The Bear

NINE

"Just piss yer pants," Engren the soldier grumbled as his tent companion crawled over him on his way to the exit. "It'll keep ye warm."

"It's summer," the third man in the tent argued. "And I don't want him stinking worse than he's already stinking!"

"Shut yer mouths, the both of ye," Cawley Andadin scolded, and he pushed aside the tent flap and crawled outside. "Tired o' being an animal, I am."

"It's what we be," said Engren. "Ye're a soldier, a dog. Thrust yer spear and wear yer enemy's blood and stink like piss and mud all the year long."

"We'll be back to Comey Downs in a month," Cawley replied, referring to their home village, just northeast of Delaval City. He was not a young man, and the ground was unforgiving to his old bones. He pulled himself up to one knee with great effort and then with a grunt heaved himself up to his feet. "Home, and with it all done. With Ethelbert done and Yeslnik the King of Honce and no more fighting. Me wife's not liking the smell of piss much."

"A month, yeah," said Engren in his typically dour tone. "A month, and we'll be getting slaughtered outside Ethelbert's gates. And if the Bear finds us a way to win, our reward will be a march to Chapel Abelle. Dodge the spears of Ethelbert. Dodge the lightning bolts o' the monks. All's the same and not to end. I'm thinking that dying might be th'only escape."

Cawley wasn't listening any longer. He was miserable enough without letting Engren's constant complaining weigh him down even further. He had spent a good few weeks in Comey Downs with his wife and five children. While going out on the road had been emotionally troubling, Cawley had mitigated his despair with a reminder that this was likely the last march. They were going for Ethelbert, King Yeslnik had told them, and would be under the guidance of the great Bannagran the Bear. All the way to Ethelbert dos Entel to end the war, with Cawley's group and ten thousand Delaval soldiers backing the legendary five thousand veterans of Pryd. Given the reputation of Bannagran, whose name was whispered reverently by ally and enemy alike, Cawley believed that they would do just that, that this time, the thorn of Laird Ethelbert would be eliminated.

And they had the monks with them, almost all of them, led by Master Reandu himself. Rumors also spoke of another ally, a small man many believed to be the Highwayman.

This time the assault was for real, Cawley told himself, and not like that inexplicable retreat they had executed all the way back to Delaval. This time they would end it.

He moved away from the dying campfires into the brush to relieve himself. He caught a movement out of the side of his eye a moment later and thought it must be another of the soldiers coming out for similar reasons.

The man was fastening his pants when the hood went over his head, his legs kicked out from under him. A fine cord went around his throat, stopping his breath, and preventing him from crying out. He tried to reach up and loosen the cord, but fingers knifed into one armpit, then the other, and for some reason that Cawley did not understand his arms seemed to simply die, all strength gone.

He was down on his face in moments. He tried to kick and thrash, but someone fell atop him, and a soft, woman's voice began whispering in his ear, "Sleep, sleep."

He felt the cord loosen some time later, felt the ground under him as he was dragged along. He stood on the edge of unconsciousness for a long time, too weak to call out but not quite escaping the sensations all around. His captors sat him up against a tree and tugged his arms hard behind him, his wrists bound around the other side of the tree trunk.

The hood came off, and Cawley saw her in the moonlight right before his face. The second he realized she was a Beast of Behr, with her almond-shaped dark eyes and black hair, he knew he was doomed.

Many whispers had spoken of Laird Ethelbert's vicious assassins.

She smiled at him, disarmingly, then slapped him hard across the face. He started to respond but went silent, feeling a clawlike implement, like the head of a garden rake, come up tight against his groin.

"If you yell out, I will make your death hurt," the woman promised in her odd accent.

Cawley stared at her, his eyes wide, licking blood from his split lip.

"Do you understand?"

Cawley nodded, eyes wide.

"Where is your army marching?"

Cawley licked his lip again, and she slapped him even harder.

"Where is your army marching?"

"East!" he gasped.

She slapped him again, and the world began to spin before Cawley. He could hardly believe this tiny creature could move so quickly and hit so hard! To make matters worse, she also pressed in with the claws against his scrotum.

"To Ethelbert dos Entel?" she asked.

Cawley groaned and nodded.

"You march to kill Laird Ethelbert?"

