It was the first time Cormack had seen her naked, but it felt no more intimate to him than the last time they had been together, at the great meeting between the shamans of Milkeila’s tribe, Yan Ossum, and a few select brothers of Chapel Isle. That’s when he had known and when she had known. That’s when Cormack had found a witness to his life, a justification of his heart and mind, a spirit kindred, a heart equally wide. All of the bantering, all of the posturing, between the shamans and the monks had played out like a sorry game to him, a juggling of positions with each side trying to gain the better ground.
None of it had impressed him and none of it had impressed Milkeila, and both had recognized the truth of it, the truth of it all, in each other’s eyes.
So now she walked toward him with confidence, and all that she had revealed since stepping from her boat paled against that which she had already shown him. He looked at her eyes, at the sense of purpose on her face, at the trust that had already grown between them.
He fumbled with his robe. He wished he could have been as graceful as Milkeila, but sensations overwhelmed him now, and a sense of urgency came over him. They fell together on the sandbar and said not a word as they made love under the stars and moon.
Each had seen the potential of something greater in joining their religions, a wider and more perfect truth, and so it was physically between them, where their union seemed a more perfect form than either alone.
Do you not agree, Brother Cormack?” Brother Giavno said, and loudly, and Cormack realized that it wasn’t the first time Giavno had asked him that. He stared at the older man stupidly.
“The glories of Blessed Abelle when the tribes of this lake are brought into our love,” Giavno prompted.
“Their traditions are centuries old,” said Cormack.
“Patience,” Giavno argued, a predictable answer and oft given, but something about the last inflection as Giavno spoke the word gave Cormack pause. He looked over at his Abellican brother, then followed the older monk’s wide-eyed stare to the water behind them.
Cormack saw the powries-bandy-legged, bandy-armed, barrel-chested dwarves-floating in on their flat raft just an instant before they began springing into the water near the shore, bursting into a wild charge, brandishing their weapons.
Cormack whirled about, took a few running strides and leaped high into the air, crashing into a pair of dwarves before they cleared the surf. One went down, the other staggered back, and Cormack set himself quickly and launched a circle-kick that caught the standing dwarf on the side of its chin before it could fully recover from the unexpected assault. Its dull red beret, the item that defined the powries, who were also known as “bloody caps,” went flying away and that dwarf, too, tumbled under the water.
“Out, or they’ll be sure to drown you!” Giavno cried, and he accentuated his point by thrusting forth his hand and loosing the power of the stone he clutched: graphite, the stone of lightning. A bright blue bolt sizzled past Cormack to strike the raft, sending powries tumbling, but as the bolt dispersed into the water, Cormack felt a nasty sting about his legs.
Behind Giavno and beyond the ridge, another pair of monks cried out the warning.
Cormack sloshed toward the rocky shore with all the strength he could muster. He pivoted as he went and managed to somewhat deflect the barrage of clubs that came spinning his way. More than one hit home, though, and by the time he got out of the water, he sported a large welt on one arm and a bruise on the side of his face that threatened to swell his right eye closed.
“To me!” Giavno called, to Cormack and the other pair, and just ahead of the dwarves the young monk ran. When he reached his companion, he skidded low, grabbed up a stone, and turned as he rose, launching it at the nearest pursuer. It hit the dwarf squarely in the chest, briefly interrupting its howl. But only briefly, for the tough creature slogged through the strike and closed fast, smacking wildly with its club.
Cormack didn’t retreat; in fact, he surprised the dwarf by coming forward, within the weight of the club, rolling as he went to further absorb the blow. It still blew his breath out, but Cormack fought through that and caught the club as he turned, then turned further, taking the club with him and yanking it from the surprised dwarf’s hands. He snapped off a quick smack against the dwarf’s head, then pivoted the club fast and sent it out spearlike at the next powrie in line.
That one waved its arm to deflect the missile, but misjudged and whipped his hand past too quickly. The red-bearded dwarf did block the throw, however-with his face, or more specifically his nose-and his head snapped back.
“Yach, ye mutt,” the powrie growled, reaching up to grab its busted proboscis, and taking away a palmful of blood. The dwarf sneered and growled louder and started for Cormack with more purpose.
But he stopped suddenly, looking confused, and staggered down to one knee.
Cormack had the time neither to acknowledge his luck nor to pat himself on the back for a perfect throw, for powries were made of tough stuff and such a strike wouldn’t normally bring one down, temporarily though it might prove. As soon as he had let fly the missile, he retracted his throwing arm and drove it down to the side, slugging the initial target in the head.
The dwarf wrapped his strong arms about Cormack’s waist and drove him to the side, intent upon bearing him to the ground. The monk worked his legs frantically, trying to stay upright, and repeatedly hit the creature with his pumping right hand. Blood flew, but from his knuckles and not the dwarf, for surely Cormack felt as if he was punching stone instead of flesh!
The monk didn’t relent, though, nor did the powrie, taking him far from Brother Giavno and the other two monks and the group of a half-dozen powries bearing down on them. Another lightning bolt shook the ground, and the lead powrie began to dance wildly, arms and lips flapping, his thick red hair and beard straightening to full length and shivering in the air. He danced and hopped, managing another step forward, but then fell over.
The other five rumbled past, ignoring the rock missiles, and the club-fight began in earnest.
Cormack continued to work his legs frantically, continued to punch at the dwarf, but on one slug, the stubborn little creature turned about, purposely putting his face in line with the man’s flying fist. Cormack scored a solid, stunning hit, but square dwarf teeth clamped upon the side of his hand and bit down hard.
Cormack thrashed and tore free his hand, breaking out of the dwarf’s vise grip in the process. Even as he jumped backward, with the powrie coming in immediate pursuit, the monk launched a heavy left hook that snapped the dwarf’s head to the side.
A right cross staggered the powrie even more, and gave Cormack the opportunity to square up against the dwarf.
“Yach, but I’m to scrape the skin from yer pretty face!” the stubborn powrie promised, and came on.
A trio of stinging left jabs put the dwarf back on his heels.
Cormack retreated a bit more; his reach was his advantage, he knew, and when he looked at his opponent, who seemed like a walking block of rock, he figured it might be his only advantage.
Giavno swung hard with his makeshift wooden mace. He scored a solid hit, but the powrie pressed him relentlessly. How the monk wished that he still had the mace he had carried when he had left Chapel Pellinor, a spiked weapon of wonderful balance and weight. But alas, that mace and all of their other metallic items were lost to them, corroded by the constant steam that floated about the islands of this hot lake.