He returned the bow to his minions, then walked through them back toward his house. Behind him, several raced off on magical legs, several cracked and reformed their bones to become swift-running animals, and the greatest became as birds and flew away.
TWENTY – ONE
A Heroic Mistake
Badden surrounds himself with formidable allies,” Jameston Sequin tried to explain to the group of five road-weary heroes. “You should have come north with an army to properly execute your plan.”
“We could not have supplied such a force,” said the pragmatic and experienced Crait. “And the attraction it would have wrought would have had us fighting trolls and goblins and barbarians every step of the way.”
“By the time we reached our goal, if ever we did, we’d be lucky to have even this many remaining,” Brother Jond added.
“Then it seems as if your goal was never really in reach,” said Jameston. “You do not appreciate the power of your enemy. He is Badden, Ancient Badden, the Ancient of all the Samhaists. They regard him as a god, and not without cause. His powers are extreme.”
“Ever see that monk use his gemstones?” Crait interrupted. “Or that one swing that sword of his?” he added, nodding his chin toward Bransen.
“I have and was impressed-at both!” Jameston admitted. mitted. “But have you ever witnessed a dragon of despair?”
“A dragon?” Bransen asked.
“Ancient Badden is near to a god among the Samhaists, and not without cause,” Jameston said. “Have you ever battled a giant? Not a big man, but a true giant? You will if you deign to approach Badden. Creatures thrice the height of a tall man and several times his weight, with power to snap your spine with the ease that one of us might snap the shaft of an old arrow.”
“We could not bring an army,” Brother Jond said with finality. “Nor can Dame Gwydre’s people continue under the duress of Badden’s pressing hordes. We know the desperation of our plan-and to a man and woman we accepted it. Why can’t you?”
Jameston started to respond, but thought better and bit it back, offering a conciliatory, helpless laugh. “We should stay to the populated lands as much as possible,” he said instead. He crouched and drew his dagger, then etched a rough map on the ground. “We can get right into southern Alpinador along a fairly defined road, here, just east of the mountains. There are a couple of villages- reasonable Alpinadoran tribes-where we can resupply.”
“How do we know that they won’t send word of us to Badden?” asked Vaughna.
“If they even know of Badden,” Jameston replied, “they owe him no allegiance. Do not make the mistake of believing that the Samhaist has captured the hearts of the Alpinadorans. They are a proud collection of tribes with their own histories, beliefs, and practices. I know of no Alpinadoran Samhaists, not one.”
“Yet barbarians have been known among Badden’s invading hordes,” Brother Jond pointed out.
“Opportunism more than loyalty, I am certain,” said Jameston.
“It is too great a risk,” Brother Jond decided. “Let us keep to the shadows.”
“The glacier where Ancient Badden has made his home is a long and difficult trek, through wild lands that are already beginning to feel the chill of winter.”
Brother Jond nodded, and Jameston shrugged his agreement.
They set off soon after, heading generally north. They came under the shadows of a range of towering mountains on their west. Though Jameston heeded the demands of Brother Jond, over the next couple of days they often came in sight of a rudimentary road, and on several occasions, they saw the rising smoke from Alpinadoran campfires.
“Grace or muscle?” Vaughna remarked to Crait on one such occasion, when Jameston and Brother Jond had moved down to better view a village, leaving Bransen and Olconna in full view on the back edge of a bluff.
Crait snickered.
“Ah, but I like the way that Highwayman moves,” Vaughna added. “It’s all like a dance, like the wind under a moon.”
“But the redheaded one…” Crait prompted, understanding where Crazy V would go.
“Arms to hold a lover aloft,” she said. “A determined swing that’s not to be blocked or parried…”
Crait laughed aloud, and the two men at the bluff turned to regard him.
“Good thing for you I’m not the type to blush,” Vaughna whispered.
“To make others blush, though.”
“Aye, that’s the fun of life,” said Vaughna. “Grace or muscle?”
“The Highwayman’s got himself a wife, a new one, and a beloved one,” Crait reminded.
Vaughna sighed, clearly disappointed. “Muscle’ll do,” she said, and Crait laughed again.
Jameston and Jond returned, and the half-dozen moved along as always and set camp as always-except that night Olconna found an unexpected visitor.
His step was lighter the next day.
One afternoon as they passed through a stretch of pines and rocks, just below the snow line and in air cold enough so that they could see their breaths, Jameston whispered to the group that they were being watched.
“The P’noss Tribe,” he explained. “Small in number but very fierce. They range from the road below to the passes above. This is their territory.”
Bransen put a hand on his sword hilt, a movement Jameston did not miss. The scout shook his head. “We would be foolish to tarry, but they will let us pass through as long as we keep going. They trust in my respect of them.”
The group continued along, single-file, and the five unfamiliar with the land kept glancing left and right, as if expecting to see painted barbarian warriors hiding behind every tree, spear in hand.
“Try not to look so terrified,” Jameston chided them. “You will just make our hosts nervous.”
The rest of the day passed without incident. Jameston kept them up high in the mountains that night, and the cold winds howled at them, and a few snowflakes even drifted about. But Jameston Sequin knew this place as well as the Alpinadorans who called it home. He had a blazing fire going and warmed rocks for the five to keep them comfortable as they slept.
Bransen watched the man carefully long into the night and marveled at the simple serenity on Jameston’s face. He seemed fully at peace out here, like a man who had long left behind the trivial troubles of feuding lairds and Churches and petty human squabbles. As Jameston sat upon a boulder and stared up at the night sky, Bransen got a sense of a man truly at peace, of a man who had found his place in the universe and who seemed truly comfortable in that place. It occurred to Bransen that there was something Jhesta Tu about Jameston Sequin.
A thought crossed Bransen’s mind. For a fleeting moment he considered the notion that Jameston Sequin might be his father. Was it possible that McKeege was wrong, that Bran Dynard had survived the road and had used his training from the Walk of Clouds to become this legend in the northland?
Bransen gave a little snort at his own absurdity, wondering how in the world that notion had infiltrated his mind. Wishful thinking… He wanted Jameston Sequin to be his father. He wanted someone to be his father, particularly someone he could admire. Bransen had tried to dismiss the notion that Dawson McKeege’s proclamation regarding Bran Dynard’s fate had hurt him profoundly.
Jameston walked over and stirred the flames of the low-burning fire. The orange light danced across his weathered face, shadowing his deep wrinkles and reflecting off his thick mustache.
Bransen saw experience there, and competence and wisdom, and it only confirmed Bransen’s earlier recognition of serenity. This wasn’t Bran Dynard, though Bransen wished that it could be true.
He would settle for being spiritual companions, if indeed they were.
Over the course of the next few days the road all but disappeared, and no more villages spotted the landscape. Jameston’s temperament sobered considerably. Taking that lead, the other five began to feel the gravity of their situation.