"No," the man gasped. "I'm just a soldier. I do what they tell me."

Behind the woman, a man spoke in a language Cawley did not understand.

"How many soldiers?" the woman asked.

Cawley stammered, "Lots."

The woman hit him again, and again.

"Five thousand o' Pryd," he blurted, and she backed off momentarily. "The rest're from King Yeslnik."

This time she punched him square on the nose, shattering it and jolting his head back against the tree. It took Cawley a few moments for his eyes to stop spinning, and he tasted the blood running from his broken nose.

"Yeslnik is not the king. Ethelbert is the king," she corrected.

"I'm not for caring who's the damned king," Cawley said, finding strength and courage in the certainty then that he would soon be dead no matter what he said.

The woman stepped back and stood up straight. She glanced over her shoulder at the man Cawley could not see and said something again in the language he could not understand. Then she turned back, and her smile-her awful smile-told him.

His eyes widened; he started to cry out.

The woman turned sidelong as she dropped low into a crouch that seemed almost as if she were sitting on the ground. Out snapped her leg, perfectly aimed, her foot slamming into Cawley's throat with jarring force. He rebounded off the tree again, and a strange tingling, a sensation of utter numbness, began to flow out to his limbs. He considered that curious sensation for some time before realizing that he could no longer draw breath.

He saw the man then, dressed in black like the woman, walking past him. He didn't understand, didn't feel anything, but he noticed that his arms fell freely at his sides and that the ties had been cut as he began to tilt to the side. Cawley felt nothing as he fell over. He kept trying to draw breath, but none would come.

The man moved above him-he sensed that he was about to be finished off-but the woman intervened, speaking to him harshly but more to Cawley in his own tongue.

"Let him die slowly," the woman said. "Let him know that he's dying."

Cawley heard the words and watched the man and woman walk away, but that offered little encouragement to the suffocating, paralyzed man. He thought of his wife and their kids. He dreamed of working the fields with his sons, of going home that night to hot pumpkin pie, or apple pie-yes, apple, he decided, for none in Comey Downs could make an apple pie better than Maisey Andadin…

The starlight faded to black. Bransen sensed something… He couldn't be sure of what, exactly, but he had come out of his meditation certain that something unusual was afoot in the dark and quiet night. He unwound himself from his cross-legged position and came to his feet in perfect silence. Bransen narrowed his gaze and scanned the dark forest beyond the campfires.

He thought of the gem-encrusted star brooch then and the cat's-eye agate that allowed him to see in the dark. How he wished he possessed such a gemstone now!

Bransen closed his eyes and recalled the stone and the sensations of its magical emanations. He could nearly levitate without malachite, so when he opened his eyes he tried to mimic the cat's-eye magic and found to his surprise that the dark was not nearly as absolute. Off he went at a swift pace. He started to discard his uncomfortable monk robes as soon as he moved out of sight of the tents, but he changed his mind; if he were caught here by Bannagran's men it would not do well for them to recognize him as the Highwayman.

Even in the bulky woolen garment the Highwayman moved with grace and silence, gliding through the shadows with ease, hearing every sound about him, smelling the scents of various animals. He wasn't sure what had stirred him from his contemplation, and his direction seemed random to him on a conscious level, but he continued on, trusting in his instinct.

He found a soldier lying in the dirt, very still.

Bransen soon discerned that a single blow to the throat had felled the man, though he had been beaten somewhat before that mortal strike. Blood had started to cake on his face from the broken nose. A glance at the tree, at the hair and blood stuck on its bark at less than waist height, informed Bransen even more of what had just occurred here.

The fallen man was not breathing. Bransen grabbed the man's windpipe and gently massaged it, glad for the soul stone Reandu had offered. He used that magic now, sending waves of warm breath into the soldier, repairing his crushed throat and calling his spirit back to his broken form.

A long while slipped past, but Bransen did not stop his work. He sensed the slightest bit of breath in the man's throat, so he reached for the gemstone magic even more furiously.

It wasn't until the man began to cough that Bransen realized his own emotional disconnect throughout this process. He had seen a man in trouble, and his instincts had taken over. He had put himself in a vulnerable position, falling into the swirl of hematite out here in the forest and with enemies so obviously near.

