“He believed us without reservation,” Cormack whispered, his tone clearly marking the distinction of that reaction to those of the monks and the Alpinadorans.
“Or maybe he is just happy for a fight,” Milkeila said, and she swung about to the wider commotion going on around them, the many excited discussions springing up among the powries.
“Bah, but I’m sad to hear this killer’s surrounded himself with trolls,” one said. “Their blood’s not much for shining me beret.”
“Aye, but he’s got a swarm o’ them, they’re saying,” another piped in. “We’ll get a glow out of it. The folks of the other islands won’t be needing their share, don’t ye know?”
“Yach, and there’ll be bunches o’ them folks about, too, won’t there?” the first replied with a wink. “More than a few’re going to be bleeding bright red.”
“And who’s to say they won’t be turning on us when this killer’s chopped down?” asked a third.
“A few hundred trolls and a few hundred men, and only two score of us,” the first said with a sigh. “It’ll take me all the day to collect the blood!”
“Ha ha!” the others laughed, and they swatted each other on sturdy shoulders and rolled along their way, as only powries could.
That last comment had brought a look of alarm to both Milkeila and Cormack, though-until Mcwigik and Bikelbrin shuffled over.
“Bah, but don’t ye be thinking me kin’re to start any trouble up there, other than the trouble that… what did ye call him? That Ancient?” said Mcwigik. “No trouble, I tell ye, other than finishing the trouble that one’s already started.”
“They are willing to fight beside the monks and the Alpinadorans, then?” asked Cormack.
“Ye heard Kriminig say just that,” said Bikelbrin.
“Sure, and a fine row it’ll be, we’re all for hoping,” Mcwigik added. “Though we’re not even knowing if yer monks’re coming along for the play. Did ye hear them say that?”
Cormack’s lips grew very tight, all the confirmation anyone there needed to understand that he was filled with doubts about whether his brethren would march alongside the rest or not.
“Yach, but it’s not to matter,” Mcwigik said generously, and he slapped Cormack on the back. “That Ancient up there’s made himself an angry swarm o’ powries, and we’re meaning to show him that doing so wasn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done!”
“Hope he’s not too old and withered,” said Bikelbrin. “Me beret’s needing a bit of a gloss.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Meaning of Home
Brother Giavno stepped out of the small boat onto the shore of Lake Mithranidoon for the first time in more than a year. He glanced back in the direction of Chapel Isle, the place that had been his home for these last few years. Not much of a home, and not much of an island, Giavno knew, but still there was in his heart a great lament, a profound sense of loss. Nothing more than a cursory glance at his dour companions told him that he was not alone in these feelings.
He let his gaze drift north along this, the western coastline of Mithranidoon. Cormack was up there, he knew, along with his strange collection of friends and perhaps with more allies culled from the various islands. He meant to go against Ancient Badden, and that was a noble cause, whatever the reason.
A splash behind him turned Giavno back to the lake, where the last boat, bearing Father De Guilbe and a foursome of Chapel Isle’s best warriors, neared the shore. As the five debarked, Giavno was left wondering how many years, decades, centuries even, might pass before the construction at Chapel Isle was once more inhabited by disciples of Blessed Abelle. Their monument would stand against the wave should it come, Giavno believed, and even if someone else, powrie or Alpinadoran, happened upon the island, they would more likely use the sturdy chapel fortress than tear it down. So maybe, someday long in the future, the Abellicans would return and continue the work done by Giavno and De Guilbe and the others.
“Form them up at once and let us be far away from this place,” Father De Guilbe instructed Giavno as he walked past. “I would find Dame Gwydre before the onset of winter, and that will be no easy road.”
“Of course, Father,” Giavno replied, and a part of him agreed. Another part, though, had him looking to the north yet again, and wondering about Cormack and the others. He recognized the expediency of De Guilbe’s decision to abandon their mission and return where they were likely needed, but that didn’t stop him from feeling as if he and his brethren were, perhaps, abandoning their neighbors in this time of dire need. For despite all of their fighting, even the deadly siege put upon Chapel Isle by the Alpinadorans, Brother Giavno did think of them, and of the powries, as neighbors.
That was the surprising paradox that dominated his mind and his heart.
“Brother Giavno!” Father De Guilbe shouted, shaking the man from his contemplations. He nodded and rushed off to rouse the brothers.
He was glad that it was not his place to make these decisions.
They glided out of the mists of Mithranidoon like the ghosts of their warrior ancestors, painted with berry dyes of red and yellow and blue, carrying spears and clubs, and decorated with trinkets and necklaces of teeth and claws and paws and beaks and feathers-so many feathers. Their flotilla numbered boats in the hundreds, each boat carrying as few as one or as many as a half-dozen of the proud Alpinadorans. Most stood up as the boats reached the shore, as if in defiance to the task and enemy that awaited them.
Even Milkeila, intimately familiar with her people, even Bransen, who had seen the armies of southern Honce, even Mcwigik, who was never much impressed with anything human, gasped at the spectacle of the many diverse tribes of Mithranidoon coming together as one. And for Cormack, this marvelous sight served to reinforce his understanding that proselytizing these people, with their traditions, heritage, and pride, was no more than a fool’s errand, and a condescending one at that.
For Milkeila, though, another emotion accompanied it all, based on her certainty that she was looking upon her people for the last time, likely forever. Even if she managed to survive the coming battle, she knew that it was over for her. Her small group of friends, co-conspirators dreaming of leaving Mithranidoon only two years before, had been split apart from her in more ways than physical. She stood with the man she had come to love, but inside, Milkeila had never felt more alone.
Still, the spectacle before her made her proud to be, or to have been, of Yan Ossum.
At the center of the Alpinadoran force came the shamans, Teydru and Toniquay prominent among their ranks. More than just spiritual leaders, Alpinadoran shamans were considered the wise men of their respective tribes, the advisors on all matters important.
“They will direct the attack,” Milkeila explained to her companions, indicating the select group.
“They will likely wish to speak more with Bransen then,” said Cormack, “as he has seen the passes and the glacial structures.” He was about to add that he would help Milkeila in translating the exchange, but the woman just shook her head.
“They have seen them,” she explained. “Both the way to Badden and his defenses. If we were to be a part of their execution, they would have summoned us as they debarked their boats.”
“What’s that to mean?” Mcwigik demanded. “Got all me boys together just to be a part of it.”
Milkeila calmed him with an upraised hand, and cautiously made her way along the beach to speak with Toniquay.
“The powries wish to help,” she said to her superior. “They have brought the whole of their force to join in our march.”