Badden’s visage melted into a profound scowl. “You would think that an Abellican monk would be my first victim, of course, since your Church has been the scourge of the land these last seven decades.” In fighting off the urge to respond, Brother Jond couldn’t suppress a slight smile, and that only made Badden scowl all the more.
The Ancient broke into a sudden giggle, cackled through a quick chant, and waggled his necklace at the monk. The floor beneath Brother Jond’s feet turned from ice to water suddenly, plunging him in.
But not deeply, for Ancient Badden cut the spell short and reversed it, freezing the floor around Brother Jond’s legs, up to mid-thigh. The contraction of the ice squeezed him so hard that he could feel the blood rushing up from his legs. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach and light-headed at the same time. His eyes bulged as if the rush of blood would simply launch them from their sockets. He tried to remain silent, but a soft groan escaped his lips. The ice tightened some more.
Now Ancient Badden towered over him. “Ah, but I would so love to tear your limbs from your torso.” He brought the side of Bransen’s sword against Jond’s cheek with a stinging slap, then turned the blade as he flashed it past, just enough to draw a deep cut across the monk’s face. “Or to open your belly, side to side, and slowly draw out your entrails. Have you ever seen the face of a man so tortured? It is the most exquisite mask of agony.”
“And you declare yourself a man of God!” Brother Jond blurted before he could reconsider his reaction.
“Ah, so he speaks,” Ancient Badden laughed at him. “I had thought you a mute, which would be an improvement for any Abellican, of course. I am not a man of your childish and benign creation, fool. I am a man of the Ancient Ones, of the truths of life and death. You are too cowardly to face those truths, so you cannot begin to comprehend the way of the Samhaist! I almost pity you and all the others born after Abelle, who were raised in the echoes of his lies and false hopes.”
Brother Jond narrowed his eyes, but his threat was so impotent as to be laughable, which of course, Ancient Badden did.
“I said “almost,’” Ancient Badden reminded. He waggled his necklace, and the ice gripped on Jond’s legs even more tightly.
“I keep you alive because you may be of use to me,” the Samhaist offered. “As my armies press-”
“Your hordes of monsters, you mean.”
Badden shrugged as if that hardly mattered. “They serve a greater purpose.”
“They are-”
Brother Jond stopped suddenly as Ancient Badden kicked him squarely in the face. His head snapped back and forward, and a couple of teeth flew from his mouth along with a gush of blood and spittle.
“If you interrupt me again I will hurt you more profoundly than you have ever experienced, more so than anything you could ever have imagined,” Ancient Badden warned.
Dazed, temples throbbing, legs aching, Brother Jond could not even bring a defiant stare to his face.
“As my armies press into Vanguard and drive Dame Gwydre to Pireth Vanguard, she will seek parlay,” Ancient Badden explained. “As her principal consort is one of your feeble Abellican associates, your presence among my prisoners will grant me a greater ante.” The Samhaist bent low and stared into Brother Jond’s face, and when Jond tried to turn away, Badden punched him hard, grabbed him by the chin, and forced him to lock stares.
“Does that please you? To know that you will help facilitate the downfall of your religion in the region of Vanguard? Nor will it end there, I promise. When the war in the southland is ended, so too will be the tricks of your kin that so enrapture the dueling lairds. The reality of the conflict will weigh heavily upon the grieving people, and we will be there. For the Samhaists know Death, while the Abellicans deny it. The Samhaists understand the inevitability, while the Abellicans offer false promises. That will be your downfall.”
Brother Jond’s face became a mask of apathy.
“What is your name?” Ancient Badden asked. No answer.
“It is a simple question, one carrying great importance,” said Badden. “For if you do not answer, I will bring in one of the prisoners and torture him to death before your eyes. It will be an hour of screams that will echo in your mind for the rest of your days, short though they will be.”
Brother Jond glared at him as he started to motion to the troll attendants. “Brother Jond Dumolnay,” he said.
“Dumolnay? A Vanguard name, or of the Mantis Arm, perhaps.”
Brother Jond didn’t answer.
“Mantis Arm,” Ancient Badden decided. “If you had been raised in Vanguard you would better know the Samhaist way and would never have fallen for the lies of the fool Abelle.”
“Blessed Abelle!” Brother Jond corrected, spitting blood with every syllable. “The Truth and the Hope of the world! Who mocks the Samhaist death cult and your use of terror to control the people you claim to serve!”
“Claim to serve?” Ancient Badden said, and laughed loudly.
“Then you do not even pretend!”
“We show them the truth, and they may do of that truth what they choose,” the Samhaist growled back. “We bring order and justice to rabble who would eat each other if they were not instructed not to!”
Brother Jond couldn’t suppress a grin, glad, despite the beating, that he had irked the Samhaist enough to garner such a rise of emotion. “Justice?” he said with a sarcastic laugh.
Ancient Badden went silent suddenly and stood up straight, staring down at the ice-trapped monk.
Brother Jond took a deep breath to steady his nerves, guessing that he had gone too far here. But it was too late for any retraction, he understood, too late to bring the Samhaist back to a level of calm. So he followed his heart and put his fears behind him.
“I will see your demise, Ancient Badden,” he declared. “I will see the victory of Blessed Abelle in Vanguard and throughout Honce!”
“Indeed,” the Ancient replied calmly-too calmly. His arm swept across, slashing Bransen’s sword, drawing a line in Brother Jond’s face and taking both his eyes and the bridge of his nose in the process.
The monk howled and screamed, thrashing in agony.
“I doubt you will “see’ anything,” Ancient Badden said to him, and walked away.
TWENTY-SIX
Well Found in a Dark Place
Milkeila wasn’t consciously thinking of anything as she walked on the beach one dark and breezy night. Resignation filled her thoughts and filled her heart, so much so that she had abandoned her hopes of what might have been, in full knowledge that her reality simply could never approach those hopes and dreams.
She didn’t know how many days had passed since she had last seen her beloved Cormack. Too many, though, for her to ever expect to see him again. Either he had been found out as a traitor and imprisoned or put to death, or he had buried himself in guilt over his stark actions and had abandoned his wayward course-a course that included Milkeila.
For several days, the woman had tried to concoct some mental scenario in which she could lead her people to go and rescue Cormack; she had allowed herself to fantasize about again besieging Chapel Isle and forcing the monks to relinquish their unfaithful brother.
That could never happen, of course, and she didn’t even know if such was Cormack’s condition. So, for the sake of her own survival, Milkeila had let it all go, had exhaled and exorcised Cormack from her heart and mind.
And always, Toniquay was there, looking over her shoulder, reading her emotions and reminding her, ever reminding her, of her responsibilities to the traditions. She was shaman, and among the Alpinadoran tribes that was no small thing.
She walked the beach this night, the wind blowing aside the mists enough to afford her a wonderful view of the starry canopy above, the water gently lapping the rocks and the black volcanic sand of Yossunfier’s beach, and she was at peace. Until she saw a single light in the southeast.