He knew with certainty that only one person would have done this, and that gave him great pause. Why was this man still alive? Affwin Wi didn't make such mistakes, and so Bransen knew then that it was likely not a mistake.

Was she baiting him, trying to lure him into the open?

He looked at the poor soldier, sent his thoughts through the hematite one last time to give the man a bit more relief. And as he did, the Highwayman laughed at himself and his stubbornness to ignore the world around him.

For such was the truth of who he was, no matter how hard the Highwayman tried to deny it. He could lie to himself and insist that he hadn't fallen over the wounded man to save him for the sake of the man's life, but to save him so that he, Bransen, could possibly gain some important information.

That not-so-subtle distinction was not lost on the young warrior, and when the soldier at last opened his eyes to look upon the man in monk's robes who had brought him back to life, he found that stranger scowling severely.

The soldier recoiled and curled defensively, coughing still.

"Who are you, and who do you serve?" Bransen demanded.

"Cawley o' Comey Downs, for King Yeslnik and marching with Laird Bannagran!" the man rasped through his raw throat.

"Rest easy, man, the danger is passed," Bransen assured him. Gradually, Cawley unfolded and looked at him directly.

"Two o' them, at least," Cawley gasped. "A woman, Beast o' Behr. She caught me and kicked me."

"What was she wearing?"

"Black-like the Highwayman… like you-" Cawley bit off the word and averted his eyes, and Bransen realized that the monk disguise was probably the worst-kept secret in the ranks.

Within moments, Cawley was stumbling back into the encampment, holding his sore throat and happy to be alive. Bransen was long gone behind him, into the forest, his monk robes soon looped over a branch.

He was hunting now. He was the Highwayman, a mask over his eyes. He knew now why he had come out of his meditative trance and understood the sensation that had alerted him.

It was indeed Affwin Wi. It was his mother's sword and the brooch Artolivan had given him. His blood and breathing ran hot with adrenaline as he moved through the forest, trying desperately to pick up the woman's trail. Always correct," Merwal Yahna said to Affwin Wi as they noted the Highwayman slipping through the trees below the hillock they had climbed to garner just such a view. "He saved the soldier no doubt."

"And the soldier sent him on his hunt for us."

Merwal Yahna pulled out his exotic weapon. "Shall we go and be done with the impudent man?"

Affwin Wi was shaking her head. "He will be of use to us in dissuading Ethelbert from any rash decisions."

"He is dangerous-" Merwal Yahna bit that thought off short when Affwin Wi scowled at him.

"You wish to fight him again," the man accused. "One against one."

"I will kill him when I must," Affwin Wi assured him easily.

"Such misplaced honor is Jhesta Tu, not Hou-lei," Merwal Yahna reminded.

"Honor?" Affwin Wi said doubtfully, and she added, "Sport." Bransen was still moving, his footsteps coming more slowly, when the eastern sky brightened and the first ray of the sun peeked over the horizon. He ran up a tall tree then, scanning the countryside.

But she was gone. He knew it in his heart.

Bransen lay back against a branch, considering his missed opportunity. Rage bubbled inside him, for he wanted nothing more than to face this Hou-lei woman and retrieve his sword and brooch. And to kill her, he admitted to himself, for what she had done to Jameston Sequin.

But his anger was tempered by thoughts of Cadayle and their unborn child. Could he beat Affwin Wi? Alone, even, although he knew that it was unlikely he would ever get the chance to fight her without Merwal Yahna at her side?

He had vowed revenge, vowed to get his items back, but sitting there in the tree as dawn brightened the eastern sky, Bransen questioned his determination and his confidence. For all the value he placed in that sword, was it worth the price of his life-and not just his life, but the well-being of Cadayle and his child?

Somewhere in the distance to the northwest a horn blew, and several others responded. The army was awake and soon to be moving. Bransen looked back the way he had come, estimating the miles between his current position and his monk disguise. He shook his head and started away, not to retrieve the robe, but to intercept Bannagran's march.

As the Highwayman. Cormack and Milkeila entered Laird Ethelbert's chambers cautiously, still not quite sure of what to make of the elderly but energetic laird. The summons had been brought by one of Father Destros's monks, which gave the couple some comfort, but the young monk's demeanor, his level of urgency, had also brought trepidation.

