“You seem happy for a man about to die,” said Bransen. Behind him, Cormack cried out for Milkeila, and Bransen heard splashing.
“We all die, fool,” Badden replied. “You will not likely see near the years I have known.”
“Or the failure,” said Bransen.
“Ah yes, the triumph of your Abellican Church,” Badden retorted, and indeed, Bransen’s face did crinkle at that.
“My Church?” he asked incredulously.
“You have thrown in with them!”
Bransen snickered at the absurdity of the remark.
“Do you think them any better?” Badden asked, his words becoming more labored. “Oh, they find their shining moment now, when their baubles so impress the young and strong lairds. But where will they be when those lairds are old and lie dying, and those baubles offer nothing?
“We Samhaists know the truth, the inevitability,” he went on. “There is no escape from the darkness. Their promises are hollow!” He laughed, a bloody and bitter sound.
“A truth you are about to realize intimately,” Bransen reminded him.
But Badden’s laugh mocked him. “And as these Abellican fools rise ascendant, buoyed by their empty promises of forever, do you think they will be any better?”
But now Bransen was back on level emotional ground. “Do you think that I care?” he chided right back, and that brought a curious look from the old man.
“Then why are you here?”
Bransen laughed at him and stood straight. “Because they paid me,” he said with a cold and casual tone, “and because I hate everything for which you stand.”
His sword came across, and Badden’s puzzled expression remained on his face as his head rolled across the floor.
EPILOGUE
The six survivors and Brother Jond collected the rest of the prisoners and led them out of Ancient Badden’s ice castle.
Outside, the battle had ended; with the dragon chased off, the troll lines had broken, and now both barbarian and dwarf lined the chasm, throwing stones and blocks of ice and spears down at the monster that prowled its depths. From the roars that rose, it seemed as if many were hitting the mark. For the great white worm would not flee into one of its burrows to escape the barrage. It would not back down from the threat, though it had no way of scaling the chasm wall to get at its attackers.
Its mighty bulk and power could not protect it from its own lack of brains.
Mcwigik and Bikelbrin rushed off to join in the fun, and even Pergwick, holding his cap against his head, and his cap holding his scalp in place, followed.
“You are from Vanguard?” Brother Jond asked Cormack, who supported him as they moved across the ice.
“Years ago,” Cormack explained. “And Chapel Abelle before that. I was a member of Father De Guilbe’s expedition.”
That sparked recognition in Jond, and a great smile creased his face. “I had thought the feel of your clothing to be that of an Abellican robe!”
“I am not Abellican anymore, Brother.”
Jond stopped and faced Cormack, though of course he couldn’t actually see the man.
“I was cast out,” Cormack admitted. “I questioned the limitations.”
“Limitations?”
“The Abellican Church’s refusal to explore those traditions and magic outside the domain of the Church and the gemstones,” Cormack honestly offered. “There is more beauty to be found in this world, a wider truth than that which we have come to represent.” Brother Jond gave a curious “hmm,” and Cormack had no idea if he was offending or intriguing the man. “The woman who accompanied us into the castle is a shaman of an Alpinadoran tribe,” Cormack explained.
“I gathered as much.”
“I love her.”
“Hmm.”
“And I see in her true and divine beauty-I see it in our other friend as well, this man named Bransen.”
“Ah, the Highwayman, yes,” said Jond. “He is a unique one.”
“And possessed of godly powers.”
Brother Jond shook his head, unwilling to make that jump.
“Powers akin to those of our gemstones,” Cormack clarified, and Jond now nodded.
“I witnessed his healing hands,” Jond said. “And his grace is rather amazing. But he is no man of God. Not yet, though I suspect that his nature compels him to look that way. For all his life, our friend Bransen cared only for Bransen, and absent in him is a sense of community and greater good. No, not absent,” he quickly corrected.
“Simply not yet developed. I hold out great hopes for that one, if he doesn’t get himself killed too soon.”
As Jond put forth those observations, Cormack looked out at Bransen, who was paralleling the powries toward the chasm. The monk’s words, so very much like his own to Milkeila regarding the Highwayman, rang true indeed.
“We will get you back to Chapel Pellinor and Dame Gwydre,” Cormack promised.
“Perhaps I might put in a good word for Brother Cormack.”
Cormack winced at the title Jond had used, both because he doubted that any good word would do any good, and because he wasn’t sure that he wanted it back.
“They ran, you know,” he said. “Father De Guilbe and the others of Chapel Isle-our chapel here in Alpinador-did not join in the greater cause with the Alpinadorans and the powries. Instead, they fled south, bound for Vanguard.”
Brother Jond started to reply-to offer some justification, Cormack knew. But instead he just sighed and shook his head, and Cormack realized that this wasn’t the first time this man had been disappointed by the actions of fellow Abellicans.
Cormack didn’t press him on it, though. He hooked his arm under Jond’s shoulder to support the man, and led him away.
Ye been wanting this for a long time, mate,” Mcwigik said.
Pergwick, a thick white bandage running about his head, chin to top, and under his replaced beret, lowered his eyes and kicked a stone. “Ruggirs was me brother,” he said. “We slapped blood together that if either got killed to death, th’other would watch over the Sepulcher and care for the kid. It’ll be me brother, too, ye know.”
“Aye, there’s that,” Mcwigik agreed. “But I’m not for waiting the years ye’re to need. The lake’s made me batzy already, I tell ye!”
“Not asking ye to wait, and I’m thinking that yerself and Bik are to open things up for the rest,” Pergwick replied, looking up and seeming much more at ease. “Kriminig and the others’ve said as much-that we’ll all go south when word comes back from Mcwigik that there’s a place for us. I’m guessing that more’n ourselves have had too much o’ Mithranidoon.”
Mcwigik nodded and clapped Pergwick on the shoulder. “Good enough, then, and I’ll be smiling when I see ye again.”
Pergwick grinned and began to nod, but Mcwigik cautioned him with an upraised hand.
“Don’t ye go shaking yer head too rough!” the dwarf said.
“Aye, we’re not wanting yer brains to go flying out. Ye’re not for much to spare,” added Bikelbrin, walking over and carrying a large sack full of supplies.
“What do ye know?” Mcwigik asked, and Bikelbrin motioned to the side, where Cormack, Bransen, Milkeila, and Brother Jond stood in a group, all carrying sacks.
“Where’d they get the goods?” asked Mcwigik.
“The barbarians,” Bikelbrin replied. “They ain’t too happy with the girl, but they know she just saved their homes.”
“An easier road for us all, then,” Mcwigik reasoned.
“More food to start, at least. As for the rest, we’ll be seein’.”