southern road from Delaval and a second one in the northeast, running inland just south of the gulf.

  Guards walked their stations along a parapet built within that fence, with most concentrated in the west, looking out over the town’s poor section and the bustling docks.

  And they were indeed bustling, Bransen and his companions noted as they neared the southern gate. Ferries moved continually across the wide river, and so many sailing ships, including many of Laird Delaval’s warships, were in port that several had to be moored out from the fully occupied wharves. Teams of dirty men moved to and fro, heavy ropes out behind them as they hauled skids laden with supplies, or thick trunks of trees brought in from across the river to the west, the region appropriately known as the Timberlane.

  Drivers cracked whips on the heels of those poor laborers. The trio of visitors at the gate watched in astonished horror as one man fell to the docks beneath the weight of a heavy punch. He hit the ground, and the dockmaster began kicking him and stomping on him, despite his pleas, and none of the other laborers dared do anything more than look on.

  “You haven’t the stomach for it, then?” one of the guards at the gate asked the trio, obviously noting their horrified expressions. He looked at Bransen mostly, who moved without the soul stone this day in full Stork disguise. The guard crinkled his face at the sight and turned his stare to Cadayle. A rather lewd smile spread across his face.

  “My husband,” Cadayle said, stepping near to Bransen and taking his arm with her own. “Wounded in the war in the land south of Delaval.”

  “Fighting for?” the guard prompted. Across from him a pair of other sentries took note of the conversation and watched with sudden interest. They looked at Doully the donkey, too, particularly at the bulging saddlebags slung over her back.

  “Laird Delaval, of course,” Cadayle replied. “We are of Pryd Town, and Laird Prydae threw in with Delaval against Ethelbert, as has his successor, Laird Delaval’s own nephew.”

  “Welcome, then,” said the first. “You have nothing the Abellican monks cannot fix?”

  “I… I… I,” Bransen stammered and stuttered and drooled, and the sentry winced in obvious disgust.

  “None have helped,” Cadayle interjected. “Though many have tried. Perhaps here we will find our answers.”

  “Father Malskinner is mighty with the stones,” one of the guards to the side remarked.

  “Come through, then, and find your way,” the first said, and waved the trio and their donkey through. “And don’t you worry,” he said to Bransen as the man staggered by him. “Those fools down there under the whip were brought from Ethelbert’s lines.”

  “They are prisoners?” Callen asked with surprise.

  “Until they die from their efforts, aye,” the guard explained. He didn’t seem bothered in the least by that eventuality. He glanced down at the docks and the bedraggled slaves. “I lost my brother in a ship fight in the gulf. I’d go down there and put the sword to the lot of them if it was my choice to make. But I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing that these fools are helping Laird Delaval put an end to Ethelbert’s claims. Every log they bring in from across the river, every crate of food or weapons sailing up from Delaval Town, works against the Beast of Entel. When Ethelbert falls, and fall he will, I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing that Palmaristown played her part in his demise!”

  “I only wish that my husband had not been so badly wounded that he might still aid in the effort,” Cadayle said.

  “Could be that his wife would offer comfort to guards loyal to Delaval,” one of the pair across the way remarked, and his companion chuckled.

  Cadayle took care to keep her response muted, neither too insulting in rebuff nor too accepting of the slight that it could coax the man on in his carnal quest. She clutched Bransen’s arm tighter and led him through the gate, Callen and Doully coming up behind them.

  Of all the towns they had traveled through none possessed the energy of Palmaristown. The city was not on the front lines of the fighting like so many of the settlements from Pryd to Delaval, and few wounded came through. Yet, Palmaristown remained in the very center of it all, for through here came many of Laird Delaval’s soldiers, boarding ships to be carried across the Gulf of Corona to the distant eastern reaches known as the Mantis Arm. Here in Palmaristown the war was very real but very distant, an exciting event to be discussed in every tavern and on every street corner but without the torn bodies and missing limbs that cast the pall of harsh reality.

  That sanitized reality reflected in the eagerness and excitement of the townsfolk. As word spread down the lanes before the trio many salutes and bows came at Bransen from afar.

  They secured a tavern room quite easily, offered at half the normal price to the wounded soldier, and set out to find a stable and buyer for Doully, for the old donkey had seen too much of the road. Whispers preceded them, however, and before they even had the time to walk from the inn to the hitching post to retrieve Doully, they were met by a smiling young Abellican monk.

  “Greetings, my friends,” he said lightheartedly—so much so that Callen and Cadayle exchanged suspicious looks, for they were hardly used to helpful and cheery Abellicans.

  “I am told that this poor man here has suffered terribly in service to Laird Delaval, may Blessed Abelle guide him to kingship,” the monk went on.

  “He was wounded south of Delaval against the men of Ethelbert, yes,” Callen said, the hesitation in her voice reflecting her growing trepidation that Cadayle’s lie w
as soon to be uncovered.

  “I am Brother Fatuus of the Chapel of Precious Memories,” the monk explained with a respectful bow. “Father Malskinner bade me to come forth and find this hero who walks among us, and to offer—” He paused and reached into a belt pouch, producing a quartet of gray soul stones.

  “You would bestow healing to my poor son-in-law?” Callen asked, nodding appreciatively and coming forth to take Bransen’s arm. “His wounds are grievous.”

  “As I see,” said Fatuus. He turned a bit to the side and leaned forward in an attempt to view Bransen’s back. “From the manner of his walk, I mean, as I have not witnessed any wound as of yet.”

  “The wound itself is long healed,” Cadayle answered. “But the damage remains.”

  “A spear?”

  “No.”

  “Sword?”

  “No,” Cadayle answered, and the monk crinkled his face with clear suspicion.

  “Dagger?” he asked.

  “A club,” Cadayle decided. “He was smashed across the back, he told me, and he’s had little control of his legs and feet since. And even his voice is lost to us, stuttering as he does.”

  The monk nodded and put on a pensive pose, as if he had any understanding at all.

  Cadayle looked to her mother, who bit back a snicker.

  “May I?” Brother Fatuus asked, extending his hand and the soul stones.

  “Please, Brother,” said Cadayle. She kissed Bransen’s cheek and stepped away.

  Fatuus began chanting to Blessed Abelle for guidance and strength. He closed his hand over the gemstones and gripped them so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He put his other hand up to Bransen’s forehead and began to channel the soothing power of the gemstones into the wounded young man.

  Bransen closed his eyes and steadied immediately, basking in the warmth of the wonderful enchantment. This monk was strong, he recognized immediately— more so than any of the brothers at Chapel Pryd. The healing energy flowed pure and direct, and Bransen felt as if he had his own stone strapped across his forehead. Using his Jhesta Tu training, Bransen opened up to the sensation and even dared hope, albeit fleetingly, that Brother Fatuus might offer some permanent benefit.