They entered the room to find Ethelbert sitting with his three generals, Father Destros, and another monk to one side and Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna standing before the throne. At the sight of the dangerous mercenaries, Cormack and Milkeila, holding hands, both squeezed more tightly.

Ethelbert turned a stern glare over Destros, promptly dismissing the monk who had accompanied the couple.

Cormack felt Affwin Wi's stare boring into him as he walked up beside her to stand before the laird and his court.

"Your plans fall like the rain and run to the sewers, it would seem," Laird Ethelbert greeted.

"Laird?"

"You would have us parlay with Bannagran of Pryd, but this man they call the Bear marches now to destroy us," Ethelbert explained.

Cormack looked at Affwin Wi.

"She found him less than a week's march from here along with an army of many thousand, perhaps three or four legions," said Ethelbert. "Most of them are Yeslnik's soldiers. There will be no parlay with Laird Bannagran." His voice lowered as he added, "Just the blood, so much blood."

"So much Delaval blood," added Myrick the Bold. "We will slaughter them at our gates!"

Cormack tried to digest it all as cheers for the city of Ethelbert dos Entel came from the generals and the two monks. Through it all, Ethelbert, Affwin Wi, and Merwal Yahna stared hard at the emissary couple.

"Perhaps you should ride north to rejoin your Dame Gwydre at St. Mere Abelle," said Ethelbert. "If you remain here you will be expected to join with all your heart in the battle against the invaders."

Cormack wasn't quite sure what to say at first, but he was shaking his head, his instincts telling him that this news was not as unwelcomed as Ethelbert believed. "No, I pray you, laird," he said. "Does King Yeslnik ride beside Bannagran?"

He looked to Affwin Wi as he asked, and the woman shook her head. "He has run back to his castle," she replied. "Else we would have left him dead on the trail."

"Then this is our chance," Cormack blurted, his gaze darting from Ethelbert to each of his generals in turn. "We must go meet Laird Bannagran. With all speed, to engage him as far from the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel as possible!"

"You have gone mad, young brother," Ethelbert replied, his headshaking generals in obvious agreement.

"No, laird, this is our opportunity," Cormack pressed, growing more determined as he sorted through all of the options. "Outside of Pryd, far from home, Bannagran will find his army much less eager for engagement."

"You would have me leave my city defenseless against him, while I chase an army more than twice or even thrice the size of that which I might muster?"

"It would be sheer madness to abandon our walls," Kirren Howen remarked. "Let the Bear of Pryd Town come on. We will hold him to the field and rain death upon his army day upon day!"

"Even if what you say is true," Cormark replied, and he shifted his tone and his intended reply quickly as the scowls came back at him, "even if we hold and slaughter Bannagran's men, to what gain? What is our plan from there? How shall we seize the initiative from Yeslnik and turn back the pressing tide?"

"Perhaps your Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan will have that answer, yes?" asked Ethelbert. "If your suggestion is to take such a risk as to ride forth and face them on the open field, then you are mad."

Cormack looked to Milkeila for support, and the woman took his hand and squeezed hard again. "We knew this would be a great risk, Laird Ethelbert," the barbarian woman said. "If not on the field, then we would have had to go to Pryd Town to find Laird Bannagran, and that would have been no less difficult. His march may offer us the option of retreat if we prepare the place of meeting correctly."

"We've the walls and a protected bay," said Kirren Howen. "I can think of no better place to make our desperate offer to Bannagran."

"Desperate," Cormack echoed. "And it will seem so if we do it with Bannagran's army camped outside." He turned his attention to Laird Ethelbert directly. "I pray you, laird, do not tarry. Meet Bannagran before his goal is in sight, and before he can surmise that your offer of alliance is made of desperation alone. If he believes this to be a last chance for Laird Ethelbert to save his life and his title, then know that he will not be merciful and will not betray King Yeslnik.

"Go out and meet him, I beg. Bargain from a position of power, not desperation."

A wail from the shadows at the back of the room turned all eyes that way, and Cormack crinkled his face as he recognized Palfry, Laird Ethelbert's beloved attendant. The waiflike man scrambled from the shadows and rushed across to the room's other door, holding his mouth as if he might throw up with every step.

"You will go and speak for Dame Gwydre?" Kirren Howen pointedly asked.

