“They hang them in different places every day,” one of the human prisoners observed. “Like they’re trying to make sure that the whole chasm gets coated in troll blood.”
“Thin blood, that,” another of the prisoners chimed in. “Mix it with water, and the water won’t freeze.”
None of them had the wherewithal to put it together from there, because, really, what did it matter to the doomed prisoners?
Bransen, however, noted every detail. His entire existence at that point centered around his mental acuity, as his physical limitations had only increased with the brutal conditions. He tried to put all his Jhesta Tu training and discipline to the side for the time being, as if he was storing it for one furious moment. That was his only hope. He had to find exactly the right time and hope that such an opportunity would present itself.
One gray morning Bransen knew that his last chance had come.
Only Brother Jond fought for him when the troll guards came to drag Bransen away. Even Olconna mitigated Jond’s protests, quietly telling the monk that maybe it was for the better that Bransen’s misery be ended. Whether they fought for him or not wouldn’t have mattered in a practical sense, but Olconna’s attitude stung Bransen profoundly. He had more important things to think about, however, as the trolls dragged him to the edge of the chasm. He lay helpless as Ancient Badden approached, carrying Bransen’s sword.
This was his moment, Bransen realized. He had to somehow call upon the powers of his training, had to strike fast and sure, get that sword and finish Badden as he had done with Bernivvigar. But he had possessed a soul stone on that long-ago occasion; every step and movement wasn’t a battle for him then as it was now. Still, he had to try!
“This one?” Ancient Badden asked. His incredulous tone allowed the prisoner to ease back from his shining moment of fury. “Hmm,” Badden mumbled, glancing from Bransen to the gorge. “No,” he decided.
Bransen breathed a sigh of relief, though he knew any reprieve could only be temporary. Every one of the prisoners was being kept alive for one purpose. “No, if we feed him to the worm, he will likely infect the beast with… with whatever malady it is that so wrenched his limbs. Bring him south.”
Ancient Badden started off in that same direction, crossing an ice bridge to the southern rim of the chasm, then walking off the hundred strides or so to the glacier’s cliff edge. The trolls dragged Bransen behind.
Bransen knew he had avoided being sacrificed but not escaped execution. His resistance was not a conscious decision; it came from pure instinct, simple and unafraid, as only a man who realizes death is both imminent and unavoidable might discover. All of his muscles twitched in magnificent harmony, moving together for the first time since he had lost the soul stone, lifting him suddenly to his feet, his wrists and ankles breaking free of the hold of the four escorting trolls as he twisted and then hopped upright.
He snapped a circle-kick against the side of a troll’s knee and slugged the creature in the jaw as he came around, launching it away. He leaped straight up as the other three closed on him and kicked out to both sides with perfect balance and stunning power-literally stunning, as the kicks sent two trolls staggering and stumbling to the ground.
The remaining escort leaped onto Bransen’s back and began clawing, but the man executed a high somersault and stretched out to full extension as he came over, ending his turn so that he landed flat on his back atop the troll. He wrenched the creature’s arms from his chest and throat and twisted them at the wrist as he rolled off the creature. When he hopped back up to his feet, he gave sudden jerks that broke both of those wrists cleanly.
Bransen spun about as two of the first three came in at him. The leading enemy was right upon him as he turned, and got its hands about his throat, choking him. Bransen hooked his thumbs under those of the troll and tugged out and down, then folded his legs under him so that he fell to his knees, taking the troll down with him. He used the suddenness of that impact to viciously drive the troll’s thumbs over and down, breaking both.
Bransen hopped right back up, but he felt the pangs of the Stork within, the moment of Jhesta Tu-inspired coordination fast fading. He barely slapped aside the clawing strikes of the last of that group, and worse, several more were fast heading his way. Worst of all for Bransen, Ancient Badden had taken note of the fight.
The ice under Bransen’s feet suddenly turned to water, and he plunged down, and only avoided continuing deep into the glacier by throwing himself to the side. Instinctively, Bransen rolled himself out of the water- and a good thing that was, for it froze again almost immediately.
Across the way, Ancient Badden cackled with enjoyment. Trolls fell over Bransen, beating and clawing him. His glorious moment of concentration was lost, falling to the curse of the Stork once more. He still tried to flail, for what it was worth, but the four trolls now bearing him held him tightly and a pair of others walked alongside, punching him hard every time he moved.
They dropped the nearly unconscious man at Ancient Badden’s feet near the edge of the glacier and moved fearfully away.
“Do you see it?” Ancient Badden asked him. Lying helpless, Bransen saw only the sky and the tall man towering over him. Badden reached down and took him by the front of his shirt and with surprising and terrifying strength hoisted him upright. Bransen looked out on a long, long drop, hundreds of feet and more, to a wide and long lake that was almost completely blanketed by fog.
“Mithranidoon,” Ancient Badden explained. “It’s called that even by the Alpinadoran barbarians. A Samhaist name in this northern land. Do you know why that is?”
Bransen didn’t even try to respond, for he wasn’t even sure what he was seeing or feeling or hearing. He had all he could handle to merely keep himself from falling into a deep and dark place. He could not allow that to happen. Not now.
“Because the magic of this place cannot be denied- not even by the barbarians,” Ancient Badden proclaimed. “Even they understand that our name for it-Mithranidoon-is the most fitting. Even they accept that this is, as it long ago was, a Samhaist holy place. And yet it is not under my dominion. Not yet. Not until I wash away the vermin who have deceitfully come to call Mithranidoon their home, as if any but the Ancient of the Samhaists holds any claim on Mithranidoon!”
Bransen tried to commit Badden’s words to memory, though he expected that they would mean nothing to him in short order, since he would be dead. Still, that part in him that would never surrender kept working, kept plotting, kept trying.
“The great worm does its burrowing work,” Ancient Badden said, and it was obvious to Bransen that he wasn’t talking to him anymore, was just speaking out loud to hear the glory of his words. “The blood of trolls ensures that the god-beast’s work is not reversed by the cold. And soon Mithranidoon will be cleansed.”
Ancient Badden’s voice had risen with each word, in glorious proclamation, and he ended with a self-deprecating chuckle, as if a bit embarrassed by his outburst. “I cannot allow you to participate,” Badden said to Bransen. “I am sorry, but you will not share in the glory of my victory. My god-beast is too precious to me to allow it to eat you.
“Of course, none of this matters to you,” Ancient Badden said, his voice lowering as he threw Bransen from the cliff.
In all me days, I ain’t seen anything as stupid,” Mcwigik grumbled, and pulled on the oar to complement Bikelbrin, who was sitting beside him. “Ye’re taking us to get cold so we won’t be getting cold?”
“It is called acclimating,” Cormack explained.