“There is the greatest understatement I’ve ever heard,” Vaughna chimed in, and her tone made it clear that she was talking about more than a blessing for their mission. She nearly swooned (which seemed almost comical to Bransen, given her fire-spitting demeanor) as she pointed across a small lea, jumping up and down like a little girl getting her first view of a king. “It is him! It is him!”
“He’s worth all that?” Olconna snickered.
The approaching man’s legs seemed just a bit too long for his frame, giving him as determined and forceful a stride as one could imagine. His face, weathered and creased, showed nothing but strength and a commanding pragmatism. Bransen could see simply from the set of the man’s jaw that this one, Jameston, wasn’t loose with his words.
“You’re a long way north of Dame Gwydre’s lines, and you don’t look like Samhaists to me,” Jameston said when he neared the group. “Especially not you,” he added, nodding his gray-bearded chin at Brother Jond.
“Hardly that,” the monk agreed.
Jameston’s gaze fell over Bransen, his face crinkling in a strange manner. For the first time since he had donned his mother’s black silk suit, Bransen felt a bit self-conscious about his unusual dress.
“We did not come north just to find Jameston,” Vaughna volunteered. “But we’re glad to see you.”
Jameston glanced at her for just a moment before offering a wink of familiarity, his face brightening. “Crazy V,” he said. “Been a lot of years.”
“Too many.”
“And you, too, Crait,” Jameston went on.
“I’m surprised you remember me,” the old warrior replied.
“Not so hard a thing to do,” Jameston answered. “How many might be living who have seen the fights you and I can claim as experience?”
Crait thought it over for a few heartbeats, then answered with a laugh, “Two?”
“Might be,” said Jameston. “Might be.” He stepped over to accept Crait’s extended hand, the two clasping wrists with the respect old warriors often reserved for other old warriors.
Brother Jond cleared his throat, and after a curious glance at him, Crait began the introductions, though Vaughna interrupted him as soon as he had named Olconna and presented Bransen and Brother Jond.
“You wandered lost?” Jameston asked.
“Here on purpose,” Vaughna corrected. “The fighting has been terrible in the South. Entire villages are gone.”
Jameston nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen Badden’s charges march out and figured as much.”
“The Samhaists know no moral boundaries,” Brother Jond put in, but Jameston’s sudden grin silenced him, for it showed the grizzled old hunter to be far beyond the influences of proselytizing Abellicans and Samhaists alike in their unending struggle to collect every man’s soul.
“You are a scouting band?” Jameston presumed.
“Half right,” said Vaughna, and Brother Jond cleared his throat as if to remind her not to speak too openly. But this was Jameston Sequin, after all, and the woman just cast the monk a dismissive glance. “Dame Gwydre sees that we have to stop this war.”
“And negotiating with the Samhaists won’t get you far,” Jameston reasoned, and let his knowing gaze encompass them all, and Bransen found it hard not to be naked under that man’s imposing stare.
“You’ve come to kill Badden himself,” the old hunter said, and the undercurrent of humor in his voice had the five exchanging worried glances.
That was all the confirmation Jameston needed.
“We will find him, and we will kill him, yes,” Bransen announced unexpectedly, and stepped forward beside Vaughna. “He has earned the sentence.”
“A hundred times over before you were ever born, boy,” Jameston replied.
Bransen tried to recover fast from the response, which was both easy agreement and somewhat condescending-maybe. He just couldn’t be certain, for this man, this apparently legendary hunter, had him in a continually unbalanced state.
“Never been enamored of that one,” Jameston went on, beating Bransen to the dialogue. “Only thing I’ve found stupider than men who claim to speak for the gods are the people who listen to them. My apologies, Brother,” he added to Jond.
Jond half shrugged, half nodded, seeming at least as off-balanced as Bransen.
“Help us kill him,” Vaughna blurted on impulse.
“Never been one to pick sides,” Jameston replied.
“But you have been helping Dame Gwydre,” Vaughna protested. “You have been sending reports south, so it’s said.”
“Counts of goblins and trolls and the like,” Jameston agreed. “And the second count I made of them, after I left them, was always less than the initial.”
“So you’ve already chosen your side, then,” Vaughna laughed.
“Killing goblins and trolls isn’t a side,” Jameston deadpanned. “It’s a religion. Might be the only religion worth fighting for.”
“Well, since Ancient Badden has thrown in with the beasts, he has chosen sides contrary to your… religion,” Brother Jond reasoned.
Jameston gave him a sidelong glance and a snicker. “Ten days of marching east of here would get you to a hot lake called Mithranidoon. Taking the trails west of that, into the mountains, will bring you Cold’rin, the glacier the hot waters hold back. Atop that is where you’ll find Badden and his high priests. I’ll take you to him-what you do once you get there’s your own choice to decide.”
He ended with a nod that brooked no debate, took his arrows from Bransen and Brother Jond, and threw one more wink Vaughna’s way before hiking off to the east.
The party of five just shrugged and followed. What else was there for them to do?
After they made their camp that night, Vaughna and Jameston sat together, chatting and laughing like old friends.
“They were once lovers,” Olconna remarked to Crait, the two of them on the far side of the encampment, cleaning and sharpening their weapons.
Crait laughed heartily. “More than once, if I’m knowin’ Crazy V!”
Olconna shot him a curious glance, and his face crinkled. “You as well?”
Crait laughed again. “And I’m knowin’ Crazy V!” he said.
Olconna looked back at the sturdy woman, shaking his head.
“That a problem for you?” Crait asked bluntly. “Make you think less of me, does it?”
“She’s not so pretty,” Olconna said.
“Bah!” Crait retorted without the slightest hesitation, and he, too, turned to regard the woman. “She’s the most beautiful woman I ever seen.”
Olconna put on a most incredulous expression.
“And if she’s e’er to offer you a ride, you’d be a wise man to take it!” Crait added with a wink.
“Like everyone else?” the younger man asked sarcastically.
“Oh, but don’t be going to that place,” Crait replied. “You spend your days killing people and you’re to judge one who takes a ride now and then?”
“But…”
“Ain’t nothing to ‘but’ about,” Crait cut him short. “Look at her, boy, and look at her well. Crazy V. She’s living every moment with fire and filling her soul with memories and experiences most folk will never begin to imagine. She can outfight, outspit, outswear, and outfornicate almost any man alive and any woman I ever heard of. She’ll go to her grave without regret. How many of us can say that?”
Olconna started to reply-several times-but he fumbled with the words, and all the while he stared at Vaughna.
Crait sat quietly, staring at the young warrior who had become his prot$eAg$eA of sorts and thinking that he had just given Olconna one of the most valuable lessons of all.