"I will."

"Even if we do not?" the general pressed. "If we remain in Ethelbert dos Entel, Cormack and Milkeila will still go forth to meet Bannagran?"

"I… we will."

Kirren Howen laughed at him. "He will cut you in half with that massive axe of his."

Cormack shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "All that I have heard of Laird Bannagran paints him as a severe but honorable man. An honorable man will adhere to a flag of truce."

"You will be killed before you get near to Bannagran," Affwin Wi said, drawing all eyes to her in surprise. She drew out her sword, Bransen's sword, and held it up near Cormack. The man held his breath, confused and wondering if her claim meant that she intended to slay him then and there.

"The Highwayman," she said. "The man you call Bransen. The man you call friend." She shifted to face Laird Ethelbert. "My agents run Bannagran's line, as you ordered. I am not surprised by their words that this man, the Highwayman, walks among the soldiers."

Like all in the room, Cormack's eyes widened with surprise; Milkeila clutched his hand even more tightly.

"We welcomed him as an ally and a student," Affwin Wi said sternly to Cormack. "He has betrayed us."

Kirren Howen cursed under his breath and banged a fist on the table. "The Highwayman knows much of our defenses. And now Laird Bannagran knows, as well."

"What have you to say to this?" Laird Ethelbert asked Cormack.

"Bransen is from Pryd Town," the man replied, his voice shaky. He stammered, trying to continue, trying to find some explanation for this unexpected news-and trying to put it into context with his previous fear that Affwin Wi had murdered Bransen to take the sword and brooch.

"He would not know," Milkeila interrupted in sudden epiphany. Everyone looked to her to see her face as puzzled as their own expressions. "About the offer of Dame Gwydre to Laird Ethelbert," the woman explained.

"Yes, yes," added Cormack. "Bransen left St. Mere Abelle before our plans were crafted and even before Abelle was sainted and Chapel Abelle was renamed. He would not know that you, Laird Ethelbert, have agreed to an alliance with Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan."

"He marches with my enemy," Ethelbert said.

"He will kill you in the forest before you get near to Bannagran!" Affwin Wi spat.

That preposterous line solidified the ground under Cormack's feet. "No," he replied. "Bransen would never take up arms against me or Milkeila at the request of any laird or dame or king or father. Nor would he choose battle against Father Artolivan, and certainly not to side with Father De Guilbe. No, I know Bransen much better than to even think any of that a possibility for a moment."

"He marches with my enemy," Laird Ethelbert said again, dryly, and his tone gave Cormack pause.

Once more, the former monk looked to his beloved Milkeila, and as if she read his mind, the Alpinadoran shaman smiled and nodded for him to press on.

"This is the time for men of great courage, Laird Ethelbert," Cormack said. "Better that Bannagran is marching east, further from Yeslnik's influence, when we go and meet him. He will honor a flag of parlay, and we should all hope that Bransen has engendered his trust. Because Bransen will join with us-of that I am sure. And Bransen is no small voice among the people of Pryd, where he is considered a hero, and among the brothers of Pryd, including Reandu, the master who presides over Chapel Pryd due to Father Jerak's illness."

Ethelbert glanced over to Father Destros at that.

"Father Jerak's spirit and thoughts have long left his body, it is rumored," the monk replied.

"No better opportunity will we find," Cormack added, growing excited and letting that emotion filter into his voice.

"And no further east and no further removed from the fool Yeslnik will Laird Bannagran be than on the day he arrives on our field," Kirren Howen reminded.

"Where your parlay will be viewed as no more than the desperate last plea of a doomed laird and a doomed city," said Cormack. "Laird Ethelbert, I beg of you. Now is the time. Let us speak with Bannagran and convince him that the winds have changed and that there is a better goal for Honce than the rule of Yeslnik."

Again Kirren Howen moved to respond, but Ethelbert silenced him, silenced them all, with an upraised hand. The old laird sat there for a long while, mulling, then stood up from his throne and stepped from the dais to address Cormack eye to eye.

Cormack saw it, and so did Kirren Howen, as the general held back his two younger and more anxious counterparts, Myrick and Tyne. Something changed in Laird Ethelbert's demeanor, like a great sigh and a nod of ultimate acceptance.

"I cannot bring my army forth from these gates," the laird said. "For Bannagran is a clever general who would know our strength and weakness and would ensure that he destroyed us out on the field before we were ever able to return to the protection of the city's walls. What a terrible laird I would be to my people to leave the good and trusting folk of Ethelbert dos Entel so defenseless in the face of the ruthless Yeslnik."

"Bannnagran will honor a parlay," Cormack dared to reply.

"Indeed, he would. But he would, at the same time and quite morally, position his force to defeat our escape should the parlay come to no agreement. And I think it will come to no agreement."

Cormack started to reply but bit it back when he saw that Ethelbert meant to continue.

"It is a desperate plan Dame Gwydre has concocted and no less so than the stubborn and just defiance of Father Artolivan," the laird said. "I assure you that their courage is not lost on me. How much easier would it have been for both to simply agree to the notion of King Yeslnik. Had Father Artolivan followed the command of Yeslnik to free his men and execute mine, across all the chapels of Honce, then the war would likely near its end with Yeslnik's vast army sitting outside my gates at present if they had not already broken through!"

"My laird!" Myrick the Bold protested, but Ethelbert turned and laughed at him and motioned to Kirren Howen.

"You know," he said to his older and wiser general, and Howen had to nod his agreement of the laird's dark assessment.

"I am grateful to Father Artolivan," Ethelbert continued. "His courage and defiance have given hope to my good friend, Father Destros, there. And I am intrigued by Dame Gwydre. I cannot bring my army forth, for I fear the plan desperate. But yes, young Cormack, the plan is worth the attempt."

"You will allow me to go forth?"

"I will go with you," said Ethelbert, to a collective gasp from all in the room.

"No, my laird!" Myrick and Tyne cried together.

Again Laird Ethelbert turned away from Cormack to face them, his gaze settling on Kirren Howen, who sat with his hand on his chin, taking a good measure on the surprising Ethelbert and passing no obvious judgment.

"I and a select group of trusted guards," Ethelbert went on, "a small but capable accompaniment."

Both Affwin Wi and Merwal Yahna nodded, but Cormack saw trepidation there. They did not agree with Laird Ethelbert's choice, but it was not their place to disagree.

"I would proudly ride with you, my laird, my friend," said Kirren Howen, and both the younger generals looked at him incredulously.

"And I would be better for having you!" Ethelbert said, and it occurred to Cormack that the old laird was growing much more animated, almost jovial, as if he had suddenly seen a path to heave aside all the weight from his tired old shoulders. He was even standing straighter!

"But that cannot be," Kirren Howen said quietly. He nodded, as the two seemed to hold such complete understanding of each other. The respect in Kirren Howen's eyes was clear to see. Yes, Cormack thought, something had changed here. Suddenly, even Kirren Howen was surprised by Ethelbert's announcement, and, Cormack suspected, so was Laird Ethelbert himself.

"Our two young proteges are promising, you agree?" Ethelbert asked, and Kirren Howen smiled and nodded yet again. "But they are not tempered well enough to deal with King Yeslnik should he come a'calling."

"I would fight him to the bitter end," boasted Myrick, and the two older warriors, laird and general, laughed at the irony of their point being made so clearly.

"Young and proud Myrick, if I am gone, there will be no need," said Ethelbert. "Ever was this fight between me and Laird Delaval, not between Ethelbert dos Entel and Delaval City. Never was there enmity between our lands. Nay, it was the arrogance of Delaval that started this war, and it is the unbridled ambition of his idiot nephew that perpetuates it. The focus of his ire, the obstacle he seeks to remove, is Ethelbert the man, not the city. I will parlay with Bannagran as our friend Cormack here delivers the desperate plan. Should that parlay fail I will try to return to my city, for it is there I wish to die and not on the fields of some other holding. But that is of no consequence."

"My laird," Myrick said, his voice cracking as if he would break down in tears.

"You should live to be as old as Ethelbert," the old laird said.

"I would go, as well, my laird, if you would allow," said Father Destros, stepping forward. "Father Artolivan has made a brave choice, as you said, and a sorry emissary of my order I would be if I remained here with this important-"

"Granted," Ethelbert said. "Chapel Entel should be represented. But I charge you now with softening your words should the parlay fail."

"Laird?"

"I'll not have the fate of Ethelbert dos Entel and the bargaining position of Steward Kirren Howen compromised because of a stubborn monk." He cast his glance back at Cormack and slyly added, "It would seem as if I have one stubborn monk to contend with already."

"I am not of the order, laird," Cormack replied.

"So you say," Ethelbert replied, obviously unconvinced. He will not be king," Merwal Yahna said to Affwin Wi when they were alone in their wing of the castle. "He hasn't the stomach for the fight."

"The wind blows from many different directions," Affwin Wi replied. "But all the breeze is against him."

"Will you go and dance for him this night?" Merwal Yahna asked, and there was no missing the venom in his voice. "That he might drift off to dreams of who he once was, that he might escape the truth of the weakling he has become."

"He is old."

"Too old."

Affwin Wi looked at him curiously. "And what would you advise?"

"We are done with this place," Merwal Yahna insisted. "This land, where our inferiors look upon us as if we are beasts."

"You speak like one who hasn't the stomach for the fight."

"Ethelbert will not ascend whatever his course!"

Affwin Wi smiled wickedly. "Why would you think I am speaking of Ethelbert?"

Merwal Yahna started to respond, but the words didn't come forth as the implications of clever Affwin Wi's words sank in.

They would find their way to greater power and treasure even if Laird Ethelbert would not. The warrior from Behr was glad to hear such words from Affwin Wi, such assurances that she had played Laird Ethelbert dispassionately. He silently berated himself for those nagging jealous doubts that had inspired his anger, and he went to Affwin Wi eagerly and swept her into his arms.

When they tumbled to their bed, she, of course, was on top. A liar I would be if I did not admit my surprise," Kirren Howen said to Ethelbert a bit later when they were alone in the laird's sitting room, sharing some fine drink.

"No less a liar than myself."

"You found Cormack persuasive."

Ethelbert shrugged, unwilling to make that conclusion. "More than ten thousand," Affwin Wi said. "Perhaps near to twice that number."

"And led by Bannagran, the Bear of Honce," said Kirren Howen. "Not by the foolish and cowardly Yeslnik."

"And with soldiers dressed in the fine armor bought by Delaval's endless gold and likely with a fleet of warships working their way around the coast and perhaps with that brutish Milwellis returning as well. Did you believe we could survive that?"

Kirren Howen stared at him.

"In honesty?"

"No, my laird," Kirren Howen admitted. "When Yeslnik ran from the field, I hoped we could parlay our position and be done with this war. By all accounts that cannot happen. He is determined now and wise enough to hide while greater men carry out his commands. The Bear will not flee the field, and our walls will not stop his vast army."

"I could send Affwin Wi to murder him."

"She and the handful around her would have to battle through the finest warriors of Pryd and Delaval, perhaps, if she is not lying, with the Highwayman among them, and then with Bannagran himself. You could try that course, but…"

"But to what end?" Ethelbert finished for him. "The army of Pryd is well seasoned and layered with leadership-all trained under the eye of Bannagran." He took a deep sip of his potent Jacintha drink and gave a little chuckle. "We cannot win and cannot hold. How did our guest Cormack say it? This is the time for men of great courage?"

"My friend Laird Ethelbert is such a man," said the old general, drawing another chuckle from the laird.

"No man has lived a better life than Ethelbert," the laird replied. "All that I have known I owe to this city, my home. It has served me through the decades, loyally and with love. A sorry father I would be to Ethelbert dos Entel if I cowered now behind her walls. Perhaps Dame Gwydre's plan will succeed, and all the world will be brighter, but even should it not, my friend, Ethelbert dos Entel will be better for my going. That is the truth I am faced with, and you cannot disagree."

The general sat stone-faced.

"And so I am called to be a man of courage," Ethelbert continued. "And so 'tis the time for Laird Ethelbert to truly serve the city that has served him for so long. I am not afraid and am not saddened. To see these walls broken by the stones of Yeslnik, to see him ride victorious through the gates… that, Kirren, would bring me tears."

"I know my role, laird," Kirren Howen assured him. "Should you not return, should the armies of our enemies arrive at the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel, I will…" He paused and took a deep breath, then drained his glass. "I will surrender the city to the King of Honce," he finished, and Ethelbert lifted his glass in toast.